*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79169 ***

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



[Illustration: RHODA TOOK HIM IN HER ARMS IN A MOTHERLY FASHION.]



                           ESTHER'S TRIUMPH


                                  BY

                              EMMA LESLIE

                               Author of

              "Maggie's Message," "Dearer than Life," etc.


                                LONDON
                      THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
             4 Bouverie Street & 65 St. Paul's Churchyard



                            [Illustration]



                               CONTENTS.

                            [Illustration]

CHAPTER

    I. ESTHER'S HOME

   II. RHODA MORRIS

  III. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

   IV. BROTHER AND SISTER

    V. AT THE CIRCUS

   VI. ALONE IN THE WORLD

  VII. IN THE WORKHOUSE

 VIII. CONCLUSION



                           ESTHER'S TRIUMPH

                            [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

ESTHER'S HOME.

"MARY, it's vulgar, and it's no better than taking God's name in vain,
to say 'Goodness gracious,' and, 'Oh, my goodness,' as Rhoda Morris
does every time she speaks."

And the two friends hung behind, and let the vulgar girl pass on. She
was poorly dressed, with a washed-out plaid frock, and a jacket very
much the worse for wear, while Esther Wright and her friend were well
and warmly clad, with gloves and mittens to keep out the searching
stings of the rough east wind.

"I wonder she comes to school," said Mary Coppinger, "for I know they
are very poor."

"I wish she wouldn't," said Esther, "or that she wasn't in our class.
Teacher was explaining only yesterday about taking God's name in vain,
and yet, the moment Rhoda Morris got outside the door, she exclaimed,
'Oh, lor a mussy,' about something or other."

Esther Wright was the "show girl" of the class, at school. At
examinations she was always the first ready with an answer. If the
teacher was questioning, her hand always went up more frequently than
anybody else's. But nobody ever expected much from Rhoda Morris at
school, any more than they did from Esther, at home.

Rhoda's vulgarity and irreverence seemed to trouble Esther a good deal
just now, for when she got home she said to her mother,—

"That Rhoda Morris gets worse and worse every day, mother, I do
believe."

"Never mind; you won't be called upon to answer for Rhoda's faults.
Make haste and get your things off; I want you to take baby while I get
the dinner ready."

Esther pouted. "Tiresome little thing! Why can't she keep asleep? I do
so hate nursing babies."

Without noticing this speech, her mother said, "You had better slip off
your school frock, Esther, at once; for as it is half-holiday, I have
promised to go and see poor Mrs. Grant, who is very ill."

"And leave me to mind the children!" exclaimed Esther.

"Now, Esther, you can surely do that for once. Baby gets so heavy now,
and Mrs. Grant may be glad for me to do some little things for her,
which I could not do if I had baby, for you know how cross he is in a
strange place."

"I know my half-holidays are all made miserable through that baby,"
said Esther, dropping into a chair, and looking ready to cry.

Her mother turned away. "It's always the same," she said in a tone of
vexation; "no matter what you are asked to do, there is always some
objection raised."

"Well! I do think you might me let have my half-holidays to myself. I
am at school all day, and—"

"There, go and get your things off; I'd rather take the baby a dozen
times than have all this grumbling."

Esther's face cleared in a moment, and she ran upstairs with her hat
and jacket. She did not take off her school frock, but stood a long
time at the glass, brushing her hair, and arranging her apron bib,
while she sang "Stand up, stand up for Jesus."

She went downstairs slowly, still singing it, and finding her mother
had managed to prop baby up in the bassinet, and was cooking the dinner
without her help, she went into the parlour and opened the piano.

When dinner was ready, she went in and took her seat, but never
attempted to lift one of the little ones to theirs. And they dragged
their chairs across the room, and clambered into them as they could.

"Now, Esther, you 'must cut Bobbie's dinner, and see that Lilla does
not put too much in her mouth at once," said her mother sharply.

"Greedy little thing I what does she want to stuff herself like a pig
for? She's old enough to know better."

"Because she's your sister, and you set her the example," retorted her
brother Tom.

Esther looked aggrieved. "Mother, do you hear what Tom says? I'm sure
I'm not greedy," she said indignantly.

"No, only selfish. Knowing better and doing worse," said Tom, "singing
hymns like a saint, and leaving your mother to do all the work."

"Now, Tom, be quiet," said Mrs. Wright.

Tom went on with his dinner, and took no further notice of his sister.
Presently, he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, mother, our foreman told me to
ask if you or father knew anything about the Morrises; they live up
this way, somewhere."

"I know Rhoda Morris," said Esther quickly; "she's a vulgar, irreverent
girl, always taking God's name in vain."

"Whew! A girl too," exclaimed Tom. "The young un won't suit us then,
for Mr. Mortimer is very particular, and the errand boy would be about
the front shop sometimes, as well as in the printing office."

"I really don't know anything about the people, Tom," said his mother.

"No, but from what Esther says of the girl, I should think they were a
bad lot."

"Yes, I'm sure they are," hastily announced Esther; "and I know
governess wishes Rhoda would go somewhere else to school."

"Well, there ain't much choice of schools up here. If we lived in the
town, she probably would go to another."

Tom rose from the table at this moment, and hastily kissing his mother,
took his cap from the peg and hurried away, for he had a long walk
back to the town. He was a year or two older than Esther, and had been
recently apprenticed to learn the printing.

Mrs. Wright got up as soon as Tom had left. "I can leave you with the
little ones, Esther," she said. "When they have finished, wash their
faces and hands, and then clear the dinner things away. If I take baby
with me, you can sew the seams of Tom's shirt; you will find it all
ready in my work-basket."

Esther turned away with a pout. She hated needlework almost as much as
she did nursing.

"Can't I practise that new piece of music?" she said.

"Yes, of course you can, but that won't take you all the afternoon and
evening. You will have plenty of time to do that, and the sewing too."
And Mrs. Wright went upstairs.

Bobbie and Lilla disliked having their faces washed by Esther,
almost as much as she disliked the needlework, and very soon the
house resounded with their shrieks, until the baby grew frightened
and screamed in chorus. Mrs. Wright came running down to quell the
disturbance, looking both cross and tired.

"Oh, Esther, why can't you learn to be more gentle and patient with
them!" she exclaimed. "They never make all this fuss when I wash them."

"No, the nasty little things just do it to get me into a row," answered
Esther angrily, as the children ran to their mother for comfort, after
the violent application of soap and flannel they had just received.

It was some minutes before peace was restored, but at length Mrs.
Wright was able to go upstairs again to finish dressing, and she took
the baby with her.

"When I have got his things on, Esther, you come and fetch him while
I put my bonnet on. Don't let him cry now; take him to the window and
keep him amused until I come down."

With rather an ill grace, Esther did as her mother told her, and before
she had been at the window many minutes, her friend Mary Coppinger came
past. Seeing Esther, and the baby, dressed, in her arms, she halted.

"Coming out?" she said, putting her face close to the window, so as to
make herself heard.

Esther shook her head.

"Oh, but you must," called Mary again.

Again Esther shook her head, and her mother coming in at this moment,
putting on her gloves, she turned away from the window.

"Now, Esther, be very careful of the children and the fires. Don't let
the kitchen fire out, and be sure to keep the guard up in front of the
parlour fire, and have tea ready in time for father and Tom."

She took the big heavy baby from Esther and went out. And as soon as
she had turned the corner, Mary Coppinger came to the window again.

"Open the door, Esther; I want to speak to you," she called.

Esther went to the door at once.

"Isn't it a nuisance I can't come out?" she said.

"What's to prevent you, as you haven't got the baby?" said Mary.

"Why, there's the others—Bobbie and Lilla; I can't leave them."

"Oh, yes, you can, and you must for half an hour. Teacher's sent me up
to ask you to go down there and practise that duet with me; she don't
think we've got it quite perfect in the high notes."

Esther shook her head.

"I don't think I can leave them," she said; "and another thing, I
haven't got the street door key to let myself in again."

"Oh, that could easily be managed. Nobody scarcely comes up this quiet
street in the afternoon, and you could leave the door ajar."

The two girls walked into the sitting-room.

"I wish I could go with you," said Esther, glancing at the children,
who had just turned out a box of wooden bricks, and were busy building
a house.

"Come along, then. You've a good chance now; the children won't miss
you, and you'll be back before the house is finished," whispered Mary.

The guard was in front of the fire, the children at a safe distance
from it, and both so interested in their play that they took no notice
of their elder sister and her friend.

"There, come along, they'll never miss you," repeated Mary Coppinger.

And Esther nodded her head.

They went outside into the passage, and Esther ran upstairs for her hat
and jacket, but would not put them on until she had been in to look at
Bobbie and Lilla once more.

"There's a good boy, Bobbie; help Lilla build a house, and then, when I
come back, I'll give you some sweeties," said Esther.

The boy paid very little attention to the promise just now, so intent
was he upon his bricks.

And Esther crept out, put on her hat and jacket, and ran down the
street with Mary as fast as she could go. She did not intend to stay
many minutes, but there was to be a school concert the next week, and
she and Mary Coppinger were to sing a duet together.

There were not many opportunities for practice, and of course the
teacher did not know that Mrs. Wright had gone out and left the
children in charge of Esther, and the girls took care not to tell
her. So she kept them singing piece after piece, until Esther grew
quite anxious. But she was afraid to say a word about it, for fear her
teacher should ask some inconvenient questions.

As soon as they were released, she bade a hasty good-bye to Mary, and
flew home as fast as her feet would carry her. The street door was
wide open, instead of being ajar, as she had left it. But this did not
cause her much uneasiness. She shut it, and ran into the sitting-room,
calling, "Bobbie, Bobbie," as she went.

There lay the bricks scattered under the table and chairs, but the
children were nowhere to be seen.

"Tiresome little things! Why couldn't they stay here until I get back?"
muttered Esther. "Bobbie, Bobbie!" she called again, rushing into the
kitchen and searching every nook and corner as she called.

She looked into the scullery, and then ran upstairs, growing vaguely
alarmed, but hoping she should find them at some mischief in Tom's
room. But Tom's door was shut, and the key turned, for Master Bobbie
had been busy there more than once lately, to the great detriment of
his elder brother's belongings.

Esther ran on, to her own room and her mother's, but she saw nothing
of the children. The back door was locked; they could not get into
the garden, so they must have gone into the street, and wandered off
somewhere.

She went to the door, and looked up and down the street, feeling
miserably anxious now, for it was growing dusk, and her father would be
home soon. She knocked at the next door—the only neighbours her mother
ever spoke to—knocked two or three times, but got no answer, so that it
was clear they could not be there, if Mrs. Forbes was not at home.

Then she drew the street door close to, and ran down the street and
along the main road towards the town; for Bobbie had sometimes gone as
far as this to meet Tom.

On and on she ran, stopping people occasionally to ask if they had seen
two children answering the description of Bobbie and Lilla—a little boy
four years old, and a girl two and a half.

No one had seen them in this direction, and at last Esther turned
homewards again, hoping they had found their way back by this time.
She pushed the door open, and called "Bobbie, Bobbie," looked into the
sitting-room and kitchen, and found they were as empty as she had left
them. And so she went off again in another direction, for she suddenly
remembered that Bobbie knew his way to Mary Coppinger's, and had
perhaps gone there in search of her.

In her fright and dismay over the loss of the children, she forgot all
about the fires in the sitting-room and kitchen, and by the time Mr.
Wright and Tom got home to tea, they were quite out.


Tom was the first to arrive, and finding the door ajar, pushed it open
and walked in.

"Polly Coppinger again, for a penny," he muttered, creeping along the
passage, with the intention of giving his sister a fright.

But when he got to the sitting-room, he found it empty and cold. He
stumbled over the children's toys that lay scattered on the floor,
which proved that it had not long been vacated, and he wondered what it
could mean.

"Esther, Esther," he called, as he made his way to the kitchen, and
stood at the door in blank surprise.

The fire was out there too, and there was not the least preparation for
tea.

"Well! This is a pretty go," muttered Tom, staring round the empty room.

Just then he heard the key grate in the lock of the street door, and
turned to meet his father.

"There's nobody at home, no fire, and no tea," said Tom, complainingly.

"'Nobody at home!' Where's Esther and the children?" exclaimed Mr.
Wright, pushing past Tom and entering the sitting-room, where he nearly
fell over one of Bobbie's stray bricks. "Get a light, Tom. There must
be something amiss; the children have been playing here." And as he
spoke, he took a box of matches from his pocket and struck a light,
while Tom groped for a lamp.

The light revealed nothing but the scattered toys and the dead cinders
in the fire-place.

"She's gone out to tea, and taken the children with her; that's what it
is," said Tom.

"Who? Your mother? She's gone to Mrs. Grant's, I know, but she did not
mean to take the children, for the old lady is ill."

Tom was busy lighting the kitchen fire by this time, and as he came in
with the coals, he said,—

"I was talking about Esther, father; she's gone off somewhere and
forgotten all about our tea. It's just like her; she never thinks of
anybody but herself, and a nice row I shall get into when I go back,
for taking such a long tea-time."

"Well, sit down now, and I'll cut you some bread and butter; and we'll
soon have the kettle boiling. It is thoughtless of Esther to go off
like this, when she knew your mother was out."

"'Thoughtless'? Esther's getting the most selfish girl I ever heard
of," grumbled Tom, as he dug the knife into the loaf, and attempted to
saw off a piece of bread, while his father got out some more of the
tea-things. "It just makes me sick to hear that girl singing hymns as
she does, and yet grumbling or pouting every time mother asks her to
nurse the baby or do the least thing for her."

"There, get your tea, Tom," said his father.

It was a comfortless meal for both of them, as such meals generally are.

"How did you get in?" suddenly asked Mr. Wright, as he sat thinking
over the matter.

"Just pushed the door and walked in; and anybody else might have done
the same."

"Do you mean to say the street door was open?"

"It was only just ajar. I only had to push it, and any one else could
have done the same," said Tom, in the same injured tone.

"It's very strange that she should have gone off like that. I can't
understand it at all. Toys about, and the street door open; it hardly
looks as though she could have gone out to tea."



CHAPTER II.

RHODA MORRIS.

"OH, my gracious! What a miserable fire you have got, mother!"

The exclamation came from Rhoda Morris, as she rushed in from school,
bringing with her a draught of cold air that made her mother shiver.
She sat at needlework between the fire-place and the window, stitching
away at a fine shirt. There was no comfortable dinner being prepared
here, such as awaited her schoolfellow, Esther Wright, but this did not
damp the girl's spirits in the least.

"I'm hungry enough to eat dry bread and enjoy it, so it will be a waste
to use butter to-day, mother," said Rhoda, as she hung up her hat.
"Now, let's see to the fire."

And as she spoke, she made a dash at the poker, but her mother reached
it first.

"No, no, Rhoda, you leave the fire alone, or there won't be a bit left
in the grate, and I've no more firing to make it up again."

Rhoda looked blank. "But it's so cold, mother," she said.

"Never mind, dear, I've nearly finished the last of these shirts, and
you can take them home this afternoon, and then, as you come back, you
can order some coals—that is, if you get the money," added Mrs. Morris.

Rhoda stood staring at the handful of exhausted cinders burning in the
grate, then she suddenly exclaimed, "Mother, they're felling some of
the trees on the other side of the common. Let me go and pick up some
of the chips; you must be so cold," added the girl.

Mrs. Morris had not much hope of the chips, but she agreed to let Rhoda
take a bag and go to see what she could find.

"Don't touch them, Rhoda, if the men have gone to their dinner, but if
they are there, ask if you may pick up what are lying about."

"All right, mother. May I cut a bit of bread for my dinner, and eat it
as I go along?"

While Rhoda stood with the loaf and knife in her hand, the street door
opened again, and in bounded her brother.

"Oh, mother! I've heard of a place, and almost got it too!" he
exclaimed in eager, excited tones, his eyes dancing as he spoke.

Rhoda dropped the knife and bread, and came forward to question him.

"Where—where is it, Frank?" she asked, seizing his hands in her
excitement.

"At Mortimer's, that nice bookseller's in High Street. I shall be in
the printing office too, sometimes, so that I may have a chance of
learning a little of the business."

"Oh, ain't you lucky to have a chance of helping mother like that!"
exclaimed Rhoda, with something like envy in her tone.

Mrs. Morris was a widow, earning a scanty living for herself and
children by doing plain needlework for one of the shops in the
town. They had come to live here on purpose, for there was no such
opportunity of employing her needle in their old home. She had made
neither friends nor acquaintances since she had been here. Rents were
low at this half-built-upon, wholly desolate suburb of the town, and
here she had settled, having neither time nor inclination to become
acquainted with her neighbours. Her boy and girl were friends enough
for her, and although they were poor, and the pinch of poverty was
often keenly felt, the little family were very happy together, in spite
of a frequent dinner of dry bread, and short commons in the way of
coals.

The widow had thought her boy scarcely old enough yet to help her in
the struggle of life. But Frank knew how hard his mother had to work,
and when on his way to school, he saw a card in the bookseller's
window, "Boy wanted," he went in and offered himself, telling such a
straightforward story when asked for references, that Mr. Mortimer had
a great mind to conclude the bargain there and then, he liked the look
of the lad so much. But remembering that his apprentice, Tom Wright,
lived in the same neighbourhood as the address given by this boy, he
told his foreman to make some inquiries of Tom, and bade Frank come in
again in the afternoon for his answer about the place.

"Five shillings a week, mother, and my tea every day," exclaimed Frank
triumphantly, when he had explained how he came to apply for the
situation.

"Oh, my goodness! What a lot of money boys do get!" exclaimed Rhoda.
"If I got a place to nurse a baby all day, I should only get about half
as much."

"Ah! Boys is boys, and gals is only gals," said Frank laughing.

The merry chatter was stopped by Rhoda pickup her bag. "The fire will
be out soon if I don't get some wood," she said.

And off she marched, Frank running after her with a thick slice of
bread by way of dinner. Of course, the talk between them was of what
they were going to do with the extra five shillings a week, little
dreaming that a companion's unkind words were even then shattering all
their hopes.

"Wood, my gal. Yes, you can pick up the chips lying about if you like,"
said the man in answer to Rhoda's request.

She had nearly filled her bag when the same man called to her again.
"You'd better give it up now, while you're safe and sound. If one of
the trees come down upon you, your mother mightn't like it," he said.
"Come again when we've done—about five o'clock, you know."

"Thank you, I'll come," said Rhoda.

And Frank shouldered the bag, and they hastened home to replenish the
fire.

"It's lucky it happens to be Wednesday and half-holiday, for I've got
to go and see about my place at three o'clock," said Frank, as they
walked back over the common.

"'My place!' Don't count your chickens before they are hatched," said
Rhoda, laughing.

"All right, but I think I'm pretty sure of it. Are you going to take
mother's work home this afternoon? Because if you are, we might go to
the town together," said Frank.

But Mrs. Morris was not sure that she would have the work ready in time
for them to reach the town by three o'clock.

"Be punctual, my boy, even if you have to start half an hour before
Rhoda goes," said the widow. "You will be sure to meet her coming back."

Frank made himself neat and tidy, and started alone, but Rhoda was
scarcely less anxious than he was over the success of his errand.


Soon after three she set out with her bundle of shirts, thinking she
should meet her brother soon after she started. But she walked on and
on without seeing him, down into High Street, and past Mr. Mortimer's
shop; she paused there and looked in as she slowly walked by, wondering
whether she should see him dusting books or something. But no, he was
not there, and she hurried on, thinking he had gone round another way
to avoid her, that he might get home and tell his mother the good news
first.

She had taken the shirts into the shop and been paid for them, and was
just coming out again, when she caught sight of her brother, looking so
sad and woe-begone that there was no need to ask him what had happened.

"Never mind, Frank," she whispered, as she slipped her hand in his and
drew him along towards home.

"Do you know about it? Who told you?" asked Frank fiercely, drawing his
hand away.

"Of course I know by your looks. I am sorry, though, Frank. But never
mind, you'll soon hear of another place."

"Hear of another place—yes, I daresay I shall. But what's the good of
that, if my character won't suit?" said the boy angrily.

Rhoda looked blank. "What do you mean?" she said.

"That's what he said—Mr. Mortimer, I mean,—'Your character won't suit,
my boy.'"

"Who did he ask? Where did he inquire?" gasped Rhoda, feeling that to
go home with this tale to her mother would be bitter indeed.

"I dunno, but I'll find out," said Frank fiercely.

"He'd go to your schoolmaster, I should think," said Rhoda.

Frank stood stock still and stared at her for a minute or two, then
slowly shook his head. "I don't believe he's been there," he said. "Of
course I am not a pattern boy, nobody could ever say I was, but I'm
about as good as the rest."

"Couldn't you ask Mr. Collins to-morrow whether anybody came to inquire
about you to-day?"

"Perhaps I might, but I feel sure they never went to school. Oh, Rhoda,
what will mother say when she hears it?" And the poor boy hastily drew
his sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the gathering tears.

Very slowly did they retrace their steps homeward now, debating whether
they should tell their mother what Mr. Mortimer had said, or whether
they should keep it to themselves.

"It'll worry her awfully," said Rhoda, with a sigh.

"But we never do keep anything from mother," debated Frank.

They were still talking the matter over when Esther Wright ran
against them, as she came flying round the corner on her way to Mary
Coppinger's.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," she said in a breathless kind of way. Then,
recognising Rhoda, she added, "I've lost my little brother and sister;
you know Bobbie, don't you?"

"I think I should know him. I have seen that dear little sister of
yours a good many times, and I am sure I should know her," said Rhoda.

"And you have not seen them? I am going to Mary Coppinger's now. If you
should meet them, will you send them home?"

"I'll bring them," said Rhoda good-naturedly. "I'm going across the
common presently, and I'll look about for them."

The brother and sister went on their way, Frank stopping to order the
coals, while Rhoda told the disappointing news to her mother.

Mrs. Morris was as disappointed as her children, and even more hurt and
surprised when she heard the full account of it, for Rhoda decided at
last that she ought to be told all the circumstances.

"I cannot understand it," she said. "Somebody must have been bearing
false witness against you, my boy."

This view of the matter afforded Frank some consolation, but to his
mother it was a very ominous circumstance, for how was her boy ever to
get out in life if he was met at the beginning with such a charge as
this? She knew him to be honest and truthful as the day. And yet, here
he was told that his character was not good enough to secure him an
errand boy's place.

It troubled her greatly, but Rhoda would not stay long to discuss the
matter; she wanted to go and pick up the wood on the farther side of
the common. It was nearly five now; it would be past five before she
could get across to where the trees were being felled, and soon quite
dark.

So she picked up her bag and ran out, exclaiming, "Send Frank with the
other bag, mother, as soon as he comes in."

In her anxiety about the wood and Frank's disappointment, she forgot
all about the lost children, until her brother joined her and asked if
she had seen anything of them.

"Oh, my goodness, I had forgotten all about them!" exclaimed Rhoda in a
tone of self-reproach.

"They can't be on the common," she added, "or else we should see them."
And she stood up and looked all around as she spoke.

Frank, too, looked in every direction, but not a living soul was to be
seen. It was a solitary spot, except on summer half-holidays, when the
children from the surrounding neighbourhood, or from the town, came
here to play.

Away to the left was a turnpike road, leading to another town some
seven or eight miles off. But the passengers on it were never very
numerous, for the railway was far more convenient for most people, and
leading, as it did, over a bleak moor, few would care to travel along
it such a cold day as this.

Having looked all round, and seen nothing of the children, Rhoda
returned to her task of picking up chips. "Let's go now," she said,
when she had nearly filled her bag. "If we stay any longer, it will be
quite dark before we get back."

So they shouldered their burdens and started homeward.

Before they had gone many yards, Rhoda stopped and said, "Hush! I think
I can hear a child crying."

They both stood still and listened intently.

"There's something," said Frank, "but I don't think it's a child
crying."

"I do. Hark! There it is again. Frank, it's over there." And Rhoda
dropped her bag and ran in the direction of the sound. Sure enough it
was Bobbie, shivering and crying with cold and terror, but Lilla was
nowhere to be seen.

"Where's sister?" asked Rhoda, taking him up in her arms in a motherly
fashion, and preparing to go in search of Lilla.

"Gone," said Bobbie with a sob.

Rhoda looked all round, although the gathering gloom prevented her from
seeing any object a dozen yards from where she stood.

"Where has she gone, dear?" asked Rhoda, kissing the little
tear-stained face.

"Gone," repeated Bobbie with another sob.

Then Rhoda noticed that he had nothing on over his holland pinafore,
and that his hat was put on hind part before. It seemed useless to stay
here any longer in the cold, so she resolved to take him back to where
she had left Frank, without looking further for his sister.

"You'll have to carry the wood now," she called, as she drew near.
"I've found one of the stray sheep."

As they went along, they questioned the little boy about his sister.
But it seemed that Bobbie's use of intelligible words was very limited,
and beyond "Gone," they could make nothing of what he said.

Just as they reached the edge of the common, they met Esther, and she
almost sobbed with relief when she caught sight of Bobbie in Rhoda's
arms. But when she heard that nothing had been seen of her little
sister, her alarm returned.

"Where is Lilla?—Show me," she said, speaking to Bobbie.

"Over there," lisped Bobby, pointing vaguely back over Rhoda's shoulder.

"I'll go and find her," said Esther, setting off in the direction
Bobbie pointed out. "You take him home; father will be home by this
time, and tell him I'm gone to look for Lilla."

So Frank went home with the chips, and Rhoda went on to Springfield
Street with Bobbie. She knew where he lived, for she passed the door on
her way to school. And if she had not, it would have mattered little
now, for just as she reached the door, it opened, and out rushed Tom,
who looked considerably taken aback at seeing his little brother in a
stranger's arms.

"Halloo! Where's Esther?" he said.

"She's gone to look for the little girl," said Rhoda.

While Bobbie burst into a roar at the sight of his brother, and threw
himself into his arms.

"Well, this is a pretty go. Father! Father!" called Tom. "Stop a
minute," he said, as Rhoda was turning away.

Mr. Wright came to the door and took Bobbie. "Where have you been, my
boy?" he said. "Why, you're perished with cold."

"I found him the other side of the common, sir," said Rhoda.

"The other side of the common!" repeated Mr. Wright in astonishment.
"Come in, come in out of the cold wind, and tell me all about it."

Tom went back with them, and Rhoda told about the meeting with Esther,
and all she knew. "Perhaps if we'd got back from the town quicker, we
might have found them both," she added.

She did not say what had delayed them, and Tom never thought of the
vacant errand boy's place, or dreamed that his careless words to the
foreman could have any connection with the loss of his little sister.
But so it was, for if Rhoda had only gone to the common a little
earlier, she would have found them both, and much misery would have
been spared the anxious parents.

Mr. Wright carried Bobbie to the fire, and chafed his little hands,
purple and swollen with the cold, and tried to get from him some
account of the affair, but beyond the fact that Lilla was "gone," he
could learn nothing more than Rhoda had told him.

"We must wait till Esther comes to clear up the mystery," he said at
last.

And Tom went off to work, racing back to the town as fast as he could,
to make up for lost time.

And Rhoda went home to her tea, for she was very hungry now.



CHAPTER III.

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

MRS. WRIGHT came home about eight o'clock. Bobbie was asleep then, and
her husband standing at the street door, on the watch for Esther and
Lilla. He was afraid to leave the house until his wife arrived, but as
she came up, he said, "I am so glad you've come, although I scarcely
expected you yet."

"No! And I should not have been home so soon, only baby was so cross
that I could do nothing with him. Where is Esther?" she said. "She
really must take baby now." And the poor woman seemed ready to drop
with fatigue.

Mr. Wright took the sleeping baby from his wife's arms, and carried him
indoors. "I'll lay him down in the cradle while you get your things
off," he said, as the child began to cry.

"But where's Esther?" asked Mrs. Wright, looking round the untidy
kitchen, and noticing that the tea-things were still unwashed.

"She's gone to look for Lilla, and—"

"'To look for Lilla'? What do you mean, John?"

Then Mr. Wright had to tell in as few words as he could, how he had
found the house deserted, when he came home at five o'clock, and how
Rhoda Morris had brought Bobbie home, but could not find Lilla. Of
course it was as great a mystery to Mrs. Wright as to her husband.

"Esther had nothing to do but look after the two children," she said;
"and how Lilla can be lost is a puzzle to me."

"I can't understand it either. Rhoda Morris found Bobbie the other side
of the common, and I will go over there now."

Just as he opened the street door, Rhoda appeared at it.

"Have you found her yet?" she asked.

"No, my girl. There, go and see if you can hold the baby for my wife a
minute."

"Mother sent me down to see if I could do anything for you," said
Rhoda, as she rubbed her feet on the mat.

Mrs. Wright was glad of her help to wash up the tea-things, and make
the place a little more tidy and still more glad to hear all she could
tell her of what had happened to the children.

While she was undressing the baby, there came a knock at the door, and
Rhoda put down the saucer she was wiping and opened it.

"Is that you, Rhoda Morris?" exclaimed a voice outside.

"Who is it?" called Mrs. Wright anxiously.

"Mary Coppinger."

"Come in, come in; have you found Lilla?" asked Rhoda.

"No, that's what I came to see about," said the girl. She did not want
to come in, for fear she should be questioned, and her share of the
mischief discovered.

"Have you seen Esther?" said Mrs. Wright.

"Yes, she's just round the corner; we've been looking for Lilla."

Mrs. Wright felt very angry that Esther should send Mary Coppinger to
inquire whether her sister was found, instead of coming herself. And
she said, "You can tell Esther she had better not show her face here
until she finds the child, and it's no good racing about the common;
her father's gone to look there."

This message did not lose anything either in matter or manner when it
was delivered to Esther. And the fact that Rhoda Morris opened the
door, and was evidently busy helping Mrs. Wright, was commented upon
with a good deal of bitterness by both girls. Esther felt herself
dreadfully aggrieved.

"It's plain enough mother don't care a pin for me!" she exclaimed
angrily. "It's just the same with other things. The little ones must be
studied, and the little ones cared for, but nobody thinks about me. And
now I'm told I'm not wanted at home at all."

This was not quite what Mary Coppinger had said, but she did not
contradict the impression her words had left upon Esther's mind.
Indeed, she rather fed the flame of her angry jealousy. And yet, if any
one had accused her of evil speaking, she would have denied the charge
with indignation.

"Where shall you go now?" asked Mary, after they had stood talking
some time. "You have had no tea, I know. Come indoors with me and have
something to eat, and then we'll go out again together."

Esther really was very hungry by this time, in spite of her anxiety
about Lilla, and so she agreed to the plan. And the two girls went to
Mary's home and had some bread and cheese before renewing the search.

Mrs. Coppinger made Esther put some biscuits in her pocket as well,
just before they went out. And telling her own daughter not to stay too
long, they set off together towards the town.

Just before they reached it, however, they parted, to look in different
directions, and meet about the centre of High Street.


But when Mary reached High Street, she could see nothing of Esther. She
waited for some time, walking up and down. But as they began to put up
the shop shutters, she turned homewards, deciding in her own mind that
Esther had found her little sister, and had been too impatient to take
her home to wait for her arrival. She knocked at Mrs. Wright's door on
her way back, and was surprised to learn that nothing had been seen of
either Esther or Lilla.

Tom opened the door this time, and was not too civil in his greeting
when he saw who it was. Mrs. Wright hearing her voice, called, "Tell
Esther to come home now, it's no good her staying out any longer."

"I don't know where she is," said Mary shortly, and then she turned
away, and Tom closed the door.

"She has gone off on a wild-goose chase by herself now, I suppose,"
said Tom, as he re-entered the kitchen.

He had just come in, and was going out again when he had had some
supper. Mr. Wright had been in, and had now gone to give notice to the
police.

"It ought to have been done before," he said, "and we should have had
news of her by this time. But there, never mind, the men will all be
on the look out while they are on night duty. So cheer up, Mary, Lilla
will soon be lying in her own crib beside Bobbie." And he went off on
his errand.

Tom insisted upon going in search of his little sister when he came in.
He knew of several places where she might have strayed, he said. At all
events, he could not rest indoors until she was found.

"You had better go and look for Esther, Tom," said his mother, as he
picked up the bread and cheese she had cut for him.

"Oh, Esther can take care of herself," said Tom scornfully; "it's poor
little Lilla I want to find."

"Well, if you see Esther, you tell her to come home at once; I want
her. She'll do no good running about the streets now in the cold wind,"
added Mrs. Wright.

"Oh, serve her right," said Tom severely; "if she hadn't gone off
somewhere, and left the children, Lilla wouldn't have been lost."

"There now, don't you say anything like that to her; you leave me to
talk to her," said Mrs. Wright. "Only send her home if you see her; and
mind you keep a sharp look out for her, Tom, for my sake."

Tom was very fond of his mother, and so, to please her, he did look out
for both sisters. But although he was out walking up and down every
well-known street and road in the locality for nearly two hours, he
found neither of them.

He went home at last, tired out with his fruitless journey, and hoping
to hear that both had got home by this time. But his mother opened the
door and said in a weary, despairing tone, "You can't find them, Tom?"

"Hasn't Esther come yet?" exclaimed Tom, stopping short on the door-mat.

He had made sure he should find his elder sister at home, and had
resolved to give her a piece of his mind, despite what his mother might
say to the contrary. But his mother's news startled even him.

"Not come back yet?" he said. "I'll run to Mary Coppinger's, and see if
she is there."

"It's no good, Tom; Mr. Coppinger was here ten minutes ago, and they
have not seen her for nearly three hours. Mary left her at the cross
roads, and arranged to meet her again in High Street, but she wasn't
there."

Mrs. Wright had evidently been crying, and Tom felt more anxious
than ever as he looked at her. "What can I do now, mother?" he asked
helplessly.

"Go to bed, my boy; your father and Mr. Coppinger, with one or two of
the neighbours, are out with lanterns now, searching the common, and
the police have been told to look out for Esther as well, so nothing
more can be done."

"Then I'll take my things off," said Tom. "But I shan't go to bed and
leave you here by yourself." And he sat down in his father's armchair
to watch and wait and listen.

Mrs. Wright felt too nervously anxious to sit still, and she was not
sorry to have Tom for company. She had fetched Lilla's night-clothes
downstairs, and every minute or two she would change their position in
front of the fire, then walk to the door and listen. And every footstep
that echoed along the quiet street made her heart flutter with hope.
But, alas! it was only to end in disappointment.

Tom, seated by the fire, soon fell asleep. And his father came in about
twelve o'clock, and tried to persuade his wife to go to bed, and to
send Tom off too. But Mrs. Wright shook her head, and Tom slept on
undisturbed until about three o'clock in the morning. Then his father
came in, and insisted upon his going to bed, where he soon fell asleep
again.

But there was no such reprieve for the anxious parents, and both felt
it was a mockery even to seem to seek any rest. Long before Tom roused
up, his father was out again, to learn whether any of the policemen
returning from night duty had heard anything of either of his children.
Only two or three had heard that Esther was now missing, but no one
had seen anything of either of them, and the day passed, bringing no
tidings.

Mrs. Wright was well-nigh overwhelmed with grief and anxiety, and she
blamed herself now for the angry message she had sent to Esther by Mary
Coppinger when she called.

"She must have been a mischief-making slut to deliver it!" commented
Tom. "And Esther was worse than a fool to believe it. I haven't
patience with her, even now—she that was so particular about this,
that, and the other, and always singing hymns, to go off and break her
mother's heart as she is doing. I wonder whether she thinks it is a
brave thing to do—whether she's a soldier of the cross now. But I hate
such mockery!" And Tom would turn off in angry disdain, after giving
vent to his opinion in this fashion.

He never did it before his mother now, because he knew that it pained
her. Mrs. Wright would not believe that Esther was staying away
voluntarily, and in this opinion, she was supported by her Sunday
school teacher.

The lady came to see the bereaved mother as soon as she heard of
Esther's mysterious disappearance.

"I cannot understand it at all," said Miss Egerton; "Esther is such a
good girl, so regular and attentive; I never had to speak to her about
looking about the room, and she seemed to enjoy singing the hymns so
much."

"Yes, she did," assented poor Mrs. Wright through her tears.

But she did not tell the lady how little she practised at home what
she learned at school. She did not care to think of this side of her
character now. She tried to forget how proud and impatient under
reproof she had lately become, how self-willed and imperious she was
in her treatment of the children. She tried to ignore all this in her
thoughts of the absent Esther, and that these faults had actually
brought about all the trouble, she had not the slightest idea of.

So Miss Egerton's visits and talk about Esther greatly comforted her,
anxious as she was. She had been very ill at first, but the claims of
the other children compelled her to rouse herself, and so the household
ways had gradually returned to the old ruts again.

While she was so poorly, Rhoda Morris had come in every day to nurse
the baby, and do what she could to help with the housework; and Mrs.
Wright had found her very useful. She was good-tempered and obliging
with the children, quick and handy with the housework, a little abrupt
and rough in her manners, perhaps, but thoroughly sincere in her
kindness.

Mrs. Wright spoke of her to Miss Egerton one day, thinking that lady
might be able to recommend her for a permanent situation. But it
seemed that Rhoda had not won golden opinions at school. There was
nothing positive against her, but her bustling, abrupt manner and
general restlessness while lessons were going on had earned for her the
character of a "tiresome girl." And although Miss Egerton said she was
glad to have such a good account of her from Mrs. Wright, still she
implied that it would not affect her own opinion of the girl.

It was much the same with the day-school teacher, who also came
sometimes to see Mrs. Wright, and who had been able to throw
considerable light upon the matter of Lilla's disappearance. She,
of course, had no idea that Esther was left in charge of the house
that fatal afternoon. She had seen Mary Coppinger out for a walk, and
finding she had nothing special to do, she had sent her to see if
Esther could come with her and practise the duet they were to sing at
the concert.

Mary took her own way of performing the errand, and not until she was
closely questioned afterward did anybody hear of the house door being
left open for above an hour in the afternoon.

It could be understood then how the children had got out on the common.
They had probably gone to look for Esther, more especially as she had
promised to give them some sweets when she came back.

That Esther should do this was the astonishing thing to her teacher, as
to Miss Egerton.

"She always keeps her place at the top of the class; she is such a good
girl," she exclaimed, when she first heard the full account of what had
taken place. "If it had been Rhoda Morris, now, I should not have been
at all surprised."

"What can give you such a bad opinion of Rhoda?" said Mrs. Wright,
anxious to say a word on the girl's behalf.

"Oh, I don't know that I have positively a 'bad' opinion of her," said
the teacher. "But you know she is rude and rough, and has a very bad
habit of—of—well, I scarcely know how to define it."

"You mean she often says, 'Oh, my goodness,' and 'Oh, my gracious,'
over the slightest things."

"Yes! And I have tried again and again to break her of it, and cannot.
I have told her it is little less than taking God's name in vain, when
she says, 'Oh, lor a mussy,' as she does sometimes."

"Well, it is a bad habit, I admit," said Mrs. Wright, "but as to taking
God's name in vain, what do you say of people who are fond of singing
hymns, and declaring, 'I want to be like Jesus,' yet never once trying
to follow His example? Now my opinion of Rhoda is, that she really is
trying, by all sorts of little habits of self-denial, to follow in the
footsteps of the Lord Jesus, whether she sings about it or not. And
I am quite sure, if she thought that anything she did was harmful to
another, she would try and break herself of it very soon."

But this lady like Miss Egerton, preferred to have her own opinion
about Rhoda, and so she turned the conversation to other topics.

All sorts of inquiries had been made by this time about the missing
girls. Mr. Wright had a theory of his own about Esther's disappearance,
and the police had been put on the alert in the direction to which his
suspicions pointed. But in the case of a mere baby like Lilla, no one
could suggest any clue, unless she had been stolen by gipsies. And no
gipsy had been seen in the neighbourhood for months past.



CHAPTER IV.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

"RHODA, would your mother object to you going a little way off to get a
situation, if you were sure of a comfortable place?"

Mrs. Wright had an open letter in her hand that Tom had taken from the
postman as he came in to breakfast.

Several weeks had passed, but Rhoda still came in and out to help Mrs.
Wright, and had told her she wanted to get a situation that she might
help her mother.

Rhoda's plan had been to get the situation first, and then tell her
mother what she wanted to do. But to go away from home altogether was
not what she had anticipated, and she stood silent, scarcely knowing
what to answer.

"I should be very glad if you could go, Rhoda," said Mrs. Wright. "My
sister is ill, and wants a girl at once to nurse the baby. You would
find it a comfortable place; there is only a baby and a little boy
eight years old."

"Where is it?" asked Rhoda, thinking her mother "might" perhaps let her
go to Mrs. Wright's sister.

"At Rilchester, a pretty little town about twenty miles off. My sister
is very kind, and you would find it a nice place for a beginning. Run
and ask your mother to come and see me about it."

Rhoda put away the lamps she had just brought downstairs and went out.
But she did not "run" home, for as she closed the street door, her
brother came up, and Rhoda was very glad to meet him.

"Oh, Frank, what do you think? Mrs. Wright wants me to go and live with
her sister to nurse a baby, and—"

"No, no," interrupted Frank, "you can't go, it wouldn't be fair. You
must stay at home with mother, and I 'must' get a place somewhere."

"But you've tried, Frank," said Rhoda sadly. "I tell you, one of us
must help mother a bit, and I think if she'll let me go, I'll try this
place at Rilchester. It need not be for ever, you know, and I am the
oldest."

"Yes, but I am the boy, and it's always a boy's place to help his
mother and sister."

"Well, you shall, by-and-by," said Rhoda; "you will be able to help
us all the better for a little more schooling. That was what mother
said when you was so disappointed about Mortimer's. So look here, you
help me persuade mother about this, and then I'll promise to come home
by-and-by when you get a place."

"I don't like it," murmured Frank. "I'd always meant to work for you
and mother too, but I can see how mother worries sometimes about the
work and the money, and keeping the rent paid, and so perhaps, if you
could get a place for a little while—"

"Yes, that's it, just for a little while, till you can get work and
earn money enough to keep us both," said Rhoda cheerfully.

This was the plea she urged with her mother, for Mrs. Morris needed
some coaxing before she would agree to the plan. Like her children, she
had thought, if Frank could get a place and earn a little, Rhoda might
stay at home and keep the house comfortable, and get the meals ready
for them both, and help her, perhaps, occasionally with the sewing.

It is not easy to give up a long-cherished plan, and it was a
disappointment to Rhoda and her mother to have to abandon theirs, and
accept what seemed to be forced upon them by circumstances.

"I don't like it, Rhoda, but we must believe that God knows what is
best for us, and certainly I would rather you went to Mrs. Wright's
sister than to a stranger. Yes, I will go in and talk to her presently.
And now you had better make haste to school, for if you are not to go
there much longer, you had better learn all you can now."


An hour later, Mrs. Morris went in to see Mrs. Wright about her
proposal. And before she left, it was settled that Rhoda should go the
very next day to Rilchester.

When Rhoda called at Mrs. Wright's on her way home from school, she
heard how the matter had been settled. And Mrs. Wright had written a
few words which she wanted Rhoda to take to the nearest post office and
copy on to a telegraph form, and send it, that her sister might know
without delay that Rhoda was coming.

She read the words as she went along again and again:

   "Rhoda Morris coming to-morrow; meet 4.30 train."

It did not seem possible that such a change in her circumstances could
happen so soon.

When she got home, she found her mother busy getting her things
together, in readiness for the next day.

"You can only take a few, Rhoda, just enough for a week. But the rest
shall be sent on, if you are going to stay."

"'Going to stay'? Why, of course I mean to stay, mother," said Rhoda,
but with a sob in her voice that she instantly tried to smother.

Her mother would not notice it, for she understood Rhoda well enough to
know that she was trying to keep up a cheerful appearance for her sake.

When Frank came home, she met him with the news of her speedy
departure, and that she was to have six pounds a year to begin with,
and seven after she had been there six months.

"Think how I shall be able to help mother," she exclaimed, without
giving him any time for comment. "I shall be able to pay nearly half
the rent out of my wages, and it will not cost more than half as much
for bread, because I always eat so much."

"Don't, Rhoda; don't talk like that!" said Frank in a pained voice,
looking at his mother to see how she bore the prospect of this
separation.

But Mrs. Morris did not raise her eyes from the stocking she was
darning. She and Mrs. Wright had talked the whole matter over, and the
influence it might have in correcting Rhoda's faults of manner and
behaviour, and improving her whole character, until her mother saw that
such a discipline as this might prove to be a great blessing to her
daughter. But it made the parting none the less painful, and she could
not expect Frank to see all that she did.

The brother and sister had always been strongly attached to each other,
and it had been Frank's day-dream for years to keep Rhoda at home and
work for her. And now for her to have to go out, and he remain at
school, was bitter indeed to the boy, she knew.

"Rhoda, I wish you and Frank would go and get me some chips this
afternoon," she said, after a pause. "I dare say the men would let you
pick them up about the common."

It was not the chips she was thinking of, but her children themselves.
A long afternoon together would be a comfort to both of them. While
they were with her, both would strive to keep up an appearance of
cheerfulness for her sake, but once by themselves, they would pour out
their hearts to each other and feel comforted. She, too, might indulge
in a few tears when they were away, which she dare not do now.

And so, when the bread and cheese dinner was eaten, Rhoda took a basket
and Frank a bag, and they wended their way across the common to where a
saw-pit had lately been set up.

Once left to themselves, it was not long before they threw off the thin
disguise of cheerfulness with which they had tried to cheat each other
with so little success.

"If it wasn't for mother, I would never leave you, Frank!" sobbed
Rhoda, fairly bursting into tears, and dropping her basket, to throw
her arms round her brother's neck.

There was no one to see, and so Frank could return his sister's
embrace, and indulge in a few tears on his own account.

"It is hard," he said with a gasp; "if I had only got that place at
Mortimer's, you needn't have gone away. Oh, Rhoda, why does God let
things happen like this, when it would be so easy for Him to alter it?"

Rhoda shook her head and choked back her sobs. "I won't believe God
likes to make us unhappy," she said; "of course He just has to manage
the best way He can with people, to make things fit in one with the
other—things that are often so cross-grained and contrary that there
seems no making them fit at all. It would be easy enough, I dare say,
for God to make everybody happy and comfortable, if people were all
good. But when we will upset everything with our badness, why, He just
has to do the best He can for us all round. That's what I mean to
believe," concluded Rhoda.

It was poor comfort to her brother just now, who was bent on deploring
his own last chance of helping the household, until Rhoda reminded him
that it was of no use crying over spilt milk, and the only sensible
thing they could do was to bear the pain of parting as bravely and
cheerfully as they could, and look forward to the time when they should
meet again.

"And then there will be letters, you know, Frank. Every time I see the
postman, I shall wonder whether he has brought me one from you and
mother, and then I shall have to write to you. Tom Wright is going to
give me a packet of paper and envelopes before I go away—I like Tom,"
added Rhoda.

"I don't," said Frank decisively.

"Why not?" asked his sister with widely opened eyes.

"Well, look here, don't say anything about it, but I believe it was Tom
Wright that prevented me getting that place at Mortimer's; he's there,
you know."

"Frank!" uttered Rhoda in astonishment.

"Well, I do, Rhoda. He always looks at me so sheepish when I meet him."

"What nonsense! You wouldn't say so if you knew Tom. I believe he only
wants to speak to you, and don't know how to begin, because you always
march on with your head in the air when you are in the street."

It was Frank's turn to laugh now. "I've got a lot to hold my head up
about, certainly," he said, "when my sister's going to service, and I
have to stay at school, because I can't get a place."

"Well, I wish you knew Tom. You'll have to speak to him when I am gone,
for I shall want you to tell me all the news about the Wrights in your
letters. You know all sorts of inquiries are being made about Esther in
London, for Mr. Wright feels sure she was carried off there that night
when she left Mary Coppinger, and Tom would tell you how they were
getting on, if you told him you wanted to let me know."

Frank gave a grumbling assent at last, but only because he would have
nothing to write about, he said, if he did not get some news from the
neighbours. "Nothing is ever likely to happen to me and mother, and you
know exactly how everything goes on here every day. Of course it will
be different with you. Everything will be new at once, and we shall
wonder what sort of a house you are living in, and where it is, and all
about it. Be sure you tell us everything, Rhoda."

His sister promised readily enough. And before they returned home, both
agreed that a new element of interest would enter into their lives
through this separation, for both would learn the joy of writing and
receiving letters—a pleasure quite unknown to them before.

The afternoon spent out on the common did them both good. The mental
atmosphere was cleared by the mutual confidences, and a way had been
prepared, though neither knew it then, for the righting of a wrong that
had been unwittingly committed.

Tom Wright brought a bundle of little presents for Rhoda that night,
after he came home from work,—some holland to make aprons from his
mother, the paper and envelopes from himself, and five shillings from
his father; for all the family felt they owed Rhoda a debt of gratitude
for her rescue of Bobbie, and her willing help to them all afterwards.

This gave her the desired opportunity of getting the two boys to speak
to each other. And although they did, as Rhoda expressed it, look very
shy and sheepish, and said only a few words, still, the ice was broken,
and she was able to tell Tom that she wanted him to send, through her
brother, all the news about themselves, and the moment they heard
anything of Esther or Lilla, to let her know all about them.

"Oh, you would hear that from Aunt Lizzie," said Tom, "but still I'll
let you know, the moment anything turns up. And you must keep your eyes
open too, Rhoda. You'd be sure to know Lilla by the mole on her chin,
and she's got one on her arm too. I used to tease her about it, and
call her 'Spotty,'" said Tom with a sigh, relapsing into gravity as he
thought of his little sister and her unknown fate.

Tom did not stay long, but he went home feeling vaguely uncomfortable
about Frank, and the part he had taken in preventing him from getting
the much-coveted place of errand boy. He did not say a word to his
mother, for anything that seemed to reflect upon Esther was doubly
painful to her now, he knew.


Life was painful to both mother and father now, and the anxiety they
were suffering was showing itself in more ways than one. Mrs. Wright's
pretty brown hair was almost white now, while her husband stooped like
an old man, and seemed to have lost all the spring and elasticity with
which he formerly went about his work. The only energy he was capable
of now was in the prosecution of inquiries for his missing children.
Esther was in London, he felt sure, and through the police and other
agencies inquiries were being made, and each day it was hoped something
would be heard of the missing girls.

Every time the postman's knock sounded now, Mrs. Wright waited and
listened, hoping he was coming to her with some news of her lost
darlings. If it was but to tell her they were dead, would be some
relief, but this awful uncertainty as to their fate, this ever-growing
anxiety and suspense in which her life was passed, was worse than any
positive certainty could be, and sometimes threatened to upset her
reason.

She had thought it would do her good to have to do all her household
work herself, after Rhoda had gone away. But she soon found that her
physical strength was not equal to it now, and she was very glad to
accept Mrs. Morris's offer to come in and help her for an hour every
morning. Sometimes, too, Mrs. Morris would bring her sewing, and sit
with her for an hour or two, or mind the house and Bobbie while she
went out with the baby. In this way, the two women came to know each
other, and were a mutual help and comfort one to the other.

Nothing but her neighbours' extreme need could ever have drawn quiet
Mrs. Morris out of her retirement. And if any one had told Mrs. Wright
at one time that she would find her greatest solace in the company
of a poor broken-down needlewoman, she would have contradicted the
assertion. But the very poverty of Mrs. Morris was the factor that
made this friendship possible between them. Mrs. Morris could offer
to come in and help with the morning's work, as Esther had done, and
Mrs. Wright was glad to accept it because she could pay for it, and "be
under no obligation."

But the question of obligation soon fell out of consideration between
these two friends. Mrs. Morris had tasted of the cup of sorrow too
deeply herself to dare to touch with a rough hand the bleeding
heart-wounds of her neighbour. But the silent, watchful sympathy that
she was able to give was just what Mrs. Wright needed, and, as she
often said afterwards, she could scarcely have lived through this time,
but for Mrs. Morris, and what she was able to do for her.

Religion had never been to her before, the practical everyday life that
it had become to her poorer neighbour. And so she was ill prepared to
sustain such a crushing blow as now fell upon her. But by degrees,
by a few timely words spoken now and then, she gradually learned the
secret of Mrs. Morris's strength and resignation, and discovered that
religion was not merely a theory, or science for the church or Sunday
school, but a living principle of life, that must animate all its
everyday details, if it was to be of any service in sustaining the soul
under sorrow and temptation, and give that trusting faith in a Father's
loving care that could alone carry it through the trial.



CHAPTER V.

AT THE CIRCUS.

RHODA MORRIS felt the parting with her mother and brother very keenly.
She bore up bravely as long as they were with her. But as the train
that was bearing her away from them steamed out of the station, her
long-restrained tears burst forth. Fortunately, she had the carriage
all to herself, and she could indulge her grief unrestrained by curious
eyes, and for a while it had its way.

But by-and-by Rhoda began sobbingly to wonder how long her journey
would be, and whether they were getting near Rilchester. It was the
first station the train stopped at, she had been told, so she could
not make a mistake. And at the thought of meeting these strangers, she
dried her eyes, and sat up near the window, that the air might take
away the traces of her tears. It would never do to go to her new home
looking as though she was broken-hearted. Mrs. Middleton was ill, and
needed somebody to help her, and so she struggled to put on a cheerful
face before the station was reached.

Somebody had been sent to meet her, and take her to London Street,
which she found was the busiest in the town—all being large shops, and
Mr. Middleton's one of the largest.

She was taken upstairs at once to Mrs. Middleton, who was lying on a
couch, looking very ill, and not a little fretful. She was inclined
to find fault with Rhoda's size at first, and said she should never
be able to trust her with the baby out of doors, until her husband
reminded her that she had been recommended for her steadiness and
trustworthiness, and not for her size and looks.

Then Rhoda learned that it was a large household, not at all like Mrs.
Wright's, for there were two other servants kept, and her duty would
be to look after the baby and little boy—Master Ralph, a mischievous
little fellow about eight years old, but very delicate, and therefore
requiring a good deal of thought and management on the part of his
attendant. There was a nice large nursery, and Rhoda would have to keep
this clean and tidy, but this was all the housework expected of her,
she was told. But the children she must take almost entire charge of,
for when they were with their mother, they worried her so much that she
could not possibly get well. Mr. Middleton told her this as he took her
up to the nursery, and introduced her to Ralph and the baby, who was in
the temporary charge of the housemaid.

"I shall call you Rose," announced Ralph, as soon as his father had
left the room; "you've got red cheeks, and you don't look cross, and—"

"Now, Ralph, be quiet," said Mary, the housemaid; "Rhoda is not to be
plagued to death by you; she's come to nurse the baby."

The baby was a dear little mite, and Rhoda kissed and fondled her the
moment she took her.

"Do you like babies?" asked Ralph, watching the performance.

"Oh, yes! Such dear little babies as this. Do you go to school, Master
Ralph?"

"Yes, sometimes," said Ralph, twisting a piece of paper he held in his
fingers. "I go when I like, you know," he added.

This Rhoda found to be literally true. And the work there was to get
him to go when he did not choose was something wearing indeed. He would
have been a nice boy if he had not been spoiled by over-indulgence. But
as it was, he sometimes made his mother's life miserable for hours by
his persistent waywardness.

Fortunately for Rhoda, he took to her from the moment he saw her. She
gave in over the question concerning her name, because she did not
think it worth contending about, and Ralph ostentatiously called her
Rose upon every occasion.

When she wrote her letter to Frank, Rhoda could tell him and her mother
that she thought she should be very comfortable when she got used to
the ways of her new home.

Rhoda was one of those people who can adapt themselves to
circumstances, and she not only made herself happy, but those about her
felt the influence of her cheerful, contented spirit. It was this that
attracted the wayward little Ralph, and soon gave her so much power
over him that no one in the house could do with him as Rose could. By
dint of coaxing and persuading, telling him stories, and singing her
old school songs to him, she could always keep him happy and amused in
the nursery. But the difficulty of getting him to go to school was by
no means decreased, and anything in the way of a future pleasure was
held out to him as a reward for going to school without crying.


One day, when he was out walking with Rhoda, he caught sight of some
large gaily pictured bills being posted on a wall. In a moment he grew
eagerly excited.

"Rose, Rose!" he exclaimed, tugging at her dress, and pointing to the
gaudy red and yellow pictures. "The circus is coming again. Look! Look!"

"Yes, I see," answered Rhoda, pausing to please the little boy.

"Wouldn't you like to go and see it?" he demanded.

Rhoda knew how she was expected to answer and humour him, and to get
him to come along she said,—

"Yes, that I should."

"Then you shall go, Rose," announced Ralph, loftily. "I'm going this
time; my papa said I should before, and I'll take you."

"Oh, thank you," said Rhoda, laughing; "but come along now, Master
Ralph, or we shall be late for dinner."


As soon as they got home, Ralph ran in search of his father.

"Papa, papa, the circus has come again!" he called.

Mr. Middleton very soon made his appearance, and listened to Ralph's
account of the pictures with due attention.

"You'll take me, papa, and Rose too, won't you?" concluded the little
boy.

"We'll make a bargain, Ralph. The circus is coming next week, and if
you go to school this afternoon and every day without crying or making
any fuss, you shall go and see it."

"And Rose too?" demanded Ralph.

"Well, I don't know about Rose," said Mr. Middleton.

"But if I was very, very good, papa, and didn't cry once, or go to
mamma to let me stop at home, would you let Rose go then?"

A whole week's peace for Mrs. Middleton was too precious not to be
bought at such a price as this, and so his father said,—

"Yes, Rose shall go to the circus somehow, if you are good the whole
week through. But mind, if you once go crying to your mamma, she will
lose her treat."

Ralph went up to the nursery looking very grave.

"I've got to be good and go to school without crying for a whole week,
Rose, or else you won't go to the circus," he said. "Do you want to go
very much?" he asked, wondering whether his resolution to be good, and
not even ask to stay at home, could possibly hold out for as long as a
week.

Rhoda, who understood the reason for this, was all at once eager in her
desire to see the wonders of the circus.

"I never was inside one in my life," she said. "I've seen the beautiful
horses and ponies going through the streets in procession, but that
isn't like seeing them inside the big tent."

"Then you shall go next week. I 'will' be good," said Ralph,
resolutely. "You'll help me, Rose, won't you?" he added.

"Yes, dear, I will," said Rhoda, kissing him.

The good resolution was kept that afternoon, for Ralph went off to
school without the least fuss.


The next morning, however, there was a hard struggle. He wanted Rhoda
to go and ask his mamma to let him stay at home, for he had made up his
mind that the circus procession would parade the streets that day. And
Rhoda had some difficulty to convince him that it would not come to the
town until the night before the performance was to commence.

"Are you sure, Rose—are you quite sure? You are not telling a story?"
said the little boy, earnestly.

Rhoda could scarcely keep from laughing. But she managed to say quite
seriously,—

"Have I ever told you a story now, Ralph?" For she had always taken
care never to make him any promise that she could not perform.

"No, you haven't, so I'll believe you now," said the boy. And he
submitted to the washing and dressing process without further demur.

Everybody was astonished to find that Ralph had gone to school without
the usual screaming. And Mr. Middleton congratulated Rhoda on her
conquest of him, although he scarcely expected his good behaviour would
hold out for a whole week.

But it did, and as an extra reward Ralph was allowed to stay at home in
the morning to see the circus procession pass through the town, and in
the afternoon he and Rhoda, with Mary the housemaid, were to go and see
the performance.

Mr. Middleton did not like to trust him with Rhoda alone, but as he had
fairly kept his part of the bargain, he had resolved that Rhoda should
go. And very proud did Ralph feel as he took Rhoda's hand, and led her
into the great tent where the performance was to be held.

They had front seats and a capital view of the whole performance, and
Rhoda enjoyed the spectacle almost as much as Ralph did, clapping her
hands as loudly as anybody at the success of the various performances.

But the spectacle advertised in the largest type was the "Fairy
Queen and her Court," and this was nearly the last of the programme.
Everybody was talking about this and on the tiptoe of expectation when
it was about to begin. At last, the band struck up, and a party of
children, mounted on cream-coloured ponies, and dressed as fairies,
pranced into the ring, and were received with shouts of applause.

In the midst of this procession, the youngest, fairest, and prettiest
little girl of the company—a little creature scarcely more than two
years old—rode on a quiet-stepping but elegantly caparisoned little
pony. The moment she appeared, Rhoda's eyes were fastened upon the
child. She looked half frightened, and cast wistful, imploring glances
at one of the pages who led her pony.

Rhoda leaned right over the balustrade in front when she came round the
second time, and then murmured, "It is, it is; I know the hair and the
moles!"

"What did you say, Rose?" asked Ralph. "Hasn't she got pretty hair?"

"Yes, dear, yes," answered Rhoda, scarcely knowing what she was saying,
and sinking back in her seat as she spoke.

Mary turned and looked at her. "Are you ill, Rhoda?" she said in a tone
of alarm, noticing how pale she looked.

Rhoda shook her head, but her companion made up her mind she was going
to faint.

"You'd better go outside before you get worse," she said; "it's the
smell of the sawdust and the warm place, I expect."

"Yes, I'll go out," said Rhoda eagerly.

And room was made for her to pass the people sitting at the back. Her
pale, scared looks made others think she felt ill, and so every one
made way for her to pass, and she was soon outside the tent, her last
look at the ring being directed to the baby rider in her fairy dress.

Once outside, she had soon made up her mind what to do. Putting her
hand to her pocket, to make sure that she had her purse and the remains
of Mr. Wright's five shillings, she hurried to the post office and
asked for a telegraph form.

She had to make an effort to collect all her wits and make sure that
she made no mistake in the address or message; for what she had seen at
the circus was so startling, so unexpected, that her fingers trembled
with agitation as she wrote each word in its division, large and clear,
that there should be no possibility of any mistake being made. And this
is what she wrote:

   "Lilla—is—here—in—a—show—come—and—get—her."

Having despatched her telegram, Rhoda ran home. But instead of ringing
the bell at the private entrance, as usual, she went into the shop—a
thing she had never done before. Mr. Middleton saw her come in, and
noticing her disturbed looks, thought something must have happened to
Ralph, and left his desk to come and meet her.

"What is it? What is it?" he said quickly and anxiously.

"Please, sir, little Lilla Wright is at the show; she's the fairy
queen, and rides on a pony."

"What! My little niece who was lost some time ago?" uttered Mr.
Middleton in astonishment.

"Yes, sir; I knew her the minute I saw her, and I saw the moles on her
chin and her arm as plain as possible."

"Then we must send for her father. I should not know her, and therefore
could not claim her. But we'll send a telegram to him."

"I have, sir; I went round by the post office when I came out of the
show. Do you think he will get here to-night?" asked Rhoda.

"Yes, I should think so. You have certainly done a most sensible thing,
Rhoda. But to make sure that these people don't get rid of the child
before her father can get here, we'll go and give information to the
police, so that they may keep their eyes upon them."

And Mr. Middleton sent for his hat, and he and Rhoda went away to the
police station at once.

The people were coming home from the circus when they got into the
street, and they met Ralph and Mary as they went along. The little boy
instantly darted to Rhoda, and seized her hand.

"What did you go home for?" he asked. "Mary said you were ill, but you
don't look ill now. And where are you going with papa?"

"Never mind where she's going; she'll come back again soon, my boy,"
interposed Mr. Middleton. "You go away with Mary, and tell mamma what
you have seen at the show."

But Ralph pouted and shook himself. "I don't want to go with Mary; I
want my Rose," he grumbled out.

"You go with Mary, and I'll tell you a story when I come home, quite a
new story about a fairy queen," said Rhoda; for the finding of little
Bobbie on the common was a story Ralph never wearied of hearing, and
now the finding of Lilla at the circus show would be a still more
wonderful incident to relate.

After a little more coaxing, Ralph agreed to go home with Mary,
although she, as well as the little boy, wondered where Rhoda could be
going with her master.

"Then you did not tell either of them why you came out?" said Mr.
Middleton, as they went on again.

"No, sir, I couldn't; it—it seemed to take my breath away at first. And
when Mary said I'd better come out, I thought I'd come and tell you at
first, and then I thought of the telegram."

The police listened to Rhoda's account, and then it was arranged that
the circus people should be watched until Mr. Wright's arrival. And
then a couple of policemen should go with him when he went to claim the
child.

The anxious father reached Rilchester about nine o'clock. Mr. Middleton
was at the station, awaiting the arrival of the train, and they went
off to the circus at once and took front seats, for the police had
advised that the father should see if he could recognise the child
before venturing to claim her.

They were in plenty of time for the fairy queen scene, and Mr. Wright
sat with eager eyes fastened on the entrance where he expected his
child to appear. And the moment she came into the ring, he knew her.

"Lilla, Lilla!" he cried.

And before Mr. Middleton could stop him, he was over the balustrade,
and had seized the pony's head and turned it out of the line of
procession.

At the sound of her father's voice calling her by the old familiar
name, the child had uttered a startled little cry.

The astonished attendants had gathered round the pony and child, and
tried to push the father away, but the police were at hand, and Lilla
and her pony were led out instantly. The child was fastened securely
to her saddle, so there was no fear of her falling. But as soon as the
fastenings were undone, she was clasped in her father's arms, and there
was little further need beyond this recognition to convince the police
that he had the right to carry her away.

There was an inquiry before the magistrate the next morning, when the
proprietor stated that he found the child wandering alone, after dark,
along a deserted road, and if he had not picked her up she would have
died of cold before the morning.

This tale of course might be true, or it might not. Nobody could
contradict it, and Mr. Wright was too thankful to have Lilla to wish to
punish her captors.



CHAPTER VI.

ALONE IN THE WORLD.

WHEN Esther and Mary Coppinger parted at the cross roads, both fully
intended meeting shortly afterwards in High Street. But when Esther was
left to ruminate alone on the message sent by Mary, it magnified itself
so much in her mind, and was so hurtful to her pride and self-love, as
to shut out every other thought, and she felt herself to be very deeply
injured and aggrieved by being told not to come home again until she
had found her little sister.

"I'm not wanted at home, that's plain enough," said Esther, talking to
herself half aloud, as she went along.

She had formed no definite plan of running away yet, but she brooded
over this thought of not being wanted at home until she reached High
Street. Here she stood in the shadow of an entry, with a sort of
half-formed resolution not to go home again if Mary Coppinger should
have found Lilla, and she watched the opposite road for Mary to appear,
and let that decide her.

She had not been waiting long, before she saw some one strikingly like
her friend in figure and dress, and carrying a little girl whose long
fair hair could plainly be seen as they passed a gas lamp.

The road was crossed at just the angle Mary would take to meet her
at the spot agreed upon, and although she could not see the faces of
either, she felt so certain of their identity that she hastily turned
the corner of a neighbouring street, lest Mary should turn back to look
for her.

She felt bitterly angry and insulted, and the feeling naturally
increased by being pondered over. Until at last, the foolish girl
actually herself believed that she had been turned out of doors,
because her younger brothers and sisters were loved more than she was.

She scarcely knew where she was going until she found herself close to
the railway station, and with the one wild desire to get away from home
as fast as she could, she went in and asked for a ticket for the next
town. She had about a shilling in her pocket—money of her own—but when
this ticket was paid for, she had only a few halfpence left with which
to face the world, in an utterly strange neighbourhood.

She had been to the town she booked for once before, but she knew no
one there now, for her aunt had moved away long ago, and so she would
be a total stranger to the place.

When she reached her journey's end, she found to her dismay that it
was raining—a cold drizzling rain, whose every drop seemed to sting
and freeze. The station was in a back part of the town, where there
were but a few small shops, and these were putting up the last of their
shutters, so that almost the only light came from the few gas lamps
that shone on the wet sloppy pavement, and made the darkness visible.

Esther drew back for a moment, for even the grimy, draughty station was
preferable to the street outside. But presently the passengers had all
gone, and one of the porters remarked, as he passed and saw her,—

"It's no good waiting for the rain to-night, miss; it won't give over
for hours."

Esther took the hint and went out. Then wondering which way she had
better go, and for the first time remembering that it could matter
little which way she went, she yet paused on the edge of the pavement,
to decide whether she should go up or down the street.

At the same moment, a policeman came slowly pacing along the pavement,
and seeing Esther standing without an umbrella in the rain, he said,
"Better make haste home, my girl, or you'll soon get wet through."

She needed no second bidding, but hurried away up the street. Where
she was to go, what she was to do, she did not know. She could not
return home now, even if she had wished, for she had spent nearly all
her money coming here, but she did not wish it just yet. Oh, no, she
had made up her mind what she would do now; she would get a situation
to serve in a confectioner's or stationer's shop. And when she was
comfortably settled, she would write and tell them at home all about
it, and how well she was getting on, and that she forgave them for all
their unkindness to her.

She looked up at the shops as she thought out this plan, and decided
that she had made a mistake in coming here so late at night, when it
was impossible for her to make the necessary inquiries. Where she was
to pass the night, and wait for the morning to come, to begin her
search for a situation, was the difficulty now. But she walked on
sharply, quickening her pace whenever a policeman appeared, for fear he
should speak to her, as the other had done.

Presently she had walked beyond the town, out on a country road, and
the wind came sweeping over the fields and chilling Esther almost to
the bones. She was tired and footsore, too, and almost wet through. To
walk fast any longer was impossible, but she gazed all round through
scalding tears, in the hope of finding some shelter from the bitter
cold wind and driving rain. Nothing but the bare hedges and vacant
fields, however, were to be seen.

And she walked on and on, thinking—when she did think now—that she must
have been walking all night, and that the morning would surely soon
dawn, when she heard the chimes of a distant church clock wafted to her
on the breeze. And then it began to strike.

And she stood still to count,—One, two, three, four, five, six, seven;
why, surely the clock must be wrong striking so many times, until
Esther had counted twelve.

"Twelve o'clock," she repeated with a shiver, "only twelve," and she
recommenced her weary walk with a burst of tears.

But presently she saw a shed in a field, and decided that to sit down
on the outside, where she would be a little sheltered from the wind
and rain, would be better than walking aimlessly along the road. And
so she made her way through a gap in the hedge, and hurried across the
field as fast as her tired limbs would carry her. She went all round
the shed, and at last found a door which, fortunately for her, some
careless hand had left unlocked. She was careful to look all round by
the dim light of the doorway before closing the door, and finding there
nothing but a heap of straw in one corner, she shut and fastened it,
and then lay down on the straw.

Miserable and forlorn as she was, she yet felt thankful for this
shelter, and was so utterly tired out, that in spite of being wet and
cold, she was soon fast asleep.

It was broad daylight when she awoke with a start of wonder at her
strange surroundings—the daylight shining through the chinks of the
boards, the straw all round her, so unlike her comfortable bedroom at
home. Then the experience of the previous day flashed upon her mind,
and she buried her head in the straw and burst into tears.

"But I won't go home," was her next thought.

An attempt to move her arm at this moment caused her such pain that she
groaned aloud. And she lay still and wondered whether she should feel
better if she rested a little longer. She did not feel so cold now, but
her body ached all over, and it was not until several desperate efforts
had been made that she succeeded in getting on to her feet.

She shook out her frock, picked the bits of straw from her jacket, hat,
and hair, and then prepared to leave the shed, for the sound of distant
voices warned her that she might be discovered at any moment now. She
peeped out of one the chinks before venturing to open the door. Then
after a careful survey, she slipped outside, shut the door again, and
made her way to the field path as fast as she could.

But oh! the pain every movement caused her. Her limbs were so stiff and
sore that she could scarce drag herself along, and a more wretchedly
forlorn object than she now appeared it would be difficult to imagine.

The rain had ceased now, and Esther tried to persuade herself that
her troubles were over, as the night had been got through. But if she
could only have seen her white face, and considered her mud-bedraggled
boots and frock, she would have recognised that she looked more like a
tramp than a respectable girl. As to getting a situation, even in the
meanest capacity, under present conditions, that was simply out of the
question, for who would take in a girl without home or friends, of whom
inquiries might be made as to her antecedents?

But Esther still hugged the idea of being able to do without father
or mother. And so she turned to retrace her steps along the road she
had walked up last night, nibbling the biscuits she had left in her
pocket by way of breakfast. Not that she felt hungry, her head ached
and throbbed too much for that, but she was afraid if she did not eat
something, she might be ill. And so she dragged herself slowly along
towards the town once more.

As she reached the outskirts, another church clock struck twelve, and
she tried to quicken her pace, lest she should not find what she needed
before night came on again.

As soon as she reached a baker's shop, she went in, having made up her
mind to try these first. But before any one could come in answer to
her tapping on the counter, her courage had begun to fail, and when a
cross-looking man said sharply from the doorway, "What do you want?"
thinking she was a beggar, she just had wit enough left to say, "I want
a halfpenny bun, if you please."

"You'd like a stale penny one, wouldn't you?" said the man in a more
gentle tone, thinking she must be half-starved from her appearance.

"Thank you," said Esther meekly, as she took the stale penny bun; and a
faint colour stole into her face as she noticed how the man looked at
her, and watched her out of the shop.

She did not want the bun just now, and so put it into her pocket,
and walked on in a half-dazed fashion. But clinging in a dogged,
instinctive sort of way to her purpose of getting a situation in a
baker's shop, she soon went into another.

A smart young woman was putting up some cakes in a bag behind the
counter, so there was no time to think of anything but the purpose that
had brought her into the shop this time. And she said, "If you please,
I want a situation to serve in a shop like this; do you know of one?"

The shopwoman paused with a bag in her hand to stare at Esther. She was
too much amazed at the question to answer for a minute, but at length
she managed to say, "No, I don't know of anything likely to suit you."
And she watched her out of the shop with widely opened eyes.

But Esther was really too confused and dazed to notice the wonder her
question had excited, and thinking she might do better perhaps among
the smaller shops, she turned into a side street that soon brought her
to the railway station, which she recognised again as she went on in
search of a baker's shop.

They seemed to abound in this neighbourhood, and she went into one
after another, repeating her request with a sort of stupid reiteration,
but receiving often only very uncivil answers. Less than this would
have daunted her if she had been in full possession of all her
faculties, but her brain was well-nigh numbed with its misery, and it
was not until the gas lamps were lighted that she gave up her quest.

Then she recognised that night was coming again, and she had just sense
enough left to find her way back to the road she had already travelled
over twice. To get back to the shelter of the shed and its comfortable
heap of straw was her one desire in life now. She bought some milk, and
drank it in the course of the day, and this, with half the stale bun,
was all she wanted.

Soon after she left the town, it began to rain again, just such a cold
drizzling rain as that of the previous day, and poor Esther was soon
wet through again. Wearily she dragged her stiffened, tired limbs along
the wet, muddy road. It was dark long before she gained the shelter she
was making for, but it was reached at last. She had just sense enough
left to secure the door, and then down she sank on the pile of straw,
utterly worn out.

The power to think, to reason, to hope, or to fear was gone now,
and the poor girl sank into a state of unconsciousness more akin to
insensibility than sleep. She lay tossing on her straw all night,
aroused to semi-consciousness sometimes by the burning thirst that now
consumed her and the pain in all her limbs whenever she moved.

How long she lay in this miserable plight she never knew, but at length
her groans attracted the attention of some one passing by, and the door
was opened.

No one who had known her before would have recognised Esther Wright in
the dirty, bedraggled creature rolling on the straw with wild, starting
eyes, and lips almost blackened with the fever that consumed her.

The man had come prepared to bully the tramp who had dared to take
possession of his shed in this unceremonious fashion. But one glance at
Esther stopped the angry words he was about to utter, and he scratched
his head in perplexity as to what he had better do. The wild eyes, the
rolling head, the continuous moaning and muttering, all spoke of the
delirium of fever, and, trespassing tramp as she was, something must be
done for her.

"Better send for the workhouse people, master, and let them fetch her
away," suggested an old labourer, who had slowly limped up behind the
first comer.

"Yes, it's the only thing to do, I suppose," said the other with
another scratch at his head; "the police ain't no good here now. Drat
the tramps! I wish they'd let my shed alone," he muttered as he shut
the door again.

The old man was despatched to the relieving officer, with a message
that he must come at once and fetch the sick girl away. But several
hours elapsed before any one else came near the shed.

At length, a parish nurse, with a couple of men, was sent with a
hand ambulance to remove her. And she was carried to the workhouse
infirmary, and set down as a "girl tramp, name unknown."

Her clothes were looked over after they were washed. And although
the tidy garments betokened a different condition in life from that
of a tramp, there was no name or mark upon them, and it was easier
to believe they had been given to her by some charitable individual
shortly before she was taken ill, than to make inquiries it was
nobody's special business to take up. And so, while all sorts of
inquiries were being made for Esther in London, here she lay in the
workhouse infirmary, scarcely ten miles from home, as a tramp and
outcast it was nobody's business to care for, beyond seeing that the
doctor's orders were carried out, and that she did not die of actual
want and neglect.



CHAPTER VII.

IN THE WORKHOUSE.

IF, when Esther so hastily took her future into her own hands and ran
away from home, she could have looked onward but a few weeks, or even
a few days, how she would have shrunk from the picture that would have
been disclosed to her! What would have been the righteous anger of
mother and father, or any punishment they might inflict, as compared
with the cold attentions of infirmary officials to a workhouse tramp?

For some weeks Esther was too ill to know where she was.
Unconsciousness mercifully hid her present surroundings from her.
But one day she woke up after a long sleep, and as her eyes took in,
not the well-remembered furniture of her little room at home, but
the long row of little beds with their blue check counterpanes, the
bare whitewashed walls, and the sour-looking nurse, that came towards
her with a bottle in her hand, Esther closed her eyes, well-nigh
overwhelmed with misery, as recollection came back to her.

"Here! Come, take your physic; you're awake, I can see," said a harsh,
rough voice. "Come! Stir up; we've had trouble enough with you," went
on the nurse, seeing Esther did not move.

But the poor girl did not stir up. She was too weak and faint even to
lift her hand, and the conviction that she was not at home in her own
little room had well-nigh crushed all the little life that remained out
of her.

"Oh, well, if you won't take it, you must go without it," said the
nurse roughly, as she set the bottle down with a bang on the locker
that stood beside the bed, and went to see to another patient.

Esther heard the words as if they were spoken a long way off, and did
not concern her in the least, for she seemed to be sinking, sinking,
sinking down into the cold waves of death, because there was no one
at hand that loved her well enough to help her to struggle back into
life. If she had but been ill like this at home, how anxiously would
her mother have watched beside her, lovingly nursing her back to life
and consciousness when the fever had passed away. But as it was, Esther
slipped back into the dark valley of horrible dreams and fancies, and
for a time her life was again despaired of by the doctor.

This second illness puzzled him a good deal. And although she was still
only a workhouse tramp, she now became an interesting case to the
young doctor who had lately watched over her. He had a keen suspicion
that the nurse was not as attentive as she might be, and he went in
to see Esther and look after her more frequently, giving her food and
medicine often himself. He happened to be by her bedside when she
slowly struggled back to consciousness the second time. And without a
word being spoken, she felt something sweet and pleasant put between
her lips, that seemed to revive her, and give her new strength as soon
as she had swallowed it.

"Now lie quite still, and keep your eyes shut," said a gentle voice,
for the keen-eyed doctor had noticed the shudder that passed over
Esther's face as she caught sight of the rows of little beds again, and
that set him thinking.

The sight of the place evidently upset her, and that might account for
the previous relapse. So he had a screen brought from his own room and
placed round Esther's bed, and then he gave her a little more of the
cordial. And she opened her eyes without a shudder this time.

"Where am I?" she feebly whispered.

"With friends," said the doctor; "and they wish you to lie quite still
and get well."

"Has mother come?" asked Esther, after a pause.

"Not yet, my dear. You must go to sleep now; you have talked enough,"
said her friend.

And he moved away, telling the nurse he should be back in about an hour.

"Not yet," murmured Esther; "mother not come yet, and I've been here
weeks and weeks now, so that if they'd tried to find me, they would
have done so long ago."

And the tears welled up to Esther's eyes, as she thought of how soon
she had been forgotten by mother and father.

Poor foolish Esther made herself very miserable again, until she fell
asleep and forgot her trouble. But every time she woke, there it was
waiting for her; for she knew the pictured screen only hid the long row
of little beds, and the harsh voice of the nurse could be heard all too
plainly. And she wished—oh, how she wished—that father and mother had
loved her well enough to come and find her, and take her home again.
She altogether ignored her own share in the separation—that she had put
it out of their power to find her, and that she alone could bridge the
gulf that now separated them, and bring about a reunion.

All day long she lay there, wishing her mother would come, longing
for the gentle touch of a loving hand to raise her head and shake up
her pillow, and soothe her restlessness when she grew so unutterably
weary. But that she ought to seek for this, that a word from her to
the kind-hearted doctor would have induced him to write at once to her
parents, she never thought of.

The doctor often looked at her and felt puzzled, wondering why it was
she made such slow progress towards recovery. If he had had time, he
might have questioned her, and thus brought out all the truth, and
ended the poor girl's misery. But the infirmary was very full just
now, and he had a great many patients on his hands, for there had
been an outbreak of scarlet fever in the town, and a good many of the
poor people who were seized with the epidemic had been removed to the
infirmary.

For this reason, too, the visits of those ladies who came to read to
the patients had to be suspended just now, so that Esther was left
entirely without friendly advice or attention from any one. The nurse
regarded her as sulky and ill-tempered, because she lay quietly crying
or thinking, but never tried to rouse herself, even when any of the
other patients spoke to her. She took the screen away, thinking this
would compel her to rouse herself a little. But it seemed to have a
contrary effect, and Esther lay there apparently more lifeless than
ever.

"I don't believe she wants to get well, that's my opinion," said nurse
one day, after the doctor had been questioning her about Esther's
appetite.

And although the doctor shook his head and smiled, he thought there
must be some truth in the remark.

In point of fact, the nurse's opinion was the correct one. Esther did
not want to get well. Why should she? According to her present belief,
there was no one in the wide world who loved her, or cared whether she
was ill or well; and so there was no energy in her to enable her to
struggle back to life and health again.

For some little time, she made slow progress towards recovery. Then the
progress ceased, and she began to slip back, growing weaker instead of
stronger each day.

One morning, after the doctor had paid his usual visit, Esther
overheard him say to the nurse, "We shan't save her, after all; she has
no strength to rally." And she knew what he meant, and thought she must
be dying then, and grew dreadfully afraid.

She tried to pray; she implored that God would spare her life, and let
her see her mother once more. And when nurse brought her some beef tea
shortly afterwards, instead of turning away from it, as she usually
did, she drank the whole of it; for a strong desire to live had now
taken possession of Esther. And from this time, she began to amend in
real earnest, using all the means possible to aid her recovery.

She still shrank from letting the workhouse people know who she was, or
her friends from knowing where she was. The same foolish pride that had
led her into all this misery prevented her getting out of it. As soon
as she began to get better, the old resolution of being independent
of mother and father for help took possession of her again, and she
resolved to get a situation as nursery-maid when she could leave the
workhouse.

As soon as she was able to get up, a fresh trial awaited her, for she
had to put on one of the ugly, ill-fitting workhouse dresses, and put a
little shawl round her shoulders, like everybody else. She shed a good
many tears over it at first, but nobody noticed her or her tears. And
at last she grew tired of crying, and tried to walk a little way down
the ward.

Now there was one old lady in the last bed, who had often looked at
Esther and pitied her, feeling sure the girl was something different
from the ordinary run of tramps. And now, as she approached, she said,—

"Will you come and sit down in this armchair, my dear? For I am afraid
you feel very tired."

"Yes, I do," said Esther, with a sigh. "I suppose it must be because I
have been ill so long."

And as she spoke, she looked out of the window, and noticed for the
first time that the trees were putting on their leaves again, and knew
that she must indeed have been a long time ill.

"Now sit down here and rest a bit. Another day, if you can get as far,
you shall read to me, my dear. Can you read?" asked the old woman.

"Oh, yes," answered Esther with a faint smile, forgetting that it was
no uncommon thing for tramps not to be able to read.

"My old eyes are getting dim," remarked the old lady, as she put on her
spectacles, the better to have a good look at Esther as she sat by her
bedside. "A lady used to come and read to us once or twice a week, but
since the fever broke out in the town, no visitors are allowed. Where
do you live—not in this town, do you?"

"Oh, no," answered Esther quickly, who had hitherto escaped questioning
on this point, through being known as a tramp.

"Ah! I thought not," said the old lady; and then she relapsed into
silence, and sat looking at Esther's pale face.

The girl felt she was being looked at, and grew uncomfortable.

"I'll go back to my own bed now," she said; "but I'll come and read to
you to-morrow, if I can."

"Yes, do. Good-bye, my dear; God bless you! It does my old eyes good
to look at your young face; for you remind me of my Nellie, before she
went away."

"Did—did she go away from home?" asked Esther, pausing by the bed to
ask the question.

"Yes, my dear," said the old lady with a groan; "and her father never
held up his head again afterwards. I couldn't die, for I knew my girl
might want me, and so I just waited and watched, living on at the old
cottage until she came back."

"And she did come back?"

"Yes, my poor darling came back to die. It took the last of the few
pounds we had been able to save to provide her with the comforts she
needed, and when that money was spent, I had to come in here. But what
did that matter, so that my darling never knew it, and had her last
days made smooth and easy?"

Esther looked at the old woman and wondered. Was it possible that this
was the way many mothers loved their daughters? Could her mother have
been watching and waiting for news of her, as this old lady had waited
for her Nellie?

But no; it was only when they were little ones like Lilla that they
were so deeply loved, whispered Jealousy again, as Esther walked slowly
down the ward. No; if she had been loved like Lilla, or like this old
woman had loved her child, they would have found her out long ago,
argued Esther. But still the stirring of her trouble again had been
very painful, and she lay down on the bed and cried for the next hour.


The next morning she was up and dressed early, and walked down to the
corner bed. The old woman held out her hand and greeted her with a
smile of welcome, as she said,—

"Come along, my dear, and sit down."

"Would you like me to read to you?" said Esther, feeling this was the
best way to guard against awkward questions being asked.

"Yes, my deary. I've got a Testament here, and I want you to find the
story about the Prodigal Son in the fifteenth chapter of St. Luke."

Esther had often read this at Sunday school, and soon found the place.
She could read very nicely, too, modulating her voice, so as to give
due effect to the narrative. The old habit was strong enough to enable
her to do this without trying for effect now, and for the first time,
perhaps, in her life she was thinking more of what she was reading than
how she ought to read.

At last, as she came to the verses, "I will arise and go to my father,
and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before
thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son," she put down the
book, laid her head on the old woman's pillow, and sobbed as though her
heart would break.

Light had broken upon her soul at last.

"I have sinned, I have sinned!" she sobbed. "I have been a wicked girl!"

"Hush, hush, my deary," said the old lady, in some alarm lest Esther
should make herself ill again.

But Esther sobbed on, "I am too wicked for mother or God ever to
forgive me! And I used to think I was so good, because I was the top
girl in the class. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Do? Why, just what the young man we are reading about did—just what my
Nellie did when she let God speak to her. Go home to your mother, if
you have one; that is the first step towards going back to God."

"But, oh! Will she forgive me?" sobbed Esther.

"Forgive you? Ah, child, child, you little know what a mother's love
is, or you would not ask such a question. Don't you remember the father
in this parable? When the son was a great way off, he went to meet him;
and that is a picture of God's love and mother's love. God sent His own
Son to us sinners when we were yet a great way off, that we might know
of the Father's love to us; for—

   "'God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life.'

"My dear, you have heard this before, I daresay, but never thought of
it or what it meant, because you never felt the need of it until now. I
daresay, if you only knew it, your mother has been waiting and watching
and searching for you all this time. Would you like to tell me how it
all happened? And then we might find out a way to let her know where
you are."

Esther lifted her head and dried her eyes, while she sobbingly
whispered the story of her flight from home, and what she had suffered
since.

The old lady lifted her hands, and thought she had never heard of
anything so foolish.

"It has all happened through your pride, my dear—just a commentary upon
the wise man's words, that—

   "'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.'

"And pride has been keeping you away from your poor broken-hearted
mother all this time. Now we must see how we can break the news to her.
You must write to some friend you know, and tell them where you are—the
friend that was with you when you went off to the station," suggested
the old lady.

But Esther shrank from letting Mary Coppinger know where she was.

"I'll write a letter to Rhoda Morris, and get her to go in and tell
mother," she said.

And once having arrived at this determination, Esther was impatient
to put it into effect. The old lady gave her a sheet of paper and an
envelope, and nurse lent her some ink, and before dinner the letter was
written and posted.

Then Esther went to lie on her bed again, but not to sleep. An
overwhelming sense of her sin against God, as well as her mother and
father, took possession of her, and she lay mentally praying,—

   "'God be merciful to me a sinner!'"

At length the words, "God so loved the world that He gave His only
begotten Son," brought peace to her soul. God had loved her so much
that He had given up His Son to prove it, even to the death upon the
cross for her. Her sin might be great, but God's love was greater, and
she could rest upon this until some message came from home in answer to
her letter.



CHAPTER VIII.

CONCLUSION.

"FATHER, we're going to have a second apprentice at our shop; a boy
to learn the printing, and do odd jobs about the office; and in
consideration of this help, he will be taken without a premium."

Mr. Wright looked up from his paper.

"How is this?" he said. "I paid a pretty stiff premium with you, Tom,
and Mr. Mortimer assured me he would not take a lad without a premium."

"Yes! That's just it, father, and that's why I thought I'd mention it
to you as soon as I heard it spoken of. We want another boy, that's a
fact, and I think if you went in and spoke to Mr. Mortimer, you might
secure this place for Frank Morris. Look here, father, I served him a
shabby trick a little while ago, and I'd like to square things up a bit
if I could, to say nothing of doing 'em a kindness in return for their
finding Lilla for us."

"But it was Rhoda that helped us to get Lilla back."

"Yes! But it's all one with them, I know; and Frank wants a place
awfully bad."

"Well! I think I will step in and speak to Mr. Mortimer about it.
I don't mind you associating with Frank Morris, but I might object
to some others I could name. And I shall remind Mr. Mortimer of our
contract."

Going back to work, Tom overtook Frank on his way to school.

"How would you like to learn printing, old fellow?" he said, linking
his arm in Frank's as he spoke.

The boys had grown intimate lately, and often walked to and from the
town together, but neither of them had ever referred to what was often
uppermost in their minds.

But now Frank said, with a slight cough, "They wouldn't have me as
errand boy, so they're not likely to give me a chance at printing."

"I don't know so much about that; my father will have a say in the
matter, I fancy, and the thing is, would you like to learn the trade?"

"Why, you know I should, Tom," said Frank, "but it seems altogether too
good for me after—after—"

"There, shut up, and don't let us hear any more about that other
affair, and don't send the bellman round with the news until you
hear from me again. But I expect dad will go in and see the governor
to-night, and I'll try and let you know what he says to-morrow."

Frank was waiting for Tom at the corner of the street the next morning
with a letter in his hand. But he had forgotten the letter in his
eagerness to hear what Tom had to tell him.

Tom threw his cap up in the air by way of greeting, and shouted, "It's
all right, old fellow!"

The colour went and came in Frank's eager face. "Do you really mean
it?" he said with a sort of gasping sob.

Tom looked at him curiously. "Do you feel as glad as all that?" he said
in some astonishment.

"I couldn't sleep for thinking of it after the other affair," replied
the boy.

"Well! It's all right this time, old chappie, and the governor wants to
see you this morning. But he'll give you a trial, any way."

"Well, I'm going in the shop to buy a bigger envelope, to send this
letter on to Rhoda; the postman—"

But Tom had caught sight of the handwriting on the letter, and snatched
it from Frank's hand. He still stood staring at it with widely opened
eyes as he gasped, "Do you know who this comes from?"

"No; mother wondered who could be writing to Rhoda, and—"

"It's my sister Esther!" said Tom with a gasp.

"Then let's go back to mother, and ask her to open it," said Frank
promptly; "she was indoors when I came out."

Both boys rushed back at the top of their speed, and met Mrs. Morris on
her way to Mrs. Wright's.

"Mother, Tom says this letter for Rhoda is from Esther Wright," panted
Frank.

"From Esther?" Mrs. Morris took the letter and instantly tore it open.

"It is," she said in a tone of wondering amazement, for she caught
sight of the signature before she read the letter. She had seen the
address at the top, "Ward 20, Newberry Workhouse," and hastily folded
the letter before the boys could see it. "Tom, go and see if your
father has gone, and if he has, run and fetch him back," said Mrs.
Morris; "but mind you don't say a word to your mother, or the sudden
news might kill her."

How Tom kept the excitement out of his face long enough to go back and
ask quietly for his father he did not know. But his mother, supposing
it was about the situation at Mortimer's that Mrs. Morris wanted to
see her husband about, told Tom to make haste back to his work. But he
beckoned his father to follow him at once, and as soon as the door was
closed, he said, "Mrs. Morris has got a letter from Esther, father."

For a moment the strong man staggered back against the door, just as
though he had been struck.

"From Esther? Where is she?" he gasped. And then he hurried on up the
street to where Mrs. Morris was standing with the letter in her hand.
"Where is she?" he asked anxiously.

"Not far off. How are we to tell her mother?"

Mr. Wright took the letter and read it. "Thank God, she is safe! But
she has been very ill, and we must both go to her at once," he said, as
he refolded the letter and put it into his pocket. "How had we better
break the news to her?" he said. "You remember how she was upset about
Lilla."

"Where is she?" asked Tom.

But he only got the same evasive answer, "Not far off."

They all went back together. And then it was decided that Mrs. Morris
should go in first, and break the news as gently as she could to the
sorrowing mother, and Mr. Wright should follow with the letter.

Tom sadly wanted to see the letter too, but his father would not let
him, thinking to spare Esther the pain of having it known where she
had been staying. So he went off to work without further delay, only
stopping to tell everybody he knew on the way that news had come of his
sister at last.

Gently as Mrs. Morris tried to open the subject, nothing could prevent
it being terribly exciting to the anxious mother. But when at last she
held Esther's letter in her hand, and had well-nigh covered it with
joyful tears, she seemed better.

"Let us go at once and fetch her home. My poor girl! My poor Esther!"
said Mrs. Wright, trying to choke back her tears.

One might have thought she had no other child than Esther, to see her
eagerness as she went upstairs and with trembling haste put on her
bonnet and cloak.

"Thank God for me, my dear friend!" she said, kissing Mrs. Morris, who
had followed her, and was now helping her to get ready.

Bobbie and Lilla crept up too, and stared in wondering amazement at
mother's tears, and mother's bonnet being put on so early in the day.

"Be good, children, and mother will bring Esther back," said Mrs.
Wright, kissing them.

Her husband was scarcely less impatient than she was. "You'll mind the
house and the children until we come back, Mrs. Morris," he said, but
looking very much as though the house might be left to mind itself if
she said "No."

They took a cab from the station where Esther had alighted, and were
soon set down at the workhouse gates. The meeting between mother and
daughter can well be imagined. But when the first outburst of joyful
recognition was over, and Esther had time to look at her mother and
father, she was struck with the terrible alteration in them both.

So white and thin her mother looked, with streaks of grey hair among
her brown, and so careworn and bowed was her father, that forgetting
all else, Esther fell on her knees beside them and sobbed, "Oh, forgive
me, forgive me!"

"My dear child, my dear Esther, we do forgive you," said both at once.

And Mrs. Wright lifted her from her knees and drew her head down upon
her shoulder and kissed and soothed her. But Esther's tears still fell
fast.

"I shall never forgive myself!" she sobbed, stroking the white hair.
"Oh, mother, how could I ever doubt your love?"

"'Doubt my love!'" repeated Mrs. Wright. "But how could you do that, my
child?" asked her mother in amazement.

Esther sighed.

"It was a foolish mistake to make, mother, I can see now. But I did
think you cared only for the little ones, and got tired of me."

"And was that why you went off as you did?" asked her father, in still
greater wonder.

"Yes, father. Mary Coppinger told me mother said I wasn't to go home
again until I found Lilla, and we both agreed that big girls weren't
cared for, and only the little ones thought of."

Mr. Wright looked as though he could scarcely believe the evidence of
his senses. Was it possible that a girl could make such a mistake? At
one moment he felt inclined to laugh, and the next to shake her, and
denounce her as the most unfeeling girl he had ever heard of. But the
longer he looked at Esther, the more convinced he became that she had
suffered quite enough for her folly. First he had wondered whether
this girl in the workhouse gown and close-cropped hair could be his
daughter. Whatever the change might be that grief and anxiety had
wrought in him and her mother, sickness and sorrow had changed Esther
even more, and no one would recognise the pale, gaunt, sad-looking girl
before him as the merry Esther Wright, who was the top girl in her
class, and ready for any fun and frolic that came in her way.

Of course the workhouse authorities, and especially the young doctor,
were surprised to hear that the girl they had supposed to be a tramp
was the daughter of respectable people. The only one not surprised
was the old lady who had persuaded her to write the letter, and whose
tender love for her own daughter had first led Esther to think she
might have made a mistake.

They all gathered round her bed to thank and bless her for the share
she had had in the happy reunion.

"Ah, it seems wonderful that a girl could make such a mistake about her
mother and father," said the old woman, grasping Esther's hand; "but
not more wonderful than the mistake so many of us make about the love
of the Heavenly Father for us, His poor ignorant, mistaken children.
Nothing less than the gift of His dear Son, the love that was made
manifest in His death, could ever bring us back to Him."

"I do believe He has forgiven me now!" whispered Esther. "I can believe
that the blood of Jesus Christ will wash away all my sins."

"Yes, my child, and that blood, that life, the Christ life growing in
you, must conquer and overcome the pride and the self-love that has led
to all this trouble. This is what the apostle means when he says,—

   "'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.'

"It is that the Christ life may live and grow in us, and not a mere
empty belief and repeating of creeds and singing of hymns, but the
overcoming our besetting sins, the rooting out of all selfishness."

"Thank you for teaching my Esther what you have," said Mrs. Wright
earnestly. "I too have begun to learn that religion is something more
than a mere profession. And it may be that, after all, these troubles
may be made a blessing to both of us."

At this moment, the nurse appeared with Esther's own clothes, which
had been locked up since they were washed. A sorry figure she
looked in them now. The neat, nice-looking school frock had been so
mud-bedraggled that it was all sorts of colours. It was too large in
the body now, Esther had got so thin, and too short in the skirt, and
her mother wished she had brought some other things for her to go home
in. But, as Mr. Wright reminded them, Esther was too weak to walk far.
They must in any case have a cab most of the way; it did not matter
much, as no one would see her.

The poor girl was even weaker than they imagined. And by the time they
got home, she was so exhausted that her father carried her straight
upstairs, and laid her in her own bed.

"My own room! My own dear little room once more!" said Esther,
thankfully, as she laid her head on the pillow.

Tom came in soon afterwards, but he was only allowed to go up and kiss
her, and come down again. And so the news he was bursting to tell her
had to be kept until the evening.

Then she was allowed to sit up a little while, and Tom came up to tell
her how he had managed to make things right for Frank Morris.

"It was an awful shame, you know, Esther, that he didn't get the place
that time in the front shop, and I felt mad enough about it, when I
found out what a nice chap he was. But it's all right now, for he'll
learn the trade as good as I shall. He came this afternoon, and the
foreman set him to work among the type fonts, and he's as handy as
possible at it, and likes it too, first-rate. Won't Rhoda be pleased?"

"Where is Rhoda?" asked Esther, languidly.

"Don't you know? She's at Rilchester, at aunt's. If she hadn't been
there, we should never have got Lilla back."

"Got Lilla back?" exclaimed Esther. "But she came back with Mary
Coppinger that night."

"Who told you that?" asked Tom.

"I saw her in High Street."

Tom laughed. "Well, of course you went loony or moony that night,
Esther, so there's no telling what you did or didn't see. But I can
tell you this, we never got Lilla back until a fortnight ago. And we
should not have found her then if it hadn't been for that 'vulgar
girl,' Rhoda Morris. I tell you, that girl has been no end of use to us
in our trouble, and it's my opinion, if it hadn't been for her and her
mother—our mother,—'our' mother would have been in her grave."

Esther's tears were silently falling now.

"Oh, Tom, I am so sorry!" she said.

"Now, Tom, I won't have her teased and upset," said Mrs. Wright, coming
in at this moment.

"He isn't teasing me," said Esther; "he is only telling me some things
I ought to have known before. But I can't understand about Lilla,
mother; I thought I saw Mary carrying her up High Street that night, or
I should never have gone away."

"And I tell her there was no accounting for a good many things she did
that day," put in the incorrigible Tom.

"Go downstairs, Tom; Esther is not strong enough to quarrel with you
yet," said his mother.

"I'm not going to quarrel, mother; and Tom's right in what he says.
I think I must have been crazy that day, and a good many other days
besides," said Esther. "But I mean to turn over a new leaf," she added.
"I don't think I shall forget what I learned in the workhouse."

"In the workhouse!" repeated Tom, who still lingered near the door.
"Oh, I say! The high and mighty Esther Wright, top girl and pattern
scholar, in the workhouse!"

"Tom!" expostulated his mother.

But Tom was gone now; he rushed downstairs to question his father,
while Mrs. Wright helped Esther into bed again.

"I didn't mean to let Tom know you were in the workhouse," she said,
"for I am afraid he will bring it up every time you offend him."

"But I don't mean to offend him as I used," said Esther. "I know I
was always putting on airs, and saying things to make him angry and
everything disagreeable, but you know what old Mrs. Nitson said just
before I came home. Mother, I do mean to try—and God will help me, I
know—to be good from the inside, through and through, and not at school
only, or just in class. You'll let me go and see her too, sometimes,
won't you? Mrs. Nitson, I mean, for she is such a wise old woman, and
knows just what I want."

"Yes, my dear, you shall go," said Mrs. Wright. And she thought if her
stay in the workhouse had indeed wrought such a change in her as her
words indicated, the sorrow and suffering they had all endured would
not have been in vain.


As Esther grew stronger, and was able to come downstairs and take her
place in the family circle once more, her principles were often put
to the test, and she did not always conquer herself when Tom was more
than usually aggravating. Sometimes she felt very disheartened about
this, but all who knew her in the family circle before, and saw her
now, felt that there was a great change in Esther. It was here that
the battle had to be fought and the victory won, for it was here that
little temptations to selfishness and peevishness, and wilfulness and
arrogance were constantly arising, and Tom "was" a trial sometimes.

But even Tom was conquered at last, for what was the good of teasing,
if Esther joined good-temperedly in the laugh against herself? Indeed,
Tom soon began to find that his sister was actually companionable, and
was ready to enter into his interests in a manner that quite surprised
him.

When Rhoda came home for two or three days' holiday, as she did in the
early summer, Tom told her Esther was so much improved she was nearly
as good as "that vulgar girl." This was said aloud, and in Esther's
presence, but it made Rhoda very angry.

"For shame, Tom!" she exclaimed. "You ought to know better."

"I beg your pardon, Rhoda," said Esther; "it's just as well to clear
up the old misunderstanding. I did call you a vulgar girl, and despise
you, because you used to say, 'Oh! My gracious,' so often, but I've
learned many lessons since then."

"And I have learned to break myself off a bad habit," laughed Rhoda.
"To tell you the truth, I might never have formed it, only you and
Mary used to look so shocked whenever I broke into any exclamation of
astonishment, that I often said 'Good gracious me,' on purpose to see
you and Mary Coppinger elevate your eyebrows, and look at each other as
though you thought me incorrigible. But your aunt has broken me of it,
Esther, so you won't have it again," added Rhoda.

This holiday was a happy reunion for Frank and his sister, and they
could talk over their plans for the future, and look forward to the
time when Frank would be able to earn money enough for his sister to
come home.

"It would be no use if you could earn it now, for I couldn't leave my
little Ralph and the baby for long, until their mother is better," said
Rhoda.

Mrs. Morris, seeing her daughter so happy and so much improved, was
quite reconciled to her absence now. And all agreed that circumstances
had indeed worked together for their good, and that Rhoda's trust in
God that He was doing the very best for them that they would let Him,
had indeed been verified in their experience of what had been a time of
bitter trial to so many.



                          THE END.



                     ———————————————————
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79169 ***