Myra Sherwood's cross
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Title: Myra Sherwood's cross

and how she bore it

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: September 23, 2026 [eBook #79640]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1891

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79640

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MYRA SHERWOOD'S CROSS ***

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

"WE GALLOPED OFF FOR OUR LIVES."

Myra Sherwood's Cross

AND HOW SHE BORE IT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE OBJECT OF LIFE," "HOME IN HUMBLE LIFE,"

ETC., ETC.

[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. INCIDENTS OF CHILDHOOD, AND A FAMILY HISTORY

II. A TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE

III. THE DESOLATE HOME

IV. "WHAT MADE YOU COME?"

V. HARRY'S LESSONS AND A CHANGE OF SCENE

VI. A SECRET

VII. A HAPPY SUNDAY

VIII. A NEW HOME AND SOME VARIATIONS OF TEMPER IN IT

IX. HOLIDAYS ANTICIPATED

X. THEY THAT WILL BE RICH

XI. PEACEABLE FRUITS

XII. AFTER A TIME

XIII. THE BROTHERS—A CONTRAST

XIV. SIN BRINGS SORROW

XV. IN THE SCHOOL OF CHRIST

XVI. "OVERCOME EVIL WITH GOOD."

XVII. "DYING IS BUT GOING HOME."

XVIII. NEWS FROM AFAR—HARRY'S ADVENTURES

XIX. SISTERS' LOVE

XX. THE LAST OF THE STORY

MYRA SHERWOOD'S CROSS.

CHAPTER I.

INCIDENTS OF CHILDHOOD,

AND A FAMILY HISTORY.

"DEAR father, you are to name your little granddaughter; what will you call her?" said a lady, holding in her arms a young child, whose mother had just been laid in the family vault in the village churchyard.

The old sire was mourning that she, the young, the loved, the useful, should be cut down in her bloom, and the aged and the helpless left behind.

"Poor thing, poor thing!" said he, touching the soft cheek. "If Edward does not object, call her Myra, and let her be brought up to be as much like our lost one as possible. I will have her mother's picture put into the nursery; and Myra must be taught to love the sweet face, and to grow like it. She cannot be like it unless she is good, you know. My Ethel's face was a good face."

"Edward will be satisfied with your decision, dear father, but his distress is so terrible, he cannot bear the child in his sight at present."

"Ah, poor Edward! Time will help him, and me too. I shall soon see her again, so the faster it flies now, the pleasanter for me. He may have a long journey yet, but new scenes and faces will beguile him of his sorrow. I wish you had the bringing up of her child, Amy. Can it be managed? You are so like Ethel, that the little one would never know the difference."

"I shall make the offer as soon as I may venture," replied Amy Somers, kissing her niece, and wishing she might carry her off at once to her own nursery. But that could not be; for when the poor distracted young father came to see and love his child, he might be displeased at the idea of a separation, even though others should feel that it might be for her benefit.

In due time, the widower ceased to nurse his sorrow. And the grandsire ceased to mourn for the darling of his life and home, the message was welcome that bade him prepare to join her, so he set his house in order, summoned his remaining daughter, blessed his motherless grandchild, and after a useful life spent in the love of God and the service of his generation, he fell asleep in Jesus at a good old age.

Again the family vault was opened, and Mrs. Somers, with the little Myra on her knee, followed her dear and honoured father to the body's last resting-place. But she rejoiced in the assurance that he and Ethel had met again among Christ's redeemed, to wait together for the morning when the finishing touch shall be put to the likeness commenced by grace below, and the Redeemer shall be "admired," not only in Himself, but "in all them that believe."

Her thoughts were not idle concerning her father's wish respecting Ethel's child, but she could only wait, and she waited as patiently as she could.

The watchful grandsire had seen his prediction fulfilled, that new scenes would wear away the grief of his son-in-law. And, even sooner than he expected, a new face had dimmed the remembrance of his Ethel.

The fact was not grudged, but silently noted, and its consequences provided for. The little Myra, after the first keenness of the shock of her mother's death, had for some months seemed necessary to the existence of her father. But by degrees, he went less frequently to the nursery, required her company less often in his library, sometimes put her off with a gay kiss when she pleaded for her place on his knee. And before she was two years old, her scenes of pleasure had become gradually transferred to the house and presence of her grandfather, while report spoke of a coming new mistress, and a step-mother in her home.

It was not wonderful that these changes should work other changes, both in thought and practice. And when the grandsire's will was read by the attorney, after the funeral, it was found that only a legacy was left to his son-in-law, as a mark of regard and good-will, while the portion that would have fallen to his loved daughter was confided to suitable trustees (for the whole and sole use of her only child) until the age of twenty, when they were to surrender their trust, or continue it, as she and they might decide.

Mrs. Somers followed her brother-in-law to his own house, in anxiety about the effect on him of this unexpected settlement of affairs. He was in his library, and had ordered that no one should disturb him. But he was not accustomed to brood over disappointments and vexations, and learning that Mrs. Somers was with Myra in the nursery, he proceeded thither.

"Papa, papa," cried the little one, "see mamma." And she pointed to the picture of her mother, and then to her aunt's face, putting her little fat arms round Mrs. Somers, and kissing her, saying, "Pretty mamma, Myra's mamma!"

Mrs. Somers clasped the child close, and looked up in Mr. Sherwood's gloomy face.

"Edward, will you, can you, give or lend her to me now?"

"Myra seems to have decided," said he, looking from the picture of his late wife to the face of her sister; "the likeness is certainly striking. It has been evidently intended that I am not to have much to do with her," he added bitterly.

"Nay, brother, your authority over your child is not interfered with; only the property, and you do not need it."

"That is nothing to the point. It is monstrous that two comparative strangers should have the management of it. It is an insult to my integrity, and my feelings as her father. What will she think of such mistrust, when she is able to understand it?"

"My dear father meant it for the best," said Mrs. Somers sadly; "let us hope it will prove so; and if you will trust me to take care of Myra, she shall never misunderstand, or imbibe a prejudice against, either him or you."

"I will think of it, Amy," he said, after a silence of some moments. "I believe I could trust you; you would not alienate her affections from me. You would let her often come to see us; and, as a visitor rather than an inmate, some foolish feelings and prejudices might be avoided."

The "us" betrayed the subject of the speaker's thoughts; and Mrs. Somers's heart bounded with thankfulness at the course they had taken.

"Myra, will you go with Aunt Amy?" said he, taking her in his arms, the cloud clearing from his brow.

Myra patted his face, and returned his kisses, but then, stretching out her arms to her aunt, she said again, "Mamma, go to mamma."

"It will be a great charge for you, Amy, in addition to your own, but I see it is the best thing to be done for Myra. Be liberal in all provision for her, nurses and governesses, and so on. Let her have a first-rate education, and let your children share whatever advantages you give to her. Nothing can repay you for your kindness to her and to me. I will give orders to nurse about preparing for the change."

"Edward, you must do one thing more; you know we may live even farther away from you than we do now, for my husband's health may require a warmer climate, at least for the winter. Let Myra have a picture of you to match this, and they shall be side by side wherever she is, that you may be associated with everything she loves, and furnish a stimulus to every effort to become what you wish your daughter to be."

"It shall be done," said the gratified father; "it is a nice thought. She is a dear little thing, and I should not like her to forget me."

Then he rang for the nurse, gave her all needful orders, and left them.

Though deeply annoyed at the terms of the will, Edward Sherwood's mind was greatly relieved. Not only was it satisfactory to know that his child was provided for without any trouble on his part, but the perfectly natural and satisfactory guardianship of her aunt would leave the coast clear for the new-comer, saving her from all the fears and troubles and responsibilities of a step-mother; securing to the little maiden herself the most happy of homes and the most loving of friends, and avoiding the probable contingency of banishment to school at some early day. Nothing could be better, and the picture should be painted at once, and accompany its companion (the likeness of the cherished bride of some three years ago) to Myra's future home.

Mrs. Somers and her charge had not long departed, when alterations were commenced in the house, and, in due time, another fair young wife was the heart-cheer and comfort of its master.

Years sped swiftly, committing three children—two daughters and a son—to the parents' care. And when the little Myra came to see them, and learned to love them, it was a never-failing comfort to the father's heart, though not unmixed with slight remaining jealousy, that, come what might through the fluctuations of business, she needed nothing from his provision for the others.

Mrs. Sherwood wisely kept her own view of the case to herself, and, in her husband's presence, was all that he could wish to his elder child.

Myra, however, seemed never sorry when her visits ended, though she desired to love them all if they would but allow it. Helen, the eldest of the three, was her favourite, because she responded kindly to her overtures, but Harry was rough and blunt, and Florence was shy and hard to win.

A great and unexpected change occurred when Myra had reached her ninth year. She was suddenly summoned to her father's death-bed, and only arrived in time to share with the others his parting blessing. With a stricken heart, she begged to remain some time with the mourning family. But, evidently not recognised as having an equal share in the sorrow, and finding her presence neither appreciated nor desired, Mrs. Somers was glad to take her away again to the more genial home she had so long enjoyed. No more invitations came for Myra, the little letters that had passed between the children became few and far between, and none of Mrs. Somers's invitations were accepted.

Whether Mr. Sherwood had made any ample provision for his family was not known, but the news of his widow's marriage with the gentleman who had undertaken the settlement of his affairs occasioned only a little passing surprise. This gentleman, Mr. Haynes, was a prosperous man of business, and he was kind to the children, to whom his protection and guardianship were supposed to be invaluable; so all went on calmly again, and in the indulgence of a more luxurious style of living than before.

Mr. and Mrs. Somers, on their part, devoted themselves to the education of their children wherever the best assistance was to be found, and Myra received with them, according to her father's wish, a first-rate education; the only drawback being, and to her loving heart it was a real one, that he could no longer enjoy her success in study, nor its results in her future character.

Twice only, on occasions more like a stranger's call than a friendly visit, the children met during several years, but Mrs. Haynes was now a fashionable woman, still in the prime of life, highly attractive, and too much engrossed with her own family and position to bestow much attention on her former step-daughter.

The children of Mrs. Haynes were under the charge of professors and teachers, and seemed to care very little for their elder step-sister, though three younger playmates were received with every token of satisfaction. Myra would have clung, with a sister's love, to those who bore her father's name, but it was hard to be repulsed with coldness.

Myra was at no loss for channels for her young affections. Her uncle and aunt were as parents, and her cousins were as dear as any sisters or brothers could be. Seldom had "the lines fallen" in more "pleasant places" to an orphan girl, and Myra know nothing of the sorrowful side of that condition. Love and peace surrounded her, and it must have been an ungracious plant indeed that would refuse to bloom in such an atmosphere. But Myra was not an ungracious plant, and she bloomed into a very lovely flower.

———————

CHAPTER II.

A TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE.

MYRA SHERWOOD could not remember the time when "the name of Jesus" had not been a sweet sound in her ears.

Her uncle and aunt were true believers in the Son of God, not merely by intellectual assent to a certain creed, but by living faith in a divine Person, whose life and death and resurrection form the only ground of salvation, whose example and precepts provide the rule of a happy, holy life, and whose likeness and visible presence constitute the "blessed hope" and "unspeakable glory."

Such a faith was also a practical power, influencing all around them, and Myra was more familiar with the motive of pleasing God and honouring Jesus, than with any other by which feeling and conduct can be ruled. It was the habit of her life to do whatsoever she did in that home, thinking first what He would do, or wish her to do, under all circumstances and on all occasions of selection or choice.

If sometimes it might seem that imagination had a share in such decisions, it was a sanctified imagination, becoming the handmaid of principle, and adding attractiveness and pleasure to the subject. The religion of the young Myra was simple and practical, satisfying her heart and employing her hand, while a clear and comprehensive mind saw to it that the faith and the practice sprung from a source that the boldest reason and the most cultivated intellect could never corrupt.

One day, for instance, a gentleman of sceptical opinions, who had called on Mr. Somers as an English resident, turned the conversation into a channel in which he evidently expected to sail triumphantly, to the confusion of all opponents.

Mr. Somers answered him from the Bible with such effect that, smarting under the vexation, the opponent turned his attack on the weapon so skilfully wielded, and brought forward some of the stale, old, oft-refuted objections to the inspiration and authenticity of the Scriptures.

Here again his ignorance was exposed and his conscience appealed to, and before he left the house, he had given a solemn promise to examine into reliable evidences before again presuming to contend against a rock whose foundations he had never fathomed, and a truth whose light he shunned.

"Well, Myra," said Mr. Somers, when the visitor had retired, "what did you think of that gentleman's views? I observed your attention to all that was said."

"I could not help thinking, uncle, of your curiosity drawer in the cabinet. He seemed to have collected a great many odds and ends out of which to construct a theory, but they would not fit together, notwithstanding all the hammering. He may as well leave them in cotton wool, and be content with the masterpiece direct from heaven already in our hands;" and she laid hers on her uncle's Bible. "Why, uncle, even if Christianity were not inspired truth, cannot they see that it is the most perfect, the wisest, the most pure and beautiful system ever seen upon earth, and the most worthy of man's confidence? If it is not divine and true, nothing yet discovered can compare with it, so we will stand by it until something better comes. Surely a religion that never speaks but to bless those who meekly listen, never touches heart and conscience but to heal and sanctify, cannot but vindicate its origin at every step!"

"Right, my dear niece; and those who can estimate the force of such evidence are in little danger from misbelievers. If men would take the Bible for daily guidance, irrespective of all arguments on its doctrines, they would soon find an echo within that would be worth ten thousand arguments, and a witness that could defy all human doubts and speculations. It is not evidence that is wanted, it is humility. Pride hates a superior, and the love of sin detests control. These lie at the bottom of all the unbelief in Christendom."

Myra had learned the secret of that evidence. She had sat like Mary at the feet of Jesus, and had heard His words; and the Holy Spirit had taught her to appropriate them.

Naturally warm-hearted and enthusiastic, she had, while travelling with her uncle's family in the East, trodden with reverence and delight the scenes of the Lord's life and death—stood on the temple's site, traced His steps to Bethany, meditated with solemn awe in "sad Gethsemane," rested by Siloam's pool, gazed upward from the spot where the disciples may have stood when angel comforters came to tell how "that same Jesus," who had just ascended into heaven, should at a future day "so come in like manner as they saw Him go."

She had visited Rome, and seen where early Christians hid and early martyrs died, and where, in later times, Rome papal took up the persecuting sword which Rome pagan had been compelled to drop, and another army of martyrs bore testimony to her right to the titles and descriptions by which she stands denounced in Apocalyptic vision.

How grand, how glorious, she thought, to die witnessing for Jesus, who died for sinners! And often the words of the Lord to His martyr Church came flashing in light before her mind—

"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."

But to live a life of self-denial as a member of Christ's body on the fallen earth, amidst its petty cares and temper trials, its frets and worries, its treacherous pitfalls, vanities, and snares, this is another and, perhaps, not a lower thing in the sight of Him who said,—

"Whosoever would be My disciple, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me."

"To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with Me in My throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with My Father in His throne."

This was a phase of Christian life not so much contemplated by the ardent girl, and, in the sweet content of the home hitherto enjoyed, there seemed little fear of any very painful experiences.

The twentieth year had come and gone, the birthday had been commemorated with due honour, the trustees had done their duty well, and Myra was now mistress of her own actions and of her property. Her wise old grandsire had desired to make her independent of all personal effort for maintenance, and to enable her to indulge charitable sympathies to a moderate extent, but he had not designed to make her a prize for fortune-hunters, or the prey of a spendthrift.

There was no reason for any change in her manner of life. To continue as a loved child in her uncle's house, assisting her aunt in the care of younger cousins, to be the friend and confidante of the older ones, and all uniting in works of love and charity among the people where they dwelt,—this was field enough for Myra. And her friends trusted that, if other or higher range of duty awaited her, He who "makes all things work together for good to them that love Him" would in the best time and way direct those "things" for her.

The family party was augmented by the presence of Frank Somers and a college friend, both of whom were on an expedition of pleasure after a hard collegiate term. The former had sought an introduction to his father for one of whose friendship he was proud, and to whom he was indebted for much that had promoted his success and stimulated his exertions at college.

As the friend of their son, Ralph Penwald found a ready welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Somers. And many little expeditions had been planned, and some already enjoyed, which tended to cement the intimacy thus commenced.

One day, the letters and English newspapers were lying, as usual, on the table, waiting the return of the party from some exploring trip. And, after distributing the letters, Mr. Somers took up a paper and sat down to read. A paragraph at once arrested his attention, and he went to seek his wife that they might read it together.

"Drowned, by the capsizing of his yacht off V—, William Haynes, Esq., Marian his wife, and Helen their eldest daughter."

So ran the notice in the obituary.

A longer account of the event went on to tell how the family had gone to the sea-coast for recreation, and how the eldest son had also shared in the catastrophe which occurred, but, by the brave exertions of one of the crew, he had been saved, while all the others, being either in the cabin or entangled with the rigging, had not been found until long after life was extinct.

"Myra must be told of this, Amy," said Mr. Somers. "What do you suppose she will do?"

"We must let her judge for herself, dear husband. I foresee what she will do; and we must not hinder her."

Myra was summoned, and the grievous news tenderly laid before her. With a pale cheek and quivering lip, she begged for the newspaper, and retired to her own room.

Her step-mother, and that step-mother's husband, and her own step-sister Helen to be thus suddenly swept into eternity! Harry and Florence, and the three children of Mr. Haynes, suddenly orphaned!

The paper was several days old; and yet, among the letters, not one to inform her of the calamity, or anticipate her sympathy!

But Myra knew that Christian duty is not dependent upon the opinions or caprices or mistakes of others; it is just doing what we see to be right in the sight of God, deduced from His precepts or example, and often marked out by His providence in ways that we are able thankfully to recognise. Myra saw her way as clearly as if a voice had stated it to her; and, kneeling down, she offered herself to God, for the benefit and blessing of the orphan family, if He would make her acceptable to them, and let His presence be with her in all she should undertake on their behalf.

It might prove that she was not needed; it might happen that some prescribed directions by their father's will might set her aside entirely. But, under any circumstances, Harry and Florence might not reject her sisterly sympathy in the loss of their sister Helen. She (that sister Helen) had ever tried to keep harmony among them, and, left to herself, she would have sought no dearer friend than Myra. But it was not so to be; and every overture now must come from the banished one, to those who had been taught estrangement, if not jealousy and mistrust.

"Dearest aunt," said Myra, when she opened her heart with all its fears and feelings to this true friend, "your teachings and your example satisfy me about your opinion. If you had not pitied the poor little orphan, what might have become of me?"

"My darling, the cases are different in several important points: but yours will be the trying one; mine has been uninterrupted peace and pleasure. I pray that the dear children may receive you as they ought, but it may be long before they comprehend your respective positions, and you may have a trial of patience."

"I seldom have any such trial here, aunt. I am going, perhaps, to test my reality, and see whether the practice of the hour of need will correspond with the theory of hours of ease."

"I expected as much," said Mr. Somers, when informed of Myra's wish to set out for England immediately, without waiting the exchange of letters; "and I fear there is more need than she can suspect. It appears that Penwald knows the name, and visited in the neighbourhood only a few months ago. He says there was then a rumour that Mr. Haynes was what is called 'living too fast'; and some persons did not scruple to comment severely on the purchase of this very yacht. I think he had only one brother, not in such apparently prosperous circumstances as himself. However that may turn out, Harry and Florence are Myra's own connexions, bearing her father's name, and she would not rest without doing her best for them."

"Why, Myra, what wild-goose scheme is this you are after?" cried her cousin Frank. "Surely you are not going without waiting to hear from some of them?"

"Oh, Frank, only think of the confusion and distress this terrible event must have brought upon them! Perhaps Harry is ill after such a shock. The greatest kindness you can do me is to get my passports and set me on my way."

"Whew! It's a shame. It's altogether too bad; isn't it, Penwald? Here's Myra cheating us out of half our plans. She manages everything so well, it will be no fun without her, and she knows it: and she is going to give us all up for a set of people who know hardly anything about her, and care less, to judge by the way they have treated her. I say, isn't it too bad?"

"I am not a competent judge, Frank," said Mr. Penwald, "but to the disappointment it will cause to us all, I can bear full testimony."

Myra turned her eyes upon the speaker. "Oh, Mr. Penwald," said she, "please ask Frank to help me to do right, and not to make it harder for me; he knows—yet, no! He cannot know, what it will be to me if I have to quit entirely such a home as I have had,—such parents and brothers and sisters as I have here."

"I am silenced, Frank," said Ralph Penwald; "I must leave the field to you."

And, taking up his sketch-book, he stepped out on to the lawn, and looked about, but saw nothing. Bay, ships, trees, flowers, all jumbled themselves up together in strange, uninteresting confusion; and a fine airy castle seemed to crumble at his feet.

By-and-by, however, he was made to comprehend that a courier, who had just brought a family to Mentone, was to take charge of two English ladies back to Paris. They were acquaintances of Mrs. Somers, and very gladly agreed that Myra should join their company, promising that she should be safely escorted to the coast. Mr. Somers easily arranged for her reception in England, and attendance on to her destination. The journey was to commence on the following day.

Mr. Penwald felt bewildered. Myra Sherwood was to him the most attractive girl he had ever known. It had been a perfect delight to accompany her on their pleasant excursions, to help gather specimens for her various collections, to make sketches for her portfolio, and do all the kind, attentive things that men can do to make themselves agreeable, without becoming too particular.

Ralph had soon to decide on his life's work. Happily, he had learned and obeyed that calming, restful precept,—

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding: in all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths."

His desire was to be a minister of the gospel of Christ; and Myra was precisely the helpmeet for such a work. He suspected that she knew more of the practical power of that gospel than he did, and was beginning to draw out her views and feelings, when this unexpected and most disturbing illustration of it was presented before him.

True to their own high principles, the loving friends of Myra's childhood and youth, who could quite as easily have separated from any of their own children, did their part in preparing her for the probable circumstances in which she might soon be involved. They did not press for a speedy return, nor counsel retreat under adverse prospects, but they gave her their earnest blessing, committed her to God's gracious care, and promised to follow her to England, if need arose, and assist her to fulfil whatever duty she should find allotted to her in His "unerring providence and unchanging love."

———————

CHAPTER III.

THE DESOLATE HOME.

A WEEK had elapsed since a melancholy funeral procession had yielded the last token of respect to the late owners of Laurel Lodge.

Externally, the handsome house remained unchanged; the great dog dozed in the vestibule as usual, and only a few scattered leaves in the walks yet betrayed the absence of the gardener's usual care. There was, however, a silence about the premises, and within doors, accounted for by the fact that the principal servants had, on the previous evening, departed.

There remained only a housemaid, a cross-tempered kitchenmaid, and Mrs. Dinah the nurse, who waited the promised return of Mr. Haynes, brother to their late master, who was to settle affairs, and make any further arrangements which might be necessary.

In the room usually designated "the study," quiet and yet restless, longing for renewal of activity, yet subdued by the recent shock and a sense of weary desolation, were five children between the ages of fourteen and four. Two men were going from room to room taking inventories; and the children had gathered together out of their way, hoping they should not be disturbed in their own special haunt.

"Oh, how miserable it is!" cried Harry, the elder boy. "I wish uncle would come and tell us what we are to do. Florrie, what do you think it will be?" And his restless fingers went on cutting up a quill which he had been trying to transform into a pen.

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Florence, pushing back her hair, and looking at her brother with tears in her large dark eyes. "I am afraid he doesn't know himself, and that is the reason he keeps away, perhaps."

"I wish we had all been drowned with papa and mamma and Helen," said the younger boy. "It is of no use to let us live without them."

"All very fine to say that, sitting comfortably there in your rocking-chair, but if you were floundering about in the water, kicking out for your life, you would think differently," said Harry. "I know I thought of nothing but living if I could, and I minded nobody but myself till they hauled me out, and my senses came back. And when I asked for—for the others, they were all gone;" and Harry covered his face and stifled his sobs.

"Oh, Harry, I wonder how you can speak of it," said Margaret. "I feel as if I had cried till I can't cry any more, and yet—"

"Crying will do no good," said Florence; "dear Helen would say, 'Get something to do,' you know."

"I know what I shall do, and pretty soon, too, if nobody comes to settle it for me," said Harry.

"I know," cried Leonard; "you will go to sea and be a sailor, and get drowned again."

"That's just it, little one; and there's nobody to hinder me now. I wonder if those horrid men have done yet? I am awfully tired of being shut up here." And he yawned and stretched himself for another minute or two.

"I wish I had my work," said Margaret, "but I left it upstairs, and I am afraid to go because of those men."

"Who's afraid?" cried Harry, starting up. "I'll get it; I should like to face them." And away he rushed, the others holding the door, and peeping after him.

Harry mounted the stairs and found the two men on the landing, surveying some beautiful cabinets there.

"Those are pretty things, they'll fetch something," said the younger man admiringly.

"Ah yes, if the right people see them," replied the other; "but you see they are not everybody's money. I shouldn't wonder if they go cheap, pretty as they are. They are not solid and useful, you know, good for all times. See that picture over there. It is said to be a real old master, I forget who, but—"

"He is an ugly old chap, any way," interrupted the younger, laughing; "I wouldn't give him house-room."

"That's your ignorance, you see."

And they laughed together, while Harry proceeded slowly on his errand.

"That's a fine little fellow," said the auctioneer's clerk, in a low voice.

And then they went on with their work.

Harry resolved not to be afraid; and, roused by the remarks he had heard, he walked up to the elder man of business, and said,—

"Please will you tell me what is going to happen?"

"Happen, happen, young gentleman?" said Mr. Jennings, glancing uneasily at his companion. "What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean about our things. What is going to be done? Did my uncle tell you to come and see our furniture?"

"Is there nobody here to make you understand what's what, my dear?" asked Mr. Jennings kindly, and thinking of the six children at home for whom he was working with hearty good-will.

"No," said Harry, colouring, "not yet, but we expect my uncle back again every day. Only I want to know what you are doing."

"Well, I don't wonder; that's all right, for, young as you are, maybe it's proper you should know. It's just this, you see, sir. Your father,—mind, I daresay it would have been all right if he had lived, but it happened that he died insolvent, and his creditors claim everything he has left, and a deal more if they could get it."

"He was not my father," said Harry hastily; "my name is Sherwood."

"Ah, I remember; he was executor to your father, too, I believe, and married your mother. Well, it is a pity there was not some provision for you, but everything has to be sold to pay up; and that's what's going to be done, my dear. It is the law, and nobody can help it now."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, darting down the banister rail at one slide; and rushing into the study, he banged the door behind him.

"Florrie," he cried; "get the dictionary, and look what 'insolvent' means. I wouldn't ask the man, because I am sure it is something nasty."

"Insolvent," murmured Florence, tracing with her finger down the column; "here it is! Oh, Harry!"

"What is it? Let me see," cried the boy impatiently. "Yes, there it was,—

"'Unable to pay.' 'Insolvency, inability to pay debts.'"

"Horrid! I was sure it was something hateful. I am glad my name isn't—"

"Hush, Harry!" whispered Florence, seeing Margaret with angry eyes fixed upon them, and even Leonard looked as if he understood.

"Papa would have paid everybody if he had not been drowned," exclaimed Margaret passionately; "how dare you speak so, Harry?"

"I dare, and I will!" shouted Harry. "I'll take care never to have anything that I can't pay for. Why, there isn't a thing in all the house that we can call our own."

"We must give them everything, Harry dear," said Florence; "your pony, and the little chaise, and everything, even our beautiful baby-house."

"I know; I'll tell them," said Harry resolutely, the more so because Leonard began to cry, and declared that no one should take away his rocking-horse.

He went upstairs again at once.

"Sir," said he to Mr. Jennings, "if you please, we don't want to keep you out of our study; there are plenty of nice handsome books there, and I'll show you our playroom with my tool-chest, and my sister's baby-house, and Leonard's rocking-horse, and they all cost a great deal of money, I believe."

"You are a fine little fellow," said Mr. Jennings; "I wish we were all such boys in notions of honour, and that the world could never rub them out when we come to be men."

"It shan't rub them out of me," said Harry proudly.

"Well, I hope it may not, but, my dear, if it is to be so, excuse me for what I am saying, you must get hold of a principle that will stand fire; there is nothing holds out against man's wrong ways but God's good ways. Go by what He says in your Bible, and then you'll do to others as you wish them to do to you. That is the way to be honest and true, you see." And Mr. Jennings ended his little homily with a very short but potent text,—

"'Thou shalt not covet.'

"That's the bottom of it all, I believe."

And he came into the study respectfully, and took his inventory, the children retreating together.

"Come along, and let us walk round the garden," said Harry; "I can't breathe in the house, and I want to talk to you, Florrie."

"Harry," said Florence, coming close to him, "do you think we shall have to go to the workhouse?"

"The workhouse! What in the world made you think of such a thing?" cried Harry, with a face of fire.

"Only this. I heard cook, before she went away, tell Janet that she was sorry for us, for there was no place but the workhouse for us to go to."

"What a shame! How dared she? Let them mind their own business. You cheer up, girls; I shall work by-and-by for us all. We'll have such a nice little house; and you shall make my shirts and mend the stockings, and I'll do the gardening, and grow everything we want."

"You can't grow milk and tea, and sponge cakes and tarts," said Leonard scornfully.

"But we can buy milk and tea and all that; and Florrie will make the cakes and tarts, you know. Won't you and I give her three cheers for doing them? I say, look there, Florrie, some lady is coming to see us. I don't want to see any lady. Come away; you run into the study by the glass door, and I'll hide."

All agreeing that no strangers were welcome, the children disappeared.

And when the visitor reached the door, the great dog rose up and growled.

"Ah, Milo, good dog; I've heard of you; we must be friends, Milo," said a soft sweet voice.

Milo seemed at once to come to the same conclusion, for he looked up into the pleasant face, and put his nose into the caressing hand, and wagged his great tail with evident satisfaction. He growled no more, but quietly looked after the lady as she stepped from the vestibule into the hall, finding no reply to a knock and ring.

Passing the handsome reception-rooms, she proceeded to the study, whence came the sound of voices in low, murmuring tones, which ceased as she opened the door after a gentle knock.

Margaret had taken up her work; Leonard was making figures on a slate; a fair little creature lay on the floor playing with her doll. All stared with surprise as the young lady came towards them. She was dressed in deep mourning, and looked anxious, and, going up to Margaret, gave her a warm, loving kiss.

"You are Margaret," she said,—"and you are Leonard," as the boy drew back from her hand; by which time the fairy on the floor had sprung up into her arms, delighted to be once more the object of caresses she had missed, and gazing wonderingly into the fair, pleasant face.

"Don't you know me, darlings?" said Myra, the tears forcing themselves into her eyes.

"I don't," said the little one, "but if you have come to be Helen, I'll love you."

"We will agree to that in dear Helen's name," said Myra, clasping the child, whose arms were round her neck. "I am Myra, your sister. Will you not own me too, dear Margaret and Leonard?"

"You are Harry's and Florrie's sister, but not ours," said the boy sulkily.

"And you are only half-sister to them," said the ungracious Margaret.

"Well, we will not talk about it now," said Myra. "May I take off my travelling things? And can any one go to the station about my luggage?"

"I don't know; you had better ask nurse," replied Margaret awkwardly.

"Beg pardon, miss," said Mr. Jennings, putting his head in at the door. "We won't be many minutes, but we have just got to measure this carpet that we forgot."

Myra was utterly bewildered; what could they be going to do?

"I am come to take care of the children if I may be allowed," said she. "Is there any need for a change in the house at present?"

"I am right glad to hear you say that, miss," replied Mr. Jennings; "for there is need, more's the pity: not five shillings in the pound; and the creditors have taken possession."

Myra began to comprehend. But, feeling at once that they were all intruders now, she was at a loss what to do, when Mr. Jennings informed her that he thought leave had been given for the children to stay until their uncle's return, when doubtless he would remove them wherever he thought proper.

Finding that the lady visitor did not depart as they had hoped, Harry and Florence came to reconnoitre; and, peeping in at the glass door, they saw the young lady sitting with little Elsie on her knee.

"Hurrah! I know who she is," cried Harry, bouncing in. "Come on, Florrie; it's Myra, I declare."

Myra at the same moment put down the child, and rose to meet them, opening her arms to the children of the same father, but not the same mother. Their greeting was half shy, half doubtful, but Florence remained in the embrace of the willing arm, and felt as if a friend had dropped from heaven to help them.

"We never thought of your coming," said Harry; "we thought you were in Italy."

"So I was when the news reached us," said Myra, "but I came away at once to see if I could be of any use to you all."

No one replied, but Myra felt a soft pressure from Florence's hand. Notwithstanding that slight encouragement, her heart was chilled. Had she resigned so much love and sympathy and tenderness, to intrude upon those who did not care for her? Yet it was not their fault that they did not love her, nor hers. Time and God's goodness would undo mistakes, and teach them the truth about her.

"Do good, . . . hoping for nothing again,—"

her dear Lord had said. And she had been hoping for something at once. She felt she deserved the disappointment.

"What in all the world has brought her here?" exclaimed Mrs. Dinah, when she heard the news. She was in an extremely ill humour, having been detected by the sheriff's officer at the door of the room in which the plate had been placed, and to which it appeared there were more keys than one. So Mrs. Dinah had to find another errand. And while Myra was away with Florence, she went to inflict herself on the children in the study.

"Miss Maggie, haven't you done that tucker yet? I want it for your frock that looks so gloomy, with nothing white to 'liven it up."

"Do it yourself if you want it; I'm sure I don't care for it," answered Margaret, throwing down the muslin.

"Oh, fie, Miss Maggie! Where do you expect to get tuckers nowadays? It isn't as it used to be, and you'll be pretty glad to do them yourself, and wait upon yourself too, I can tell you. You little know what the folks are saying all round us."

"I don't want to know; I wish you wouldn't talk to me," said Margaret peevishly.

"But it's my duty to talk to you, and make you bring down your pride before it's done for you, as it soon will be, when you see the house empty, and nowhere but the workhouse to put your head in."

"For shame, nurse! It is a wicked story," said Margaret, in a rage.

"Hush, darling!" said Myra, who had just returned to the room, overhearing the lesson on humility. And, going up to Margaret, she drew the head of the sobbing girl to her bosom. "It will gratify you, I daresay, nurse, and those around you who are so much interested in our affairs, to hear that we shall not need to see the empty house, nor trouble the parish at present. You will kindly pack up all the clothes, and have them ready for a journey at any time we may decide on."

"Very well, ma'am," said Mrs. Dinah, drawing herself up; "I suppose it isn't to be thought out of my place to ask where we are going to."

"We shall require no attendance excepting such as I shall provide, thank you, Mrs. Dinah," said Myra calmly.

Whereupon, Dinah looked unutterable things, and decided "to give the upstart young lady a piece of her mind" on the spot, declaring that she would not be separated from her precious children, and that it would bring her dear mistress out of her grave to think of any one doing for them but her own faithful Dinah.

Myra made no reply, the children looked uncomfortable, and Dinah, having exhausted herself for the time, withdrew in high indignation.

"How cool she do take it!" exclaimed she to Janet, as if the "come down" for those children was nothing at all. "They'll find the difference, though, before long between her and me."

"Very likely," thought Janet sagaciously.

———————

CHAPTER IV.

"WHAT MADE YOU COME?"

"WILL you tell us now what you meant when you spoke to Dinah?" said Harry, when, after tea, the children gathered round Myra with a sense of protection and comfort to which they had lately been strangers.

"What is she to pack up for? Where are we going to?" another asked.

Myra felt very desolate, her thoughts were gone back to Mentone, and the dear ones there, to whom she had just completed a letter. But she roused herself to attend to her young questioners.

"I think," said she, taking little Elsie into her lap, "that it will be right for us to leave this house as soon as possible."

"I'd like to go to-morrow," said Harry; "we have no right here now."

"Well, of course we cannot settle in a moment where we may wish to live; so I think we will find lodgings for a week or two in a pretty part of Wales, where you can run about among the mountains and get rosy cheeks again."

"Capital!" exclaimed Harry. "Won't you like that, girls?"

"I shall be delighted," said Florence.

"And you, Margaret and Leonard, will you like it too, or is there any other place you like better?" said Myra kindly.

"I didn't suppose you meant us," said Margaret. "Harry and Florence are your brother and sister, we are nothing to you."

"But you are to them,—brother and sister, and through them to me; so let us all be one family, unless Mr. Haynes has something better to arrange for you. Come, dear Margaret, try to own me, and let us all love each other, sharing everything that God has given to us. Let me share your sorrow, and comfort you if I may, and you share my love and sympathy, and everything in my power to give. If you will, I cannot be thankful enough to God for bringing me to you."

Poor Margaret broke down a little, and suffered a kiss to close upon Myra's lips.

"Myra, what's the reason you have got plenty of money, and we have none?" bluntly asked Harry. "Florence and I are Sherwoods as well as you."

It was a hard question, and lay at the root of all the estrangement, as Myra had been obliged to learn; yet the wisdom that had so decreed her inheritance was never so fully appreciated as now.

"Don't you know?" demanded Harry again.

"Yes, I believe I know, but it is not, perhaps, wise for you and me to talk about it," said Myra.

"But I can understand if you tell me, and I want to know," persisted the boy. "I like to think right about things, and there must be right or wrong in it."

"There is nothing wrong in it, Harry. If you have anything entirely your own, you do what you please with it, don't you? And whether others think you do wisely or not, they have no right to interfere."

"No, of course not."

"This is the reason that I have property of my own, but it has nothing at all to do with your not having any. My dear mother died when I was a baby, and the money which her father had intended for her, he desired to be kept for her child. Is there anything wrong in that?"

"No, to be sure not," said Harry; "I don't know how anybody could say a word against it. If Florrie and I had been your mother's children, he would have had some kept for us. I wonder why our own papa didn't do the same."

"That is not for us to inquire about, dear Harry, but I hope you will thank God with me that my grandfather's plan has made up for it, by enabling me to share with you all now that which his wisdom and care provided. Are you satisfied?"

Harry did not look perfectly satisfied, and sat for some time in deep thought.

And Myra, changing the subject, began to tell Elsie some little story of Italian children whom she had taught to read the Bible.

Presently Harry burst out again with one of his plain questions, thus betraying the subject of his reverie.

"Myra, what made you come?"

Every eye was fixed upon Myra's face, and the words were re-echoed.

"Ah, what was it? You have not been for so long, we thought you had forgotten us; what made you come?"

Myra looked grave, and felt glad that the question was not, What made you stay away so long? But,—What made you come now?

With those young eyes fixed upon her, with impressions, probably for life, hanging on this trying crisis of their history, she must not evade that question, but tell the simple truth, whether they could understand it or not.

"You pitied us, didn't you, sister?" said Florence, seeing that Myra paused.

"Yes, but it was not that. I could pity you at a distance."

"You wanted us to have some of your money, I suppose; was that it?" said Margaret.

"I could have sent that," said Myra.

"Then what was it? I can't guess," said Harry.

"It was—yes, I believe, I am sure it was—the religion of Jesus," said Myra softly. "There is a sentence in the Bible which says of 'pure religion' that one of its features is 'to visit the fatherless in their affliction.' And another bids us 'be followers,' or imitators, 'of God, as dear children.' When the Lord saw the sorrows and wants of men, He was not content with pitying them at a distance, or with sending to them, 'He came Himself;' for He knew that man needed a Friend as well as a Saviour. And I thought perhaps it might happen that you, dear brothers and sisters, might need a friend, and be as glad of a heart to love you as of a hand to help you."

Myra's voice sank very low over little Elsie's head, and her tears mingled with the shining curls. There was dead silence, interrupted by two or three little sobs, while Elsie's wondering face was upturned to kiss her, and Florence held fast round her waist.

Harry felt as if something stuck in his throat, but he looked straight down at his boots, and even Margaret and Leonard drew closer to their new-found friend. It was a moment fraught with many issues for the future, though, after the immediate spell of its strange influence passed away, all did not consider it alike.

Beneath the window of the room assigned to Myra were the children's gardens. She had dressed, and was reading by the open window, when the sound of several voices was heard below.

"Here, let us gather them all; it doesn't matter about keeping them now, you know."

"Stop. I want a little bouquet for Myra, just one of your beat sprigs, Harry, and my prettiest rose; there, you may do what you like with the rest."

"What a fuss you make, Florence! Perhaps she doesn't care for your flowers. I remember very well that papa said she was a Methodist, and thought herself better than other people, and so did her aunt. And mamma said she meant well, only she was foolish and strange, and we were not to be like her, so she didn't ask her often to visit us."

"I say, Florrie—" and Myra had no difficulty in recognising the voice of Harry,—"I am glad she didn't say last night that she came because she loved us, for I shouldn't have believed her; and if I had, I should be pretty sure she wouldn't love us always. Where are all the fine people who used to call us clever and pretty, and such stuff, and invite us to their houses? Not one has been here since our trouble."

"Do you know, Harry," answered Florence, confidentially it seemed, as they busied over their plants, "she made me think of that text of his sermon that Dr. Walker said over so many times last Sunday; do you remember it?"

"No, stop, yes, I see,—

"'Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever.'

"Wasn't that it?"

"Yes, and perhaps as He is always the same, and Myra's religion is the religion of Jesus, she is always the same too; she won't love us one day, and care nothing about us the next."

"We'll watch and see what this religion is like," said Harry. "I feel as if I shall love her out and out if she goes on like last night, but, you see, she is quite different from anybody we know, and I don't exactly know what to make of it yet."

"I love her already," said Florence, "and I shall ask her to teach me the religion of Jesus. I expect it makes people good."

"I hate people that think themselves good," said Harry. "She doesn't seem like that, but we'll watch her."

Myra did not wait to hear more, but, kneeling down, she fervently implored the grace that is ready for every time of need.

"O my Lord," she cried, "let me not misrepresent Thee and Thine, keep me stedfast, make me act from principle, let me adorn Thy religion so that they shall learn to love it and Theo. Keep me from yielding to excited feeling, or temper, or disappointment. Give me victory over self, and give the honour of it to Jesus. Help me to be consistent, patient, forbearing, the same all day long, as I desire to be when before Thee."

"My grace is sufficient for thee," was the word which seemed floated on the breath of love into her mind, and Myra was comforted and strengthened.

The morning post brought to the children the intelligence that Mr. Haynes would be with them that evening. And the day was enlivened by a kind, long visit from Dr. and Mrs. Walker, who entered with interest into the circumstances of Myra's position, and, having known her father, they were at once welcomed as friends. But, better still, they knew Myra's heavenly Father, and rejoiced over His work in her heart and character.

They remained until Mr. Haynes's arrival. He came with slackened step and depressed appearance, deeply conscious of a responsibility concerning his brother's children, and bowed down with a painful conviction of inability to fulfil it to their advantage. He had a large family of his own, and his means were now very limited. How, then, could he burden them with the education and maintenance of five children?

The young party clustered round him, introducing Myra in bewildering terms. And it was not until after a quiet conversation with the good pastor in the library that Mr. Haynes was enabled to comprehend the immense relief which her presence was intended to afford in his difficulty.

"And am I to understand, my dear Miss Sherwood, that you are willing to take charge of my brother's children as well as of his step-children?" he asked, when they again met.

"Unless you and they prefer otherwise, and you have some better place arranged for them, sir."

"Better! All I can do is to let them share my roof, until they are old enough to get their own living. And, in consequence of a heavy loss through my late brother, that will no longer be what it has been. We have to begin life again, as it were; and they can but share my poverty."

"I have enough, with economy," said Myra, "to make a home for them all; and in case you approve, Dr. Walker advises me to reside near a good public school, where the boys can be thoroughly educated. My sisters will, I hope, be content with my instruction."

"Margaret should be prepared for taking a situation as governess, that she may not burden you too long," said Mr. Haynes doubtfully.

"And you think I may not accomplish that," said Myra, smiling. "Allow me to try."

"My dear young lady, I am thinking of your interest also," he replied, gazing with fatherly kindness on the young bright face and youthful figure of this girl of one-and-twenty, about to overwhelm herself with such a charge.

"You must not estimate the cost by money only," he continued. "Your beauty will fade, your health will fail, your spirit will weary under years of care and exertion, and toil and anxiety, such as the bringing up of all these children will entail. I am not sure that I am justified in permitting it."

"Dear sir, let me try," said Myra earnestly. "I could easily devote a portion to their maintenance, and save myself what you think will be troublesome, but I do not feel that to be the way in which best to benefit them. If I can give them home and love and watchful care, should I not do it, in grateful remembrance of all that has been done for me, and try so to form their characters that they may fill some honourable post of duty in their turn?"

"God bless you, my dear young friend. Most thankfully I yield to your decision, and beg to take off your hands all the trouble of the needful arrangements."

"I shall be very grateful for that," said Myra; "and while we are staying in the country, I will try to decide on our future residence. At present, it seems desirable to leave this house as soon as possible."

Mr. Haynes agreed, and proceeded to settle with the remaining servants, who were to leave when the family removed.

But there was a meeting in the kitchen.

"I suppose Miss will want servants," said Peggy, the bad-tempered kitchenmaid; "I shall just say I'm willing to go with her—I like her."

And away went Peggy to settle the matter with Myra.

"She's an awful temper," said the housemaid, "else I'd offer too. And yet she's a right good worker, and there may be worse to live with."

"If I wished you ill, Janet, I couldn't do it better than wishing you to stop with them," said Mrs. Dinah scornfully. "But if Miss Sherwood thinks she has seen the last of me, she is mistaken. 'Tis my duty to look after my poor dear missis's children, and I shall do it. I can see how she is going to tyrannise over them, poor dears."

"Aren't you going to stay with them?" asked Janet in surprise, having heard this intention so often declared.

"No, not as 'her' servant, indeed! I shouldn't demean myself to such a thing."

Whereupon Janet, thinking it decidedly an improvement on the state of the new household, went and offered her services to Myra. Thus, one of the first perplexities was removed, and two willing servants would be ready to proceed to the new house when it should be taken, Janet accompanying her mistress on the short tour into Wales in the meantime.

Mr. Haynes took his own young relatives apart, and explained to them, as simply as he could, the exact position of their affairs, impressing them with the assurance that nothing in his power to do for them could approach the benefit they would in every way derive from Myra's generous offer.

"At the same time, my children," said he, "if either of you prefer to go and share my frugal home, you shall be kindly received, and taught to provide for yourself in due time. For Elsie, I decidedly give her up to Miss Sherwood's care."

"Oh, uncle, we must go where Elsie is," said Margaret complainingly, "and I don't know that I shall like Myra. She's very odd indeed."

"Very," said Mr. Haynes; "I don't know one to match her, who would give up a home and friends like hers, to come and care for five orphan children, three of them having no claim upon her but the one she has found in her own kind heart."

"She says it was the religion of Jesus that made her come," said Margaret. "And you know, uncle, that mamma didn't want us to have much to do with her, because she thinks herself so good."

"Margaret," said Mr. Haynes almost sternly, "if it be possible for your mother to know what is passing here now, Myra is the one person in all the world to whom she would entrust you, and whom she would desire you to obey and imitate. Any mistake about her is cleared up now. If you are not happy with her, look first for any cause in yourself; and if you cannot find it, then come to me, my house will always be open to you. As for you, Leonard, nothing can be better for you than to share Harry's advantages: are you content?"

Leonard did not care much about it any way; he would go with Margaret, and when he was a man, he would take her and Elsie to live with him.

"Very well; the sooner the better," said his uncle, smiling; "and a good education is the first step to your plan."

CHAPTER V.

HARRY'S LESSONS

AND A CHANGE OF SCENE.

THE packing was going on briskly, amidst Mrs. Dinah's mischievous lamentations and insinuations, and Harry was taking his farewell of his favourite haunts, when a visitor was announced, demanding an interview with Myra.

"Oh, Myra!" cried Harry, rushing into the library, where she sat writing. "Here's somebody wants you, and yet you don't know any one about here. I am afraid it is one of those horrid people that papa owed money to."

"Hush, Harry! Do not speak so; it is very wrong, and you grieve me."

Myra looked up and saw that the "somebody" had been shown into the room, and must have overheard the boy's rude speech.

Harry was about to slink away, but a firm hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he was compelled to remain.

The visitor was a gentlemanly-looking man, beyond middle age, well dressed, and of upright, frank, and easy bearing, though the ungloved hand that grasped Harry's shoulder was like that of a man who had known something of manual labour.

"Madam," said he, "excuse this freedom, but I should like this young gentleman to hear what I have to say to you, if you will permit. I 'am,' unfortunately, one of those horrid people just described; the whole of the drawing-room furniture came now from my warehouse last summer. I do not for a moment suppose that Mr. Haynes did not wish and intend to pay for it, and, but for this young gentleman's sake, I would not have mentioned my share of the losses."

"He spoke thoughtlessly, sir; may I not beg you to pardon it?" said Myra, seeing Harry wriggling himself out of the hand that held him.

"I do freely pardon it, but let him learn better while he has opportunity."

"Harry dear, sit down quietly, and try to help me in all our difficulties; it comforts me, Harry, to have you near me," said Myra affectionately.

The boy looked in her truthful face, and sat down by her side, but he did not feel much mollified towards the peremptory visitor, who quickly hurried through his business.

"I come," he said, "from a meeting of the creditors, who have commissioned me with their sincere and respectful sympathy for the orphan family. They have heard also of you, madam, and in proof of their admiration and respect, they request that you will accept such of the useful articles of furniture as you may immediately need; the young people's beds, perhaps; also the contents of their study and playroom. There are two good pianos, one is to accompany you; and I shall send men to pack and remove the things wherever you desire them to be placed."

The good man looked anywhere rather than at the surprised young faces before him. He wanted no thanks; he, and they who acted with him, had reward enough in their own kind hearts.

"Dear sir," said Myra at last, "though deeply appreciating this unexpected and generous act, it is right that you should know exactly how we are situated. I have an income at my disposal which I trust will be sufficient for our reasonable wants; and would it be fair to subtract anything from those whose losses I fear must be very heavy?"

The visitor looked at her kindly, and then counted on his fingers deliberately.

"Five children to feed, clothe, educate,—two of them boys to be put out in life,—rent, taxes, servants, expenses that a young lady living as you have lived ought not to be denied. Excuse me, dear young lady, but you must agree to our little plan. It happens that I know more than you are aware. I was one of the witnesses to your good grandfather's will when he settled on you that which enables you now to help these children. I was doing some work for him, and was called into his study to see him sign his name. He gave me the first teaching that made me wish and strive to love and please God; and if I can do anything to serve you, I shall esteem it an honour."

Myra frankly put her hand into that large firm one which had held Harry, and felt its warm and kindly pressure as he continued:

"When your grandfather died, I heard all about the circumstances, and so it happens that I know what your resources are; and I understand enough of respectable housekeeping, and of the requirements of a family, to know that you will have nothing to spare. Yes, it must be as we have arranged. And now, young sir, may I ask how old you are?"

"Just thirteen," said Harry.

"Time to be about the business of a heavenly Father who has said what He will be to the orphan. You are too young to understand fully the state of things around you, but remember this,—and I say it in faithful kindness, hard as you may think it now,—remember if you would be independent, free, and happy, so far as your way through this life is concerned, you must shun debt. Never have anything that you do not know when and how you can pay for; and pay all before you take pleasure or indulgence. Peace of mind, and even life itself, may depend upon obedience to these rules. Let us shake hands, and may our Lord and Saviour bless and help you."

Harry gave his hand, and thought he should not forget.

"Sir," said he, "I am sorry for what I said about you, but I didn't know that you had the religion of Jesus, and I thought all the people must be angry and disagreeable who have—have—bills—that—"

"Never mind, my dear boy; you will not judge people another time until you know something about them. I am thinking, Miss Sherwood," he resumed to Myra, "that your things might go to one of my warerooms until you have settled where to put them. Would that save you any trouble?"

"Indeed it would," said Myra gratefully, for the kind thoughtfulness relieved her of a difficulty,—she not knowing yet where their future residence might be.

"God, our loving Father, who sees all you and your friends are doing, will reward you, sir," said she, as this real friend took his leave.

"And what for you?" he asked. "Our part is small and poor,—a mere nothing compared with yours."

"When we have done that which is our duty to do, we are but unprofitable servants," said Myra.

"Well, I can only hope if ever my children come to need a friend, some such unprofitable servant may care for them."

"He may be sure of that, Harry," said Myra cheerfully, as they looked after the good man down the walk. "It is written,—

"'With whatsoever measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.'

"Oh, Harry, shall we not be thankful for this generous consideration?"

"It would be a great deal better not to need it," said Harry.

"My dear brother, it is good for us to meet this kindness in people from whom we had no right to expect it. I am greatly pleased, for though I could buy the useful things, perhaps, I could not replace the valuable books on your shelves, nor the contents of your playroom. We must not be proud, Harry; perhaps some day it may please God to put it into your power to do a similar kindness to others."

"Is it pride? I wouldn't let you do all you are going to do if I could help it, only I don't see any way to help it; unless, indeed, you would let me go off to sea at once. They don't want much grand education, you know, at sea. Would you let me, Myra?"

"I could not consent to it, Harry. But if you are quite sure you cannot be happy with me, I will not hinder you, and I will ask Mr. Haynes to provide for this choice of your occupation in life in the best way possible."

"But if I go to sea at last, won't it be waste of time and money to keep me at school now?"

"We, that is, Mr. Haynes, Dr. and Mrs. Walker, and I, all think that in three or four years more you may not think as you do now. Four years of persevering study and opportunity to know your own mind will not be thrown away. What do you know of astronomy and magnetism?"

"Nothing at all," said Harry, staring at his sister.

"What of geography, the ocean, the tides?"

"Very little, I'm afraid."

"What of machinery, the engine, the laws of motion?"

"Nothing at all of any consequence."

"What foreign languages can you speak? Our ships, you know, are in the ports of all nations; and a sailor who can speak French, Spanish, Italian, German, one or all, has a great advantage over those who cannot."

"You are joking now, Myra. Sailors do not know all these things."

"It is very much to their advantage when they do, though. I fancy your idea of being a sailor is just climbing up and down the rigging, leaping with your good ship over the foaming billows, catching a shark perhaps, and wearing a blue jacket, and singing 'Britannia rules the waves.' Isn't it, now?"

Harry laughed, and felt that Myra really was a very wonderful person to know a boy's thoughts so well.

"But, Harry," she continued, more seriously, "whatever you decide to be, I want you to be the best of the kind. If you choose to be a sailor, you must aim at the highest rank and most responsible appointments; and therefore a good education is the starting-point. Go to school for two years more, without deciding what you will be, then another year or two with a special aim and suitable preparation. And if my brother Harry feels it burdensome to owe the means to his sister's love, Captain Sherwood can repay her at his leisure."

"Myra, Myra, you will always get your way," cried Harry, half laughing, half crying.

But Myra made it end in a hearty laugh, and so that affair was settled.

While the young party proceeded on their trip to Wales, Mr. Haynes and Dr. Walker undertook the selection of the school, and a suitable residence near it. And Mr. Haynes especially, in his earnest gratitude for the part Myra had chosen, was resolved to spare no trouble in making such arrangements as he thought would be acceptable.

Mrs. Walker's taste and counsels were put in requisition. And Myra, having stated her views concerning the simple style in which she wished to live, was quite content to trust to their discretion.

The pleasant change from the late scene of sorrow, mortification, and suspense, soon told upon the health and spirits of all the young party.

Myra would not take them to the sea, which would present such painful remembrances to their minds, and which they were accustomed to visit. But she chose a lovely inland village, surrounded by all kinds of accessible beauty and scenes of historic interest, and with the rich stores of information she had gathered, and the ample resources of a refined and highly cultivated mind, the pleasure and improvement of her companions were very effectually provided for.

The sight of some daring young trout in the river which wound through the valley inspired some of the young people with a fancy for fishing; and not fearing that their skill would greatly damage the happiness of the finny families, Myra one day indulged them by providing fishing tackle. And, with well-filled baskets of provisions, they sallied forth for the trout stream.

Feeling no particular interest in the result beyond the exercise and enjoyment of the children, who baited their hooks with paste and watched with delight every movement of the float, declaring that, if they caught nothing, they could count plenty of nibbles, Myra seated herself with a book under a shady bank, where she could safely allow little Elsie her share of the glee, with her fishing-rod extemporised out of a switch cut from the hedge, a piece of string, and a crooked pin.

Harry, declaring that the noise and laughter of the others hindered all possibility of success to any real fisherman, walked farther on, and after a great deal of patience, and considerable excitement over the hooking of a water weed, was throwing in his line again, when footsteps among the bushes and grass behind him caused him to look round.

A gentleman approached him, and, with an amused air, asked what success he had met with.

"None at all yet," said Harry, with dignity; "but I shall try another place, for I want to catch a good dish of trout for their tea."

"Is there an inn at the village?" asked the stranger, apparently wishing to prolong the conversation.

"Yes, but we are not staying there; we have a cottage to ourselves. It's very nice being here."

"I should think it is. May I presume to ask who the 'we' consist of?" asked the stranger, taking up a handsome pocket-knife which Harry had thrown upon the grass, and seeing the initials "H. S." engraved upon the handle.

"We!—Oh, my sisters and brother; we have only come for a week or two, because we are going to a new home."

"And your name is Sherwood, is it not?"

Harry looked up in surprise: How could the stranger know that?—Who could he be?

He was a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, with a satchel at his back and a stout stick in his hand; and his broad fair brow, as he pushed back his Glengarry cap, and his frank pleasant smile as he offered his hand, prepossessed the young fisherman in his favour.

"I see I am right," he said; "and you and I must be friends, if you please. Will you introduce me to your brother and sisters?"

"Not till I know who you are," said Harry, with the air of a protector.

"Right, my young friend; here is my card. Miss Sherwood will know my name. I have just returned from Italy, and have some messages from her friends there."

"Oh, how glad Myra will be!" exclaimed Harry. "Wait till I wind up my line, and I'll find her for you. I left them about a quarter of a mile off, by the side of the stream. How funny that you should happen to find us out!"

The stranger gravely remarked that curious adventures often happen to travellers, and they walked away together.

Leonard was still devoted to his float, but the others were busy spreading out the feast, which Myra handed to them from the various little baskets.

As they came in sight of the pretty group, Harry bounded forward.

"Myra, sister Myra, here is a gentleman from Italy; here is his card—Ralph Penwald is the name—you'll have to give him some dinner; he may have my share if you haven't enough. And he has promised to tell me all about his ascent of Mont Blanc."

With very blooming cheeks, and some surprise, Myra came forward to receive the traveller. And with the young party, he was soon quite at home. There happened to be dinner enough, and he greatly added to the entertainment by the tact and grace with which he managed everybody and everything there was to do. For Myra, he had brought notes from her young cousins, and endless messages from Frank, protesting that he could not enjoy himself without her, and insisting that she should return as soon as she had settled about her brothers and sisters.

"But he cannot have her," cried Florence; "she has got a house, and we are all going to live with her."

Mr. Penwald was busy peeling an apple for Elsie, and made no reply. But, after a while, he asked Myra if she would trust him with the boys for a longer ramble in the afternoon than the rest of the party could take, and he would help them to accomplish their design of bringing fish for their tea.

"Oh yes, that will be capital!" cried Harry. "And you will give Mr. Penwald his tea, Myra. And if he is going to stay all night at the inn, wouldn't it be nice if he would come with us to the ruins to-morrow?"

"I am not fond of ruins, Master Harry," said Ralph; "I prefer building up just now."

"Oh, but you like to see a fine old castle, don't you? Myra does, and she has promised to take us to-morrow, if the day is fine, to the ruined castle of B—. Now, if you would come with us, Myra would have no fears for Leonard and me; and we could run about and scramble where girls can't, you know."

"If your sister permit, nothing could be more pleasant for me," said Mr. Penwald.

Myra could scarcely refuse, though she tried to put in some objection on the ground of intruding on Mr. Penwald's time. But the proposition was carried by acclamation.

The boys then begged to escort their new friend to the inn, to secure lodging for the night.

"How long are you going to stay?" asked they.

"It depends on circumstances," he said; "I shall certainly not go until we return from the castle."

The afternoon was spent delightfully to them; they brought fish and Mr. Penwald home to tea, and all was arranged for the excursion of the following day.

Harry had listened particularly to the conversation, and, after a happy evening, he accompanied Mr. Penwald to the inn, lingering in the soft twilight as if he wished to say something, and had not wrought up his courage to the point.

"Now I shall see you back again until your cottage is in sight," said Ralph; "lest your sister be uneasy."

"I would not make Myra unhappy for the world," said the boy; "she is first-rate. When she came, we didn't know how much we should love her."

"She is worthy of your love, my dear boy; she is a consistent follower of Him who came to manifest the God whose name is 'Love.'"

"Mr. Penwald, please, you won't think me rude, will you? I want to ask you, do you know the religion of Jesus?"

"Something of it, I trust, dear Harry," replied Mr. Penwald in surprise; "I hope you will know it too."

"Myra is teaching me," said the boy, with a last clasp of the hand he held, and was at the cottage in a few moments.

Mr. Penwald retired to read his evening chapter, and consider how much he really knew of the religion of Jesus, and if it were as practical and influential a reality as it ought to be.

Harry meanwhile determined to think over something which troubled his mind, but as soon as his head rested on the pillow, he knew nothing more till morning.

———————

CHAPTER VI.

A SECRET.

THE morning shone out with the promise of a lovely day; the whole of the party could walk excepting Elsie, for whose accommodation a docile, sleepy donkey was provided, which also carried the provision baskets slung on either side of her saddle.

All the younger members were as merry as if the warm sun never rose upon anything but enjoyment. Already, the late terrible calamity was becoming a thing of the past; and sanguine hearts were accommodating themselves to new circumstances, with the happy elasticity so mercifully characteristic of youth.

The two elder, however, could not so entirely yield to the pleasure of the moment. Myra was not at ease, and Ralph Penwald had decided to make this day, so far as his own control over it extended, the turning-point of his life.

They spent the morning as they intended, viewing the stately ruin from many points in the landscape, and examining all the odd corners, and crumbling towers, and ivied windows, imagining, the while, all manner of events and scenes that might have occurred in long-past ages.

Then the delightful spread of refreshments on the grass which covered what had been the courtyard of the castle; after which, Myra selected a spot commanding a view of the picturesque tower and battlements, and prepared to sketch, while the rest, untired and eager, led off the donkey and its delighted rider with Janet to walk beside her, round the outside of the walls and down to the pebbly bed of the river, now nearly dry, and entirely safe.

Mr. Penwald saw them fairly engaged in picking up the worn white stones which shone temptingly there, and then returned to Myra's side.

He then candidly told her of the object of his visit, how truly he respected and loved her, and desired her companionship and help in the event of his becoming the pastor of a parish, the charge of which had been offered to him.

Myra would have interrupted him at once, but he begged her to hear him; when, however, he looked for some encouragement in her troubled face, there was nothing to cheer him with hope.

"Oh, Mr. Penwald," she said, "do you not know that I have devoted myself and all I possess to my orphan brothers and sisters?"

"Devote your property and welcome, but not yourself, Miss Sherwood; they cannot appreciate that gift as I should."

"Nothing can alter my purpose, Mr. Penwald. I sought, with many an earnest prayer, the guidance of my heavenly Father in the step I have taken; I thought I saw clearly the indications of His will; and where would be my Christian consistency, my faith and obedience, if, for any selfish ends, I were to retract my promised and already accepted service?"

"But, dear Miss Sherwood, if I might presume to think that, this cause removed, you would, in time, have yielded some return of regard, may I not suggest for a moment that a man's, an elder brother's, protection and friendship would be in the same scale with all your affectionate efforts on their behalf, and might be useful, at least to those dear boys? Will you consider it, and not decide against me at once?"

"No, Mr. Penwald; I am fully convinced of my duty. These orphans are suddenly deprived of their best and dearest friends; they will need, for years, a home, and love, and a watchful, tender monitor ever at hand. I could not fulfil other duties to you and your people, and be mother, sister, friend to these friendless ones. Your way to serve me and them must be in earnest prayer for God's blessing upon us all."

"Is there not some other objection?" he urged. "It seems hard to see you devote youth and talents that are suited to a wider sphere, in which God would honour your service for His sake, to these children who some day will follow their own wills, and perhaps grieve and disappoint you."

"It may indeed be so," replied Myra, "but I shall have the consciousness of having done my best while I could; and that to no wilful neglect or indifference of mine, the sorrowful end will have to be traced. But, indeed," she added, looking up more cheerfully, "'I hope for better things."

"But you have not answered my question, Miss Sherwood. I have sometimes thought, or feared, that your cousin Frank—"

"Oh, Mr. Penwald," cried Myra, interrupting him, "can you think me so mean, so cowardly, as to cloak a real reason under an assumed one, and such an one? No, I love Frank dearly, as another brother, and was about to ask you to continue your kind watchfulness over him for his own and my dear aunt's sake; for she is often anxious about him. If there were any such objection, I would in sincerity and candour have told you, as only due to you for the honour you have done me. Please let us forget all that has now passed."

"Forgive me, Miss Sherwood," he said, as she rose and began to put away her sketch-book; "I was unjust in my bitter disappointment. Yet the more I contemplate this decision, and envy the lot of these favoured children, the more I feel how difficult may be your path, young as you are, to burden yourself, unaided, with such a charge."

"Look here, Mr. Penwald," said Myra, taking a little book from her satchel, and pointing to a passage in it; "this is my help, strength, comfort, and confidence; and this also."

The paragraphs ran thus:

"'Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee, yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of My righteousness.'

"'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee. Trust ye in the Lord for ever; for in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength.'"

"Thank you for this lesson, Miss Sherwood; it may do me good service through many an hour of solitude and duty. I shall not accept the charge that has been offered to me; for, only helped and blessed with a true-hearted Christian wife, could any man fulfil its requirements and sustain its responsibilities."

"Will you not then be a minister of Christ's gospel?" asked Myra anxiously.

"I do not say that," he replied, gratified at the proof of interest in his future; "there are other fields of usefulness, and as it has pleased God to give me some facility in acquiring languages, I may devote myself to the claims of our Indian fellow-subjects. I will try to put all into our Lord's hands as you have done, and accept my work as He may see fit to appoint it. Will you care to hear what becomes of me?"

"Always, Mr. Penwald," said Myra frankly; "your friendship for me is not thrown away. I shall hear of you as an honoured servant of the Lord Jesus; and it will stimulate me to try and keep up with you in the Christian race."

Mr. Penwald saw the party to their cottage, and then took a hasty leave, to the great regret of the children.

Myra went to her room, and sat down to try and calmly review the events of the last few hours.

A happy path of usefulness and interest had been opened before her, and she had refused to walk in it. Just the friend with the strong manly arm she needed had come to her, and she had rejected its support. She had turned from affection and sympathy, with much that makes life attractive to a young, warm, womanly heart, to toil, and endure, and walk alone. Oh, why had the knowledge of this come too late? Could not the Lord, who "makes all things work together for good to them that love Him," have caused Mr. Penwald to declare his wish before she left Italy, or rather, before the terrible news from England came? She might then have been honourably and religiously bound to him by an earlier promise.

Assuredly, the wise, omniscient God could have done so, but He did not. Was she His only care? Had He not pointed out to her, in His providence, the way in which she was to serve Him?

Oh yes; it was all right, quite right. And she was glad that she had not known Mr. Penwald longer, and that he would always be her friend.

"This," she thought, "is not providence! This is a temptation to turn out of the way of providence; and I thank Thee, O God, for 'grace to help in time of need.' With Thee to watch over and care for me, I shall be safe and happy in Thy way. What endless perplexity and care may be avoided by conscientious obedience to a judgment formed in faith and prayer before Thee, desiring only to honour Jesus and His truth! All is right and well, and now no more 'ifs,' no weak regrets, no foolish sentimentality."

Noble and true principle! How few act up to even their own standard! How many, accepting the decisions of selfishness, call tempting circumstances providences, and when time or events reveal the error, blame God for not having compelled them to act wisely!

Surely we too frequently forget that Satan and our own hearts have a bond of union against all real providences that lie in the path of anything self-denying and disagreeable. And if heavenly wisdom were prayerfully sought, we should oftener detect the imposture and avoid a temptation, instead of bemoan a "providence."

Myra soon succeeded in amusing the children from their regret at the departure of such an agreeable playfellow, excepting only Harry, who was unusually restless and dull. Once, he suddenly threw his arms round his sister, and kissed her passionately, and then ran away. At another time, he would sit gazing at her with a dreamy look in his eyes, and speak absently if the others claimed his attention.

Myra was perplexed with his manner, until by degrees it wore off, and gave place to a gentle, thoughtful attention to her wants or wishes, which was very winning, and, from the rather rough, boisterous boy, extremely surprising.

But Harry's pent-up feelings made to themselves a safety-valve, before subsiding thus:

"I say, Florrie, I want you to come a long walk with me. Ask Myra if we may go to that old castle."

Leave being given, and pockets filled with biscuits, they set off, Myra promising to bring the other children to meet them on their return.

"I want to tell you something, Florrie, if you'll promise me that you will never tell any one again, not Myra, nor Margaret, nor anybody;" and Harry looked very mysterious and solemn.

Florence was nearly two years older than her brother, but delighted to be his chief companion and friend, and was usually in all his confidences. To his surprise, therefore, she hesitated now.

"I like to tell Myra everything," she said; "I don't want any secrets from Myra."

"Well, but you won't want to tell her this. Promise, Florrie; I can't keep it any longer to myself. I want somebody to talk to about it, and it is as much to you as to me."

"Well, Harry, I promise, only on condition that it is no harm, and that there is no need to tell any one."

"Well, Florrie, do you know that Mr. Penwald—did you like him very much?"

"Very much, indeed," said Florrie; "I never saw any one so nice."

"So did I like him very much, but what do you think of his wanting to take away Myra to live in some grand parish, and help him to do good?"

"Did he, Harry? How do you know?" asked his sister, in great astonishment.

"Never mind that. I know it is true; and she wouldn't go because of us. She said she had devoted herself to the care of her brothers and sisters, and nothing could make her alter, or leave us. Then I remembered what you said about that text, you know—'the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.' So, if the religion of Jesus made her come to us, it is making her stay with us, you see; and she wants to be like Him."

"That she does," said Florence; "but, Harry dear, how did you come to know this? Neither of them would tell you; and perhaps you may be mistaken."

"I am not mistaken. Look here, Florrie; they were sitting under that old tower, and I—" poor Harry's face grew very red—"I was inside it. I got in from the other side, and there's a big hole, where some stones have tumbled out, and so I heard what they said."

"I HEARD WHAT THEY SAID."

"Oh, Harry!" exclaimed Florence, with wide open eyes and flushed face. "I am so ashamed of you. How could you do such a thing? What would Myra say?"

"She will never know, unless you tell her; and you won't do that. And it has made me love her dearly."

"I shall not tell her, of course, but I do think it is a wrong thing that you did; mean, shameful. You will listen some day and hear something about yourself that you won't like," said Florrie contemptuously.

"I don't care; I am not sorry, so I shall not pretend to be. I took it into my head that he wanted to take her away, and I was determined to find out for myself; so I came back to the castle, while you all went to the river, and I found that hole made on purpose for me."

"I can't bear to think of you doing such a thing, Harry; don't you know that there is nothing so mean and low as—"

"There, that is enough about it," said Harry impatiently, "but this is the bad part of it to me,—what if she would have liked to go with him, and yet for our sakes refused to do it?"

"Perhaps she would like," said Florence thoughtfully; "he is so nice, I think she ought to like."

"Very well, then, don't you see that it is just what we read this morning,—

"'Whosoever will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me'?

"She is denying herself, and we are her cross, depend upon it, and that's horrid; I can't bear it. Let us beg her to send us to a boarding-school, or anything."

"Did Mr. Penwald try to persuade her?"

"Yes, for a little while, but he is a manly fellow, and wouldn't go on begging her to do what she thought would be wrong."

"And do you think she would let us persuade her, when he couldn't, Harry? Oh, I am very sorry if we are a cross, but what should we do without her? Ever since she came, I have felt so different; she cares for us, and we can trust her. Oh, Harry, don't try to alter it now."

"I would if I thought it would be of any use," said Harry, "but I suppose you are right, she will do what the Lord Jesus has given her to do for Him; and perhaps she wouldn't be happy any other way."

"And we may prevent ourselves from being a very hard cross, you know, Harry, by trying to please her and help her, and by loving her more than even Mr. Penwald could. You know she is not 'his' sister."

"Well, I am sure I shall do all I can for her, but, Florrie, do you see how disagreeable and rude Margaret and Leonard are sometimes? It makes me all in a boil to hear them. Elsie is very good, that's a comfort."

"Let us set them a good example about everything, Harry; and perhaps you can be of some use to Leonard. We must all make Myra as happy as we can. I almost wish Margaret could know what you told me, it might make her better."

"Not for the world, Florrie; don't you dare to tell her, because of course he, Mr. Penwald, wouldn't like—"

"No, of course he wouldn't," said Florence. "I am glad you are a little ashamed of yourself, Harry; so now never do such a thing again."

"I shan't want to," said Harry; "we shall never see Mr. Penwald again, Florence. If Myra doesn't mind, I'll try not to mind too."

Whether Myra "minded" they never knew, for her gentle, loving ways and cheerful spirit betrayed no sign to them.

———————

CHAPTER VII.

A HAPPY SUNDAY.

"HERE'S Sunday come again," said Leonard, yawning, as he left the breakfast-table; "I hate Sunday."

"So do I," said Harry, catching the infection, and stretching himself out lazily.

"I scarcely wonder at that, my dear boys," said Myra gently, "if you always spend it as you did the last one. I made no remark, because I had so lately come, but I felt sorry for you."

"What a curious thing! I thought you would be vexed with us for hating Sunday," said Leonard, looking inquisitively at her.

"I am not pleased, of course, but I hope to see you love it some time. Come, Elsie, let me hear something about it, darling."

Elsie jumped from her chair, and standing with her little hands clasped behind her, she began:

"'Happy, happy Sunday,

We will not toil to-day,

But leave till busy Monday

Lessons, work, and play.

"'It is our happy holy day,

It tells of God and heaven;

Oh, let us give up one day

To Him who gave us seven.'"

"Who taught you that? When did you learn that?" exclaimed several voices at once.

"Sister Myra taught me. She knows everything," said the little maiden triumphantly.

"What does it mean about giving it up, I wonder? I am always more tired on Sunday than any day in the week," said Harry.

"Tired of yourself, tired of doing nothing, are you not, Harry?"

"I daresay that is it; and Sunday must be made for something better than that, of course."

"Sunday belongs to the religion of Jesus, doesn't it, Myra? So I am sure we ought to like it if we could," said Florence.

"If you should love the religion of Jesus, you will soon love and enjoy His day, 'the Lord's day,' as His disciples called it. For you may imagine what it would be, after they had seen Him murdered and buried, and were mourning for Him in secret as one loved and lost, and whose death had crushed all the bright hopes they had indulged about Him, to hear that on the first day of the next week He was alive again, had sent them a loving message, and was ready to meet and bless them again as soon as they could come to Him. Then they knew that all He had said was true, that all He had promised He could perform, and they met astonished friends with the joyful shout, 'He is risen, He is risen from the dead!' Well might they celebrate that wonderful day with songs of praise and deep thanksgiving."

"I daresay they might," said Margaret, "but what does it matter to us all this long time after?"

"Everything, dear Margaret. The rising again of the Son of God from the grave shows Him to be the Holy One who died to save His people from their sins; you and me, Margaret, if we believe in Him. And it is the pledge of our resurrection in due time, for He said to His trusting servants,—

"'Because I live, ye shall live also.'

"And when we feel that all Jesus did, and is, and will yet do, is for us, that we may be forgiven and saved, and made partakers of His glory, we gladly hail our Christian right to one day of the seven, on which to give Him special honour, to worship Him, read and hear His word, and learn more and more how best to serve and please Him. You see, our pleasure in His day depends entirely on our love to Himself. The observance of it is good for every one, for every family and every nation, because God has said so; but the happiness of it is the enjoyment of those only who value His work, and desire to be His, now and for ever."

"I thought religion meant going to church, and reading good books on a Sunday."

"Religion, dear sister, is really the reuniting to the Lord God of that which sin separated from Him; only He could plan the way to do it; for poor sinful creatures would never have even wished, of themselves, reunion with the holy God. So He sent His dear Son to tell us of His love and pity for us, to die instead of us, suffering what we deserved, and taking our human nature up with Him into the presence of His Father and our Father, His God and our God, there to feel for our sorrows, to pardon our sins when we are grieved about them ourselves, to hear our prayers, to intercede for our benefit, to give His Holy Spirit, and to make everything that happens work for our good. That glorified divine and human Saviour is the link that reunites God and man; and faith is the link that unites the sinner to Christ. Do you understand me, dears?"

"I think I see it," said Harry; "believing in Him, what you call faith, unites to Jesus, and Jesus unites to God. He is in the middle, between us."

"Yes, in His human nature dwells the loving, gracious God who planned it all: as it is written,—

"'God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them.'

"Faith is the gift of God, and the union thus formed influences the affections of our hearts and the conduct of our lives, so as to produce what the Bible calls 'fruits of the Spirit; love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance,' and such like. Are they not lovely fruits and sweet flowers? And shall we not like to have them growing up beautifully among us? This is real religion."

"I am sure we shall," said Florence; "but we have not many of them yet."

"Oh, we will have patience, dear Florrie; 'with God all things are possible;' and He is very patient and longsuffering."

"I should like to please Him, Myra," said Florence softly. "I will try to remember and do what is right always, and then perhaps He will love me."

"Dear Florrie, you have not caught yet the meaning of what I have said. God does not want us to buy His love, nor to try and do what is impossible.

"'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.'

"That is, to be the offering, the atonement, through which the loving Father could honourably and justly receive back to favour those who have rebelled against and grieved Him. The religion of Jesus is a religion of love.

"'God so loved the world that He gave His Son.'

"Christ proved His love by His work for us; and when, by the gift and grace of His Holy Spirit, we are so impressed with it as to love Him because He first loved us, it is like seed cast upon good ground, springing up in every sweet fair thing that thoughts, words, and deeds can accomplish for Him. This, you see, is not doing things to make God love us, which is a gloomy, hard mistake, and keeps one in a constant fret and uncertainty about succeeding at last,—but a free and happy life of loving obedience. It is the most miserable thing possible to displease one whom we dearly love and who we know loves us,—is it not?"

"I am sure it ought to be," said Harry; "and is this the sort of love that makes people choose to deny themselves and take up crosses of their own accord?"

"Yes, when the cross lies in the path of duty, as we find God's will taught in His word, but not that cross or that sort of self-denial that some people invent for themselves, and claim merit and reward for."

"Does anybody do that?" asked Margaret.

"Yes, many do make that sad mistake, and distress themselves with what they call penances, and charities, and rounds of devotional services, thinking that the pure, loving God will favour them and save them for it, though He has distinctly said that we are redeemed only by the blood of Christ, and that we can add nothing to its value."

"Why, Myra, I do believe those crusaders that we read about thought that going to get Jerusalem from the Turks was to please God and win heaven for themselves."

"You are right, Harry. They were taught so by the priests and monks; and the pope proclaimed pardon of all sins to those who drew their swords against infidels. It is a dreadful mockery of poor anxious hearts, and a great blasphemy of the grace of God, so to deform Christianity and misrepresent salvation. Oh, Harry, if you could see the shocking ignorance of God, and of everything good and true, among the poor Italian people, where nothing but the religion, as they call it, of popery has ever been taught for hundreds of years, and where the pope himself has lived and reigned, you would shrink with pain and indignation from a system that makes bargains of human souls, and leaves the heart and character worse than it finds them."

"Some people go into convents and monasteries to got made good, don't they?"

"I am afraid many are deceived by that fancy, and find out too late that no walls, not even the most beautiful, no chanted prayers, the most incessant, no penances, the most austere,—can touch the root of sin, nor keep the unruly wills and affections in order for half an hour. In fact, they are more rampant and unruly and troublesome than when scope is given for their use and exercise in the world they were made for while in a mortal body. God does not grudge our love for friends, and pleasant things, and personal enjoyments, while we receive them thankfully from Him, and do not forget Him in His kind gifts. We are to try and be like our dear Saviour, who never shut Himself up from human society, and even met Satan himself in the wilderness when His duty required it.

"'We need not bid, for cloistered cell,

Our neighbour and our work farewell,

Nor strive to wind ourselves too high

For mortal man beneath the sky;

"'The trivial round, the common task,

Would furnish all we ought to ask;—

Room to deny ourselves, a road

To bring us daily nearer God.'"

"But," said Margaret, in a dissatisfied tone, "everybody is not religious in this way, Myra, or if they are, nobody knows it."

"Christianity—the religion of the Bible, of Jesus—always speaks in some way, dear Margaret; if the lips are silent, the life declares it. 'Every tree is known by its fruit,' you know."

"But if people do not think much about—about what you have been telling us, what are they to do?"

"Make haste to think about it, and learn what the Lord God has done for them as soon as possible," said Myra.

"It seems to me," said Margaret gloomily, "you mean to say that papa and mamma and Helen are not gone to heaven."

"Oh, Margaret, for shame!" cried Harry and Florence. "She said nothing of the sort."

"But she means that."

"I assure you, Margaret, that they have not once been in my thoughts during our conversation, until you have brought them there now."

"Well?" said Margaret inquiringly.

"'Neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.'

"That is, the name of Jesus," said Myra, in a firm and gentle voice.

"'And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in His Son. He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.'"

"If that's in the Bible, I don't like it," cried Margaret.

"There is more than that in the Bible, dear sister," added Myra; "but those are true statements, nevertheless. Now listen to this."

And she read the story of Jesus walking on the water to His disciples in the tempest-tossed ship.

"What I want you to notice is Peter's cry, and the Lord's instant answer. Peter was sinking; he felt he should be lost; there was no power in himself to stand upon those rocking waves. In his agony, he cried, 'Lord, save me!' and immediately Jesus stretched forth His hand and caught him."

The children all gazed upon Myra with intense interest and attention as she continued,—"Now, the miracles of our Lord were not only proofs of His power, but they were also emblems of His truth, and illustrations, in natural things, of His power and grace in spiritual things. Peter's condition when sinking in the sea is like that of a sinner sinking to everlasting destruction, if no hand is near to save. Peter's cry brought the hand of Jesus instantly to his help; the sinner's cry of real belief in His power and pity brings the arm of Jesus around the sinner's soul, snatching from eternal death, and raising to eternal life.

"'Call upon Me,' He says, 'in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee.'"

"Oh, Margaret, let us hope and think they called," whispered Florence in Margaret's ear.

"But we don't know," persisted Margaret.

"Listen again," said Myra.

And she read the story of the dying thief on the cross by the side of the Lord Jesus.

"Now it is not likely that the people who were moving about and looking on, during that awful scene, knew what was passing between the Lord and the penitent thief. And when the soldiers came to see that they were dead, they little thought that the soul of one of those poor convicts was gone with Jesus to Paradise. History would never have recorded it; the friends of the man—if he had any—did not know it, but the wise, kind Lord bade His servant afterwards relate it, for the comfort of—yes, even of such as we are."

"But, Myra, suppose there was no time to think or speak, no power, perhaps."

"Well, listen yet again, dear Margaret."

And Myra read the story of the brazen serpent.

"Just imagine the utter helplessness of those bitten, dying creatures; they had no power to do a single thing to save themselves from the poisonous fangs of the deadly reptiles; and it would have mocked their agony to bid them perform some act of devotion. They were bidden to look, only to look, at the brazen serpent which Moses held up; and whoever looked was healed. Oh, fancy the eager uplifting of the drooping eyelid, the sudden animation of hope that could not be disappointed. And,—

"'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up: that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.'

"The look now is the look of faith that no other eye can see, and only God can know, until either on earth or in heaven the happy news is told. Dear Margaret, these things—

"'. . . were written for our learning, that we . . . might have hope.'—

"Hope for our dear ones whose end we did not see, hope for ourselves in dark and helpless days. But not one word of hope or promise is given to delay, to unbelief, while we live to choose between God and sin, faith and unbelief. Now is our opportunity, to-morrow may be too late. The religion of Jesus is to teach us how to live and serve, as well as to give peace when we come to die."

"It is a wonderful book, this Bible," said Harry; "I never thought there were such interesting things in it. Why, there is nothing we can say or think that you cannot answer out of it."

"Just look at the time," cried Florence; "why, we shall only just get to church in time for the English service at twelve. We have talked ever since breakfast."

"And about religion too, and we are not tired!"

After dinner, they all took a walk as far as little Elsie's power allowed, and Myra sat down on the grassy bank while the children filled her lap with the lovely autumnal wild flowers.

"Why, Myra, what are you doing?" cried Harry, coming to her with a second handful. "You have spoiled that pretty flower that I asked you the name of. What made you open it so wide?"

"I am sorry if you wanted it again," said Myra, "but I never saw one like it before; and the exquisite shading of colour in its delicate leaves, and the soft lines diverging from the centre both inside and out, beguiled me into destructiveness even in my admiration. Besides that, I was thinking."

"What about, Myra? I like to know your thoughts."

"I was thinking of a great difference between man's works and God's works. The closer we look into man's doings of all kinds, the more we detect imperfection, and our appreciation is either diminished or exhausted; but the more minutely we examine into everything God makes or does, the more we are obliged to admire and wonder. This pretty flower under the microscope would reveal infinite perfection in form and colour, beyond what we see with the naked eye; but put the finest painting that the greatest artist ever executed under the same scrutiny, and what coarseness, what daubing it would display! Man aims at effect; God produces perfection."

"Myra, are you always thinking religion?" asked Harry earnestly.

"Can we help thinking of what we love?" said Myra, smiling.

"I want to ask you something, may I?"

"Surely you may, dear brother; and I will answer if I can."

"Are we your cross? Are you denying yourself to stay with us?"

Myra looked surprised, and the colour rose over her face, but she answered frankly,—

"At first I felt something like it, Harry, for you all seemed not to want me, but now I am feeling it less every day. And if there is any self-denial in it, I am glad to prove that I can deny myself for Christ's sake and yours."

"But do not crosses and self-denials make people unhappy? I can't bear you to be unhappy."

"Do not fear it, darling brother," said Myra; "I am just where I like to be, and where I think my Lord wishes me to be. Anything else would make me unhappy. Now kiss me, and promise that you will put such fancies out of your head from this minute."

Harry gave her one of his bouncing kisses.

"Suppose God should wish you to go away, how would you know, Myra?"

"If it should please Him to do something better for you all, and show me that I am not needed, then I should go."

"But suppose He had something better for 'you,' Myra?" queried the persevering boy.

"That cannot be, Harry," she replied, after another feeling of surprise at the question. "Nothing can be better for any one than the path of duty, in which only we find peace and blessing."

Harry seemed satisfied at last, and after tea they read and talked over the subject of it. And Myra sang, in her best style, English and Italian hymns, to their great delight, and all joined in regret when bed-time came to end the shortest Sunday they had ever spent.

———————

CHAPTER VIII.

A NEW HOME

AND SOME VARIATIONS OF TEMPER IN IT.

IN less than a month, Myra and her family were the pleased occupants of their new home,—a pretty white house, simply and tastefully furnished, and surrounded by a small garden containing several handsome trees, which screened it somewhat from the high-road. It was situated at the outskirt of one of those clean, respectable county towns, where an excellent and well-conducted public school attracts the residence of many persons out of business, retired officers, widow ladies with large families and small incomes; and from which honourably earned scholarships and exhibitions have transferred ornaments to British universities.

Harry and Leonard were entered according to their respective ages, and soon found their level. The former had for several years been a boarder at an expensive school, and was quite prepared for all a schoolboy's troubles and adventures, but Leonard, though proud of his new position, was too selfish and contentious to become a favourite, and his mortification were ill endured.

His sisters did their best to patch up sundry wounds, mend battered books, and sympathise with black eyes, incurred by pride and wilfulness in the playground, and which, of course, the masters could not prevent. And Harry, perhaps, was not so quick to the rescue as he might have been, for he often thought that Leonard deserved the treatment bestowed on him. However it might be, Margaret was the chief "confidante" of his feelings, and instead of soothing, she too often irritated him. In fact, they sometimes made themselves out to be the two most unfortunate children in the world, from the strong magnifying power through which they viewed their grievances.

One day Harry burst in at home, after school, exclaiming,—

"Oh, Myra, who do you think I've seen? Actually nurse Dinah! She stopped us in the road; and when I wouldn't wait any longer, she kept Leonard talking on. She says she has come to live near us, and we must often go and see her."

"Dear Harry, I wish you had waited for Leonard," said Myra. "None of you are to have any communication with Dinah, and I am sorry to hear that she has come here."

"I shall speak to her, and go and see her, too," said Margaret. "How can you, Myra, be so ill-natured to her, when poor mamma liked her so much?"

"Mamma did not know her, Margaret, or she would not have allowed her to be with you so long. But I am serious in what I say. You are not to visit Dinah, and she is not to come to see you."

"It's shameful!" cried Margaret passionately. "Do you call that religion?"

"It is part of it, dear sister, as my duty to you. Dinah did her best to make you disobedient to me, and dissatisfied with God's dealings with you; and I ought to guard against the same evil for the future."

While Margaret was uttering some rude reply, Leonard made his appearance, with his mouth and hands full of sweets, mumbling out the news of Dinah's arrival in the neighbourhood, and the nice things she had got in her new shop. Myra gently repeated her decision, that Leonard might fully understand, and then turned the attention of them all from the subject.

On the following day, the sisters were walking into the town on some errand, when suddenly Margaret darted into a small shop, where fancy confectionery and small wares appeared for sale; and the others immediately following, found her in nurse Dinah's arms, receiving her caresses and welcomes.

Myra permitted her to kiss Elsie also, and Florence shook hands coldly.

"Bless you all, my darlings!" cried Dinah. "Come as often as ever you can; I shall always be delighted to see my charge that my dear mistress, poor lady, left to me. There, I see your governess doesn't like to be kept waiting, but I'll soon see you again."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, nurse."

"Mrs. Jonson, if you please, miss. I'm married, and I came to settle here for the sake of the children, that they may have one old friend near them, at least."

"It is a great pity you took such an important step on their account, Mrs. Jonson, for I must beg you to understand that they do not go anywhere without me, and that I hope you will not press for any further acquaintance with them. Come, Margaret."

"Run down whenever you can, my dear, and take this," whispered Mrs. Jonson, as Margaret yet lingered behind, and thrusting a paper of toffee into her hand; "I daresay you don't get much of treats now. I wonder how she has managed to win over your little sister?"

"Oh, she is very kind to her," said Margaret, running off at last.

"My dear Margaret, you must promise me not to do this again," said Myra gravely.

"You are jealous of her, I suppose?" said Margaret.

"I am jealous for you, dear sister. I wish you to have friends who will do you no harm at least. Will you promise?"

"What if I don't promise?" asked Margaret pertly.

"I shall have the sorrow of finding that I have a rebel in my little household, and must consult with your uncle upon the proper means to put down mutiny. But you will not drive me to do that, I trust. I will leave it for the present with your sense of honour and propriety. You know very well the worth of Dinah's professions of attachment to you, and should not permit her to come between us who are sisters."

"You are not my sister; I don't like to be ordered about by you. I ought to do as I please."

"Well, dear, let me at least help you to be fit to do as you please, and to guide you until you are. I only ask your obedience, and the good example of it until that time, for Leonard's sake as well as your own. Dinah is ignorant, and perhaps thinks she means to do you a kindness, but you know better what is suitable and right."

"It's very hard," grumbled Margaret.

"I will make it as easy as I can," said Myra kindly, "but it is right, or indeed I would not insist. I love to please you, Margaret, but no true friend would prefer to please for the moment, by the infliction of a lasting injury."

Nothing more was said on the disagreeable subject for several days.

But Mrs. Jonson being resolved to test her power to win the children and oppose Myra, walked to the house, astonishing Peggy by her unexpected appearance in the kitchen, and desiring her to announce her arrival to the young ladies.

"Please, here's Dinah," said Peggy, in a cross voice; "she wants to see the children."

"Tell her they are all engaged," said Myra calmly.

"I told her they was at lessons, ma'am, but she says she will wait till they've done. You had best come and speak to her yourself, please, ma'am, for I feel all boiling up. And if she don't go, I'm afraid I shall be doing something I had better not, maybe. I can't abide her mischief, not I."

Myra immediately went to the kitchen, told Mrs. Jonson, in a few words, her reason for refusing what, under different circumstances, she would willingly have encouraged, and, requesting her to desist from all future attentions to the children, she bade her good-morning.

Mrs. Jonson was not to be silenced, if she could not be welcomed, and broke into abusive speeches against tyranny, cruelty, and injustice, until Peggy, unable to control herself any longer, seized her mop and a pail of water, and began such a slushing deluge in all directions over the floor, that the enemy beat a retreat rather speedily at last.

THE ENEMY BEAT A RETREAT RATHER SPEEDILY.

"I am glad you've taken to hold your tongue, Peggy," she remarked sneeringly; "it is a great improvement."

"She would improve anybody that would let her," cried Peggy, pointing her thumb after Myra, "but you had best keep away till you want to be good." And she shut the door with a disrespectful bang and the sound of a bolt.

Peggy didn't pretend to be good yet, she said to herself; "and when story-tellers and mischief-makers would put themselves in her way, she wasn't against using her mop instead of her tongue; it made a deal less noise, and did the work quickest when the kitchen wanted cleaning and getting shut of rubbidge."

But, unhappily, Peggy did not easily recover from the ill effects of this disagreeable visit. One of her crooked tempers had been roused and indulged, and now mastered her good resolutions. She became reckless, and dashed about until she broke and damaged several useful things. A word from her fellow-servant provoked her further, and Peggy was soon past management.

She rose late, breakfast was not ready, boots were not cleaned, the kitchen looked like a sale-room. At dinner, the gravy was black with cinders, and the potatoes, usually done to a nicety, were either hard or burned. In fact, poor Peggy's evil temper intruded into everything, and her young mistress's gentle remonstrances produced no impression.

At last, provoked by some fresh proof of carelessness, Myra, without waiting to consider any further, went hastily into the kitchen, and spoke with such angry decision that Peggy stared with astonishment, threw down a box full of coals, and finally launched upon her mistress a torrent of insolence such as poor Myra had never heard before, ending with an announcement that she would leave the house that very day.

"You will not do that. You shall wait until I fill your place, impertinent, ungrateful girl!" said Myra, repeating some of the vexations that Peggy had lately perpetrated, amidst violent disclaimers on the part of the culprit, until, feeling that her position was getting extremely undignified, she turned away, but not before Peggy, with a scornful tone, and as though speaking to herself, exclaimed,—

"There, it's all come out now. If that's her religion, it ain't worth nothing, and I'm not going to bother my head any more about it. She teach other people, indeed! She'd better begin again herself!"

The taunt stung deep. Instantly the apostle's words rushed into Myra's mind:

"The servant of the Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient (or forbearing), in meekness instructing those that oppose themselves; if God peradventure will give them repentance to the acknowledging of the truth; and that they may recover themselves (or awake) out of the snare of the devil, who are taken captive by him at his will."

Myra went to her own room, and, with a beating heart and burning cheek, knelt down and burst into tears. There was a storm now within. Ashamed, humbled, disgusted with herself, she forgot Peggy's insolence, in humiliation and self-reproach; and the loss of influence for Peggy's moral and spiritual welfare was no small portion of her sorrow.

"Oh, how I have forgotten the charity that is not easily provoked! I am well taught, and know the mind of Christ, while she is an ignorant girl whom no one has ever instructed at all, and is only just beginning to be willing to learn from me! What a wrong I have done to the religion of Jesus! What injury to the poor girl herself!"

But Myra knew where to find pardon and peace, and the value of the blood that "cleanseth from all sin," and by degrees she grew calm and able to seek earnestly for wisdom and grace to try and undo in Peggy's mind the mischief she had done.

Once more, she bent her steps to the kitchen, with traces of tears on her face, but the soft light of peace and Christian love in her eyes.

Peggy was violently clearing away some of her neglected work, and started with surprise at the sight of her young mistress.

"Peggy," said Myra, advancing to her, "you were quite right. I do need to begin again myself, and I am truly sorry for the anger and passion with which I spoke to you. I will not prevent you from going to-day if you wish it, but you must bear in mind that I have 'not' shown you the religion of Jesus in this unhappy dispute; and I pray that some one may teach it to you who may never disgrace it in your eyes—"

"There, there, do stop, please do stop. Dear heart alive! To think of her coming to tell me this! What a fool, what a wicked girl I am!" And, throwing down her broom, and gathering up her apron over her face, Peggy began to sob passionately.

"We have both been wrong, Peggy; we will forgive each other, and may God forgive us both."

"Oh don't, please don't, dear missis," sobbed Peggy; "it's me, it's all me, with my nasty temper, that's enough to frighten the wicked one hisself; I know it. But if you'll forgive me, indeed I'll try, that I will, and I'll do better. I did put the blacking on the kid, and messed them boots all over; and I did slop the milk about, more shame for me. And all the other things you said, I did them all and more too; and it was enough to vex an angel. But I'll never do it again as long as my name's Peggy, you see if I do."

"Then, Peggy, we will try and be a comfort to each other. I value a great deal in you, and have no wish to part."

"Bless you, miss!" cried Peggy, seizing Myra's hand and kissing it. "You can do me good, and nobody else ever did, nor never will."

Peggy could not forget it; and as she went lightly and gently about her work, she murmured to herself, "To think of her coming like that, she that oughtn't to have a hard word from man, woman, or child! Yes, yes, that's the sort; that's better nor pulpit, nor class, nor anything else that's talking and not doing. She wrong indeed! When I've been enough to vex all the saints that ever were; Job hisself at the head of 'em. Well, see if I don't work my fingers to the bone for her, for ever and ever, Amen."

In former days Peggy had been sent by her mother to a Sunday school, but she had not been prepossessed in favour of her teacher, and boldly announced that she "wouldn't be drove, not even to heaven; and if the way wasn't nice, she didn't want to go along it." But now that her interest was awakened, and she began to feel the need of some restraining power to guard her from the fierceness "of tempers that would bring her some day to the gallows," she said, she felt sorry for opportunities neglected.

"Myra dear," said Florence one day, "do you know that Peggy is wishing she could go to school on Sunday afternoon, somewhere that you would be teacher, and she might be in your class?"

"I have been thinking about her," said Myra; "and perhaps we might invite her and Janet to come in while we are reading together."

"I thought you would suggest that, sister, and I asked her if she would like it. She made me laugh, for she answered in her blunt, odd way, 'No, for sure I'd be going to sleep, because you are all so clever, and you know words, but I want everything told to me out and out, like a booby that I am. Then I proposed that she should go to the Sunday school belonging to our church, for I was sure you would give her leave. But she said that 'nobody knows how to teach her but you, and you are real, with a spirit in you that came from nowheres but heaven itself.'"

Myra inwardly thanked God for this result of her confession to Peggy, but she was perplexed how best to provide for her instruction on a Sunday afternoon, "sermons" not being at present in Peggy's favour, for she invariably went to sleep before the sermon began, and her disgust at her own misbehaviour was only partially mitigated by the conviction that she should not have understood it if she had kept awake.

"Suppose we all went to the Sunday school, Myra," suggested Florence; "you could have a class of young women, you know, and Margaret and I could teach some little ones."

"I should be delighted to think that you love the Lord Jesus sufficiently to wish to 'feed His lambs,' dear Florrie; for nothing else, I think, can keep one's interest and patience from failing, or really do much good. It must be from heart to heart if we would really influence. But, you know, even if we did this, Harry and Leonard would miss us, and little Elsie is beginning to love our Sunday afternoons. No, home is the place for our first efforts, dear Florrie; think again."

"Would you be too tired, Myra, to give Peggy that time before tea which you have given to me when you are afraid of Harry and Leonard getting weary, and you send them for a run in the garden, or give them one of your illustration books to look at?"

"No, dear Florrie; it is a very precious half-hour to us both, but if you are willing to give it up for Peggy's sake, I will go to her in the study and do my best to help her on."

"It is self-denial to me, Myra," said Florence, smiling, and kissing her sister, "but it will be a great help to her."

So it was arranged, and Peggy was highly gratified with what she considered "beat all the schools in England." She knew that Miss Florrie gave up something, and she said, "Ah, Miss Florrie is learning the religion of Jesus."

———————

CHAPTER IX.

HOLIDAYS ANTICIPATED.

MR. HAYNES paid a short visit at the end of three months, being anxious to transact for the young housekeeper any business which might perplex or be distasteful to one so inexperienced in the ways of English life, and feeling that his deep debt of gratitude could only be repaid by such acts of thoughtful kindness.

He could not but observe the frequent rudeness and petulance of his niece's manner, and the provoking interference with which she encouraged her brother to resist authority, and cause trouble to their friend and protectress.

His own affairs were in course of settlement, but he kept silence on the subject, and determined to give what help he could in making the children more contented and submissive in their present position.

He therefore invited Margaret and Leonard to spend the winter vacation with his family, and found his proposal received with unbounded delight.

"But remember, my dear children," said he, "that I cannot promise you much pleasure. A change of scene and society is all I can ensure."

"Oh, but we know we shall like it," cried Leonard; "if snow comes, we will have such games!"

"And we shall see my aunt and cousins, and drive the ponies, you know," said Margaret. "Oh, Elsie, wouldn't you like to be going too?"

Elsie liked snowballs and ponies extremely, but she only looked up at Myra with a smile, which said, "I am quite contented here."

Her uncle patted her curly head, and said that if Margaret and Leonard gave her a nice account of their visit, she might go another time.

The children talked of little excepting this visit for some weeks before the holidays, and were prepared to start on their journey within twenty-four hours of the "breaking-up."

Florence suggested that Margaret should take with her some of her French and German books, just to keep up with her when they should resume study. But Margaret laughed, and asked whether she supposed there would be any time for reading in the gay parties and treats which were always going on at Uncle Haynes's? To music she made no objection, and expected to surprise her cousins with the proficiency she was attaining under Myra's instruction.

"Leonard has a theme to prepare during the vacation, you know, Margaret. You must not let him forget it."

"Oh, of course Leonard will do what must be done, but a choice, you know, is another thing."

"I say, Maggie, uncle doesn't live now where he used to live; I wonder what the new place is like," remarked Leonard.

"Nicer than the old one, of course," said Margaret; "people don't move without getting better houses than they had before; it will all be delightfully new to us."

"I wonder Harry and Florence are not asked," observed Leonard confidentially, when they were not within hearing.

"Why should they be asked?" said Margaret sharply. "He is our own uncle, not theirs at all. I like much better to go without them."

"Well, I don't. Harry can do so many things, and I wanted him to help me with that nasty theme."

"Oh, I'll help you, but you needn't think about it until we come back again, you know."

Presently Leonard disturbed his sister's meditations again.

"I say, Mag, do you know that uncle travelled third-class when he came here?"

"Yes, I heard him say it; and it made me feel so hot."

"And he carried his bag himself, and wouldn't even get into the omnibus at the station. Isn't it very queer?"

"I don't know why he should do such a strange thing, but perhaps he likes to keep his money. You know he didn't give us any, as he used to do."

"'Don't' I know? 'Wasn't' I disappointed? Why, if it hadn't been for Myra, I should have had no pocket-money this half. Do you think she will want us to travel third-class?"

"If she does, I shall not go at all," said Margaret indignantly. "To think of aunt and Edith and Lilian seeing us get out of a third-class carriage! Oh, Leonard, I wish you wouldn't think of such things."

If Myra had heard this silly talk, she might have wondered at the children's conceptions; for, if she made any difference at all, Margaret and Leonard were usually considered before her own brother and sister, though they showed little gratitude for the fact.

The children were to travel alone. Myra, Florence, and Harry accompanied them to the station, and placed them in a first-class carriage under the care of the guard. Nothing could be more satisfactory; they were liberally supplied with pocket-money, and some little presents for their cousins, and rolled away in the gayest possible spirits.

After thus parting, and after home was again reached, Harry began to consider how he should employ his time, and drive out of his recollection the pleasant look of a railway train full of travellers, boys going journeys, bustling stations, puffing engines, busy porters, and all the excitement of something new to see.

"Myra, shall I set about my theme at once?" he asked.

"And I must have something to do for you, Myra," said Florence; "what shall it be?"

It was a very unusual thing, but Myra seemed in deep thought, and, if she heard, remained silent. Then she made a few figures on her tablet, and mused again.

Harry yawned a little, went out and looked about the garden and down the road, and, finding nothing attractive, came in again, picked some dead leaves off the plants on the stand in the hall, and again wondered how he should get through the holidays if Mr. Frost did not come to the rescue, and make the most charming of all varieties.

Girls could always do plenty of things to amuse themselves, he imagined, but boys in the house were only nuisances to themselves and everybody else; and, thus concluding, he encountered Elsie.

"Come, Harry," she cried, "come to Mr. Sawyer; he wants to show you how nice it is,—that thing that he has been doing for you."

Away rushed Harry to a spare room which he and Leonard had called their den, and where he knew Mr. Sawyer sometimes did a little carpentry for the house.

There stood a fresh proof of his sister's thoughtful love. A lathe with all its appurtenances was fitted up for his amusement; and Mr. Sawyer, a respectable joiner and carpenter, was ready to give him a little instruction on its management.

How delightful!—How the time would fly! And then the sisters came to peep and enjoy the young workman's animated bursts of satisfaction. In a moment, he had forgotten the half-envied travellers, and Blake and Simpson and Wallace, his favourite schoolfellows, whom Myra frequently permitted him to bring home on holiday afternoons, and was deep in the mysterious operations of this useful and instructive machine.

In the evening, as they sat round the fire waiting until lamps were lighted and curtains drawn, and Harry was examining by firelight the chessmen with which he and Florence were being taught the game by Myra, and wondering when he should be able to turn ivory with his lathe, Myra suddenly interrupted him.

"Harry dear, what is the subject of your theme?"

"Our class has to give a short epitome of English history, and the chief changes that have been made in the British Constitution since the Conquest. Dry enough, isn't it? And to improve it, I suppose, Dr. B— said that any boys who would put it into good Latin would gratify him very much."

"Can you do that?"

"I don't know. I ought, though, for I've been drilled in Latin ever since I was seven, but I don't think I'm willing to try it."

"Would not Dr. B—'s gratification be a sufficient inducement?"

Harry laughed.

"I don't think any of our fellows will take that into consideration. None of us are so fond of him as to volunteer Latin essays in holiday time for his sake, I'm afraid."

"It has to be put into English first, I conclude; and I should so like you to do it well, Harry. Now, suppose you make notes of your subject while you have books of reference at hand,—only notes, not the theme itself,—and put them away for a time, say until the last week of the vacation."

"Very well," said Harry, a little surprised, for Myra usually advised what sage people call "duty first and pleasure after." "I will begin to-morrow, and work for an hour before I touch the lathe; shall I?"

"I think that will be wise. Now, Florence, a task for you," continued Myra, smiling at the eager face.

"Do you think that you and I could take the entire charge of Elsie without Janet for a little time? Elsie is getting a very independent little maiden," she said, stooping to kiss the little one, who had sprung from the floor and her building toys as soon as her name was mentioned.

"Yes, I am quite sure that I can take charge of her without troubling you at all," said Florence eagerly; "but why, Myra? Are you going to give Janet a holiday too?"

"No, indeed; nothing so disinterested," replied Myra gaily. "I was thinking that if we were to go away for a little time, Janet must stay to bear Peggy company, so we must try to do without her services."

Harry hereupon assumed his favourite attitude when contemplating his sister and her arrangements, namely, elbows on knees or table, chin in hands, and eyes fixed upon her face, while Florence asked:

"Do you think of taking us somewhere, sister?"

"Yes, I should like it very much, but every place is not pleasant in winter; and I want to go where it might help Harry with his theme."

"Where could that possibly be?" exclaimed Harry, releasing his chin. "We have always gone to the seaside in summer, and have never been anywhere in the winter."

"Have you ever been to London?"

"To London,—to London! Would you really take us to London? Are you in earnest,—are you not joking, Myra?"

"London would be a great joke, would it not?" said Myra, laughing, and enjoying the evident pleasure and surprise that the thought had given. "Would you like it?"

"Oh, shouldn't we! Of all things in the whole world, nothing should we like better. Once we drove through part of London, from one railway to another, when we went to Brighton; and it just tantalised us beyond patience to be almost in sight of everything, and yet see nothing. But, dear Myra, can you really mean to give us such a treat?"

"I do mean it, dear, if it please God to prosper my little plan. I did not quite see how I could manage to take our whole party, but this visit of Margaret and Leonard, by their own and their uncle's wish, lessens both the expense and the responsibility. I have friends who will secure suitable and central lodgings for us, and provide means for seeing much that will interest and instruct. Two things you must promise: first, not to grumble at wet days, if such occur; second, to be content to go only where Elsie can accompany us, as I should never leave her with strangers, nor go out in the evening. Our expeditions must therefore be during the day, and we will not risk over-fatigue for any of us."

"Oh, thank you, dear, kind sister," said Elsie, clasping her arms round Myra, "not to leave me behind; and I will be so good?" And the fair face flushed with grateful love.

"But, Myra," said Harry dubiously, "how will it help me to write my theme? I'm afraid it will drive it all out of my head."

"I hope it will expand your mind, and give form and reality to many things that at present are only misty conceptions. For example, would you not have a clearer idea of the administration of British law if you saw the judges sitting in the courts, and heard a cause tried before them, in Westminster Hall? Would you not realise our British Parliament better after seeing the Houses of Lords and Commons, and understanding how debates are conducted and votes taken? Then, in the grand old Abbey there are the monuments to worth, valour, art, and genius, of which you read in history and biography; and old Father Thames, with his forest of masts bearing the flags of all nations, and giving new interest to your ideas of commerce and enterprise; and the sad old Tower, and—"

"Oh, Myra, Myra, you put me in a perfect ecstasy!"

"Well, put it into your theme when you come back, and I am sure Dr. B— will not be ashamed of you. The powers of observation will be exercised, reflection will concentrate and arrange ideas so acquired, and improve the judgment, so that you will select your points more carefully and treat them more judiciously. That is all I mean, so far as your theme is concerned. Then, you have been obedient and industrious, and stand well in the school report; and I want to give you pleasure as well as improvement."

"And when shall we go, Myra?"

"I think the first week in the new year, after we have done our little part in providing for the wants of others, and the enjoyments of the schools, where, you know, we are involved with the Christmas-tree."

"Florrie," said Harry, when he and his sister talked over their happiness together, "do you remember old Dinah saying that Myra is a Methodist, and would never allow us any pleasure, or fun, or treats of any kind? Much she knew about it, didn't she?"

"Ah, Harry, we did not know anything, either, about Bible religion. I was afraid of it; I thought it was hard and terrible, and that God was always angry. But Myra shows us more and more that the religion of Jesus is love, and kindness, and pity, and pardon; and that, in knowing it so, we hate more and more everything that displeases and dishonours such a loving Saviour. I hope you and I shall try to live His religion always, Harry."

"I hope so," said Harry seriously, "but it is easy to be good with Myra, because we love her. I'm often thinking that we can't quite tell how it would be among bad people. I get in awful trouble sometimes, even among boys, I can tell you."

"But, Harry, if we love the Lord Jesus, won't it get easier to try and please Him? And, you know, He is always with us, to love and help us if we are determined to be His disciples."

"Yes, that's it, I daresay, but you are better than I, Florrie."

Florence did not agree to this, but she commended to her brother the remedy she had found true in many of her little struggles, namely, "prayer."

And Harry promised to try it oftener.

When Peggy, whose accomplishments in her department quite justified the title of cook, heard of the arrangements, she vigorously protested against her young mistress's intentions of going into lodgings in London without her own servant.

"Dear me!" said she. "I can do very well by myself here; only let me have my mop and a bucket of water, and I'll warrant nobody comes twice that isn't wanted."

But Myra had decided, and, while thanking Peggy for her heroism, convinced her of the propriety of retaining Janet as well as the mop.

———————

CHAPTER X.

THEY THAT WILL BE RICH.

IN the meantime, Margaret and Leonard made a pleasant journey, in high hope and expectation, and were received by their uncle at the railway terminus. The cab was driven through several handsome streets, and past many fine terraces, at one of which the young travellers expected it to stop, but not so. On they went to the heart of the city, and drew up before a large respectable-looking shop in a spacious thoroughfare. The great bay-windows were filled with woollen goods, one exhibiting costly carpets and rugs, the other piled with rolls of flannel of all colours and qualities.

While the children were wondering what they were stopping for, Mr. Haynes assisted them to alight, and saw the luggage deposited inside the shop. Then Mrs. Haynes and her three daughters came forward, and gave them a warm, affectionate welcome, not seeming to notice the wonder and sudden reserve plainly marked in their countenances.

Leonard was taken to a neat little room opening from the first flight of stairs, and Margaret was led higher, to share a large double-bedded room with her cousins. Everything was neat, but plain; and there were few traces of the former expensively furnished and luxurious home.

Margaret's astonishment and mortification were unbounded. What could it mean? Who would have thought of such a thing? To bring them, Margaret and Leonard Haynes, his brother's children, to a shop! And without telling them of such a change! How superior now seemed Myra's pretty white villa, with its curtained windows, and trees and shrubs, its tasteful rooms and well-lighted stairs! Oh to get back there by the next train, if it were but possible!

"Maggie, do you recollect third-class?" whispered Leonard, as they met to go down to tea.

"I do indeed," returned Margaret, in a whisper. "I wish we had never come. I shan't show my face out of doors here, I know; it is a shameful trick to serve us."

And it was hard to repress her tears of vexation by the time they reached the tea-table.

The sitting-room was very large, ascending by two long carpeted steps from the end of the shop, from which it was screened by half-glass doors and crimson curtains. The furniture comprised many of the handsome and luxurious articles of Mrs. Haynes's former sitting-room,—couch, easy-chairs, work-table, piano, and other things to which eye and hand had been accustomed; the table was liberally spread, the fire burned brightly, and a cheerful home aspect pervaded the well-lighted apartment.

Of Mr. Haynes's three daughters, one was older than Margaret, one younger, and one about the same age. They did their best to break through Margaret's coldness and induce her to eat. But she had no appetite, pleaded headache, and left Leonard to do justice to their hospitality, and afterwards to explore the premises with his playmate Jessy, while she begged permission to retire to bed.

"Did you explain to the children where you were bringing them, Herbert?" asked Mrs. Haynes when they were alone.

"No, my dear, I did not," he replied; "I preferred to give them a surprise."

"I am afraid it has been a very painful one," she remarked.

"I have no doubt of it, Ellinor, but I hope the effect will be salutary, after all. Edith and Lilian will probably be able to reconcile things by-and-by. Do not distress yourself, and let all go on as usual. My niece has no right to complain on her own behalf, for what could she expect to find in my home, when I was unable to provide one for her and the others?"

At breakfast the next morning Margaret was not more agreeable, and sat scornfully observant of all proceedings, while her cousins went upstairs to make beds and dust rooms, and her aunt washed the china on the tray, and replaced it in the large closet at the end of the room,—a young girl with bare arms, short skirt, and nimble step, carrying away what was not accommodated there.

Mr. Haynes was in the shop, where two or three assistants and apprentices formed the working staff; and Leonard was peeping and prying about everywhere, asking questions, and gradually reconciling himself to a state of things so utterly unexpected, and so evidently irremediable for the time.

Towards dinner-time, two fine boys made their appearance, having been paying a visit of a few days to their grandfather, who resided at a little distance from town, and who, they said, had brought them home in the carriage, but could not just then come in.

They and Leonard soon became friendly, for it was not in the boy's nature to continue long on stilts of pride before frank and genial efforts to amuse and please. And when "grandpapa's" carriage came to take all who would go for drives, he began to think he should make himself tolerably comfortable.

There was a gentle dignity in Mrs. Haynes's manner and appearance which could not escape observation; and, though attired in a plain morning dress suitable for household activity, she moved about her humble occupations as gracefully as she had ever done in her stylish drawing-room. And had Margaret been in a mood for drawing more favourable comparisons than those with which her young heart was swelling, she would have observed that a far sweeter and more interesting expression now adorned her aunt's always handsome face than when she spent her time and fretted her temper in maintaining a fashionable establishment conformed to the capricious fancies of the world and its ways.

It was true that she was not accustomed to household—drudgery, must it be called, for want of a better word? But life requires many menial duties which are no disgrace to any hand, and are often the better for one of neatness and delicacy. And Mrs. Haynes had learned to think nothing beneath her attention which contributed to the comfort of her family, especially in their altered circumstances.

Yet often might be heard in the house the quick exclamation:

"Mamma, mamma! You are not to do that;" or, "Please, dear mamma, let me do it; you know you showed me how;" "Now, mamma, you must just sit down and rest, and we will do it all so nicely."

And the happy mother would smile on her willing daughters; and if a little sigh struggled in her bosom, and a rebel tear threatened to come to light, she repressed them until she could be alone, and mingle with them thanks to God for dutiful children, and prayer for His blessing on all life's troubles. And well was it for her husband and her family that the sorrows and trials of so great a change in her position in life had not been "the sorrow of the world, working death," but the "godly sorrow" which is the blessed seed-time of a harvest of peace, humility, and holiness.

Mr. Haynes had been a manufacturer, and the possessor of extensive mills; and when a tide of prosperity floated him into affluence, he had seemed to think—as hundreds of successful men besides himself have thought—that his mountain stood strong, and he should never be moved. While thus forgetful of God, he was induced to join his brother in a speculation which was to enable them both to retire from business with splendid fortunes in a short space of time. So, at least, they fancied, but the result proved how mistaken were their calculations, and foolish their schemes.

Both indeed retired, but not as they anticipated. One, foreseeing the coming shock, broken in health and spirit by overwhelming anxiety, tried to put off the pressure in amusement and change of scene; and what might have been the real destination of the yacht when she met the squall which capsized her, none could tell. The other, left to breast the storm of trouble as best he could, struggled manfully, shook off the spray, clung to the rock, rallied to do all the justice in his power to those who suffered by his fault, and to learn a lesson, the benefit of which might descend to his children's children.

The father of Mrs. Haynes was also a manufacturer of the hereditary and substantial class, never suffering himself to be allured from his line of caution and foresight by any of the brilliant schemes which keep so many of the commercial community oftentimes up and down in the world like a skiff among the breakers, and which might possibly out-dance them, or more likely be broken a wreck upon the reefs. He was not what people called a rich man, but exceedingly "comfortable," able to maintain the same position and style as his father before him, and to leave something to the children who should succeed him. But he had his "notions" and "crotchets," the world said. And as he did not care in the least what it said so long as it could say nothing true to dishonour him, the "notions" and "crotchets" went for very little.

When the blow fell, and Mr. Haynes was pronounced "a ruined man," Mr. Fairfield, who had been somewhat slighted by his fashionable children because of his disapproval of certain of their proceedings, came forward and offered substantial assistance, if it should be accepted on his own terms.

Mr. Haynes thankfully expressed his readiness to accept any terms that would enable him to pay his debts and maintain his family. He had given up everything to his creditors, and they had acted kindly, but there yet remained a large deficiency, which he earnestly hoped some day to repay.

"Will you all really submit to some very great and important changes?" asked the old gentleman seriously.

"My dear sir, there is no choice in the matter; it is already inevitable," said Mr. Haynes somewhat bitterly.

"Yes, there is a choice yet," said Mr. Fairfield. "There are two ways in which a man in your present circumstances may act, and I have seen both tried. One is for him to be resolved to keep in his former rank in life, a sort of broken-down gentleman, sensitive to every slight, going about looking for some miraculous piece of good fortune that is to reinstate him, hunting up advertisements for lucrative situations, wasting time and energy, and feeling the miserable heart-sickness of hope deferred; wife and children struggling to keep up their lost dignity in gradually meaner lodgings, seeking secretly to do something 'not degrading' in the way of supplying the scanty meal, or cheering the poor husband and father when he comes in weary and disappointed. The end of all this is sometimes emigration for pride's sake, or wasting sickness and death in want and despair, while the helpless ones are thrown at last upon the world, to do as they may for themselves. I have seen this, I say, sir, and can give you names and dates for it."

"You shall not add mine to the list!" exclaimed Mr. Haynes, rising from his seat, and walking up and down the room in much excitement.

"Good," said Mr. Fairfield calmly; "now look at the other picture, which I can equally prove. It is to yield to the circumstances in which you find yourself, from causes which you know too well, but of which I do not now speak. To give up all useless struggle to maintain a position of empty gentility, to go to the bottom of the ladder and begin again as an honest, respectable, tradesman who is not ashamed of work."

"My dear sir, only show me the way to—"

"Very well, but hear me out. To go into a retail business in that department of trade which you understand, and which you managed well until you fell 'into a snare,' and 'pierced yourself with many sorrows'; strive and work with hope and energy; support a home on a frugal scale; be ashamed of nothing but wrong-doing; win the respect of all whose respect is worth having; and in time pay everybody what you now owe, and become honourably independent. If you will do this, I am prepared to stand by you, and give all the help in my power."

"A retail business, you said, sir?"

"I did. My means and my will are agreed on that matter. I have seen the purchaser of your property, and he is ready to supply you with goods sufficient to stock a respectable shop on the usual terms, for which I will give them security. Willis & Co., in — Street, have just given up business, having made two fortunes in this same line, and on those premises. The situation is very good, the house is spacious and commodious, and the landlord will accept you as a tenant, and make it a suitable residence for your family."

"They all wish to be doing something to help," said the father despondingly.

"Quite right, provided they decide on the right thing," rejoined Mr. Fairfield. "But my advice is, keep together; your daughters are too young to leave home yet. I do not incline to keep them at fashionable schools, and I hope they will be ready to help their mother, if she has the good sense to let them. I bought a good many of your things at the sale, for Ellinor and the children; and you can have them when you please. But I do not want to take you by surprise. Think of it, talk it over with Ellinor, and say that I charge her to help you in a course which involves the sacrifice of pride and pretension, and the triumph of right principle."

"But," suggested Mr. Haynes, "could we not do all this in some other neighbourhood, away from former friends and acquaintances who—"

"I have thought of that too," said Mr. Fairfield kindly, "and at first I hesitated, but on deeper consideration,—here, where you are known, offers the best prospect of business. Elsewhere you are one of the competing many; here you step into an old-established and well-conducted business at once, amidst people who know us all, you and me and Ellinor. And while the idle and worldly who petted her for her fine house and pleasant parties fall off, the worthy and honourable who respect and feel for her, will prove the value of their real friendship. My love to her and the children. Let me hear your decision to-morrow."

And the old gentleman hurried out to his carriage, which waited at the door of the lodging to which the family had retreated in their troubles. Before he could drive off, however, Mr. Haynes was at his side.

"One word, sir; could I not let the house, and take one for Ellinor and the children in a more—more healthy, airy situation, retaining only just what I require for myself at the—the shop?"

"And die yourself of neglect and home-sickness," jerked out the old gentleman testily. "Well, sir, ask Ellinor; let us hear her view of it.—Drive on, Harris."

———————

CHAPTER XI.

PEACEABLE FRUITS.

MRS. HAYNES was sitting in her bedroom, hoping to be called into the council which she knew was being held on the subject of ways and means. But no summons came, and she heard the carriage driven away, and her husband's step languidly returning upstairs. Then she joined him, anxious and troubled at the expression of his countenance.

"Dear Herbert, my father will help us?" she said inquiringly.

"Yes, he will help us, Ellinor, if—"

"Oh, let us thank God for that! All will be well again now. And he makes conditions; perhaps he wants you to do something you don't like. But never mind, dear; it will be nothing wrong, I am sure."

Mr. Haynes walked up and down the room while he detailed to his wife the conversation he had just held with her father.

She sat down, and as he went on with the old gentleman's scheme, she covered her face with her hands, and besought of her Father in heaven, humility and submission to what she saw to be His will. Pride and natural feeling revolted terribly for a brief space, but she knew the need, she saw the wisdom, and resolved in the strength of God what her course should be.

Mr. Haynes said he could not see his way to anything better. True, he might go abroad, and try his fortune in another land; and he could struggle alone, but it might end in disappointment for years, and he might die away from all he loved, who would be no better off for all his struggles.

"For myself I do not care, it will only be selling yards instead of bales, but for you and our children I feel the change. If I accept this plan, you must have a small house out of town, where I will come when I can; and I will just keep one room, and let all the rest of the premises."

Mrs. Haynes had fought her battle with the first shock of this new idea; and with a face of cheerful resolution she rose, and, putting her arm within that of her husband, paced up and down with him.

"No, Herbert," she said affectionately; "we will share alike, whatever it is to be. There is nothing in my father's offer which need distress us so much. We have lost our house, furniture, position, it is true; but here we are ourselves, safe and well, able and willing to help each other. Do you not think you could endure this—this shop for all our sakes, dear husband?"

"I can bear anything for your sakes, except to see you humbled and slighted and pained, and—"

"Hush, dearest! I am humbled before God for all my wicked extravagance and selfishness in time past; slights, if they come, I can bear and smile at, and the only pain I shall feel will be caused by your regrets. Now let us talk of our new way of life to our children, not as if it were to be deplored, but as a proof of God's goodness and care, in giving us an opportunity to redeem our credit, permitting us to keep together, and enabling us to prove, as we shall prove, that a wife and daughters are not helpless burdens on your hands, but loving, industrious sharers of your toils and cares."

Never did Herbert Haynes feel so rich and proud as at that moment. Never had he known the heroic spirit that slept beneath the soft indolence and fashionable frivolity in which he had indulged his wife. Half his load of trouble and vexation seemed removed already, and only the hand of a gentle, delicate woman had touched it for him.

"My Ellinor," he said, "we have our best portion left still. I will be content, and you shall teach me your precious secret. We will cease to care for appearances, except to 'avoid the appearance of evil'; and we will go at once, as your father advises, to the foot of the ladder, and begin life afresh."

"And I will go and tell my father our decision; I shall like to talk it over with him, so I will follow him at once."

But not until she had knelt to bless God, and lay again at her Saviour's feet the offering of a heart to be moulded to His will, and consecrated to His service.

"Well, Ellinor," said Mr. Fairfield, "are you come to bid the old man mind his own business?"

"No, dear father; I am come to thank you for minding ours, and to assure you of my readiness to carry out any plan you propose for our benefit."

"Good, my dear; I rejoice to hear it. So much for the letter of it, but what of the spirit? Is it a hard, imperative necessity, or is there a willing mind?" And, glancing down at a book on which his arm was resting, he continued, "Once I used to teach you out of this good Book, Nelly, and I hoped you knew something of its principle, but you have lost sight of them in the world."

"I think they are coming back to me now, father. I have been very sinful and rebellious, and in some measure am only reaping the fruit of my own ways, but I do believe it is forgiven, and the Lord whom I have shamefully neglected is going to teach me how to live to better purpose."

"My dear child, my precious Nelly," said the old man, smoothing her brow and kissing her as in childhood, as she knelt beside him with tearful eyes and faltering voice, "have I lived to hear this from thee after years of disappointment? Verily, it is good for thee to have been afflicted."

Then he calmed her and himself with some of the sweet words of that holy Book, and tenderly commended her and hers to the loving care and wise providence of Him who "doeth all things well," and who, when trial comes to His children, "will with the temptation also make a way to escape," that they "may be able to bear it."

"Then you don't think my conditions too hard, my dear?"

"Oh no, father; you have a right to order all as you think best."

"I have prayed and pondered on it, Nelly, and even if I could afford it, it would defeat the blessing that I trust is to spring out of your trouble, were you replaced at once in the position lost by (I don't mean to grieve you, my child, but things ought to be called by right names) covetous speculation and reckless expenditure. Your children will get a truer view of right principle, and a worthy object in life; and they are not quite old enough to feel the change as they would have done a year or two hence. I think your trial decidedly the greatest, but if you seek grace to bear it well, you will come out of it refined and strengthened, and feeling that you would not have had it ordered otherwise. Anywhere with our God and Saviour, dear Nelly; without Him, nowhere."

"I am beginning to understand it, dear father; and I feel that I cannot count up the mercies that are clustering round our trouble."

"That's the way, my darling; come, we shall soon have back all the sunshine. I was going to say that the plan I propose is the best I can think of after mature deliberation; and if any one were to say that the old man might have come out more liberally, you will know my means and motives, and it does not matter to anybody else. To help people to help themselves is, in my view, the truest help of all. But what about Herbert's proposal of living by himself at this shop, while you—"

"Oh, father, do not give it another thought. You do not believe that I could be so mean and selfish? No, we will strive and work together, and without a visiting list, I shall have time for everything."

"Right again, my dear. Get a good strong servant, and let your children help you in your household duties. It will do them good, and we will see that education in other things is not forgotten, when Herbert sees how he is going to get on. At present, the boys must continue at day school, for I suppose they would be no particular help among the household goods. They can come here, you know, on holidays, and kick up their heels with old Captain in the paddock. That's right, my Nelly; I'm glad to see you smile again. Now go and look at the house, which is really a very good one, and we'll make it as comfortable as we can."

Mr. Fairfield was true to his word, and scarcely was everything settled with Mrs. Haynes and her children in their new abode when two or three ladies, not the gay butterflies who had helped her to go shopping when she wanted nothing, and gossip in the idle chat of the day for precious hours that could never be recalled, but women who knew the real value of time and the real worth or worthlessness of the world's opinion, came to offer a friendship where they had felt no inducement to respect before.

One was a former schoolfellow of Mrs. Haynes, in the same rank of life, but who had ceased their early intimacy from the extreme gaiety and style in which Mrs. Haynes had latterly indulged. She came in her carriage, and moved through the shop, and between rolls of carpet as though she saw nothing of them. And when the door of the sitting-room closed behind her, and she sat down by Mrs. Haynes on the sofa, she put her arms affectionately round her, gave her a loving kiss, and said, "I am proved a true discerner of spirits, Ellinor; I always said you were fitted for something better than fashion and folly."

Mrs. Haynes burst into tears at this unexpected view of her case, and soon found in this wise, kind Christian friend, one of those sweeteners of some of life's bitter draughts, whose blessed province it is to go about like sunbeams, warming and gladdening wherever they find admittance. Mrs. Haynes wanted no pity, no sentimental sighing over "misfortunes," nor ostentatious favours from self-satisfied superiors, but it was good for her to have sympathy, and society, and encouragement from one who arrogated nothing, and met her on the common ground of Christian fellowship and self-surrender to God's righteous will.

And very useful as well as pleasant this true friendship proved on both sides.

Another visitor, and soon a welcome one, was the wife of the clergyman in whose district they now lived, and who, without intrusiveness, or the smallest tincture of condescension in word or manner, contrived to break down any barrier of pride that might remain in the chastened heart, and give and receive confidence and affection.

Mr. Haynes observed his wife appreciated by such friends as these with deep gratification and thankfulness; and as he saw her devote herself with a cheerful face and willing hand to duties until recently performed for her by servants, and felt the comfort and propriety of her personal exertions, he looked beyond the gift to the great Giver, and began not only to bless God for a religion so practical and beautiful in its manifestation, but to covet for himself "like precious faith," which could produce such precious fruits.

The children, seeing the submission of their parents to the great change which had occurred, ceased all murmurs and complaints, and began to take an interest in rendering assistance, selecting each her special department in which to become useful, and striving which should most effectually save trouble and exertion to mamma.

After a few months, and seeing all going on so far better than he had ventured to anticipate, Mr. Fairfield proposed that certain studies should be resumed which it was desirable to acquire early, but which should not be allowed to interfere with the regularity and order of domestic engagements. And, three times a week, a certain portion of the day was devoted to the best instructors the town afforded. Thus affairs were progressing when the young cousins were invited for the holidays.

Margaret's manners were so offensive that even Leonard sometimes felt ashamed, and gladly got away with the boys whenever it was possible. Mrs. Haynes, feeling that she must be unhappy, determined to speak to her on the subject, and to try and win her to a better view of circumstances.

"My dear Margaret," she said, "I am sorry to think that you do not enjoy your visit. Your cousins are at a loss to find any way of interesting or pleasing you."

"Oh, they need not trouble themselves about me," said Margaret. "I don't need any amusement, as if I were a baby."

"I should not think them hospitable or courteous, to say nothing of being kind, if they were not anxious to please you, Margaret. Will you tell me, dear girl, why you reject all our efforts, and sit so silent and absorbed?"

Margaret did not speak, but looked very foolish; she had not expected such a point-blank attack.

"My dear," said her aunt, drawing her to sit down by her side, "you are ashamed to tell me; and therefore I hope, when I show you the reason, that you will see its unreasonableness, and discard it at once. You think we have disgraced ourselves and our connexions by coming to keep this shop; and you are afraid of being in any way identified with it, or with us."

Margaret hung her head and kept silence.

"Now, dear Margaret, I would not touch upon a sad subject wantonly to grieve you, but what do you suppose would have been your dear father's position, had he lived to know and feel that he had lost everything he possessed?"

"He would have done something else," said Margaret slowly.

"Nothing that could have restored you all to comfort and respectability, Margaret, so soon, so peacefully, as accepting my father's offer has restored us. I want to tell you how it all happened, and how, in the goodness of God, we were enabled to trample on all such pride as that which is tormenting you now, and to resolve to be industrious and happy in a humbler sphere, rather than be poor and miserable in a struggle to maintain our former rank."

"But," said Margaret bitterly, "you can never be a lady again. People will always know that you kept a shop."

Mrs. Haynes smiled, and simply said,—

"What is a lady, Margaret?"

Had Margaret looked up at the sweet, intelligent countenance and dignified form beside her, she would have been at no loss to answer the question; and not "'you were,'" but "'you are' a lady," must have been her conviction.

"I suspect I can define her for you according to your present idea, Margaret. She is made up of a fine house, plenty of servants, a carriage, gay company, handsome dress, the world's attention, and she never keeps a shop. She may be in debt, her dress unpaid for, her servants wanting their wages, her table wasteful, her husband struggling to keep up appearances, but she is a lady still, and does not keep a shop. I have known such, but where the ladyship really was I do not know."

"What do you call a lady?" asked Margaret.

"One who to a cultivated mind, refined manner, Christian principle, and a loving heart, adds faith in God's providence and submission to His will," replied the aunt.

"Ay, even though her husband keeps a shop," said a cheery voice. And Mr. Fairfield, who had entered the room unperceived, and heard the conversation as he stood concealed by the large damask curtain, came forward with a warm greeting for his daughter.

"Not what I am, Margaret, but what I wish to be, and am striving to be," Mrs. Haynes gently interposed.

And then Mr. Fairfield, addressing himself to the niece, added—"Know, young lady (I merely use the term as the conventional expression for all young things, whether in shops or out of them), that I never knew my daughter's worth in any of the departments of female duty until I proposed this method of retrieving credit and honour. I care not, and she now agrees with me, for a term so abused, so misapplied, but we have the genuine thing now, a true lady of the court of the King of kings."

"Margaret will now understand us better, I hope," said Mrs. Haynes, "and prove her own right to the title she prizes so highly."

"My dear child," said the old gentleman kindly, "take your point of view for all things and circumstances through life from Him who is at God's right hand for sinners. 'Looking unto Jesus,' you will imbibe His principles, and sympathise in His purposes, and learn to honour those whom He approves. He detests the paltry pride of this world's little people; and, knowing man's great snare, has chosen some of the most despised to be the instruments of His grandest deeds. I do not mean that your aunt should associate with all the shopkeepers in the town, or adopt their ways, and give up the refinement and delicacy which are congenial to her habits and character, but I do say that she must not look down on any, nor heed the senseless pride that looks down on her. May she think very lightly of 'the honour that cometh from man,' and prize very highly that 'which cometh from God only.' You do the same, and you will be a wiser, happier child than you seem to be at present."

"I declare they talk like Myra," thought poor Margaret. "Have they got the religion of Jesus too?"

———————

CHAPTER XII.

AFTER A TIME.

MYRA SHERWOOD'S kind friends in London had greatly facilitated her wishes in procuring ready access to places of interest which Harry and Florence desired to see. The end of the month approached, and they were expecting to hear the day fixed for their return home.

"Harry," said Myra one evening, as they sat discussing the enjoyments of the day, "do you think you could manage to prepare your theme in London?"

"Oh yes, I am sure I could, if I were to shut myself up out of everybody's way. But why? Are we not going home yet? Do you want to stay longer, Myra?"

"I suppose you have not done anything towards it yet?" she added thoughtfully.

"Ah, but I have, though! Don't you remember missing me that wet day when we were disappointed of our visit to Greenwich? Well, I settled how I should treat my subject, and made up a lot of Latin stuff quite respectably. The pelting rain vexed me so; and, to get rid of hearing it, I dived into my notes, and fished out the best part of them, and wrote away hard, ever so much, all ready for copying out. I forgot the rain, and never knew how the time went till Florrie called me to meals."

"Well done, my dear Harry. Then I may venture to tell you that I decide on remaining a little longer. The theme must be finished entirely this week, and, if you like, can be sent to Dr. B—. The school does not open until the seventh, and—"

Myra paused, and looked at her brother and sister, who eagerly started up and stood before her.

"And what then, Myra? Oh, do go on! I can guess. Yes, I know why."

"What do you guess?" asked Myra archly.

"The Queen, the Queen! She comes up to Buckingham Palace at the beginning of the week, with Prince Albert, to open Parliament, and you mean to let us see them! Now, isn't that it, dear Myra? The only thing I have missed, the one thing worth all. Yes, I am sure that is it."

"And where shall we stand? In the park, or the road, or where?"

"You are settling it all with wonderful speed," said Myra, laughing; "but your stand in park or road would be too cold for me. No, think again; we must do better than that."

"Ah, perhaps you have got leave to go to some balcony to see the procession."

"Well, to end your suspense, look here. Our kind friends have obtained tickets for us for the House of Lords, and we shall see and hear Queen Victoria open Parliament as no one can do it for her."

The pleasure was too deep for scream or shout. The loyalty that seems hereditary in warm English hearts was touched, and a thrill of unutterable delight that almost brought tears to their eyes, was the only acknowledgment for a moment. But Myra was quite satisfied with such appreciation.

And, after attempting to express his feeling, and lavishing kisses upon his sister, Harry went off to his room, and gave no time nor attention to anything else until the theme was completed, sealed up, and sent off to meet Dr. B— on the day appointed, as he wished to examine them before the school re-opened.

Then the approaching event furnished ample topic for thought and conversation and expectation.

Elsie went to spend the day with Myra's friends; and the brother and his two sisters found themselves in their appointed places, in a scene not to be surpassed on similar occasions in any nation of the earth.

Still, dazzled as they were by the gorgeous spectacle before them,—the splendid hall, the flashing jewels, the magnificent array of the highest and noblest in the land,—it was the figure of the Queen herself, and of Albert the Good, that stamped indelibly on the minds and hearts of the young visitors the grand charm of that memorable day. They heard, amidst profound stillness, the silvery tones of a voice they could never forget, and gazed at the sight until the royal party retired, and the brilliant throng seemed to rouse to life and motion again.

Early the next morning, Myra and her party were on the way home, and Harry set forth manfully on the opening term.

The mysterious silence concerning their visit preserved by Margaret and Leonard perplexed Myra not a little, and obliged her to feel that the London party must have had all the enjoyment to themselves.

Margaret had charged her brother to tell of nothing that had occurred.

"You know, Leonard," she said, "it would be just like Myra to invite our cousins here, and I don't want them; and I shouldn't wonder a bit if she went straight off to visit uncle and aunt herself, and pretended she liked the shop and everything."

"Well, it wasn't so very bad after all, Meg," said Leonard, fumbling in his pockets for string to set off a new top that Mr. Fairfield had given him. "I wouldn't mind going again, if you hadn't been so cross."

"It was enough to make anybody cross," said Margaret. "I shall take care never to go again as long as I live. And wasn't it a shame of them to go to London without us? I've no patience to hear them talk about it."

"Ah, but Myra says it may be our turn some day, and she couldn't have taken us all at once."

"Some day is no day at all," said Margaret. "I don't believe it, nor expect it. I only wish I knew everything we have got to learn, that I might be independent."

"Why, what would you do, Maggie?"

"Of course I should earn money and do as I please."

"Ah, that would be just the same as keeping a shop," said Leonard, gravely shaking his head, and spinning his top. "You would be a long time earning new frocks and getting jam puddings. I shan't want to live with you, Miss Meg."

"You think of nothing but eating, you disagreeable boy," said Margaret contemptuously; "but if you talk about things that I tell you not to talk of, I'll tell about your going to see Dinah so often."

Leonard laughed lightly.

And better it had been if Margaret had indeed "told" of his disobedience, though of the increasing extent of it she herself was not aware.

Time passed on rapidly in the quiet routine of duty, varied by many pleasures. Each year Mr. and Mrs. Somers spent some months in the neighbourhood, cheering and comforting their niece in her patient, self-denying work; or she and her party joined them at some pleasant place of resort during the summer holidays. Frank's visits were not unfrequent, and were always acceptable to the whole family. Sometimes he would read letters from his friend Ralph Penwald, who had qualified himself for a missionary station in India, and was hard at work, Frank said, among the native tribes, living like a barbarian, and losing all respect for polite society.

"No, no, that is impossible," Harry would exclaim. "Mr. Penwald would be a gentleman wherever he is. Don't you know, Mr. Somers, that he has the religion of Jesus, and must always like whatever is pure and lovely and of good report?"

"Well, I shall tell him he has one champion here, at any rate," said Frank in surprise; "and if ever he comes back, of course you will venture to associate with him."

"Yes, I have a good right to be his champion," said Harry meditatively. "Perhaps I shall go and look after him some day;" and he stole a glance at Myra, who was grave and silent, but evidently she enjoyed the letters as much as the others did.

In due time, after a sufficient test of taste and bias, Harry chose to devote himself to the profession of an engineer, and by the interest of Mr. Somers was received into one of the best establishments in the country.

Myra would gladly have removed to the same locality that Harry might still have his home with her, but Leonard's education had yet to be completed, and it was deemed, on his account, undesirable to make any change until he also should decide on his future course.

Harry often came home from Saturday until Monday, and, though greatly missing the love and sympathy of his sisters, he was bent upon doing them credit, and deserving the confidence and good opinion of the family into whose hands he had been received as a boarder.

He liked his employment, grew tall and strong, and Myra delighted to think of him as the protector and friend of herself and his other sisters, when he should be at liberty to take a position in life for himself.

Leonard, in the meantime, dragged but idly through his educational course; and being entirely free from his brother's surveillance, paid longer and more frequent visits to Dinah Jonson's shop. There he made acquaintance with her seafaring husband and some of his random friends, intercourse with whom did not improve the boy's manner or character.

When he at last decided on mercantile life, it was in his uncle's power to assist him, and he was placed in the office of a merchant in the same town, where Mr. Haynes's house would be a safe and comfortable home.

Notwithstanding Margaret's indignant opposition, visits had been exchanged, and happy friendship had sprung up between Mrs. Haynes and Myra, and also between Edith and Lilian and Florence. And seldom did many months pass without one or other of the delighted girls being invited to come and share with Florence and Margaret the instructions and society of their loving sister and protectress.

Of Myra Sherwood's inner life it need only be said that it was, to the outer and visible life, what the fountain is to the stream, the root to the flower. She sometimes marvelled at the sweet peace she enjoyed, and the unvarying interest she felt in the duties she had undertaken. Her Bible was her constant guide, and prayer her constant refuge in all difficulties and trials; and He who promised "I will never leave thee nor forsake thee," abundantly proved to her the tender faithfulness of His love and care.

Some of the most excellent and intelligent in the society of the neighbourhood sought her friendship, and as much of pleasant communion and social intercourse as suited her tastes and engagements was always at her command.

Harry and Florence, whilst sincerely delighted to see her so admired and courted, felt a secret satisfaction in the discouragement of all rivals in her affections, until—and some imaginary event in the mists of the future seemed to blend with all their wishes for this dearly loved sister.

When they met Mrs. Somers, each time the first question eagerly asked by Florence was her opinion of Myra's appearance.

"Does she look as well as ever, Mrs. Somers? Do you think she seems tired or anxious?" she would ask.

"I see very little change in her, dear Florence. Perhaps she may seem a little anxious sometimes about Margaret and Leonard. They do not fulfil her hopes like you and Harry. She tells me that Mr. Haynes is not satisfied with Leonard's conduct; and it is very distressing to see Margaret's jealous, ungracious temper."

"It is indeed," said Florence. "We have all tried to win her to be one of us; and Myra has never made any difference between us. We dress alike, visit together, and Margaret is clever, and can be very pleasing when she will. She does far more credit to Myra's instructions than I do."

"She needs a higher Teacher yet, dear Florence, and we must not cease to pray that the Spirit of God may take up the work within her, and make her yet a dear child of God, and a blessing among you. Nothing is too hard for His patient, resolute power."

"Margaret wishes to stay in Germany to study when we come to you next winter, and Myra has at last consented to her wish to become a governess."

"I think that is right, Florence; and I only wish poor Margaret's motives were purer in her desire for independence."

"If Margaret is right in wishing to relieve Myra of all responsibility for her, surely, dear Mrs. Somers, I ought to be earning my own living also. Dear Myra has Elsie yet to provide for."

"Have you suggested your idea to her, Florence?" asked Mrs. Somers, with a smile.

"Not exactly," said Florence, blushing; "I have been afraid to pain her."

"Retain your fear then, my dear girl, at least until after next winter. At present, I do not think the idea would please any of us."

Mrs. Somers knew that if all went favourably in his affairs, it was her son's wish to provide for the gentle girl a home as happy as that from which he would take her; and no one who loved him could do other than approve his choice. At the same time, it was desirable that the young people should thoroughly understand each other's characters, both in virtues and failings, before deciding on a step involving their happiness in this life, and perhaps their hope for the life to come.

Both her brothers being now for the present away from home, Myra was indulging the hope of spending the following winter with her friends on the Continent, and even Margaret condescended to manifest some pleasure in the prospect. She had, as Florence said, done credit to the instructions and advantages bestowed upon her, in an intellectual point of view, and now only needed facility of speech in several languages, which can best be acquired by mingling with the native speakers in their own lands. She played music admirably, and her piano accompaniments to Myra's harp afforded a treat to which many delighted to listen.

Margaret proudly disdained praise. She had an object in view beyond that of pleasing others. She meant to please herself, and be what she called independent; and every accomplishment she required, and every success her perseverance attained, were to her mind so many more pounds in the salary she should have a right to demand.

But, all the time, a rebellious will remained unsubdued, an ungrateful heart untouched, and an immortal soul unsaved.

She watched for inconsistencies in those who professed to be followers of Jesus, and treasured the recollection of them as so many proofs against the truth of their religion, instead of painful evidences of their own weakness.

She could not but observe the improvement in every respect of Harry and Florence, but she persisted in attributing it to what she called their idolatry of Myra. And, removed from her influence, she was sure they would be just what they were before Myra came.

She was jealous, too, of the love of Elsie, who had at once adopted Myra into the place of Helen, to whom she had been fondly attached. And as Elsie began sometimes to open her eyes very wide, and stare, or part her rosy lips with a remonstrance at some ungracious temper, Margaret declared that all affection had been cruelly weaned from her, and she stood alone, isolated, estranged, in the midst of her own family.

"Margaret, my child," her uncle had said, when he last visited the cottage, "take care what you are doing. You are resisting love, and kindness, and tender indulgence. God has hitherto dealt in wondrous forbearance with you, but it may be that He will try other methods. If a child rebels persistently against gentle words and patient warnings, a blow must come to rouse and chasten. I speak from my own experience, Margaret. Be wise in time, and be happy while you may. 'Pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I hate,' saith the Lord.

"'God resisteth the proud, and giveth grace to the humble.'"

"You cannot know anything of my feelings towards God, uncle," answered Margaret. "You all say that the religion of Jesus Christ is a religion of love, and yet you talk to me of judgment and anger."

"My dear Margaret, you know it is written,—

"'Every tree is known by its own fruit.'

"If your feelings towards God were those of a loving, pardoned, grateful child, yielding to the instructions of His word and the influence of His Spirit, you would feel union with those who so love and are so taught, and—

"'We know that we have passed from death unto life because we love the brethren.'

"I quoted to you God's own estimate of the spirit you indulge; and the judgment, or anger as you consider it, which may deal with your sin, is that of a father whose chastisement is for the profit of his child, who, if not like wax that melts and yields to the model, must be treated like the rock and broken with the hammer. I do not judge you. I ask you to go to the standard that God has given, and judge yourself. If we would accept His rebuke, He would not proceed to chasten, for—

"'He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.'

"How much less willingly His own whom He loves with an everlasting love that must and shall triumph over all opposition! You are the child of many prayers, Margaret; and we wait for you until, by some means, you are brought to share our blessings. Fain would I see you drawn 'with cords of love,' and listening to the sweet whisper of the still small voice. Think of what I have said, my dear niece, and see if it be not according to the mind of Christ and His religion of love."

———————

CHAPTER XIII.

THE BROTHERS—A CONTRAST.

THE plans of the sisters for the coming winter were suddenly interrupted by a visit from Harry.

"You know, dear Myra," he said, "that you told me to be open and candid with you in all my affairs, and I need not conceal from you now what would be for my advantage. Our people have some important business to transact in India, and are sending out a staff of our best workmen. They have offered to send me also, and I may be away two or three years, or perhaps more. I know that at first I must be an expense to you, sister, but—"

"Would you like to go, Harry? And do you feel sure of your fitness for the duties you will undertake?"

"Yes, Myra, I 'should' like to go; and I can be fully qualified for all I shall have to do before I reach the scene of action."

"Then, Harry, it is settled, and we will at once see about your outfit. We shall miss you sadly, Harry, but we shall know that you are doing your best in life for yourself and others."

Poor Florence was very near upsetting Harry's self-control with a flood of tears, but she bravely drove them back, for she knew that sisters should help and not hinder their brothers in life's battlefield, and she bravely assisted Myra in making preparations for the Indian voyage.

In order to provide suitably for the outfit and voyage, Myra found it necessary to obtain a sum of money by a reduction of her regular income, but for such a purpose she had no hesitation in taking this step.

Everything was ready, and Harry, full of gratitude and affection, was at home for the final farewell. Leonard had been invited, and a holiday obtained, that they might all be together for the last day or two.

"Now, Leonard, you see how it is," Harry said; "you are a great fellow now, and our sisters will only have you to take care of them until I come back. Of course I know that you can't be with them much, but you can make them happy by getting on in your business, and making ready to be their protector and friend whenever they need one. I know Myra has some nice treats in store for you, though she does not talk about them yet. Will you promise to be a comfort to her, Leonard?"

"I can't see why you don't stay and do it yourself, Harry, if you think so much about her. Pray, why shouldn't I go out into the world to make my fortune like you?"

"So you will, my dear fellow, when the right time comes. Myra is not the sister to tie us to her apron-string. But you have your apprenticeship to serve yet. You have not been six months at it, you know, and I calculate that by the time you are ready for a start, I shall be at home again. You like your work, I hope, Leonard?"

"I don't care much about it," replied Leonard. "I wish I was in lodgings as you were: for I hate to be overlooked and fidgeted by Uncle Haynes. He is so particular about keeping hours, and all that."

"Oh, never mind about that, Leonard, it is only right. I had to keep proper hours, I assure you; and I see that if employers hear that young men are not careful in those things, they begin to doubt them in others."

"Do you think Myra pays Uncle Haynes for having me, Harry?" asked Leonard thoughtfully.

"I never asked," replied Harry; "but you know Uncle Haynes is not rich, and I think it is very likely she does, thinking it a little help to him and very comfortable for you. She said that if you did not live with him, she would move her home that you might still share it. Oh, Leonard, I sometimes fear she is anxious about you; don't give her cause for it, there's a dear, good brother."

The last evening came; the others had all retired, and Myra and Harry were alone together.

"Dear Harry," said the loving sister, gazing at the fine manly face and well-grown form of this brother of twenty years, "I want to ask you one question before we part. You know I have not urged the subject of religion upon you as perhaps I might have done—"

"Yes, you have, Myra," interrupted Harry; "you have lived religion among us. We must have been dunces indeed if we could not see it and feel it always. But if you mean you have not bored us with talking about it, I agree. You have answered our questions and taught us God's word in the letter, and quietly shown us its spirit in your own life. That has been the best way, dear Myra."

"Well, dearest brother, if I have not erred in leaving you too much unquestioned concerning your own personal interest in it, and as we perhaps may not meet again on earth, shall we, dear Harry, shall we meet in heaven?"

"Myra, it is not in me to talk about it, for I know how good-for-nothing I am; but to comfort you, and myself too, I will say that I do believe we shall."

"And how, why, on what do you ground that belief?"

"On nothing but the word and work of the Lord Jesus Christ. He said,—

"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out'—"

replied Harry, reverently;

"'He suffered, the just for the unjust, to bring us to God.'"

"And having come to Him, and in Him found forgiveness and peace and a Father's blessing, what then, my brother?"

"Then I am trying, poorly and feebly I know, but still trying, by the help of His good Spirit, to show in action and practice whose I am and whom I desire to serve. I have never forgotten, Myra, that it was the religion of Jesus that brought you to us, kept you with us, and made you all you are. From love to you I have done many a thing I didn't like, and given up many a thing I did like; and if such can be the influence of a dear sister, how much more that of a dear Saviour who died for me?"

"God bless and keep you, my darling brother!" cried Myra. "This is the happiest moment of my life. Oh, may you be stedfast, and triumph and overcome in that dear Saviour's strength and name!"

Then they knelt together, and the sister commended her brother with faltering voice and tearful eyes to Him whom he had chosen to be "the guide of his youth."

"Only one thing more, Harry," she said, smiling through her tears as they were parting for the night; "this for my last gift that you may feel able to do anything you may wish without distressing yourself for the expense." And she pressed some bank-notes into his hand and left him.

Harry stood some time thinking; he was alone now, and needed no longer to choke himself with repressed tears; they flowed for a little while freely, and then he knelt and prayed. The notes lay on the table, and when quite calm and peaceful again he looked at them, folded them, and placed them in his pocket-book, where were also letters of introduction, if he should need them, and one from Frank Somers to the Rev. Ralph Penwald, in case he should ever meet with him, because, as Frank said, he was so changed as to need identification. Then he went to his room, where Leonard, in a bed in a recess of the same, lay apparently fast asleep.

The next morning all was bustle and confusion in the household, for Harry was obliged to go by an early train, and his luggage, he laughingly declared, outdid that of any young lady with her far-famed "bandboxes."

Leonard also took it into his head to add to the general commotion by seizing a scrambling breakfast and going off to catch a still earlier train that he might be at business before his master should need him in the afternoon.

"All right, old fellow," said Harry, with a last grasp of his hand at the door. "Don't forget our little talk yesterday, and write often, and tell me everything."

Leonard nodded and bounded away, rather to the indignation of Elsie, who thought he might have stayed to see Harry off first.

At last Harry was off too, and then all the sisters indulged in what Peggy called "a good cry," and in which she and Janet bore their part in the kitchen; for Harry was a favourite with most of those who had anything to do with him, and as they said, "never gave trouble, and always spoke like a gentleman to everybody."

Three days later a letter arrived, dated from the ship, and posted by the last person who had come ashore when she was fairly under way.

All clustered round Myra to hear its contents, and she read with animation until the concluding paragraph, when her bright face suddenly changed, and she paused.

"Is anything wrong, dear Myra?" asked Florence. "What can be the matter?"—seeing that Myra became very pale, and seemed thinking of something very painful.

"Only a little affair between Harry and me, never mind it now; it is vexatious and perplexing, that's all."

"Oh, I can go away if you don't want me to know," said Margaret pettishly, gathering up her drawing materials; "as if I had not as much interest in Harry and his doings as any of you."

"Stay, stay, Margaret; there is no reason why you should not know, excepting that one does not talk about one's little gifts, you know. Just read for yourselves."

And they read while Myra sat with her head leaning on her hand in deep thought.

"You know, dear sister," so ran the paragraph in question, "that after you gave me that generous present, I stayed downstairs some time. The notes lay on the table, and before going to bed, I looked at them, took the numbers, folded them together, and placed them in my pocket-book. That, with my watch and purse, I put on to the little cedar tray on my dressing-table, and the next morning put it, as the safest place, into my breast-pocket. I never touched it again until, about eight hours after I left you, I went to get some money changed; the twenty-pound note was gone. What has become of it, I have no more notion than you have. I was not careless of it, Myra; I know you must have denied yourself for my sake, and every shilling you have given me is precious. I have done all I can about it, and it will be stopped at the bank. I would not let you know until I am out of the country, lest you should try to replace it, but I feel that it is right to tell you now. Thanks to your generosity, darling sister, I shall not want it, but why the other notes did not go with it, I cannot imagine."

"Myra, what can we do?" said Florence, much disturbed.

"Let us go up and search the room, the bed, the drawers, everywhere," cried Margaret. "Come at once, Florence."

"Is it possible he can have left it on the table, and it has been thrown away as waste paper?" suggested Elsie, with a troubled look.

"It is possible, dear Elsie," said Myra, "but I should not like any one to mention it to the servants."

"Why not?" sharply asked Margaret.

"Because I am certain of their honesty. If either of them had seen it, I am satisfied it would have been safely produced the next morning."

"Well, if we cannot find it, we must rest satisfied that Harry has forgotten, or left his pocket-book somewhere, perhaps laid it down in the railway-carriage, and somebody has helped himself. But come and let us search the room," again urged Margaret.

And the room, with everything in it, was searched accordingly, but in vain; and, by mutual consent, the subject dropped.

But from that day Myra was conscious of oppressive anxiety, and her animated face began to look shaded with care.

Once more, the projected visit to the Continent was the subject of delighted anticipation, and preparations were again in progress, when another interruption indefinitely postponed it.

Mr. and Mrs. Haynes arrived late one evening; the pale and distressed countenance of the husband sufficiently proving the cause of their unpremeditated visit. Only too soon its object appeared.

"How are my cousins and Leonard?" Margaret asked anxiously, and anticipating the same question on other lips.

"Your cousins are well, but 'where' is Leonard?" said Mr. Haynes. "Has he not been here?"

"No. What do you mean? Oh, uncle!"

And every face turned white, and every heart beat with strange terror.

"He told us that he was coming here on Saturday to see you all before leaving for the Continent. On Monday, he did not appear, and on Tuesday, I was sent for to Mr. M—'s office, to hear that he had absconded with money which he had been entrusted to carry to the bank. Mr. M— had been to the bank, asked to see the entries there, and found that two separate sums given to Leonard in sealed envelopes had never been lodged there at all. Mr. M— said that if I were prepared to return the money, or give security for its repayment, he would take no further steps in the matter; but if not, the law must take its course. Leonard must, however, be found, if possible; and whatever he has not squandered must be recovered at once."

Margaret was the first to rally from this crushing shock. She tried to show that there might be some mistake, that Leonard ought not to be condemned unheard.

"Margaret, it is of no use to seek such hollow comfort," said Myra, trying to be calm. "When we heard of the loss of Harry's note, I wrote with loving earnestness to Leonard, beseeching him so to act that no shadow of suspicion should ever fall upon him, and begging that if he required at any time more money than his usual allowance, he would not hesitate to tell me. I did not mention the twenty pounds at all, but he replied as if I had accused him of dishonesty, and indignantly denied anything I wished to lay to his charge. The letter was sufficient to confirm my fears, but I wrote again enclosing a five-pound note, to convince him of my sisterly interest and care. No acknowledgment has come, and yet nearly a fortnight has passed since."

"And so you give him up coolly to his fate," cried Margaret passionately, "but I will not. He shall have one sister at least to stand by him, and believe he is innocent until he is proved guilty."

"My dear niece, the bare hope that he could clear himself would put new life into us all. But we must find him. Is there any one about here, do you think, who could tell us anything of his movements? We found a piece of a letter in his room, but the signature is torn away. It seems to be an account of some ship, and a pleasant captain who would take—and there the paper is torn through, yet it may possibly supply some clue."

Margaret's lip quivered, and her cheek changed from angry red to the paleness of fear. She looked towards her sister.

"Can Dinah Jonson know anything?" she said. "I will go instantly and ask her."

"Stay, Margaret," said Mr. Haynes; "nothing must be done rashly. Any hint might drive him farther away. A detective is already at work, and I must communicate with him first."

A detective! Seeking their brother! Tracing Leonard! Oh, how horribly it sounded on every ear!

This officer was at hand; and after consultation with him, it was agreed that the little party of anxious relatives should call and make inquiries of Mrs. Jonson.

It was night, and the darkness suited Margaret well. She insisted on being allowed to speak to Dinah herself, feeling sure that no one else would be so likely to elicit the truth.

That individual was leaning over her counter, chatting with a neighbour in her blandest fashion. Her speculation of a shop for sweets and confectionery near the great school had answered extremely well, and as she was not very much troubled with her husband's company, she was entirely mistress of her little domain and all its proceeds.

Very much astonished she seemed to be when Margaret rushed to her, and, seizing her by the arm, dragged her into the little room behind the shop, and shut the door.

"Oh, Dinah, listen to me!" she cried. "Leonard has disappeared; do you know anything about him? Tell me faithfully, Dinah. Is he gone away with your husband?"

"My dear Miss Margaret, whatever ails you? How frightened you look! Sit down, my dear, and tell me what you mean."

"Tell me where my brother is gone; is he with Mr. Jonson?" repeated Margaret, seized with a suspicion that Mrs. Dinah was trying to gain time.

"Dear me, Miss Maggie! How should I know where he is? I've never set eyes on him since—let me see—since he came to say good-bye to Master Harry."

"That is little more than a fortnight since. Well, you saw him then. Did he tell you of anything he had in view? Any journey he wanted to take?"

"Well, he were always asking about foreign parts, you know. But I can't say that he's gone to see them."

"But you know whether your husband promised to take him abroad."

"Well, I really didn't mind their talk. All my business was that he shouldn't get into disgrace at home by stopping too long. 'Master Leonard,' says I—"

"Never mind that. Do you think he is gone to join Mr. Jonson anywhere?"

"Think! I really don't think anything about it. If he did, he's safe; and if he didn't, why, he'll turn up when he's had his holiday; so don't be fretting yourself, my dear."

"Oh, Dinah, Dinah, you distract me! He has taken some money not his own, they say; and if we cannot save him, he will be for ever ruined and disgraced."

"Oh, the wicked boy! Oh, the young vagabones!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinah, a new light suddenly flashing across her mind. "Does he mean to charge my husband with receiving stolen money?"

"Then he has paid his passage in your husband's ship, and you know it, Dinah. Tell me the truth; my uncle and a police officer will be with us in a few minutes."

But Mrs. Dinah was not often caught off her guard, and was again herself.

"I really must give it up, Miss Margaret, for I can't understand what you are at; so I'll see you home, and you go and be quiet, and don't fear but the boy is safe enough."

"What is the name of the ship, Dinah?"

"Last time it was the 'Lady Anne.' This time it may be something else, but I haven't heard yet. I think it was to be the 'Fairy,' or the 'Sea Queen,' or some such name, but I never know for sure till they get fixed with a ship, you see."

In the shop waited Mr. Haynes, who led his niece away, and Mrs. Dinah was left to more skilful management.

———————

CHAPTER XIV.

SIN BRINGS SORROW.

"AUNT HAYNES," said Margaret, following her aunt to her room, "I see that uncle believes in Leonard's guilt."

"There is no alternative, my dear girl; the evidence is too decidedly against him," said Mrs. Haynes kindly.

"Well, I will not believe it until I am obliged," said Margaret impetuously. "There is nothing to be done, then, but to pay the money."

"Pay the money, Margaret! It is impossible; your uncle has not the means. We have just paid the last dividend to our creditors, thanks to the prospering goodness of God; and we have nothing left at present."

"Then Myra must pay it. She will, of course, rather than suffer this dreadful disgrace. But is there any way of paying her again?"

"I do not think Myra will pay it, Margaret; I do not think she ought," said her aunt gravely.

"Not to save our name, uncle's name, my cousins' name, from such a shameful blot!" cried Margaret. "She must, and I will know before I sleep."

Myra and Florence were sitting together after their friends had retired; and Florence was retracing several acts in which Leonard had figured unfavourably with regard to money, but which she had tried to hope might be accounted for, until the loss of Harry's note, when at once her suspicions fastened upon him. She almost hated herself for the thought, and had never allowed it to escape in words.

Quietly the door was opened; and Margaret, her eyes bright with excitement and her cheeks flushed, entered the sitting-room.

Gliding up to Myra, and kneeling by the table at her side, she looked as if her very life were bound up in what she had to say.

"Myra, I have never asked you a personal favour for years. Will you do one for me now?"

"Dear Margaret," replied Myra, "you do not know the pleasure it would give me to please you; but oh, dear sister, ask something of me that I can and may do."

"I believe you can; I am sure you may. Pay this money back to Mr. M—, and save us all. Every penny I earn as soon as I can obtain a situation, shall go to repay you, though it can only be in the course of several years."

"Margaret, I will not deny that, by great economy and a permanent reduction of my income, I might pay even this large sum; but you, and Florence, and Elsie must be sufferers, and—"

"Oh, that kind of suffering or privation is nothing compared with the agony of the other!" eagerly interrupted Margaret. "You will do it, then?"

"I do not say so; I seek God's help and teaching. What He shows me to be right, I will do."

"Then you will do this. Your religion will oblige you to do it, if it is, as you say, a religion of love."

"But, Margaret, it is not a blind, selfish love that overlooks everything but the gratification of its object, or the indulgence of its own feeling. Even the great, wise God, who has a right to do what He wills, would not pardon and bless unjustly. He did not rob one creature to save another. He provided for justice while exercising mercy."

"But you have nothing to do with judging; you have only to forgive and help."

"If Leonard had robbed me, assuredly I would forgive and pass it by. But he has not; the whole is subject to the will of the master he has wronged."

"But you can restore it; you can take the injury upon yourself, and you can have patience until we can repay it all."

"But suppose, dear sister, that Leonard is so far gone in sin that it needs a terrible discipline to reach his heart. Suppose years of love and kindness have failed, and it is God's plan to let him go, like the prodigal, to eat the fruit of his own doings,—who are we, that we should try to overthrow that plan so as to defeat the purpose of mercy that may be hidden behind the punishment, and leave the unhappy boy to fancy that he may sin with impunity, because of our weak, blind affection, that cannot bear to see him suffer as he deserves? Do you not see that if we had pressed to a discovery the first act that excited suspicion, this greater crime might have been prevented?"

"But you speak as if only Leonard were concerned; you forget that he drags us with him in his disgrace."

"No, dear Margaret, he cannot do that. But if it were so, we must submit to the world's false estimates. Forgive me, dear sister, if I think that you are dwelling more upon the consequences of Leonard's sin than on the sin itself. Wretched as it is to be involved in those consequences, it is far worse, far more solemnly important, to think what must be his condition before God."

"I know that," said Margaret impatiently; "I don't want any preaching about it. Will you, or will you not, refund the money that Mr. M— has lost?"

"There is one opinion that I wish for before I decide positively, sister, but my own impression strengthens that I ought not to interfere."

"You mean Mr. Fairfield," said Margaret bitterly; "and he is sure to agree with you. You are all alike when a real dreadful misery comes; cruel, selfish, mean, insensible to any one's feelings or opinions but your own."

Saying this, she rushed to her room to lie down and shed tears of anger, disappointment, and fear of what she saw inevitable.

Suddenly a thought struck her; and, springing up, she flew down again, and burst open the door where Myra and Florence were just rising from prayer with the peace of God in their hearts, and its holy influence shining like light from heaven on their faces.

Margaret stood before them like a tormented spirit that could find no rest. Her pride in one cause, humbled itself in another; the dread of the world's opinion induced the painful alternative of asking favours from Myra, and confessing to a confidence in her power which, under less trying circumstances, she would have scorned to admit.

"Myra," she said, in a voice tremulous with contending feelings, "there is one thing you can certainly do. You have often spoken of the power of prayer. Pray, then, that Leonard may not be found."

Myra came towards her, put her arms round the excited girl, and softly whispered,—

"Margaret, I dare not."

"Dare not!" cried Margaret, pushing her away. "Then are you daring to pray that he may be taken and dragged like a felon to justice?"

"No, no, no, assuredly not," replied Myra, clasping her hands in deep distress.

"Then what are you praying for?" demanded the proud girl haughtily.

"That God's will be done, and that ours may be conformed to it," replied Myra. "He knows what is best for us all; I do not."

"Oh, if I could pray, but I cannot!" murmured Margaret despairingly; and she turned away.

"Oh, Margaret, try, do try; it will calm and comfort you," said Florence tenderly and caressingly.

But the unhappy girl was not to be persuaded or consoled; she would not even be followed. And when she reached her chamber, she locked her door, and brooded over her sorrow alone.

On the next day, she requested to accompany Myra with Mr. and Mrs. Haynes on their return home, and in her anxiety for the first information, forgot the degradation of the despised shop.

A few miserable days passed away, and the dreaded message came at last. Leonard was traced to a low lodging in the neighbourhood of the docks of a seaport town, waiting, he said, until a ship in which he had taken his passage should be ready to sail. On inquiring the name of the ship, it was found that she had sailed without him, and great was his rage at the deception which he declared had been practised upon him. There was nothing to be done but to submit to the restraint now imposed, and he was taken back to the scene of his crime, lodged in a strong room, and his friends were apprised of his arrival.

When his uncle and sisters entered the room, he sat sulky and silent, and seemed resolved to give no attention to any of them.

"Leonard," said Mr. Haynes, "I am desired by Mr. M— to tell you that if you will enable him to recover his money, he will stop proceedings against you, and you may return home with us. We will help you to redeem your character, and all may yet be well."

"It's of no use talking," replied the boy sullenly. "I can't find what I haven't got. I have nobody's money, and no one can prove anything against me."

"Not even your own conscience, Leonard?"

"I am not going to trouble it. I have nothing to confess, so you may as well leave me."

"Leonard, will you confess to God, and see how He will pity and help you, and put a right spirit within you?" said Myra softly.

"I hate cant. I'm not going to pretend anything."

"Oh, brother," sobbed Margaret, "how can we leave you? If you did not take the money, say so boldly; don't leave us in this dreadful suspense. If you did, oh, confess it! And ask them to pay it back for you this once, only this once. You never did such a thing before. Those bad people tempted you. Say so, Leonard."

"Don't you talk to me!" almost shouted Leonard, angrily. "Why didn't you tell me before that Dinah and her husband were false? Why did you give me messages to take where I was forbidden to go? Don't 'you' talk, I say. You helped me into mischief; you never said a word to keep me from doing anything I liked; and now your pride is touched, you can't bear the consequence of your own folly and mine; you can't endure to be the sister of a suspected thief, of course."

"Oh, Leonard, Leonard!" cried poor Margaret, in bitter agony. "How dare you taunt me so? You know—"

"Hush, dear sister!" said Myra. "It is useless to talk so. Leonard, you see something of the sorrow you have inflicted, as well as feel the ruin coming on yourself. Will you do anything to save us all, and help us to serve you? Or must we leave you to stand your trial and be judged by the law you have offended?"

"You can pay the money to Mr. M—, of course, if you like, until he finds the right person. I have no objection to be set free."

"I am a steward for God in all He has bestowed upon me, Leonard, and I dare not abuse my trust by saving you from the penalty of sin, in impenitence and falsehood."

"Oh yes, of course; your money is to make grand presents, for good boys to go to India with," said Leonard sneeringly.

"How do you know that, sir?" said Mr. Haynes quickly.

Leonard's eyes fell.

"Unhappy boy! Your sin is not on the surface; it is deep and strongly rooted. You must suffer, and may God overrule in mercy all that is coming upon you!"

"I'm not afraid; there's no evidence to disprove my word," said Leonard doggedly.

And they left him, hopeless of making any good impression in his present state of mind.

On reaching Mr. Haynes's house, they found Mr. Fairfield waiting to learn the result of the interview. He shook his head as the boy's condition was stated.

"It is plain he must be left to reap as he has sown," he said; "it would be no mercy to avert punishment, and the motive would not stand. It would be only to save ourselves from fancied disgrace, and a respectable name from reproach. But Herbert has sufficiently vindicated his own honesty and honour, and it will not touch him or his children."

"They bear the same name," said Margaret bitterly; "it will be said that the sin belongs to the family, and no one will trust any of us again."

"We will leave that to our God and Saviour, my poor child," said Mr. Fairfield pitifully; "He will judge justly and order wisely, and of such as dare to bring a needless reproach against any of His children, He says,—

"'It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea.'

"Let us only be His, by faith in Jesus His Son, and fear nothing that the devil or man can do or say against us. He who raises his puny hand, or sounds his flippant tongue, against Christ's redeemed ones, will find to his confusion, some day, that he has rushed upon the shield of the Almighty, and aimed at that which He guards as 'the apple of His eye.' Oh that we could all live more by faith and less by sight—more on God and His record of Himself in His Son and His word, and less on the smile of man and appearances in the world! Margaret, my dear child, you must get a juster view of your position as an immortal creature, or you will live a life of self-inflicted martyrdom to your own pride and its mistakes."

But Leonard's words had put the climax to Margaret's anguish, and she writhed under his reproach, and the shame of his guilt and punishment, until the tempest-tossed spirit could bear no more. And brain fever with wild delirium succeeded, which kept her friends in deep anxiety for her life during a long season of watchful care.

In that house which she had despised, she lay helpless and insensible, under the most devoted and sympathising attention from all within it, and earnest incessant prayer that she might be restored, to learn the secret of a better and happier life.

The care availed, the prayer was heard and answered; Margaret's delirium passed away, and her mind recovered its power, but her body was feeble as an infant.

No one pressed conversation upon her, but sometimes the sweet voice of Myra sang a hymn softly beside her, or read a few appropriate verses from the Scriptures, or whispered a short prayer by her pillow. And as all nourishment was administered by strict rule, there was no need for questions or answers until, of her own accord, she chose to speak.

One day, feeling somewhat stronger, she drew aside the curtain between herself and the silent watcher who sat by the bed, and her eyes met those of Myra.

"I hoped it was you," she whispered, with an effort to move nearer.

Myra knelt down to listen to the feeble voice that wanted to speak to her.

And Margaret, clasping one arm round her neck, laid her head upon Myra's shoulder, and burst into tears.

Myra was not frightened, but, deeply touched with such an unexpected change, caressed and soothed her back to calmness like a very child.

"It is all coming back to me, Myra, all the terrible past. Is the trial over? What have they done to him?"

"Nothing yet; Mr. Haynes visits him often, and so does Mr. Fairfield."

"And you, Myra?"

"I have not left you since you were taken ill, dear Margaret. I have written several times from your bedside, but he sends no message. Now you must not exhaust this little return of strength, nor distress yourself, but try to get well, and comfort us all."

"I comfort you! Oh, Myra, make me fit to die, and then pray God to take me. I can never be happy again. Don't you remember he said I had helped to ruin him?"

"Leave it, dearest, for the present; we will talk about it and face it when you are better. Now rest again."

"Myra, draw up that blind, and let me look at you, do please indulge me," for Myra hesitated.

But, seeing the old wilful look, and fearing to excite her by opposition, she complied.

"Oh, Myra, dear kind sister, how pale you look, and so thin! You are making yourself ill to cure me. Oh, go away, and tell them to take care of you, or I shall have more on my conscience yet."

"Who shall I send to you, dear?" asked Myra. "You must not be left just yet."

"Florence,—yet no; my aunt, if she will come. I have slighted and grieved her often. Oh, how everybody ought to hate me!"

"Nobody does, though," said Myra, smiling and kissing the poor faded face.

"Now, don't come near me again to-day," said Margaret. "Make that old gentleman take you for a drive, then go to sleep,—do anything to make yourself look yourself again. What would Harry say to see you now? Yet I wish he were here for your sake."

"I do not; I am glad he is away," said Myra, and she went joyfully to tell Mrs. Haynes of Margaret's wish to see her.

The gentle, motherly arms of her aunt were soon drawn round the repentant girl, and signs of a change of heart and feeling kept pace with reviving strength and returning health.

That evening, thanks were offered at family worship for the hope of a young life spared and a lost soul saved.

———————

CHAPTER XV.

IN THE SCHOOL OF CHRIST.

FOR several days previous to her conversation with Myra, Margaret had been conscious and cognisant of all that occurred in her room, but extreme weakness, together with many thoughts and feelings, good and bad, had held her silent.

She heard the soft music and sweet words of the hymns; she heard the one or two or three verses of Scripture read, and the short, earnest, loving prayers offered at her bedside by her aunt and Myra, and sometimes by her uncle, and had shown no sign of appreciation. But all the while, her conscience was at work, and at last, she gave up the weary contest with the truth it told of her great need, and surrendered herself a helpless sinner into the arms of a helpful Saviour.

The barriers of pride and rebellion broken down, the reaction was as strong as the opposition had been. Deeply she pondered on the forbearance and generosity with which she had been treated by Myra; and she was obliged to trace them to the ruling principle of Christian faith. No human temper, she felt sure, could have endured so long, without bursts of indignant anger and many hard words, the persistent coldness and rudeness, and frequent disobedience with which she had resisted and repelled the gentle sister. Only the constraining love of the Divine Master she followed could so have triumphed.

And now, could the power which had ruled Myra bring her, a proud, passionate, headstrong girl, beneath the same influences, and produce in her the same practical results?

"It must be tried, if I am to live," thought Margaret. "I must be a Christian. What shall I do to become a Christian?"

Then she remembered the first conversation she had held on the subject of salvation, and nothing more perfectly met her sense of helpless need than the picture her mind had conceived of the bitten Israelites and the serpent of brass. From type to antitype she transferred the look of faith, and beheld "the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world." Within that ample proclamation she felt the hand of mercy leading, and from the border of the eternal world the poor stricken one came back to life, "a new creature," humbled, gentle, self-renouncing; long, indeed, fluttering over her place of rest, afraid to set foot firmly on the "'sure' foundation," but teachable, hopeful, her choice made, her resolution taken. If the Lord Jesus would be her Saviour, she would be His servant.

Margaret's dread of the impending trial of the poor culprit taxed her returning strength of body, and very pitiable it was to see the struggle for patience and submission; the pale, wan face and tearful eyes trying to bring up a smile of grateful appreciation of the tender care that watched over her.

At last, the day came, and Leonard Haynes stood at the bar, charged with theft. Among the witnesses against him appeared Mrs. Dinah Jonson, very unwillingly compelled to testify to the payment of certain sums to her absent husband, with which he was to secure for the youth a passage, and kind treatment, and nautical instruction during a voyage nearly round the world, which money, Mrs. Dinah protested, she and her said husband believed to be honestly his own.

Leonard had nothing to say, no reason to give for his possession of so large a sum as that which he had stolen, nor would he give account of any of it. So that beyond the amounts traced, no clue could be found to the remainder; the probability being that Mr. Jonson had kindly "taken care" of it, for his use when safe in some foreign land. Perhaps Jonson himself was in his turn the dupe of others, but Leonard declined either to admit his own guilt or to publicly accuse any one.

His defiant look, however, left him when he saw Dinah, and heard her deposition, and his hopes then broke down.

The sentence of two years' imprisonment was the lightest that the circumstances admitted, but even this seemed to overwhelm him.

His uncle was present at the trial, and had any defence been honest or right, it would have been made; but there was no ground for it against evidence that spoke for itself, and only his youth saved Leonard from a heavier punishment.

When poor Margaret was made acquainted with all that could be told, she almost sank under the sad intelligence.

"Dearest Margaret," said Myra, whose sorrow was as great as hers, "you once asked me to pray about Leonard. We all did so, and we prayed that God's will should be done; for we knew not what else to ask. Now let us all unite to pray that these two years of discipline may be overruled for his good, and that he may come back to us penitent, and for ever renouncing the wretched course of covetousness and dishonesty."

"Come back to us, Myra! Surely you will not disgrace your home by allowing him ever to return to it?"

"Would you, Margaret?"

"I! Oh, but that would be different! I must share his lot, but you—"

"Whatever is then thought best for Leonard, we shall all do, dear Margaret; so we will leave it for the present. He will not want for friends and opportunities if he will only use them."

"Then we may pray without reserve for his reformation and salvation, you think, Myra?"

"Yes, because the Lord Jesus came to seek and to save the lost. He would that all should come to repentance, and is exalted a Prince and a Saviour to give it. We will ask Him to give it to Leonard, to soften and subdue his spirit, and make him a good man yet."

"Yours is a very hopeful religion, sister," said Margaret. "You never despair about anything."

"We have such great and precious promises, dear Margaret. Despair is sin in a child of God. Only think how free our access to His presence, how welcome when there, how indulged and cherished! Oh, He cannot withhold any good thing from them that ask in the dear name He loves, 'the Name that is above every name' in heaven or earth. It is only when we set up our own opinion of what is good and wise that we may well hesitate how we carry it into His presence. 'Thy will be done,' you know, is one of our Lord's merciful provisions against selfishness and mistakes. To petition for our own way might cause us to be chastened with a self-made rod, which meek and willing deference to God's better way would have spared us."

"That is just what I want, Myra,—to give up my own way; but it is so hard for me."

"Not harder than for us all, dear Margaret. We naturally love our own way, and nothing but trust in the wisdom and love of Him to whom is committed all power can bring our will into subjection to His; but even on the low ground of mere common sense, see how rational and right it is. We cannot foresee five minutes of our history; 'we know not what shall be on the morrow.' Our Father knows the end from the beginning. He has a plan, of which we are a part. It were easy for Him to drop us (as you do a crooked pin, if it does not go into your work when you want it held together, and take up another); it were easy to put a more willing one into our place. But there is happiness, honour, and blessing for us if we can be made to fit into it; and He will not let our restive ignorance deprive us of the promised portion. Oh, let us try to attain the sweet attitude of childlike trust, and say—

"'O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will;

I will lie still.

I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm,

And break the charm

Which lulls me, leaning on my Father's breast

In perfect rest!'"

"I will try," sobbed Margaret, "but oh, Leonard, Leonard you have struck a blow that must be sore as long as my life shall last."

"I hope not, Margaret," said Myra tenderly; "it is a blow indeed, but it may be one that Leonard himself may be the instrument to heal. Had he been still a wanderer, flying from justice, I should have lived in dread of some greater crime, some intenser misery. But, taken and punished so soon, I cannot but hope that it is to save him, and to be a future safeguard; while it sheds on us by the way a chastening blessing, to humble our pride, and to turn us from the honour that cometh from man, in order that we may seek that which cometh from God only. We find in the deep humility of Christ's religion, the loftiest elevation above the opinions and littlenesses of the world that despises Him."

"Myra, I have often intended to ask you why you said that the 'religion of Jesus' brought you to us those many years ago? I never forgot it, and I wondered why you did not say 'God,' or 'the Divine Being,' or 'Christianity,' or some other of those expressions which are more frequently used."

"Because all those expressions, true and full of meaning as they are, have become so vague through misuse and abuse, that they often fail to convey the idea of a real practical power. But when the name of the Lord Jesus, the Representative to sinful man of the Divine character and will, is uttered by the lip of reverence and affection, I feel at once that it means something more, and I expect to find a heart touched by the Holy Spirit, bound by the tenderest love, and constrained by the deepest obligation. It implies something definite and trustworthy, something that cannot be exhausted in a correct creed, or any inoperative sentiment. I believe my object was to invite your confidence, and make you feel that I had come not to profess, but to act."

"And instead of that, it awakened enmity and suspicion."

"Only for a little while; that is all over now, you know. Yet I am tempted to ask, if you can tell me, suspicion of what?"

"Ah, I was just thinking, suspicion of what? And I do believe it was the very same feeling as the enemies of the Lord Jesus had when they cavilled at and questioned all He said. They were afraid He wanted them to be good, and they didn't want to be good; they thought themselves good enough. It is just the same in Margaret Haynes and a Jewish Pharisee."

"Yes, dear Margaret; the name of Jesus brings God, the Holy One, closer to us. Men can talk and write about 'the Divine Being,' 'the Deity,' 'the Great Creator,' and feel nothing anxious or disturbing; He is some 'unknown God' whom they are content to admire at a distance. But when 'God was manifest in the flesh,' when 'God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself,' when One who 'was with God and was God' 'was made flesh, and dwelt among us,' there came unavoidable contact, an irresistible claim to attention, and men could no longer hide from themselves that the opposition to truth and goodness was in their own hearts, and that if they were not made happy and holy, and at one with God, the fault was entirely and for ever their own.

"Many kind, pleasant people will talk with you of 'divine goodness,' and 'a gracious Providence,' and a 'bountiful Creator,' and conversation flows calmly; but speak of Jesus and His love, the cleansing power of His 'precious blood,' the peace-giving consciousness of His pardon and His presence, the joy of His service, and hope of His glory, then what a chill, what a check! Often a dead silence, and the courtesy of society will scarcely hide the sneer or the alarm at your fanaticism, or the pity that anything should be pushed to such an extreme."

"I have seen it," said Margaret; "and I have noticed that the shock has survived the occasion, and kept the sensitive individuals from venturing near the electric wire again. And yet it is Jesus the Saviour, 'the Son of the Highest,' 'the brightness of God's glory,' and 'the express image of His person,' who is the centre and substance of all true religion. How can any one suppose himself the friend of God who does not know, and love, and honour the Son of God?"

"Is it not remarkable, too," said Myra, delighted at the animated interest with which Margaret spoke, "that the Lord Jesus, in vindicating His authority to the people who were rejecting Him, said that—

"'...all should honour the Son, even as they honour the Father. He that honoureth not the Son honoureth not the Father which hath sent Him.'

"'If God were your Father, ye would love Me.'

"To His own disciple He said,—

"'He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father.'

"John the Baptist said,—

"'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him."

"The Apostle John wrote,—

"'Whosoever denieth the Son, the same hath not the Father;' and 'he that abideth in the doctrine of Christ, he hath both the Father and the Son.'

"Surely we need nothing more to show that 'the Son,' 'Jesus Christ,' is the spirit and substance, the 'God manifest' of salvation!

"Yet we have more still. See how His immediate followers acted. At Pentecost, Peter and John preached 'Jesus of Nazareth,' baptized in 'the name of Jesus Christ,' healed the sick 'by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth;' Philip preached 'Jesus;' Paul declared that he would 'know nothing but Jesus Christ and Him crucified.' He tells us to 'run with patience the race set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.'

"And our Lord Jesus Himself, when promising 'a Comforter' to His troubled apostles, described His special mission to be testifying of Him, guiding them into all truth:

"'He shall take of Mine, and shall show it unto you.'"

"It is a wonderful mystery," said Margaret thoughtfully.

"So said Paul, to whom was committed especially the happy work of making known to the Gentiles their share in its glorious purpose. But though beyond human reason to explain, it is not opposed to human reason to accept. A God whom we could perfectly know and understand would soon cease to be the object of our adoration. Even the holy angels are not able to comprehend all He does; for we are told that they desire 'to look into' the things concerning Christ; and as the purposes of love to sinners are unfolded in His dealings with His Church, they find fresh cause to admire and praise His 'manifold wisdom.'"

Day by day Margaret's interest grew in the truth, and only in her Bible could she find any comfort for the sorrow which had fallen upon her.

Myra and Florence had no other source of comfort either, excepting that they did not share in her bitter remorse. They had lovingly sought to win Leonard to obedience and goodness, and endeavoured to shield him from evil, but he had evaded and deceived them. Keenly they felt the shame and sorrow of his conduct, and a pang of anguish that no words could express accompanied every thought of his present degraded condition; but having "fellowship with God and with His Son," they were growing into higher sympathy with His views of events and things, and becoming less sensitively tenacious of the world's thoughts and opinions.

No friend forsook them for their wretched brother's sake, but Christian love and sympathy gathered more tenderly round them in their affliction.

As soon as Margaret's strength was sufficiently restored, they went abroad, and once more the faded cheeks regained their bloom and the saddened spirits their elasticity, and Margaret seized every opportunity of improvement, mastered every study she commenced, and seemed to have set before herself some purpose in life which should, by God's help and blessing, prove that it had not been spared for nought.

———————

CHAPTER XVI.

"OVERCOME EVIL WITH GOOD."

ABOUT a year passed away. The family were at their English home, where few changes had occurred, and where they were no longer cheered by the pleasant visits of Frank Somers. He had gone on business to New Zealand, and it depended on circumstances, he said, whether he settled there or returned.

It was with a very sorrowful heart that poor Margaret found out the true reason; and though the sweet temper and cheerful manner of Florence betrayed no change, she knew that Frank had been firmly and decidedly rejected by her, solely because she conceived that her union with him would, though indirectly, involve him in the disgrace which Leonard's conduct had brought upon them all.

"My sister, my darling sister," said Margaret, "though I should have done the same, yet I question whether it is fair to throw away your own happiness and Frank's in this way, when he and all his family would so thankfully reverse your decision."

"Hush, dear Margaret!" said Florence. "I have not done it thoughtlessly. Frank knows all I can tell to human ear about it; and though we disagree now in our view of our respective positions, the time may come when even he will judge that I am doing right. Oh, Margaret, we cannot tell what Leonard may yet do."

"But is it not your duty to hope the best?—For surely you have hope?" said Margaret.

"Oh yes, I do hope, but at present we have reason to fear also; and if Leonard should reject every effort to bring him to repentance for the past, and a right course for the future, I shall feel almost sure—nay, it would be only right to wish—that further punishment may be the result to him. His sin has already grieved too many, to risk extending the shame and sorrow any further."

"Did you know that Frank got leave to see and speak to him in prison?" asked Margaret.

"No," said Florence, with a flush of surprise.

"He did, before he sailed, and he told Myra that he thought he saw traces of right feeling in him, but that his own motive in talking with him was so mixed up with selfishness and anxiety, that he scarcely dared hope for God's blessing on it."

"Dear, generous Frank!" murmured Florence. "He always judges hardly of himself."

"And tenderly of others," said Margaret. "He must not be left to suffer for their faults. Tell me, dear sister, only tell me this. If, by God's mercy, Leonard should be reformed, and pursue some honest, patient, industrious course, you will not be afraid, but recall Frank, and reward his affection."

"We must not be romantic, dear Margaret," said Florence, smiling; "let us leave all the future in our Father's hands, and pray for His will to be done."

"Promise," persisted Margaret earnestly.

"You forget that Frank is at liberty to choose again," said Florence softly.

"Nonsense! I know better. Promise, if you would help me to be happy ever again," cried the resolute sister; and Florence was subdued at last.

The only change in the little household was a wedding and a wedding-breakfast. After eight years of faithful service, Janet, the housemaid, thought she could in some sense "better herself" by accepting the offer of an industrious young mechanic in the town. And her young mistresses were as much interested on the occasion as heart could desire, Janet declaring that if she should make a good wife, and prudently manage the new home provided for her, it would be because of the good lessons she had received in Miss Sherwood's service, and the religion of peace and love taught and exemplified there.

As for Peggy, though viewing with perfect complacency the happiness of her fellow-servant, she eschewed all such prospects for herself; for, said she, "I can't say what vixenish ways I might take to again if I put myself in the risk of temptation; and then the man would be disappointed, and say that religion isn't true, or something of the sort, and I couldn't stand that, for I know it is true; and then I would either get my head broke for rage or my heart for sorrow; so I'd best keep out of scrapes that can't be helped when they're once done."

So Peggy decided to keep out of the matrimonial "scrape," at least until she was better satisfied of her self-control, and more assured of "the victory that overcometh."

And when kindly reminded of the apostle's words, "I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me,—"

"Ah," she replied in her quaint way, "but I'm no more like Paul than the old tin kettle is like the silver urn. Do not I often feel like to burst with badness when anything goes cross?—And I should, too, if I had no way to blow off the steam. And the only way to do it without hurting others is to go and scold myself, and ask the Lord to help me against myself, and then I get better."

And when assured that Paul's safety-valve was very similar, great was Peggy's wonder that she should have anything in common with Paul, excepting salvation in Paul's beloved Saviour.

It was, moreover, a fact most gratefully recognised by her mistress, that no duties were better performed, no dinners better served, no larder more carefully managed, than those over which Peggy presided.

One day Peggy sauntered slowly home, after executing some errands in the town. It was not her wont to linger, but now she walked as if for once she had an idea of trying whether "the grass" would really "grow under her feet." And her thoughts were in some confusion, needing a little management before she presented herself at home.

"Shall I tell her or not?" she argued. "Why should I? It is no business of mine, nor of hers either. I never could abide the woman, not I. Ah, that is what old Peggy says, and that will not do now. What is it that new Peggy says, she that Jesus died for, and forgives and helps every day of her life; 'looking unto Jesus,' what would He like her, His poor servant, to do? Why, surely I ought to tell her, and so I will, and no more argufying about it; there is a lost soul as well as a miserable body to be thought of."

Peggy lingered no longer, but went quickly home, and at once presented herself at the drawing-room door.

"If you please, ladies," said she, "did you know that Dinah, that is, Mrs. Jonson, was going away?"

"No," replied Myra; "we went past her shop yesterday, and observed no change."

"But there is, ma'am, and her sister is keeping on the shop, and they are very poor. Dinah, they say, is, leastways was, going to join her husband somewhere, for he is not coming back with the ship he went in."

"Indeed! But what interests you in the matter, Peggy?" For Myra was sure that the point of the subject was yet behind; and Margaret and Florence were looking wonderingly at Peggy's excited face.

"Why, ma'am, she cannot go now; she has been nearly killed."

"Killed!" exclaimed the startled listeners.

"Yes; she was moving some heavy things, and a great tall chest of drawers toppled over upon her, and crushed her dreadfully. Two doctors are there, and they do not know whether she will live or die."

"Poor Dinah!" said Myra.

"Wretched Dinah!" said Margaret.

"We must see whether we can be of any use to her," said Myra. "Thank you, Peggy, for telling us."

"Yes, I knew that would be it," said Peggy; "and I just wanted to ask leave, if anybody is wanted to sit up all night with her, if I may go and do it for a few nights. I can manage very well, and it won't interfere with my work. The poor sister has bad health, I believe, and cannot do much."

"You can go and offer your services, Peggy, if you please, and if you think of any nice little thing that you would like to make for her, do so, and carry it with you."

Peggy withdrew, more than satisfied.

"That's the right sort," she said, in the kitchen; "cloak and coat, mile and twain; it's like the Lord Himself; always gives more and better than we dare to ask. Now the poor creature will have all done for her that can be, I know."

"Dear Myra, what a triumph!" said Margaret, with tears in her eyes. "I have fought hard to forgive that woman for her share in our dreadful sorrow, and I have never been able to feel that I have really done so. Peggy has conquered, and so must I."

And, day after day, from that time, one or another of the kind sisters was by the unhappy woman's bedside, ministering to her wants, soothing her cries of pain, and providing for her comfort by every means in their power. Now it was Myra's gentle hand that arranged a clean soft pillow; now Margaret's that held the cup to her fever-parched lips; now Florence softly read her to sleep, or Elsie held a sweet flower for her to admire.

"I don't deserve it," she sighed to Peggy in the night watch, as, restless and miserable, she would rebel against orders for silence.

"No, for sure you don't," said Peggy; "if we all got our deservings, we'd be badly off."

"But oh, this pain! I suppose I do deserve that," groaned Dinah.

"Yes, of course you do, and a deal more to it," said straightforward Peggy; "only it won't be of any use if it doesn't help to bring you to Him who bore worse pain than you or me can think of, to save our souls. You see, we often don't think of Him till we come to need a friend. So He has to make us need."

"Oh, it's very hard to suffer so! Wouldn't anything else do?"

"Seems not, else it wouldn't have come; for be you sure that the Lord never willingly afflicted anybody but His own blessed self, and that was for love of poor souls like you and me. Now think of that, and go to sleep on it."

But Dinah had a conscience too uneasy to find such truths her pillow yet; and as it became enlightened concerning the sinfulness of her past life, terror of death and judgment added greatly to the torments of the suffering body.

The idea of being a cripple for life was very terrible, but it was endured rather than the alternative of dying as she was, without hope, without God. And when preparations for the amputation of the shattered limb were made, and Myra and Margaret knelt beside her bed to pray that she might be supported under the operation, she drew Margaret towards her, and with quivering lips whispered,—

"It is just and right; it is to hinder me going to share ill-gotten gains. Oh, my child, forgive me, forgive me! Your brother did very wrong, but he was tempted with great prospects, if he could find money to get at them."

Margaret shuddered for a moment, then she kissed the white lips, saying,—

"I do forgive—we all forgive. May God be gracious to you, poor Dinah!"

The surgical treatment saved the patient's life, and Mrs. Jonson was eventually restored to health. She had ceased to despise "Methodists." She believed in the religion of Jesus, for she had seen something of its beauty, and experienced something of its results in the care and sympathy of those she had cruelly wronged. Nothing else, she felt assured, could have so secured for her the return of good for evil, and the practical exercise of the "charity that never faileth."

To "seek" until she should "find" the same holy power for herself, became her first and dearest object. And while she might read that the Lord Jesus is able to "save to the uttermost all that come unto God by Him," and "him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out," she would not despair of salvation and peace.

CHAPTER XVII.

"DYING IS BUT GOING HOME."

THE malady from which Mr. Somers had suffered more or less for many years had latterly gained ground, defying all the efforts of human skill to cure or even to relieve any longer. He had expressed a wish that Myra Sherwood could spend a little time as of old in his family, to mingle again with them as a beloved daughter, and be a comfort to those so dear to him, over whose heads hung a calamity of which they tried not to trust themselves to think.

"Take no thought for the morrow," said He who was "touched with a feeling of all our infirmities," and who knew the temptation to loving, anxious hearts; and who, Himself under heavy trial, knew what it was to wish, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from Me."

And because it was not possible that His bitter cup could pass from Him, we often venture to hope that, through His mercy, ours may be allowed to pass us by. Doubtless it is often so; the faith, the humility, the submission, that can go on and say with Him, "Nevertheless, not as I will, Father, but as Thou wilt," is tested and approved, and the cup of sorrow is often exchanged for that of grateful praise. And why? Because for Jesus the cup was penal, propitiatory, sacrificial; as it is written,—

"Now once in the end of the world hath He appeared, to put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself." . . . "So Christ was once offered, to bear the sins of many."

"He was made sin for us, . . . that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him."

"And He is the propitiation for our sins."

But it was "the cup of salvation" to every penitent sinner of every clime and tongue and people, and as such He drank, and left not a drop behind. And because of this, the cup of sorrow in many a trembling human hand is but that of sanctified affliction, and often is pitifully withdrawn when its purpose is accomplished.

"Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He delivered them out of their distresses."

"He maketh the storm a calm."

Oh, how blessed after all is the tempest of trial that is hushed by the voice of Jesus!

To Myra's grateful heart, her uncle's wish was the call of duty, and she lost no time in making such arrangements as seemed suitable to the position of her sisters during her absence. Then she joined him in the lovely spot where he had chosen to wait the Master's call, and where, amidst some of earth's fairest scenes, he might contemplate one fairer still, even Him who is "chief among ten thousand and altogether lovely," and say, in prophetic vision, with the Psalmist,—

"I shall be satisfied when I awake with Thy likeness."

For some time things seemed to fall into their old places, and Myra felt like a child again with those who had supplied to her the place of parents. She saw and shared the secret anxiety of the devoted wife, who knew that probably her husband's days were numbered, and though together they often poured out their full hearts before God in prayer, no murmur, no gloom, no passion, was suffered to darken the remaining term of hallowed intercourse with the spirit so cheerily pluming for the upward flight.

"Myra, my darling," he one day said, as she sat alone with him on the terrace before his house, where a matchless view of God's beautiful works in nature supplied a fund of emblems of spiritual truth,—"I want you to try and be a great comfort to your aunt when I am gone to sleep. I fear she is sorrowing too much for our short separation, and I sometimes feel inclined to take up the words of our Lord, when His course was nearly run, and to say to her and my dear children,—

"'If ye loved Me, ye would rejoice because I said, I go to My Father.'

"Speak to her often of 'the high calling,' the 'inheritance' 'reserved in heaven,' the 'crown of life' prepared for the children of God. We have had a very happy and much honoured life on earth together, but that is nothing to 'the pleasures at God's right hand for evermore,' which soon we shall enjoy together without fear of another parting."

"I do, I will, dearest uncle," said Myra, gazing with deep and reverent love on the dear face which already seemed to reflect the light of the heavenly world. "We will remember that you are but going into another apartment of our Father's house, closed to us only for a little while."

"That is true, dear girl.

"'Heaven is My throne, and earth is My footstool—'

"And you know 'the throne' and 'the footstool' are both in 'the house.' Those who are living for Jesus, and those sleeping in Him, are not so far apart after all. But of all the cheering thoughts and happy experiences of the soul that reposes its all on Him, nothing, nothing is to be compared with the peace of assured pardon and acceptance through His precious blood. Oh Myra, it is becoming unwelcome, unfashionable, rare, to speak of the true ground of a sinner's salvation. The perfect work of Christ is ignored by His enemies, and too often kept out of sight by His friends.

"Oh, beware, and warn others to beware, of this ungrateful neglect of what is—

"'. . . the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.'

"Why shade it with words that may mean something else? When men speak of the gospel, glad tidings, good news, let not the angelic message be mutilated—

"'Unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.'

"And when man has attained the condition, through that Saviour, which is above angels, and he has a right to sing as they cannot, the dear and chosen theme, of which tongue can never tire, will be,—

"'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father, be glory and dominion for ever and ever."

"There is a growing danger of that terrible condemnation which the Lord Jesus foresaw when He said,—

"'Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me and of My words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him also shall the Son of Man be ashamed when He cometh in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.'

"What a wonderful possibility what a triumph for Satan with worms of the earth!

"'Ashamed of Jesus! can it be,   A mortal man ashamed of Thee?'

"Yes, it is cruelly possible. God save us from such infamous cowardice! Many a professing Christian would not object to own Jesus before an ignorant heathen, who shrinks from showing his colours before the polite worldling or the sneering sceptic."

No visitor to the dwelling would have supposed that death was hovering over it, and known to be so by its inmates—the departing one so calm, so satisfied, so rejoicing!—the watching ones so self-controlled, so Heaven-sustained! And all thus "more than conquerors through Him who loved them."

What is it to be more than conqueror? Many a conqueror has fallen in combat and died on the battlefield, and his country has been able only to weave chaplets for his tomb; but the conqueror through Christ, the Captain of his salvation, shall not only vanquish but triumph! He shall be called from the field of strife to the presence of his King, and, exchanging the sword for the palm, and the cross for the crown, he shall share the glories of a triumph at which angels must wonder, and all creation will rejoice. One with Jesus now by faith, one with Jesus ever in the fulfilment of the covenant of eternal love and grace. Is not this to be more than conqueror?

Sometimes it pleases the Lord God to spare His children all sad leave-taking, and to permit the spirit to take flight at a moment unwatched by mortal eye, and it seems like a translation. So it was now. The cage-door was open by insidious disease, and one sunny afternoon, seated in his easy-chair by the window, with the soft breath of the summer air playing over his placid face, the summons came, the messengers of the Most High softly bore away the spirit, leaving to death and the grave only the toil-worn robe in which its earthly work had been done, its earthly burden borne, to be "sown" in "dishonour" and "weakness" now, to be "raised" in "glory" and "power," when shall "be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory."

The invalid had desired to be left alone while Mrs. Somers walked out a while with her children and niece, and when they returned it was Myra's eye that caught the first impression of the change that had come. Perfect peace, "the rapture of repose," was on every feature, and the yet warm hand rested on the large open Bible, at the fourth chapter of the First Epistle to the Thessalonians, as if, though dead, he would yet speak a last loving reminder to the dear ones left behind,—

"Sorrow not, as others which have no hope; for if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him . . . Wherefore, comfort one another with these words."

And so they did, blessing God for the tender love that provides so sweetly for the need of all His children, both living and dying. What is there in all man's devisings that can thus confidently look beyond the grave, and see that which makes death bearable and sorrow sanctifying? There is nothing—nothing. It is His prerogative alone, who, out of His infinite wisdom and exhaustless love, gave to lost sinners the perfect and powerful religion of Jesus.

———————

CHAPTER XVIII.

NEWS FROM AFAR—HARRY'S ADVENTURES.

MYRA having prevailed on her aunt and cousins to take up their abode with her for a time, they all returned to the cottage, where the sisters devoted themselves, by every tender and sympathising attention, to soothe the sorrow of the mourners.

Mrs. Somers meekly and submissively bore her loss as the wise appointment of One who loved her even more than her husband could love, and exerted herself in the remaining duties of life with unaltered firmness and resolution. Her eldest son was still abroad, another was completing his education, a daughter was soon to leave her for a new home with one to whom she was willing to entrust her, and a younger one found in Elsie a most affectionate companion and fellow-student at home.

Thus they were reposing calmly after their sorrowful change, when news arrived which stirred up fresh and lively anxieties.

Harry Sherwood was a tolerable correspondent for a young man abroad amidst novelty and change, and his letters were always received with delight. But now came one which threw all the home party into consternation, and sent them with an interest not lately felt to the public organs of information, which were soon full of the frightful tidings.

Harry's last news of himself had been that, in consequence of some delay in the business in which he was engaged, he was at liberty to employ a portion of time as he pleased, and that he was about to start on a journey to a distant part of the country, where he hoped to find their friend Mr. Penwald, who was acting as a missionary, and assisting some laborious brother in his huge district and overwhelming work. He added that he would be accompanied by a servant and a guide, and that if he were unable to send a letter by the next mail, they were to feel no apprehension or uneasiness about his safety.

By the second mail afterwards came the startling letter, written in evident haste and excitement.

"MY DEAREST SISTERS,—Feel no alarm for me. Thanks to God's mercy, I am safe; but news will reach England, perhaps ere you receive this, which will nearly drive the nation mad. The native troops are in open mutiny almost everywhere in the Punjaub; our brave countrymen are at their mercy, if they know such a word, and cruel murders are being perpetrated every day, which thrill every European heart with fear and horror. The risk is terrible that we, God's witnesses in the land, should forget our Christianity and turn lawful self-defence into fierce revenge. Pray that we may 'resist the devil,' who is sorely tempting us. Twice has Ralph Penwald turned my aim, and sent a bullet into the air which was intended for skulking wretches who had been taking their fill of English blood.

"'Harry,' said he sternly, '"Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, saith the Lord." Retribution will come, but we are not bidden to work it out. Let us rather snatch every opportunity to sow the seed of that kingdom whose laws of love and grace shall render such a state of things impossible for the future.'

"Noble, brave Penwald! Soldier of the cross, and worthy of his Captain is he! And there are many like him here. We are together for the present, and safe. No time for more now. The letters are going by a careful hand to secure transmission, for telegraph wires are cut and mailbags rifled, and communication is difficult; but troops, British troops, are coming, and then all will soon be right again."

Alas, how many a tale of horror had to be told before this sanguine hope could be realised!

A weary month or more must pass before any further news could reach the cottage, and there, as well as in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of British homes, daily went up to God the supplications of His people for help and mercy for India, and deliverance for the besieged and the wanderers.

At last more letters came, and after the first sense of thankfulness that the beloved writer was still safe, they could be read and pondered with absorbing interest. Some extracts will suffice:—

"I did not tell you how I found Mr. Penwald. He was gone to visit a military station at M—, and the people among whom he had been working had become extremely anxious about him. They said he was safer with them, and they wished him to return. Would I go and seek him, and bring him back, for danger was rising around all the 'feringhi.'

"Taking directions for resuming the journey, and accompanied by my two companions, I set out for M—, where we arrived in safety, and where hasty preparations were making for any sudden alarm, bad news having reached the town, and doubts of the native soldiery having been entertained by some of their officers.

"As I was dismissing my guide, he advanced rather near, and said gravely, in a low voice, 'Let the sahib leave here to-night, he is not safe; so his blood shall not be on my head.'

"'How do you know?' I whispered, stopping him as he was retreating. 'What is there to fear?'

"'Look in every Sepoy face,' he said; 'see there death to every feringhi on Indian ground, and to me also for warning you'; and, darting away, I saw him no more.

"I found Mr. Penwald at the house of a missionary, and though our meeting was mutually pleasant, and he realised my highest expectations, yet some of the circumstances of it were by no means satisfactory. I told him the parting words of my guide, and after a short consultation with his friends, we went together to the officers' quarters.

"The colonel would not believe in the disaffection of his men, insisting that the danger must be from without, and he would trust to their fidelity to protect the station. He said he should call them together, appeal to their honour, and expect them to do their duty.

"Returning to the residence of our host, we met my servant and a man in attendance on some department at the barracks, but, if a soldier, he was not in uniform. As we passed, he said quietly, without looking at us, 'Fly, all of you. Trust no one, but go. It is not missionary, but European blood they thirst for. The signal is given when the colonel speaks.'

"As we all understood the language sufficiently to appreciate this speech, imagine our dismay. What to do it was difficult to tell.

"'You must depart at once, Harry,' said Mr. Penwald; 'and may we soon meet again in a happier hour.'

"'And you?' I said inquiringly.

"'I cannot leave my friends in their danger,' he said decisively.

"'Then I stay also. I am not going to leave you in danger. But if everybody goes with us, all right; if not—'

"'But, Harry, your sisters, Miss Sherwood.'

"'My sisters, Myra at the head of them, would be ashamed of me if I forsook a friend in his hour of need. That is settled, so consider what is to be done.'

"Our friends were helpless, so far as immediate flight was the question. There were sick ones who could not be moved in a hurry, and who ought not to be alarmed while it was possible to avoid it.

"Then Penwald turned round upon the gathering group who followed us, some European, some native Christians:

"'Friends and brothers,' said he, 'let us not forget our best Protector. While others are using means, as is their duty, for the safety of the station, let us strengthen their hands by appealing to Him who has all at His disposal, for "Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain." Come, all who can pray and trust.'

"We went in at once, and all who could crush in followed us. Penwald read the 121st Psalm in Hindustani and in English, and then we all knelt down. But oh, what a prayer was that! How we realised at once the very presence of the Most High God! We asked if it might be His will that we and the whole inhabitants of the station might be preserved from all danger of a violent death, and kept from the fear of evil, and that if such were not His will, He would open His arms of welcome and receive us all at home in joy and peace. We prayed for the officers in command, and the poor misguided men; and then, magnifying the mighty love of the Son of God, through whom we may ask what we will, a spirit of self-devotion and heroism seemed to inspire the praying band, the audible 'Amen' was caught up from without, and we might have been a company of returning victors, instead of a little flock expecting to be led to slaughter.

"Then we went as near to the parade-ground as we might venture, and waited in solemn anxiety the result of the colonel's appeal. The men looked sullen and gloomy while he spoke, and we afterwards learned that a leader in the mutiny of the regiment was to shoot him down as the signal for the work of butchery to begin.

"'Now, my men,' said the colonel in conclusion, 'all who are true to the Queen they have sworn to serve, march to your quarters; all who wish to renounce her authority, lay down your arms.'

"It was a solemn moment. The colonel stood in the midst, a tempting target for the intended ball. Not a man moved; irresolution had seized them; they looked at each other. Suddenly a sergeant throw down his musket, and pointed to the officer. 'We will not harm you, but we will not serve you,' he said; whereupon there was a clamour of falling arms, and in a few minutes the ground was clear, and the British stood alone in the compound. We were saved for that time, and a large assembly gathered round the missionary quarter, while the 124th Psalm arose from the midst in thrilling tones of praise.

"Of course the next thing was to prepare for removal to a safer place, for we were now without any means of defence, and the probability was great that the mutineers would join a marching body of fellow-countrymen and return in strength to destroy the station.

"The next morning we all decamped; horses and carriages of all kinds were in requisition, and, protected by the officers, their faithful servants, and some of the friendly natives, we reached this fort in safety. In two days the whole of the European dwellings, barracks, school, church, were a heap of ruins, torn to pieces as it were by the malice which resented the escape of the occupants."

Another extract of later date:—

"I have not time to tell you a tenth part of what is passing here. Though judgments seem abroad in the land, wonderful are some of the escapes and deliverances to which many can bear witness. For ourselves, at one time, in consequence of the withdrawal of our best troops for points of apparently greater need, we were exposed to the risk of utter destruction. Refugees came in with news of large bodies of the enemy marching upon us with savage glee, having learned how slender were our means of defence. On many a morning we assembled in surprise that our refuge had survived the night. You may imagine, if you can, how solemn were our prayers, how fervent our thanksgivings.

"One evening our scouts rushed breathless into our quarters, saying that they had actually seen a large armed force rapidly advancing, and that nothing could now save us.

"'God's will be done,' was the calm comment of Ralph Penwald, evidently mastering the strong rush of feeling as he gazed on the despairing countenances of many around him. '"He shall deliver thee in six troubles; yea, in seven there shall no evil touch thee." Let us ask Him again.'

"Oh, if you had seen the flush of hope that once more sparkled in tearful eyes, as husbands and fathers, mothers and maidens, knelt down at once, while the missionary led their prayers! It was another moment to be remembered for ever. Then so calmly, so trustfully, they rose and went about the duties allotted to them, no one going to sleep, I suppose, all through the livelong night.

"But no sound disturbed us, no enemy came upon us. A native teacher in disguise from a neighbouring village came to tell us that the Sepoy troops halted to arrange their plan of attack, disputed, hesitated, received some information which totally changed their purpose, and were by that time many miles away on some different scheme in their diabolical plot. May we not sing, 'Oh that men would praise the Lord for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of men!'?

"Another marked deliverance is reported here, of which I must tell you. A party of rebels one night suddenly surrounded a number of undefended bungalows, and shot a lighted arrow into the thatch of one, which of course caught fire, and the alarmed inmates took refuge in the next nearest to them. The wind blew the flaming pieces over the other dwellings, and the savages outside expected the whole to be consumed, and that the terrified inhabitants must rush out upon their ready swords. But in that bungalow dwelt children of God, and they also flew to arms, but their weapon was prayer, their shield was faith; and, inviting their neighbours in, while shouts and yells rang round them, they cast themselves on the pity and protection of their God. In a few minutes the fiery fragments of thatch which had been falling around the other dwellings were seen to take a different direction—the wind had changed. Whether the rebels thought that some invisible guardianship was around these praying people, or that they were well able to defend themselves if attacked by sword and musket, cannot be told, but they presently moved off; and left the thankful families with no further damage than the one burnt bungalow which had been first fired. Surely, surely we shall never doubt our God again! Many a pen will record incidents of human heroism and deeds of daring in these terrible days, but 'who shall declare the mighty acts of the Lord, or show forth all His praise?'

"But to return to our own adventures. As soon as it was considered practicable, my leave of absence having expired, I had to return to my business duties. The country in that direction was reported quiet, and I felt no fear, though my escort was but slender. Mr. Penwald insisted on accompanying me, and propounded such weighty reasons in connection with a certain quartette of anxious hearts in England that I was fain to submit. By the way, I should tell you that this man bewitches people, and makes them do his bidding in a most extraordinary manner. He is somewhat darker in complexion than when we met him eight years ago; and, dressed again in English broadcloth, might still be taken for a civilised gentleman. There is the same intellectual brow and pleasant smile and graceful manner that won our hearts by the Elwy's banks; and very vivid seems to be his remembrance of those two happy days—happy, I mean, to us; to him, perhaps otherwise. He says Frank has kept him pretty well informed about us until the last year, and seems surprised not to have heard from him lately.

"Well, we set out, and jogged very comfortably for the first day. Then we passed through a village, where the people looked rather unfriendly, and mischief seemed brewing. All at once shots were fired, and an aged European, in the dress of an officer, was dragged across our path by a native, followed by a young girl shrieking for her father. They were evidently refugees, and were not to find protection there. We sprang to the ground, beat off the captors, scrambled both father and daughter up with us on our horses, and galloped off for our lives. Shots were fired after us, which I thought had not taken any effect; but at the first place where it seemed safe to halt, I observed for the first time that Penwald was deadly pale, and could scarcely support the slight form of the girl upon his horse.

"We dismounted, and some kind people came to offer assistance, which was gladly accepted. A bullet had lodged in Penwald's shoulder, and there was nothing for it but to hasten on to obtain proper surgical attention. The old officer and his daughter entreated permission to accompany us, and we made the best arrangements in our power. Penwald held up like a hero, as he is, and horses were procured for our friends. Another day, with occasional halts and rapid riding, brought us to our present safe quarters, near to the factory where I am at work. Penwald's wound was much inflamed, but the ball is extracted, and he is doing well. I shall be extremely glad if he is obliged to go to England for change of air, and shall bribe the doctors to order it. But he is set upon preaching the gospel to those savages, and I suppose will do it though it costs his life. However, I have had too many lessons lately to doubt that all will be well with them that love our Lord.

"But how can I ever be thankful enough to you, dearest Myra, for teaching me something of the precious religion of Jesus?"

"Dear Harry!" said Myra. "He has had a higher and better Teacher, or he could scarcely have written like this."

Subsequent accounts confirmed the hope that Mr. Penwald had recovered from his wound; but, to his young friend's great disappointment, he determined to return to his post, and to exert himself more energetically than ever for the spiritual welfare of the misguided people.

It was ascertained, so far as the means of information could elicit facts, that not one Christian convert had joined the rebels, or aided their cause with the smallest sympathy or help; while it was thankfully proved that, even at the risk of persecution and death, many of them warned, protected, and secreted the Christians and Europeans in their hour of need.

———————

CHAPTER XIX.

SISTERS' LOVE.

WHAT was to become of Leonard when his term of imprisonment should end, was a subject of grave consideration at home.

A true friend had been found in the chaplain, whose instructions had been made useful to many a before hopeless wreck on the turbulent tide of crime, and he thought that the boy's sullen spirit was greatly subdued and softened.

He expressed an earnest wish to go abroad immediately on his liberation, and sent to his uncle a request, as the last he should ever make, that he would do whatever was in his power to facilitate that design.

On the appointed day, Mr. Haynes was waiting for him with a suit of clothes to replace the prison dress, and drove away to the railway station.

"Am I going to a ship?" asked Leonard humbly. "Shall I see any of them before I go?"

"Yes, Leonard; you are to have time to consider what you really wish to do, and feel able to do."

"I am determined to go and try my fortune in some other country. No one would trust me or believe me here. Besides, I don't want to be a disgrace to anybody."

"That you have been as far and as completely as you could," said Mr. Haynes; "but, Leonard, we profess, and I trust possess, something that constrains us to forgive the past, and to hope for the future, unless you wilfully deprive us of the opportunity."

"I expect, of course, that you must all give me up," said Leonard.

"My boy, you have an immortal soul to be saved, and a life, perhaps of many years, to live, during which its fate must be decided. Can it be a matter of indifference to us how that life is to be spent, whether in hasting to destruction, or as a servant of Christ pressing forward to His kingdom?"

"If anybody cares what becomes of me, I will do whatever they think best, only I must get away as soon as possible," said Leonard, with an effort to control his evidently touched feelings.

"Uncle," he suddenly asked, after a while, "where are we going?"

"Home," said Mr. Haynes.

"Home!—To my sisters?—To Myra?" exclaimed Leonard. "Oh no, don't take me there; I cannot bear it."

"It is Myra's wish. She would have come for you, but I gladly spared her the journey."

The boy bent his head, and tears strayed down his flushed face.

Mr. Haynes took no notice.

And when he had recovered a little, Leonard muttered,—

"I behaved shamefully to Myra; she would have led me on to good, and saved me from mischief, but I defied and disobeyed her. Margaret deserves all the shame and vexation she has suffered, for she helped me to go wrong, and taught me to dislike Myra."

"Leonard, you do not know what Margaret has suffered, but she is penitent and pardoned, and is as worthy of your love as Myra herself. Your reproaches nearly cost her life and reason, and you must be careful how you try to transfer your own responsibility to her. You knew right from wrong as well as she did, and the same love and prayer and instruction were over you both."

It was no gala day at the cottage, for anxiety about the tone of mind and the future of the culprit occupied every heart. But a quiet and affectionate reception awaited him, and he received Myra's kiss of welcome with quivering lip and tearful eyes.

At first, he shrank from much intercourse with any of the home party, but it soon became impossible to resist the winning kindness that surrounded him, and Margaret's tenderness utterly astonished him. His two years' growth into a tall, strong youth was not more marked to her than were her altered demeanour and conversation to him. She courted his attention, walked with him, read with him, and showed such anxious longing for his confidence and affection that he soon yielded himself to her influence, and sought her advice and opinion.

Myra saw all this with joy and thankfulness, but as yet she was not fully aware of Margaret's motive.

"When do you think I shall go, Margaret?" he one day asked. "I cannot stay here in idleness much longer."

"It is not idleness to rub up your old studies," said Margaret; "but we are waiting for a letter from Frank Somers. You know he went to New Zealand some time ago, and I have kept up a correspondence with him on your behalf. He has settled on some occupation for you there, and his next letter will tell us all about it. You will be content to begin humbly, dear Leonard, and work your way up to trust and independence."

"Of course I must, and I shall try; but, Margaret, could Mr. Somers have sufficient confidence to recommend me to any one?"

"He is going to try you himself, Leonard; he has purchased land, and is doing something with it which his letters will explain, and you are to attend to his interests there. Oh, Leonard, you will not disappoint us all?" And as she leaned on his arm, she looked imploringly into his face.

"No," said he, meeting her look with a kiss and a flush of feeling; "it is something to be trusted once more. It is very kind of Frank, very kind of you all. You are so altered, Margaret; I never saw any one so changed in my life."

Longer lives than Leonard's could testify to the same fact.

"It is God's mercy over me, Leonard. I was stubborn, proud, self-willed, and He was obliged to strike a fearful blow to save me from myself."

"You are like Myra now," said Leonard; "I suppose you have learned her religion. I wish there may be some one like her in New Zealand to remind me of it. You see, I cannot help knowing that I have been too easily led, and am afraid it might be so again. If I had been true and firm, those people—ah! but it is of no use to blame anybody but myself; it was all my own fault."

Margaret listened eagerly to every word.

"Then you don't want to escape from us, Leonard? You would like home influence still around you?"

"Of course I should, Margaret; but I must do my best without it. You see, a fellow among strangers, without any one to care for him at home, may get into many a temptation, and I don't know yet how I may stand it. Perhaps Mr. Somers may know of some family that would have me; we shall see."

"Oh that you may learn to depend on God, and be strong in His strength, dear brother, and able to say, 'My Father, Thou art the guide of my youth'! Leonard, answer me now truthfully, would you like me, poor Margaret, to go with you?"

"You!" exclaimed Leonard, in amazement. "Yes, of all things I should; but, nonsense! it cannot be. What made you put such a thought into my head?"

"Because, if you like it, I shall go," said Margaret quietly. "We shall make a home for each other." And, withdrawing from him, she ran away to the house, leaving the youth dumb with surprise, and yet scarcely comprehending that the support he needed was to be so generously supplied.

"Who would have thought it possible to love Margaret as I love her now?" pondered he. "How good and kind she is! No; I will not disappoint them. At least I will be honest, and do my best to please them."

And, though lacking the best and highest motive, it was a merciful sign, and to be right thankfully hailed, that the forbearing kindness of friend; and the love of anxious sisters, should so take the helm, and be allowed to steer in the right direction. The more he meditated on the future just opening with promise and hope before him, the stronger became his desire to retrieve his character.

"And I will never rest," he whispered to himself, "until I have repaid all—all—Harry's and all."

And the resolution was a relief, and a step towards the restoration of self-respect.

Happy was it for the boy that the religion of true charity pervaded the lives and actions of his friends.

Margaret went in and sought Myra, with a countenance radiant with joy.

"Myra, dear sister, my prayer is granted; my brother loves and trusts me," she eagerly began.

"I have seen it, dear Margaret, and rejoiced in it with you."

"But I have won his confidence with a great and special object, sister; and now I throw myself upon you for its attainment. Myra, I must go with Leonard, to be his friend and companion, and to make a home for him in the world. I have taken pains to learn everything I could, and I am able to teach those who may be glad of an English governess, so I shall not be a burden to him. And I have begged Aunt Haynes to try and get me a passage out as companion to some lady or children who may need one. You consent, dear Myra? You will not oppose me?"

Myra drew the pleader to her arms, and fondly kissed the eager face.

"No, dearest; I too truly appreciate your design to oppose it for a moment. It will be a sore trial to us to part with you, and so break up our happy sisterhood, but it is right, and God will bless you. I only ask that you let us arrange everything for you. Mr. Haynes and I have judged it best to provide for Leonard's passage, rather than risk intimacy with undesirable companions, and I shall not permit you either 'to work your passage out.' You may remember once asking me to pay some money for Leonard. It shall now be yours, dear Margaret; you will accept it as your sister's parting gift, and you will have time to decide on your future work when you reach the scene of action."

There was nothing but thanks to be spoken, for when Myra said a thing, she meant it, and when she intended a thing, she did it. She was not surprised at, nor wholly unprepared for, Margaret's decision, and had already provided in a measure for the necessary expenses of an emigration.

Myra had not been tried by poverty, and she had endeavoured to prevent any of her brothers and sisters from ever feeling galled by dependence upon her, but she could appreciate any desire they manifested for self-reliant effort, and all she wished now was to secure for them the most suitable and promising means of making that effort. Margaret's talents were of no common class, and she had diligently cultivated them; her piety was genuine and practical, and she was evidently fitted for some post of active usefulness.

The anticipated letter from Frank Somers supplied all the information required, and preparations were hurried forward in earnest.

Every one was resolved to "keep up" and sustain each other; the cheerful view of things was dwelt on, and when all the party proceeded to the place of embarkation to see the ship, and do what could be done for the comfort of the young emigrants, none would have guessed at the trials through which they had passed, nor the extent of the present self-denials.

"Our last word, dearest Florence," said Margaret, as she laid her head upon her sister's neck and clasped her close; "I have kept it until last, that you may not refuse me. I have prayed to be a blessing for Christ's dear sake to you all, and I feel that I shall be His instrument to watch over Leonard and keep him right. You said his future was so uncertain that you dreaded some further sin and disgrace, and dared not involve another in the fearful risk. Will you now put away that fear, Florence, and trust God for us and for yourself? Frank is coming home to attend to his mother's affairs and his own; he is needed, and I have encouraged him to come, and as soon as he can. Promise me that you will put a happy end to his wanderings, and remove the last load from my heart; promise me this, my darling Florence, and I shall go away so happy."

"If Frank still wishes it, dear Margaret," whispered Florence, beginning to take a still wider view of her sister's conduct, and more highly than ever appreciating her noble self-surrender for the safety and happiness of others.

*******

One sunny day, when the sky was clear and the ocean calm (such a day as the sad records of storm and wreck cause to be too much overlooked, as if the grand sea ware all and always plotting terror and death), two stately vessels came in sight of each other on the wide waters. Glasses were in general requisition, and on the deck of the homeward-bound stood a young man, watching with special interest the approaching stranger.

"Who and what is she, captain?"

"An ocean monster," said the captain; "none other than the G— B—, of Liverpool, passengers bound for Melbourne and Nelson. I thought we should fall in with her somewhere; she is too huge a tub to be missed."

"Captain, you will let me have a boat? I have reason to think I have friends on board of her."

The captain consented, and was not reluctant to pay the beautiful "monster" a visit himself.

Soon both ships saluted and lay to. A boat skimmed the space between, and Frank Somers's two hands were seized by Margaret and Leonard, as he sprang on to the spacious deck.

A few brief minutes—oh, for words that would convey volumes! But there was no time to select them.

"All is ready and straightforward for you, Leonard," said Frank, looking earnestly at the tall, strong youth, from whose countenance clouds had been gradually clearing, until it strongly resembled that of the fair girl beside him. "I have been writing a whole bookful of directions and advice ever since we sailed; here it is. And, Margaret, you are not going to a cannibal island; some good kind people are ready to welcome you, and look forward with pleasure to your arrival."

"Oh, Frank, how much you have done for us! How can we ever be grateful enough?" said Margaret.

"Margaret," said Frank softly, "you told me you would leave behind you the only reward I covet. I have worked selfishly, I own; how is it to be?"

"Just all you wish, dear, kind brother," said Margaret, with a joyous smile. "Elsie will represent me, and I shall be with you in spirit, blessing God for your happiness."

Frank's beaming face and grateful words satisfied Margaret for her sister, and she resumed:

"And Myra, our loved, devoted Myra, oh, be very careful of her, dear Frank. She can never be prized too much, and she never thinks of herself. Harry is still abroad, and you will be a brother to her until he comes home?"

Too soon the short interview, so unexpected, so cheering and satisfactory, must end. So they shook hands again and again.

The boat struck off; cheers, loud and long, mingled from both decks, hats and handkerchiefs waved; again the engines thumped and steamed away, and eyes watched until each to the other was a speck on the sea, bearing hopes, lives, fortunes, to their respective destinations.

And then, to the young emigrants, the last link with Old England seemed broken.

———————

CHAPTER XX.

THE LAST OF THE STORY.

"WE regret to announce the return, in consequence of ill health, of the Rev. Ralph Penwald, whose labours among the heathen of India have been so highly appreciated during a ministry of several years. It is feared that only a long or permanent sojourn in his native land will preserve his valuable life."

So ran an item of missionary intelligence, exciting different feelings in the hearts of different readers. Mr. Harry Sherwood's cognisance of the fact proved him, to his great satisfaction, a true prophet in the matter of his friend's health, which he had protested was not sufficiently restored for his work when he left the hospital, and made his long journey under a burning sun back to the old scene of interest. Harry cared little for the sickness, and was inclined to rejoice over anything that constrained a return to England, whither he hoped to follow in a few more months.

"Come and stay with me," wrote the friend to whom the country charge once offered to Ralph had been presented, "and let me see if there is not more work in you yet. A breeze on our pretty hillside will do you good, and when you are able to be of any use, I want help. Your 'crown of rejoicing' is not full-gemmed yet, and British pearls must mix with Indian diamonds."

The friendly invitation was accepted as soon as the invalid rallied from the effects of his voyage, which had tried him much. And Ralph was introduced to a scene which he had once pictured to himself as the result of his own presence there, and which his friend had been permitted to realise instead. And this pastor was one after his Lord's "own heart," feeding the flock, caring for them as a father for his children, and living among them in their homes and cares, their joys and sorrows, the very gospel he preached to them in the pulpit. A faithful teacher of truth in his ministry, and a living epistle for Christ in his life, could not fail to be blessed and a blessing. And so it was here.

In an atmosphere so congenial, Ralph's energies revived; and the brightness of his friend's spirit, with the peaceful pleasures of his home, could not fail to soothe and cheer the mind under the endurance of much personal suffering. Many were the happy hours of communion over the inspired pages that had made them both wise unto salvation and fellow-workers for the Lord they loved.

One of the fair features of the religion of Jesus especially claimed Ralph's cordial sympathy, for he knew the value of it abroad, and could see no valid reason for ignoring it at home. By precept and example, Mr. W— cultivated and illustrated the large-hearted, apostolic charity that "vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up," "thinketh no evil," "rejoiceth in the truth," from whatever quarter it comes; and, extending the right hand of Christian fellowship to all who "love our Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity," he welcomed to heart and board all and any who were anxious and qualified by providential circumstances, or endowed by the Head of the Church with gifts for special ministries, and gratefully hailed all scriptural instrumentalities that came in his way. Only let there be evidence that the Holy Spirit of God had taught the brother who came in the name of Jesus, and, so far as lay in his power, that brother found himself within the social circle of acknowledged relationship.

The differences that divide Christian men into various communions he knew to be "of the earth," and will "perish with the earth," having nothing to do with the foundation of the faith, nor with its high aim and end, the glory of God and the salvation of sinners; and that whatever scaffolding men choose to erect between foundation and top-stone has nothing to do with the spiritual life and position of the living stones that compose the temple. "The communion of saints" in the "one body" by union with the Divine Head was more dear and real to him than any visible uniformity or outward profession on earth. In the "household of faith" "charity" should bear "all things"; while from superstitious tamperings with, and pervertings of, the gospel of Christ, or infidel subtractions from its divine fulness and completeness, "faith" will bear "nothing."

In consequence of Mr. W—'s views on this point, which some called "liberal" and some "heretical," and some even "narrow,"—opinions varying, as they always do, from the point of view in which a subject is regarded, his influence was willingly felt and acknowledged among all orthodox parties, and no rivalries, no jealousies, and very little political strife ever disturbed his neighbourhood, and never "separated chief friends."

"If you feel able," he one day said to Ralph, "I want you to call with me on an old gentleman who resides some distance away, and who always has in reserve some knotty point or favourite theory to discuss. He has heard that I have with me a live missionary from India, and wishes to see you. Then I shall drive you a little farther for a beautiful view, which you shall enjoy by yourself while I pay another visit or two, and so we will make a long day of it. My wife promises us a basket of good things, that you may not be starved while left to my mercy, and she also undertakes to represent me at home."

Ralph thought he was able, and they went.

The old gentleman was gratified at the visit, and questioned Ralph minutely upon the mission work in India, and especially that in which he had been personally engaged, and Mr. W— knew perfectly well that a generous contribution would result to the good cause.

"Well, now," said their host, turning to his pastor, "do you mean to tell me that a man like your friend is to have only 'a penny' for his day's work, while I shall get a penny too for my pitiful hour?"

"Let him speak for himself," said Mr. W—. "I daresay he has estimated the reward as well as 'counted the cost' of the service he undertook."

"Very well, sir. Then, Mr. Penwald, I shall trouble you to show me how it can be just or right to treat all alike hereafter who have been so very unlike down here. I am sure there is some right way to put it, but until I got at it, I confess myself obliged to cast in my lot with the grumbler, so far as his complaint goes."

"Are you sure that the parable of which you are thinking has any such reference?" said Penwald. "In its first connection it may be a special lesson addressed to the Jews, who had been 'first,' but, in consequence of their rejection of the Messiah, must be 'last,' after the Gentile dispensation should have accomplished its special purpose of 'gathering out' from all nations 'a people for His name.' The Jews had agreed to serve the Lord in the morning of His dealings with the world; had they any right to murmur because He chose, in the same sovereign grace which had favoured them, to call in others to the honour they had but lightly esteemed?"

"No, surely not. I like the thought, but you say only 'it may be so.' What if it be not?"

"I say that you have just the same right that I have to use your own judgment, and consider what view of the parable is most in harmony with the rest of God's holy word."

"Well, but when I read the parables of the talents and the pounds, and the addresses to the seven churches, I find that there is a difference. If you dislike any personal reference, take for example the cases of the dying thief and of the Apostle Paul. Were ever two lives more unlike each other?"

"Take the parable of the vineyard to represent salvation, eternal life, and that of the talents to represent the reward of service, and I think your difficulty will end. The thief and Paul were both lost sinners; as regards salvation they were equal; both were saved by the grace of God, by faith in the precious blood of Christ, and had nothing of their own to offer, but everything of their own, whether sinful self or righteous self, to put away. God gave to them both eternal life for Christ's sake, but there the parallel ends.

"One passed away without opportunity to do a single thing for his Saviour, the other was a chosen vessel to bear that Saviour's name over the known world, and to 'suffer great things' for His sake. Only one of them could say, 'I have fought a good fight . . . I have kept the faith.' To only one of them can it be said, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.' Both will join to sing, 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood;' but both cannot wear the martyr's crown, and only one of them will be able to rejoice in the presence of the Lord at His coming over the 'glory and joy' of souls brought from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God, by the honoured means of his faithful testimony."

"I like that," said the old gentleman; "it puts one's life and work into the right place."

"The children of God need not ignore the hope of reward for devoted service; nay, even 'a cup of cold water' given for His sake shall not be forgotten in the reckoning day; but they must guard with jealous care against the possibility of mistaking motives. In the work of salvation, Christ stands, not pre-eminent, but 'alone'—our altar, sacrifice, and great High Priest; but in glorifying God, He is 'the Firstborn of many brethren,' and shares His honours with every faithful servant."

"It seems to me," said the old gentleman, "that the religion of the Bible is more to teach man how to live than how to die. The poor thief just believed in time to die safe, all for himself, and, so far as he was personally concerned, was nothing for his Saviour but a trophy snatched out of the devil's malice. 'He shall die with thieves,' said his enemy. 'But I shall save a thief,' said the dying Saviour. Now death in safety is not the sole purpose of salvation."

"Certainly not. Very little is said about death in the New Testament, but a great deal about life.

"'He died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him who died for them and rose again.'

"'For ye are bought with a price, therefore glorify God in your body and your spirit, which are God's.'

"'Be ye stedfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.'

"Are you labouring for salvation? No; salvation is a free gift, but for the glory of Him who has saved us, and the reward so dear to loving hearts, the joy of His approving smile."

"Yes; that's the right sort, I believe, sir. I shall not forget your view of the vineyard."

The good old man had been brought late into the light, but his "pitiful hour" had a fund of usefulness and blessing in it.

Mr. W— drove his friend to the promised spot, where invalids often resorted for the benefit of a sea breeze, and where some who were not invalids often rambled to enjoy the superb beauty of the view.

Ralph had thrown himself along a bench, and, shading his brow with his hand, resigned himself to a half-hour of exquisite pleasure in making acquaintance with every feature in the scene. He had scarcely noticed the repeated saunter past him of a lady and a gentleman to whom he had become an object of interest; but, suddenly altering his position, he encountered the inquiring gaze of his friend Frank Somers.

"My dear old fellow!" exclaimed Frank. "I thought I was not mistaken. What a pleasant surprise is this!"

To Penwald it was not less pleasant; and in the eager greeting the young lady stood smilingly by, almost unnoticed for the moment.

"What a budget we shall each have to empty, Ralph!" said Frank. "But I must begin at the end, and introduce my last item in the name of my wife, your old friend Florence Sherwood."

Ralph stood perfectly excused for not recognising the child of former years in the graceful woman before him, but they had too many themes of interest in common to meet as strangers; and a long and happy day together afforded opportunity for retracing the past and making sundry plans for the future.

"You will find letters and presents from Harry waiting for you at home," said Ralph. "I was unable to be the bearer of them myself, and forwarded them to Miss Sherwood's address."

"My mother and Myra and Elsie are to meet us at our new home in a week," said Frank; "you must promise to join us there."

Florence marked the flush of pleasure that overspread the face of their friend, recalling the bright visitor of former well-remembered days, but it faded again as he replied,—

"I am but a poor invalid yet, Frank, and am not fit to join such a happy party. I do not know yet whether I am to hope for recovery, or to await a gentle and sure decline."

"We are not going to await any such thing," said Frank, "and you are not to give yourself up. Expect and hope to get well, and you will do so."

"My Father's will be done," said Ralph, with an expression of perfect peace on his worn countenance.

"Let us try if it is not His will to restore you, dear old friend! You will come and see us. Bring a servant who knows how to attend to you, and trust to English hearts and cooks for the rest."

Penwald laughed at the prescription. "It has not come to that yet, thank you," said he. "I can minister to all my own wants, and though the hearts will be fully appreciated, the cooks will not. I am no epicure, notwithstanding India."

"So much the better every way. You give encouraging signs in a yellow gentleman from the East," said Frank gaily. "So you come."

"If you wish it, and if I can," said Ralph.

"We do wish it very much, Mr. Penwald," said Florence. "Did not Harry wish it too?"

"Yes; Harry is only too kind to me. Perhaps, excepting yourself, there is only one person in the world for whom he cherishes more earnest and warm affection. I need not tell you that he is all but an idolater, Mr. Somers."

"Of our dear Myra," said Florence, smiling. "I am disposed to justify him, Mr. Penwald. She has been our guardian angel, you know, and has given up everything she might have had, for us and our interests."

"And no one has been able to beguile her from you?" said Ralph.

"No one," said Florence, "though the effort has been made."

Ralph felt irresistibly impelled to sea Myra again, and it was remarkable what a tonic her society proved. Those who admired Myra Sherwood as a girl could not fail to admire her more as a woman. Her simple, unassuming manner remained unchanged, and a matured dignity subtracted nothing from her early grace. Former interest could not but increase on both sides in renewed intercourse, and Mr. Penwald forgot that he had apprehended dying of gentle decline; the lawful desire for prolonged life and usefulness, with a companion capable of adding to it the highest and sweetest domestic happiness, had due effect in rapid and complete restoration.

Harry having made the "overland route," burst in upon the home party in time to bestow with his own hand his darling sister upon the friend even he deemed almost worthy of her.

For her brothers and sisters, Myra's chief work was done; the pet and fairy Elsie was equally at home with her or Florence. All went happily with the young emigrants, and it remained for her, in another sphere and another range of duty, still to honour and adorn the religion of Jesus. She had experienced the blessedness of giving, and now others were to enjoy it too, and she was to take her turn as the recipient of new happiness and blessing.

Wherever the Master called, His servants would go, and if the missionary should return to India, he would not go alone.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

Myra Sherwood's Cross

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

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