Was I Right?

It has often seemed very strange to me, that in moments of great anxiety or trouble, when our minds and our hearts are stretched to the uttermost, we notice with the keenest perception every little object around us. Every moving leaf, each nodding flower, catches our attention, and, years afterwards, we can remember, as distinctly as if it were yesterday, how everything looked in those sorrowful moments, when our minds were filled with thoughts of things and people far away.

There is one day in my life, which stands out from amongst the past as a day above all others to be remembered by me. And, as I look back to it, I see myself a girl of nineteen, sitting at my bedroom window, lost in thought and perplexity! I can see the garden just as it looked as I gazed out into it that afternoon—our quaint, old-fashioned garden, with its hedge of laurel bushes, and the large elm trees at the end of it, with the flickering light and shade underneath. I can see the rabbits from the plantations round, nibbling the grass on the lawn; and I can hear the trickling of the stream, which ran by the side of the house, in which Claude, and Maggie, and I used to float our boats, in the happy days when we were children. And now the old home must be left forever, for Maggie and I had not a penny in the world!

Our father had been the doctor in the village. It was a very poor place, and the people had never any money to spare. My father was too kind-hearted to press for payment, when he saw how hard it was for them to live; and so the years went by, and although his practice was large, he saved very little money. But even this small amount never came to us, for just before his death the bank in which it was placed suddenly failed, and so, when he was gone, Maggie and I were penniless!

Maggie was much younger than I was; she was my half-sister, and her mother died three weeks after she was born. She committed her little baby to me, when she knew that she must leave it; and from that day I became, as far as I was able, a mother to Maggie. I was a very little mother, for I was only seven years old; but a feeling of great responsibility and trust came over me, as I left the room where my stepmother was dying. I crept up to the nursery, and stroked the baby’s face very gently, and felt as if she belonged to me from that moment.

And now, Maggie and I were left without a penny in the world. For Maggie it was not of so much consequence. A letter had come from her old maiden aunts, her mother’s sisters, to insist upon her going at once to live with them in the old Manor House at Branston. Maggie would be happy, and cared for there; that was a great relief to my mind. Poverty and hardship would not cross the path of my little sister, and I was more than content that it should be so. But there was no such home in prospect for me. Maggie’s aunts were, of course, not related to me, and my mother had been a friendless orphan, so I had no one to take compassion on me. Separated from the old home, separated from Maggie, life looked very cheerless to me in prospect.

My mind was full of trouble and of perplexity, for on the table before me lay two letters, which must be answered before evening, and upon the answer to these letters would hang all my future life.

I sat at my bedroom window, not knowing what to do. The clock ticked on, the hands were moving round, and my letters were still unanswered.

It was then, that, as I gazed into the garden, every tiny object was imprinted on my mind. And I can remember that, as I was sitting there, the sun went behind a bank of heavy clouds, and all was gloomy and dismal in a moment. The rabbits ran back to their holes, the sunbeams fled from the lawn, the wind whistled drearily in the chimneys of the old house, and flapped the branches of the climbing rose-tree against my bedroom window. It seemed to me then very like the cloud which had come across my hitherto happy life. And now, what was before me? Joy or sorrow?

It appeared to be left with me to decide. The two letters must be answered. The first of these was from an old governess of ours, a kind, good woman. I had written to tell her of my difficulties, and she wrote to advise me to apply for a situation as companion to a young lady of fortune, in answer to an advertisement which had just appeared in the Times newspaper. A fair salary was promised, and all expenses of traveling would be defrayed.

That was one of the letters which I had to answer. That was one path of life which lay before me. It did not seem very bright in prospect. The position of a poor companion in a large household was certainly not one which I should have chosen for myself.

I had said “Oh no!” instinctively, when I had first read the advertisement which Miss Morley enclosed. And yet, the more I thought of it, the more I felt that perhaps I ought to apply for the situation. It was clear that I must work for my living, in some way; I disliked teaching, so I felt that I was not fit to be a governess; perhaps, after all, this would be the very place for me.

And yet, and yet, my heart shrank back from what might be the path of duty.

For there was another letter on the table; another, and a very different letter. And this letter must be answered before I could at all decide about Miss Morley’s proposal. I had read it so often during the day, that I knew every word of it. And now I must take up my pen and answer it. It opened out to me another path of life, a very different path from the former—a path which seemed as bright as the other was shady.

And yet, ought I to take it? Was it right for me to choose this path? Should I indeed be happy if I decided upon it? Would it be really bright, really peaceful? What course should I take? What answer should I give?

The letter was from Claude Ellis, my old playfellow and friend. He was the son of the clergyman of the village, his only child. Claude had no companions at home, and therefore when we were children we went, day by day, to the Parsonage, or Claude came to us, and we played together between the hours for lessons. Maggie was too small to join in our games, but she would sit on the grass near us, gathering daisies, and watching us as we floated our boats, in the little stream, or ran races on the lawn. And then we grew older, and Claude was sent to school, but always in the holidays our old friendship was renewed, and we walked together, read together, and played together as before.

But soon school days passed by, and Claude went to Oxford. I remember so well the day on which he came to say “Good-bye” to us before leaving home. He looked very handsome, and was full of spirits, and was so much looking forward to his college life.

Maggie and I walked to the garden gate with him when he went away. And we talked of the time when he would come home again, and we should spend our days together as we had always done in the holidays. Then he went out, and the gate closed after him, and Maggie and I watched him down the road, and she waved her handkerchief to him till he was out of sight. And then we went back to the house, and I counted how many weeks must pass before the term would be ended, and Claude would be with us again.

But a very short time after, Mr. Ellis, Claude’s father, was taken ill, and the doctor ordered him to go abroad for the winter. So Claude spent his Christmas vacations at Mentone instead of at home. And then we looked forward to Midsummer.

But Claude did not return home until the greater part of the long vacation was over. He was in Cornwall with a reading party, and did not come to the Parsonage until about three weeks before his return to Oxford. And so it came to pass, that Claude Ellis and I had not met for nearly a year.

“Claude is at home,” said my father, one morning at breakfast.

“Oh, is he?” said little Maggie, “how nice!” And I was very pleased also. I expected to see exactly the same Claude as I had parted from at the garden gate, a year ago; and I thought that all would go on just as it had done when he was a boy at school, and came home for the holidays.

So when I saw him coming up the road, I ran into the garden to meet him.

“Oh, Claude, I am glad to see you!” I cried, as soon as he opened the gate. And then, in a moment, I stopped short, and went up to him quite quietly, and giving him my hand, said in a very different voice: “How do you do, Claude; when did you come home?”

For in a moment it flashed across me that Claude Ellis and I were not the same as we were when we had parted at that very gate a year ago. We were both older than we were then; our childhood was a thing of the past. Claude and I had grown out of the boy and girl into the young man and woman since we had last met. All this flashed across me in a moment, as I noticed the difference in Claude’s dress, manners, and appearance, as he came in at the gate. And a chill came over me as I noticed it, and I wished that I had not run to meet him quite so eagerly.

And yet, when he began to talk, I felt that he was in many ways the same Claude still, the same, but changed.

Was he changed for the better? In many ways he was. He was more manly, and more gentleman-like, and had much to tell us of his college friends, and college life, which made him a more amusing and pleasant companion than before.

And yet, there was another change in Claude, which I could not help noticing, in spite of my efforts not to do so. Claude Ellis was more of a man, more of a gentleman; but he was, yes, he certainly was, though I tried to persuade myself to the contrary, less of a Christian.

Before Claude went to college we had often talked together of the Bible, and he had explained to me many things which I did not understand. We used sometimes to sit on the garden seat on Sunday afternoons, and read a chapter together; and Claude used to talk so nicely about it, and I thought he loved the Lord Jesus, and wished to serve Him He often spoke of the time when he would be old enough to be ordained, and when I should come to his church and hear him preach; and he told me what his first text would be, and how he had already written some pages of his first sermon.

But after Claude’s return, I noticed a change in him. At first, he always avoided any mention of religious subjects, and when, either in his own home or ours, any allusion was made to them, he quickly turned the conversation to some other topic.

I tried, for some days, to fancy that it was not because Claude had ceased to care for what he had loved before, but rather, that his feelings had grown so much deeper and truer, that he felt things divine too sacred to be talked about. But before the vacation was over, I was obliged to admit to myself, however unwilling I was to believe it, that Claude’s views and opinions were quite changed about religious matters; that he had begun to doubt what he had before received with child-like faith; that he had begun to despise and hold in contempt that which from his mother’s knee he had learned to love and reverence.

“Oh, you have never been to Oxford, May,” he said, rather contemptuously one day, when I was trying to prove something to him from the Bible. “You should read some books, which were lent to me by a man on my staircase. We are behind the times in this little out-of-the-way place; the world is growing very clever and learned, and there are many things which we have always taken for granted about which there is really great doubt and uncertainty.”

“What things, Claude?” I said; “you do not surely mean—”

“I mean parts of the Bible, May, and doctrines, which are supposed to be proved from the Bible. But what is the use of talking about it to you? I don’t want to unsettle your mind. If you like to believe it, and if it makes you happy, go on believing it, and be glad that you haven’t read the books I have read.”

“But you, Claude?” I said, sorrowfully.

“Oh, never mind about me, May, I am all right; I am a little wiser than you, that is all!”

“Are you happier, Claude?” I ventured to ask.

“Oh, I don’t know, May; I don’t think happiness, which is based on a delusion, is much worth having.”

“Oh, Claude,” I said, “it makes me wretched to hear you talk like that.”

“Then talk about something else, May,” he said gaily; “you began the subject, not I.”

“But, Claude—”

“Now, that will do, May!” he said impatiently; “we don’t think alike about these subjects, simply because I know a great deal more about them than I did before I went away, or than you do now; so let the matter drop.”

I was very unhappy after this conversation with Claude. He gave me no opportunity of renewing it; but though he had not explained to me any of his doubts, he had left an uneasy, troubled feeling on my mind, a feeling which I could not shake off.

When I went upstairs to bed that night, I sat down to think over what Claude had said What if, after all, I was resting upon a delusion, building my happiness upon an unreality? What if, after all, my faith was in vain, my hope unfounded?

Horrible doubts, such as I had never known before, came crowding into my mind. “Are these things so?” was the oft-repeated question of my heart. It was a sad awakening from the trust and implicit confidence of childhood; an awakening which, perhaps, comes to every thoughtful mind, when its faith is brought into contact, for the first time, with the intellect of this world; an awakening which leads us either into the terrible region of doubt and uncertainty, or into faith, far firmer than ever before, because based, not on mere childish impressions, but on the words and the being of the eternal God.

In this state of perplexity I went to my bedroom window and looked out. It was a bright, starlight night, so I put out my candle, and sat by the window, gazing into the sky at the countless multitude of stars.

Who had made all these mighty worlds? Who was keeping them all in their places, and making them fulfill the object for which they were created?

I knew who it was; my faith in the existence of an Almighty God remained unshaken. I could never look around me on God’s universe and doubt that God was.

And then, as I looked at the stars, other thoughts came—thoughts of the majesty and wisdom and power of the God who had made all these; thoughts, too, of the smallness and insignificance of our own little world—in comparison with the rest of God’s great universe a mere speck in space.

And I—what was I?

Only one of the beings which inhabited this tiny world; one of the smallest and least wise of all in God’s universe! Who was I, that I should say to God, “Why doest Thou this?” Who was I, that I should presume to sit in judgment on anything in God’s revelation?

“His wisdom is unsearchable, His ways past finding out,” was the language of my heart. I am but a little child,—how can I understand God’s plans? I know so little, I understand so little, I see such a little way, either before me or behind me. How can I, then, expect to understand that which is understood fully only by God Himself?

A feeling of my utter nothingness and insignificance in God’s sight came over me so powerfully that I was almost crushed by it. Who was I—what was I, that I should dare to doubt what God had in wonderful condescension revealed to me, because of the vast amount of knowledge which was too wonderful for me; so high that I could not attain unto it?

“O Lord,” I said, as I looked up into the sky, “I will be content to be a little child, receiving Thy Word with childlike faith, and what my mind is too weak and small to understand fully, I will yet believe, because Thou hast told me, and because Thy Word must be true.”

And even as I said the words, this verse came into my mind: “Now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”

Then the day was coming when, in another world, my mind would be strengthened to understand these difficult matters which were now perplexing me—these things which I only knew in part, and which, for this very reason, just because I only knew a part of them, seemed to me so perplexing and mysterious.

And then there was another thought which comforted me perhaps more than anything else, and it was this: I had proved the Bible to be true myself. I knew it was the Word of the God of truth by my own experience. I had prayed, and had received many an answer to my prayers. I had pleaded the promises, and had found them more than fulfilled to me in every hour of need. I had fallen back upon the grand old truths of the Bible in many a time of trouble, and had never found them fail me.

A hundred books, written by the cleverest men on earth, could not convince me that the Bible was a mere human production; for I had found in it what I had found in no other book—peace for a troubled conscience, comfort in sorrow, victory over sin.

I lay down to sleep that night reassured and comforted, and with my doubts entirely removed, and I do not remember that they ever returned to me.

But Claude, what could I do for him? I could do nothing but pray for him, for he never gave me an opportunity of speaking to him again about what had so troubled me.

His college days passed by, and every vacation that he was at home he came frequently to see us, and each time he came I felt more persuaded that his new views had not improved his character. He had occasionally an imperious and dictatorial manner, such as he had never had before, and he looked restless and dissatisfied, as if something was preying on his mind.

And yet Claude was very kind to us, to Maggie and to me. He never came home without bringing us some little present, and he never seemed tired of our company.

Chapter 2: My Choice

One day, about six weeks before the time at which my little story commences, I had been spending the day at the Parsonage. I did not often go there now, but Claude was away, and his aunt, Miss Richards, who had lived there since Claude’s mother died, invited me to spend the afternoon with her. Claude had just left Oxford, and was staying for a few weeks with some friends in Scotland, before settling down at home.

After dinner Miss Richards and I took our work into the little summer-house, and sat there until the evening. We talked on various subjects, the village, the people round, Mr. Ellis’s health, and of many other things. And then we talked of Claude.

“It will be very pleasant to have Claude at home,” said Miss Richards; “the house is so dull when he is away.”

“Yes,” I said, “you must miss him very much, Miss Richards, but I suppose he will not be at home very long; when is he to be ordained?”

She did not answer me at once, and when I looked up, I saw that her face was very troubled and sorrowful, as she bent over her work.

“Claude will not be ordained, May,” she said at length; “I think that is quite decided now.”

“Why not, Miss Richards?” I asked in astonishment; “I thought that had been settled years ago, when Claude was a little boy.”

“It was only settled conditionally, May,” she said. “Claude was to go into the ministry if it was his own wish to do so; his father would never press him into such work, if he did not feel drawn to it himself.”

“And Claude does not feel drawn to it?” I asked.

“Oh no, he has written to his father most decidedly, giving up all idea of becoming a clergyman, and expressing his wish to study for the bar.”

“Is Mr. Ellis very disappointed, Miss Richards?” I said.

“Of course he is disappointed in one way, May, for he has made a great effort to give Claude a University education, in order to make him more fit for his work as a minister; but at the same time he quite sees that with Claude’s peculiar ideas (you know what I mean, May, those new views he has taken up at Oxford) his ordination is, at least for the present, out of the question.”

I made no answer, but went on diligently with my work.

“Claude has been a great expense to his father,” Miss Richards went on; “he has cost him many hundreds at Oxford, and bills are still coming in. He is young yet, you see, and I suppose all young men are extravagant. But it is a great pity that he let the bills run on for so long; some go as far back as his first term.”

“What does Claude say about it?” I asked.

“Oh, he is always very much troubled when the bills come, for he sees that his father has not any money to spare, and he talks about the time when he will have money of his own at his uncle Charles’s death, and when he will be able to repay all his father has advanced for him. And then he is quite certain that the tradesmen must have added a great deal which he never bought. But it is so long ago, May, nearly four years, so of course he cannot be sure of it.”

“I am very, very sorry,” I said.

“Yes, and so are we,” said Miss Richards; “but that anxiety is nothing to the other. Mr. Ellis would not mind how much money he had to pay, if only Claude had not taken up such rationalistic, infidel ideas.”

“Does he still hold those views?” I asked. “He spoke to me once about them, a long time ago, but I have heard nothing of it since. I hoped Claude had studied the other side of the question, and had grown wiser.”

“Oh, my dear;” said Miss Richards, “he seems to me to get worse and worse. At first it was only sonic small parts of the Bible which he caviled at, and which he maintained were not inspired; but when he once began to doubt, there was no knowing where he would stop doubting—he carried the same spirit of critical suspicion into everything.”

“But surely there are books written which would in a great measure answer Claude’s doubts?” I suggested.

“Yes, undoubtedly,” said Miss Richards; “but it seems to me Claude prefers doubting, for he does not seem at all anxious to have his doubts cleared away. He does not want to have his mind, satisfied, and so he either does not read books on the other side at all; or, if he reads them, he does so fully determined that his skepticism cannot be, and indeed must not be shaken. If Claude would only prayerfully desire, and prayerfully strive to have his doubts removed, I should have no fear about him.”

“I am so very sorry, Miss Richards,” I said again.

“Yes, May, and so am I,” said she. “I assure you that when I went upstairs into Claude’s bedroom, when he was last at home, and found at the bottom of his box a number of his favorite books (the very names of some of which made me shudder), I sat down on a chair in his room, and had a good cry. I could not help it, May dear. For I thought of the little, trustful face, which used to be lifted to mine years ago, when I told him, for the first time, the beautiful stories out of the Book he now despises and scoffs at. I thought of the little voice which used to say the evening prayer at my knee, and which used, on Sundays, to repeat hymns and texts to me in this very summer-house. And then I thought of the small, black Bible, which, when he grew older, used always to be laid beside his pillow, that he might be able to read it as soon as it was light in the morning. I could see plenty of other books in, Claude’s room, May, but no Bible I could not help going downstairs and bringing a Bible up to lay on the dressing table, in case he might see and read it. Though, of course, it would do him no good, unless he came to it in a teachable spirit,” she added, with a sigh.

“But I have not lost hope for Claude yet,” said Miss Richards, after a pause. “I believe that when he is older he will be wiser in many ways. And May,” she said, “my great hope for Claude lies in you; you have more influence with him than anyone has.”

“I? Oh no, Miss Richards; you are quite wrong there,” I said. “He will never even speak to me on the subject.”

“No, perhaps not,” said Miss Richards; “but your quiet, gentle, loving influence must have its effect in time.”

“But, Miss Richards, you are quite mistaken in supposing that I have any influence with Claude. I know when we were children together, and were like brother and sister to each other, I may have had some power over him, but it is quite different now.”

“You have tenfold more influence with Claude now than you had then, May,” she said quietly; “to give you pleasure is the greatest joy of his life, to grieve you is his greatest pain.”

I felt my face growing very crimson as Miss Richards said this. She had put into words a fear which had been hidden away in my heart for some months—a fear that I had never dared, even in my own heart, to put into words—a fear that I was becoming more to Claude than a mere sister, and that he had plans and views for our future, his future and mine, which I could not, which I ought not, to entertain for a moment. And, because of this undefined fear, I had kept away from the Parsonage as much as possible during the vacations, and I had avoided Claude as much as our old friendship would allow me, until sometimes my conscience had accused me of rudeness and unkindness.

But, after all, I had hoped it was but a fear. Claude loved me, it was true, I argued to myself, and liked to bring me presents, and to give me pleasure; but then it was only natural that he should do so, when we had been brought up together, and learned together, and played together, and had had every thought and scheme in common. It was nothing more than that. So I had argued with myself. But Miss Richards’s words had revived my old fear, and increased it a hundredfold.

I was very glad when, a minute or two afterward, the village clock struck five, and I could make an excuse to leave. Miss Richards had evidently noticed my embarrassment, for she said kindly, as she wished me goodbye:

“I hope I have not troubled you, May dear, but my heart is so full of anxiety about Claude just now, that I have spoken perhaps more strongly than I ought to have done.”

I went home very perplexed and troubled, but the next day my thoughts were turned into an entirely fresh channel by the sudden illness of my dear father. I will not dwell upon the sad time which followed those days and nights of alternate hope and fear, and then the close to our watching, and the terrible realization that Maggie and I were amongst the number of the fatherless children, prayed for, Sunday after Sunday, in the Litany.

Miss Richards was very kind to me during that time of trouble, giving me advice and help as I needed them, and relieving me greatly from the sense of heavy responsibility which rested on me.

Claude was still from home, but he wrote a kind little note of sympathy to me, when he heard of my father’s death. He said he was very sorry that he was away at the time; had he been at home he would have done all in his power to save me any unnecessary care and anxiety, in my time of sorrow.

I tried to hope that this was only brotherly sympathy and kindness, such as Claude had always shown me from childhood. I answered the letter by a short note, thanking him for his kind expression of sympathy, and telling him a little of our future plans—how Maggie was going to live with her aunts in the old Manor House at Branston, and how I hoped very soon to obtain a situation as governess or companion, where I could earn enough money to keep me in comfort and independence. By return of post came a second letter from Claude. I almost trembled when I saw his handwriting on the envelope; I had not intended to open a correspondence with him. And when I took the letter from the envelope, and saw its length, I was still more troubled and afraid. Then I read the letter, and when I had read it once, I read it again, and yet again. And now this letter lay on the table before me, still unanswered, and post-time was drawing nearer and nearer. I looked at it once more, although I knew almost every word of it already.

Claude began by stating his utter disapproval of my scheme of obtaining a situation as companion or governess. I was not fitted for it, and he would never allow it to be carried out. And then he went on to tell me that he had far different plans for my future plans which had mingled with his boyish dreams, and which had been for years the one idea of his life.

And then he told me how he loved me, how there was no one on earth that he had ever eared for except myself, and how he felt that the time had now come to make me his wife, and to take me to a home of my own, where I should be taken care of, and cherished, and loved, more than any wife had ever been before. He said it was hard for him to put into a letter all the feelings of his heart. He had never planned to tell me all this by writing, but he felt compelled to write off at once, as soon as he received my letter, and the more so as, by a curious coincidence, by the very same post he had heard of the sudden death of his uncle Charles, who had left him a large sum of money, quite sufficient, Claude said, to enable him to marry, and to take me to a comfortable home.

At the end of the week, he said, he hoped to be with me, but he could not wait till then to tell me all this, for he feared that I should in the meantime be answering some dreadful advertisement, and be making another and a very different engagement. He concluded by urging me to write by return of post, as he longed to know that the whole matter was finally settled and arranged.

The more I read this letter, the more persuaded I felt that Claude never, for a single moment, entertained the possibility of my refusing him; he seemed to look upon it as a matter of certainty that I should be only too glad to do as he asked me. He was evidently utterly unprepared for anything but an immediate and hearty acceptance of his offer.

And now what answer should I give? I pressed my throbbing temples, and tried to think the matter over calmly and deliberately.

Did I love Claude Ellis? Yes, undoubtedly I loved him very much indeed; not in the same way, it is true, as I had imagined that I should love the one who was to become my husband, but still I loved him very warmly, as a sister loves a dear brother who has been everything to her since she was a little child. And surely a different kind of love for Claude might, and probably would, come in my heart after we were engaged.

And although Claude was certainly not at all like the husband that I had pictured to myself in the days long ago, when I was foolish enough to indulge in daydreams, and although even now, at times, I longed, oh, how much! for someone to lean on—someone very wise, very good, very true, and infinitely better in every way than I was; and I had never pictured Claude to myself as the one who was to be all this to me; yet still he would be a kind, loving husband, and I might be very happy if I were his wife.

And I was so fond of Claude that I felt it would make me very miserable to feel that there was any estrangement or coldness between us, as there undoubtedly would be if I refused to be his wife. Our old friendship, which had lasted so long, would practically end, and when we met we should feel restrained and uncomfortable in each other’s presence. I could not bear to think that such would be the ease.

And then Miss Richards—how anxious she evidently was that I should use my influence with Claude! What would she say if I were to refuse him? How strange she would think it! How grieved and disappointed she would be!

And yet, with the thought of Miss Richards came the recollection of what she had told me of Claude, as we sat together in the arbor. Should I be happy with one as my husband who scorned the Book I loved best on earth, who slighted and neglected the Friend who was to me the chiefest among ten thousand? Should I be happy with no family prayer in my household, with no reading of the Word of God, and with religious topics forever banished, because husband and wife thought so differently about them? Would the love between us be perfect, the confidence unsullied, when there was one subject—and that one the subject nearest to my heart—on which we had no communion; one Name, and that one the Name above every name, which neither of us ever mentioned to each other? Should I be really happy, really contented with such a state of things?

And then came another question. Even supposing I should be happy, was it right for me to accept Claude’s offer? Was it right in God’s sight for me to marry one who was not a Christian? I knew there was a text somewhere in the Epistle to the Corinthians which spoke on this point. I opened my Bible and looked for it, and I found it in 2 Corinthians 6:14: “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?”

It was a very clear command, and could not be mistaken. And yet I tried to argue myself into the belief that it did not apply to me. For, in the first place, I reasoned, Claude was not a heathen as these Corinthians were. He did not worship gods of wood and stone. He was looked upon as a Christian, and lived and had been brought up in a Christian family. But the word unbeliever, conscience answered, surely includes every one that is not a believer.

Was Claude a believer? Could I honestly say that he was a true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Would Claude himself like to be thought a believer? Could I from my heart say that I thought Claude was safe in Christ, resting his soul on Christ for salvation? No, I was obliged sorrowfully to admit to myself that such was not the case. But then, I argued, I am not perfect. Oh, how cold and indifferent I am at times! how full of carelessness, and pride, and every kind of sin! Who am I that I should set myself up to be better and more holy than Claude? Who am I that I should say Claude is not good enough for me?

And yet, the line of distinction in the text was evidently drawn, not between perfect people and imperfect people, but between believers and unbelievers. Was I then a believer? that was the question: was I indeed and in truth a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ?

I dared not say that I was not, for even as I asked myself the question, a day years ago came back to my mind, a day when Mr. Ellis had been giving us a Bible lesson and had spoken to us very solemnly about coming to Christ for ourselves, and that at once.

I remembered how anxious and serious I had felt as I left the Bible class, and how I had come home and shut myself in this very room where I was now sitting. I remembered how I had closed the door behind me, and had resolved not to leave the room until I had laid my sins on Jesus, and had looked to Him by faith as my own Saviour. I remembered how all my sins had risen up before me that day as they had never done before; and how, one by one, I had taken them to Christ to be atoned for and forgiven.

And then I remembered the peace which had followed, and how, for days afterward, life had been entirely new to me, and my thoughts, and feelings, and wishes bad been entirely different from what they were before. And since that time, though I had very often grown careless and indifferent, still I had never been happy when I was not walking closely with. God, and I had always longed at such times to be back in the sunshine and light of His presence again. So then it seemed as if the command in the text did apply to me.

But surely if I married Claude I might use my influence with him for good. He loved me very much, and, as Miss Richards had said, I had more influence with him than anyone had.

Was it right for me to throw away this opportunity of doing good? Was there not a text which said that husbands, “who obey not the Word,” might yet, without the Word, be “won by the conversation of their wives?” And did not the Apostle Paul say, “What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?” Surely these verses justified me in thinking that if I married Claude be might, through my influence, become a Christian.

And yet, when I turned to these passages, and read the context, I saw that they clearly referred to those wives who were converted after their marriage—that such were told not to leave their unbelieving husbands, but to remain in that state in which they were called, and to such, and to such alone, the promise about being the means of saving their husbands applied. It had evidently nothing whatever to do with those who were converted whilst they were still unmarried, nor did it, in the very slightest degree, overthrow the clear command I had just read: “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers”—a command which applied to the unmarried believers, as plainly as the command in the first Epistle applied to the married ones.

And, when I began to think the matter over, with a more unbiased mind, I was driven to the conclusion that Claude was far more likely to lead me away from Christ than I was to lead him to become a believer. For surely if I had not enough influence now to persuade him to love better things—now, when he was so anxious to win my favor, surely afterward, when he felt certain of my love, he would not be more likely to be led in an entirely different direction. Surely I should become worse, and Claude would become no better. I should be less of a believer, and he would remain still an unbeliever.

To do evil, that good may possibly come, is entirely opposed to the whole teaching of the New Testament; nowhere is the faintest hope held out that such a course will result in good. And I could undoubtedly expect no blessing from God on my endeavors to lead Claude aright if I had acted in the face of God’s command and had gone in direct opposition to His clear injunction: “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”

And so I felt, when I had thought the whole matter carefully over, that it came to this, Was I willing to shut Christ out from the first place in my heart, and put Claude there instead? Or, on the other hand, was I willing to give up Claude, and hold all the closer and firmer to Him who had for years been my hope and my refuge?

Christ’s love or Claude’s! Which should I choose? I could not have both, for I felt that to have both was impossible. Choosing Christ, I should offend Claude; choosing Claude, I should forfeit the love and the favor of Christ. Christ or Claude—which?

A verse, which I had learned as a child, came suddenly into my mind, and looking up to the sky above me, in which the sun was once more shining, I repeated it aloud, for it seemed exactly to express the earnest cry of my soul:

“My heart is fixed, O God,
Fixed on Thee;
And my eternal choice is made,
Christ for me.”

Christ for me. Christ’s smile, Christ’s favor, Christ’s blessing; these are my choice. Whatever it costs me, I cannot, I will not, give them up.

I knelt down, and thanked God from the bottom of my heart for showing me the clear, the sure, the right way for me to take. And then I took up my pen to answer Claude’s letter.

Chapter 3: Was I Wrong?

It was not an easy task to answer that letter, for I did not wish to wound Claude or to pain him, and I felt sure he would be so utterly unprepared for what I felt obliged to say.

Lest I should in any way raise his hopes, I began at once by telling him how difficult I felt it to write, and how much it cost me to tell him that what he had asked me to do in his letter was quite impossible. I thanked him for all his love for me, and for the kind way in which he had spoken of me; but I made it as clear as possible that, though I hoped always to remain his friend and sister, yet I could not be his wife.

I did not tell him my exact reason for refusing him, for I felt that Claude would not in the least degree understand it; but I told him that my mind was fully made up, and I begged him at once to dismiss the idea of it from his own mind. I tried to write very decidedly and yet very kindly, and with the remembrance of our old friendship and love vividly impressed on my mind.

I ended by expressing my sorrow for giving him pain, and my earnest hope for his future happiness. I begged him to let no coldness and estrangement come between us on account of this, but to let our old friendship be strengthened and increased rather than weakened and lessened.

I was not at all satisfied with this letter when it was finished, but there was no time to rewrite it, for post-time was close at hand, and the advertisement in the Times newspaper must be answered at once, or I should lose the situation.

When both the letters were gone I tried to dismiss the subject from my mind, and when it came back to me I endeavored to turn my tired thoughts into prayer, and in this way found comfort and relief.

The following afternoon, as I was writing letters in the little schoolroom, which was the next room to my bedroom, and the window of which also looked out over the garden to the hills beyond, I heard a hasty step on the stairs.

Maggie was spending the day with a playfellow of hers in the village, and it was not Maggie’s step. No, I knew the step well, and my heart beat fast, and I felt myself growing paler and paler every moment.

The door opened, and Claude entered without any ceremony. He looked tired and troubled, and his clothes were covered with dust from his long journey.

“May,” he said, “I got your letter this morning, and I have come off at once. The Fitzgeralds thought I was mad, I believe; I started up from the breakfast table and said I must catch the nine o’clock train. But I could not have waited another day; it would have been utterly impossible, May.”

I tried to speak, but my heart was beating so quickly now that my words seemed as if they would choke me.

“And now, May,” Claude said, hurriedly, sitting down by my side and taking my hand, “I want you to tell me what you meant by that cruel letter you sent me; or, rather, I want you to tell me that it was all a mistake, all a delusion, that you have thought better of it since, and that you wish you had never written it. I want you to tell me, May, darling,” he said in a lower voice, “that the dream of my life is to be changed into a reality this very week. I want you to tell me that the bright days which I have always said were in store for us both are now close at hand.”

“Claude, dear Claude,” I said, as soon as I was able to speak, “you have my answer; as a sister, as a friend, I will always love you, but I cannot, cannot be your wife.”

“And pray why not, May?” he said, impatiently rising and walking towards the window; “what absurd idea have you got in your head now? Who, or what is to hinder you from becoming my wife, I should like to know?”

“Claude, I cannot,” I said; and the tears would come, in spite of all my efforts to keep them back.

“But what is your reason, May?” he said, pacing up and down the room; “you must have some reason for what you say, and I cannot rest till you tell me what it is. What is it, May?”

“I had rather not tell you all my thoughts about it, Claude,” I said; “it would be very difficult, and would cost us both much pain. And Claude,” I said, earnestly, “it would do no good; my mind is quite made up: I cannot do as you ask me, so please do not press me for the reason, Claude.”

“But I will know it, May,” he said, almost angrily. “I am not going home till you have told me; so you had better let me hear it at once.”

And then I felt that, perhaps, it was sinful cowardice which made me afraid to tell Claude my reason; perhaps I was grieving my dear Lord and Master by being ashamed of Him, by being ashamed to tell Claude what it was that I held far more dear than his love for me, even the priceless, the everlasting love of my Lord. And yet how could I do it? Claude unexpectedly came to my help.

“May,” he said, quickly, “do you love any one better than me—is that it?”

“Yes, Claude,” I said, in a low voice; “there is one love which I hold more dear than yours—that is it.”

“Who is it, May?” he said, impatiently; “I didn’t know you knew anyone else well enough; who can it be?”

“It is no one on earth, Claude,” I said; “I mean the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“What nonsense, May!” he exclaimed. “Whatever in the world has that to do with it? I am not going to interfere with your religion; you may be as religious as ever you please—a perfect saint if you like; I won’t hinder you. So now put all those absurd notions out of your head, and let us talk about the future. That matter is settled; you shall be twice as religious after you are married as you were before.”

“But, Claude, it is not settled,” I said; “you know I could not expect to be happy, or to enjoy God’s presence, if I was disobeying His clear command.”

“And pray what command do you mean?” said Claude; “really, May, this is too absurd!”

I opened the Bible and handed it to him; there was a mark against the verse in the Epistle to the Corinthians, and his face clouded over as he read the words.

“I wish that verse was cut out of every Bible in the world,” he said, angrily; “I wonder how many people’s happiness has been ruined by it; and it is perfectly ridiculous! Why, May, you don’t even understand the, wording of the text; you can’t even read it in Greek, and yet you are going to overthrow all my plans and schemes for the future, and spoil all my happiness in the world, just for the sake of that one obscure verse.”

I could not help noticing how much Claude dwelt on his own plans, and schemes, and happiness in the world, and how he looked at the matter quite from his own point of view, and not at all from my side of the question.

“No, Claude,” I said, calmly, “I cannot read it in Greek, but I understand quite enough of it to make me quite sure that if I were to consent to marry you I should be grieving my best Friend, by disobeying His clear command.”

“Why, May, that just shows you know nothing at all about it,” he said. “That verse has no more to do with you than it has with that table; it was spoken to the Corinthians, who, before Paul preached to them, were an ignorant lot of heathens, and all it means is, that Christians are not to go and marry heathens. I’m not a heathen, bad as you seem to think me.”

“But,” I answered, “it says unbelievers, and surely that means those who are not believers. Claude, are you a real believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Can you honestly say that you are? Would you like to be called a believer by the world?”

Claude could not answer this question, so he quickly turned the conversation into quite a different channel.

“And so you set up yourself as too good for me, May, that’s what it is! You think yourself far too saintly to be joined to a poor heathen like me!”

“No, Claude, indeed it is not that,” I said; “indeed it is not. I am not good at all; very, very far from it; but I do trust that I have come to the Lord Jesus, and that I believe in Him. Yes, though I am very imperfect and sinful, oh, Claude, I do hope that I am a believer,” I said, with tears in my eyes.

“Yes, darling,” said Claude, in quite a different tone, “I know you are everything good; I sometimes wish I were more like you. Won’t you help me to become better, May? Won’t you save me from myself, and teach me to love what you love? Come, May, it is my last chance; surely you will not refuse me?”

And Claude took hold of my hand, and looked up pleadingly into my face.

It was a dreadful temptation, and a fierce struggle was going on in my mind Whilst Claude had been angry and impatient it had been comparatively easy to be firm, but now, now that his voice was so pleading and so tender, now that his hand was laid so lovingly upon mine, now that his eyes were actually full of tears, I felt my resolution giving way, my faith failing.

What if, after all, Claude was right? What if I might be indeed the means of leading him to better things? Miss Richards seemed to think so, and Miss Richards was a good woman.

And yet, my conscience told me plainly enough, that the opinion of a good woman could not make a wrong action right. Was it right or wrong in the sight of God? That was the question, and every time I put it to my heart, the same answer came, in clear unmistakable terms: “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”

I saw the path of duty clearly before me, a hard and difficult path, so hard and so difficult that I nearly despaired of ever being able to tread it.

The temptation was indeed fierce and strong, and I was on the point of yielding. Claude saw this and spoke still more tenderly, and pressed the advantage he had gained as far as possible.

I darted up one earnest, imploring cry to my Lord for help. My prayer did not, even in thought, resolve itself into words, but it was the language of my innermost soul. And it was not left unanswered. Four words came into my mind at that moment, which enabled me to gain the victory.

As clearly as if the sunbeams which were streaming in at the window had written them on the wall of the room, these four words flashed across me “FOR MY NAME’S SAKE.”

Ah! here was a motive, strong enough to enable me to overcome the greatest temptation; here was a motive, strong enough to enable me to conquer all those desires and wishes of my heart, which were urging me into disobedience to my Lord’s command. “For My Name’s sake; is it too much to bear for Me?” I heard Him ask me; and, in a moment, all His infinite love for me, all His self-denial for my sake, all His travail of soul, all that He underwent to save me, and bless me, crowded upon my mind, and was followed by the question—

“All this I bore for thee,

What canst thou bear for Me?”

My mind was made up; I would parley with the temptation no longer.

I drew my hand away from Claude’s, gently, but firmly. “Claude,” I said, “do not let us make each other more miserable, by going over and over the same ground. You will never be able to move me. I can only repeat what I have told you before. As a sister, as a friend, I will always love you, but I cannot be your wife. Claude,” I went on, as he was beginning to speak, “that is my final answer, so please say no more about it.”

I suppose I spoke very decidedly, though I had tried to speak calmly, for Claude was very angry. A change passed over his face in an instant; I do not think he had dreamed for a single moment that I should be able to withstand his arguments and his persuasions.

He walked to the window and looked out on the garden below.

“Then I am to look upon this as final, May?” he said, bitterly.

“Yes, Claude, as quite final,” I replied; “you will never be able to move me from my resolution, dear Claude. But you will not let our old friendship end, will you? Why should we not be brother and sister to each other still?”

“Oh! there are two sides to that question,” said Claude, proudly; “I keep out of the way of those who think themselves too good to associate with me. There are plenty of other people who will be glad of my friendship.”

And so Claude left me without another word. He went out of the room, slamming the door after him, and a moment afterward I saw him hastily cross the lawn, and go out at the garden-gate. And I knew, as well as if I could read the future, that that was the last time I should see him pass through that gate.

For Claude’s was a proud, imperious nature, and the more I thought the matter over, the more I felt sure that his pride was wounded, quite as much, if not more, than his affection. He had thought it next to impossible that anyone, and above all a poor, friendless girl like myself, should refuse to be his wife. He had found he was mistaken, and he was mortified and vexed at the discovery.

When I was left alone I felt as if I had gone through a great storm, and had come out of it wearied and exhausted. My mind was too tired even to pray. I pushed aside the letters I was writing and looked out over the distant hills. But after a time, when I was calmer and in a more restful state of mind, I opened my Bible at the place where it had been so often opened the last two days, and read again my Master’s word of command.

And then I was enabled, though with tears in my eyes, to thank Him that through His grace I had been strengthened to keep it.

This time I read the whole passage through to the end of the chapter.

The last two verses were the very words I needed just then: “Come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and I will receive you, and will be a Father unto you, and ye shall be My sons and daughters, saith the Lord Almighty.”

The Master’s call— “Come out from among them.” The Master’s promise— “I will receive you.”

If He said, “Go out from among them,” it would have been so much harder to obey. But he does not say “Go,” but “Come”—Come out; come to Me— “I will receive you.”

Come out to Me, and I will be a Father unto you, and you shall be My children, My sons and My daughters. Come out to Me; come out, not unto loneliness, and orphanhood, and desolation, but come out to Me, to a Father’s love, to a Father’s sympathy, to a Father’s home. Come and be My sons and daughters, the sons and daughters of a King—the King of kings. Come then out from among them. Leave that transient, earthly affection, which is, as it were, but for a moment. Come to Me, and I will receive you, and will give you far more than what you will have to leave behind, far more than you have ever even hoped for from the purest of earthly loves. I will give you Myself—My love, My everlasting love, My soul-satisfying love.

Is not the exchange worth making? Is not the coming out fully recompensed by the loving reception?

I looked up into the sky, in which the sun was fast setting, and said with a thankful heart, “Lord, by Thy grace I have come out; I have given up the affection which would have drawn me away; I have separated myself from the love which, however sweet, would have cut me off from Thy presence and from Thy love.”

And, even as I said this, the Master’s answer came with tenderest comfort to my heart: “I will receive you, nay, I have already received you, and I will be a Father unto you, and you shall be My child, My daughter, saith the Lord Almighty.”

I heard Maggie’s voice at this moment, so I hastily rose, wiped away the tears which were now only tears of joy and thankfulness, and went to meet her.

“How happy you seem tonight, May,” she said, as we sat together at supper; “you have not looked so happy since—since—” Her lip quivered, and tears came into her eyes.

I held out my arms to her, and she came and sat on my knee, as she used to do when she was a little child, laid her head on my shoulder, and sobbed.

“What is it, Maggie darling?” I asked, stroking her long, fair hair with my hand.

“Oh, May,” she sobbed, “if only we could be together; if only I had not to go away and leave you. I counted the days this morning on the almanac, and there are only nineteen more.”

“Poor little Maggie!” I said; “what shall I do without you?”

“And what shall I do without you, May,” she said. “My aunts are very kind, but they are not like you; you are just like a mother to me. I shall never be a good girl, May, when I haven’t you to talk to me, and when I can’t tell you all my troubles.”

“But you can tell Jesus, Maggie,” I said, “just as you have always told me, and. He will help you and comfort you far, far better than I could do.”

“Yes, May,” she said, putting up her face to be kissed, “I will tell Him every day; I promise you that I will.”

“And then you can write to me, Maggie,” I said. “Look here what I have brought for you. I had meant to have kept it till the last day, but perhaps I had better give it to you now.”

I went to a drawer and brought out a neat little desk filled with paper, envelopes, pens, stamps, and everything necessary for letter-writing.

Maggie was charmed with it, and was quite as merry as she had been sad before, and began to plan at once how many letters she would write me every week, and what she would say in them. She said she should tell me everything, even what time she got up every morning and went to bed every night.

Dear little Maggie! how well I can picture her to myself as she looked on that memorable evening in my life, on which I had refused to be Claude Ellis’s wife.

Chapter 4: Maggie's Aunts

Those last days which Maggie and I spent together in the old home were very happy ones. I took every opportunity I had of deepening in my little sister’s mind the lessons I had tried to teach her from a child, and which she had always loved so much. I had great reason to hope that they had not been in vain, but that my dear little Maggie was in deed and in truth a child of God.

We were very busy sorting and packing our various possessions, and leaving all in the house in readiness for the sale which was to take place immediately we left.

I had received a satisfactory answer to my application for the post of companion, saying that Sir William Trafford, after due inquiries of my referees, would be glad of my services as companion to his daughter, Miss Evelyn Trafford, and would be glad to know on what day I should be able to commence my duties at Alliston Hall.

I did not see Claude again before I went away. The day after his visit to me I heard that he had again left home, and had returned to his friends in Scotland.

The evening before we left Acton, I went up to the Parsonage to say good-bye. Miss Richards received me very kindly, but we were both constrained in our manner, for we were thinking of the same thing, and neither of us liked to mention it. We spoke of the weather, of my future plans, of the sale of the furniture, of Mr. Ellis’s health, and of a variety of other things and people; but Claude’s name was carefully avoided, and that which was filling our thoughts was entirely kept out of the conversation. So it was no wonder that our talk flagged at times, and that we were very far from being natural or at our case.

Just as I was leaving, I remembered how kind Miss Richards had been to me through my motherless life; always ready to help me with her advice whenever I needed help, and very patient in listening to the small home worries which had crowded upon me when I first took upon myself the cares and responsibilities of housekeeping.

“Miss Richards,” I said, “you have been like a mother to me; I shall never, never be able to thank you enough for all you have been to me.”

“Oh no, May,” she said, warmly, “you must not speak of that; you have been quite as much, or more to me, dear. You have been a bright sunbeam here, May. You have often brightened my life since I came here.”

“Oh, Miss Richards,” I said, “I never dreamed that I could make you any happier.”

“You did it without dreaming then, dear,” she said, smiling; “and May,” she added, “what has passed between you and Claude will make no difference in your love to me, will it? You will still treat me as a friend, and let me hear from you sometimes, won’t you, dear?”

“Oh, Miss Richards,” I said; “will you let me write to you? Then you are not very angry with me?”

“Angry with you! why?” she said; “for refusing Claude?”

“Yes,” I said, “for giving Claude the answer I did.”

“No, dear,” said Miss Richards; “I was very much surprised, I own, and very much disappointed. I had counted so much on your influence with Claude, and was building my hopes on it far more than I ought to have done. But since then, May, I have sometimes thought that, perhaps, I ought not to blame you. I felt that I had been looking at the matter entirely from my point of view—mine and Claude’s—and that, perhaps, clear, you had a reason for refusing Claude, a reason of which I should not and could not disapprove. May,” she said, taking my hand very kindly, “would you mind telling me your reason?”

“I think you know it already, Miss Richards,” I said, as I pressed her hand in mine.

“Is it because Claude is not truly a Christian, dear; is that your reason?”

“Yes, that is it,” I said; “I dare not have said yes, to Claude, Miss Richards, in the face of God’s clear command. I felt I could expect no happiness or blessing if I were so disobedient.”

“You were quite right, dear May,” said Miss Richards, with tears in her eyes; “I should have done just the same. Indeed once, May (you will not mention it to anyone, I know), I did exactly the same myself. It was very hard at the time,” said the good little woman, as the recollection of that sorrow, now so far behind her in her past life, came as fresh as if it had only taken place yesterday; “it was very hard at the time, for I loved him very much, but I can see it was all right now. I should have been a miserable, unhappy wife, if I had married him, and I can thank God that I gave him up.”

“Then you can understand how I felt, dear Miss Richards,” I said.

“Yes, indeed,” she said, earnestly; “and as soon as that thought occurred to me, as soon as ever it came into my mind, that that was your reason for refusing Claude, I felt, dear, that you were right, and I was wrong. You were right, perfectly right in obeying God’s command; and I was wrong, very wrong, May, in wishing you to marry one who is not, I know, a real Christian.”

Miss Richards kissed me very lovingly, as she said this, and I went home with a light and thankful heart.

Poor Miss Richards! I had never dreamed that there was a touching little love story hidden away somewhere in her past history. I had never dreamed that that was the reason why she had never married, but had lived that quiet, unselfish life in her brother’s house—living for all around her. And I was very thankful that she thought I had acted rightly, and would no longer blame me, but would be able and ready to sympathize with me in my trial.

The busy time of packing and leave-taking was at length over, and Maggie and I left our first and hitherto our only home.

It is a merciful ordering that at such times we are far too busy, and full of thought and care about the present moment, to realize what would otherwise overwhelm us with sorrowful feeling. As we drove off from our old home we had to turn back for a forgotten key, and then, almost directly afterward, we arrived at the station, and I had to take the tickets, look after the luggage, and select a carriage. My mind was consequently so full of business, that not until the train had started did I realize that Maggie and I had left our dear happy home, never to return to it again.

We were going that day to the old Manor House at Branston, where Maggie’s aunts lived. They had kindly expressed a wish to see me, and had invited me to spend a week with them before going to Alliston Hall. Maggie was of course delighted at this arrangement, and I was not sorry to have a week’s rest, after the whirl of the last month, before entering upon my new duties.

This was my first visit to the old Manor House, but Maggie had spent a very pleasant month there two years before, and was much looking forward to seeing her aunts again.

We had a long journey, and it was late in the evening when we arrived at Branston.

“I should think John will be here,” said Maggie, as we got out at the very quiet country station.

John was there, awaiting our arrival. John was a fat, comfortable-looking old coachman, who had been in the family for more than fifty years, and looked as if, in the whole course of them, he had never had one single day’s hard work.

John was driving two horses equally fat, equally comfortable-looking, and equally, by their appearance, denying the bare idea of their ever having had any hard work to do.

John touched his hat, and bade the ladies welcome, and hoped “Missy” was quite well. He was evidently quite at his ease, and accustomed to be regarded as a family friend.

We thanked John, and answered his inquiries, and then took our seats in the carriage. It was very old, like John, and quite out of date, of unwieldy proportions, and made a great noise in the world.

We drove for about a mile and a half, through rather an uninteresting country; at least, so it seemed to me, after the wooded hills and pretty valleys which had surrounded our dear old home. He went very slowly indeed, and when there was the slightest rising in the ground, the horses walked solemnly and cautiously up it, and I was more than ever convinced that the opinion I had formed about the easy life that those two comfortable-looking horses had always led was perfectly correct.

At last we went through a large iron gate, and entered a pretty old-fashioned garden, surrounded by a high wall. At one end of this garden stood the Manor House, a quaint old place, built of red brick, and partly covered with ivy.

As we drove past the window, Maggie’s three aunts looked out, and nodded and smiled at us; they did not come out to meet us, for, as I afterward discovered, they were very much afraid of taking cold, and never ventured into the hall when the front door was open.

We were met on the stops by an elderly, old-fashioned servant, in a clean white apron and a large cap, plaited round her face. She took us into the drawing room, which was full of quaint and antiquated furniture, and abounded in sofas and armchairs, covered with very old-fashioned chintz.

In this room the three aunts were anxiously awaiting our arrival. They almost overwhelmed us with kindness, and insisted on our lying down to rest for half an hour on the comfortable sofas till tea was quite ready.

The room was very hot, there was a large fire, and huge screens stood before the doors, and sandbags and curtains excluded every possible draft from the windows. I felt very tired and worn out in mind and body, so I was not sorry to obey my kind hostesses and remain quiet for half an hour. It gave me time to think over the events of the past day, and also to look at Maggie’s three aunts, who did not leave the room but went on with their work and their talk whilst we wore resting.

The eldest sister, Miss Jane, was evidently the ruling spirit in the house. Her word was law, and her quiet firm decision settled every disputed question. There was plenty of firmness, plenty of good sense, plenty of real kindliness in her face, as she bent over the stocking which she was knitting in the most energetic manner, sitting in one of the large armchairs near the fire.

The second sister seemed to me to be a weak reflection of the eldest one, and, I soon found out, was quite ruled by her in everything, for she had not strength of character to settle anything on her own responsibility. If Miss Jane’s word was law to her household, it was more especially law to Miss Hannah.

“What do you think, sister?” was the question repeated by her many times in the day, in answer to which Miss Jane would give her opinion calmly and decidedly, and that opinion was always conclusive.

The youngest sister, Miss Louisa, was considered an invalid. The best of everything was always given to her—the most comfortable chair and the warmest corner, the best seat in the carriage, and at all hours of the day little tempting dishes were brought up to induce Miss Louisa to eat. Miss Jane and Miss Hannah were never tired of waiting on her, and treated her almost like a spoiled child They were very kind to me, these three sisters, during my stay in the old Manor House. They even said how much they wished I would make my home with them; but, of course, I could never dream of being a burden to them; it was very kind of them to take Maggie, I must make my own way in the world.

Everything in the Manor House was in the most beautiful order. The carpets looked as if in the whole course of their existence they had never known what it was to have a speck of dust or piece of cotton left on them; the furniture was so bright that you could see yourself reflected in every part of it; the drugget on the stairs was spotlessly white, as clean as if it was washed every morning regularly; in fact, the most perfect neatness, and order, and cleanliness reigned everywhere, throughout the old Manor House. There were no little children to make dirty footmarks on the clean floors, or to soil the clean coverings of the chairs and sofas. And the regularity and punctuality in the house quite equaled its neatness and order. At exactly the same moment every morning Miss Jane came downstairs to make the tea. At exactly the same instant, day by day, the old servants came into the room for prayers. Meals were never a moment late—as the clock struck we all took our seats, and grace was immediately said. At exactly the same hour, every day, the sisters took their morning drive or their afternoon nap.

The whole place seemed like some huge clock which had been wound up years ago, long before anyone could remember, and which had been going on and on and on ever since, without once needing to be wound up, or set going, or looked after again.

This regular, unbroken, undisturbed life in the old Manor House was very pleasant for a little time. It was just what I needed, after all I had gone through lately. But I fancied that I should soon grow rather tired of it. I fancied that I should long for the doorbell to ring, and an interruption to come in my clockwork existence. I should long for a little of the stir and bustle and motion of the world outside, to creep into the monotony and unchangeableness of the life within.

Small matters, even the most insignificant trifles, became great events to the sisters. If one of the cows or horses took cold, or if a tree was blown down in the garden, or if the rooks built a new nest in the plantation, it was the topic of conversation for days.

I was a little troubled as I looked forward and pictured to myself the kind of training which Maggie would have in such a home. I was afraid it would be rather relaxing to her mind and energies, so that if she came out of it into the coldness and roughness of the outside world she would feel the difference very strongly, and would not be hardy enough to stand it.

I was not afraid that Maggie would be dull here, for she was a quiet child, and fond of playing alone, and making her own amusements and pleasures; and there was a small farm close by, kept by old John and his wife, which was Maggie’s constant resort, and here amongst the chickens, and ducks, and lambs, and calves, and pigeons, she found plenty to interest her, and plenty of recreation and amusement. The aunts were exceedingly kind to her, and I felt sure they would train and teach her to the best of their ability.

But what I was afraid of was, that Maggie’s mind would get a little cramped by the smallness of the sphere in which she was living, and that she would thus become somewhat selfish and self-indulgent. Yet all these fears I carried one by one to my Lord, as they arose; and I felt unspeakable comfort and relief in placing my little sister under His Almighty care.

Miss Jane was my favorite amongst the sisters. There was something in her face which made me trust her at once, and her good common sense and real heartfelt sympathy could always be relied upon. I found myself, almost before I was aware, giving her a history of our happy home-life, and telling her many of my anxieties and troubles, as I thought of the future. She made me promise that whenever I had a holiday given me I would come to the Manor House, and that I would remember that it would never be anything but a very great pleasure to them all to have me there.

On Sunday we all went to the village church together. A new clergyman had just been appointed, and the sisters were hardly in a frame of mind to enjoy the services, for they had not ceased mourning over the late rector, who had been there for forty years, and who had been obliged to resign on account of ill-health. But as I had no recollections of the previous minister, and, therefore, no painful feelings on seeing the new minister enter Mr. Baker’s pulpit, preach from. Mr. Baker’s Bible, and take possession of Mr. Baker’s congregation, the service was a real delight to me.

The young clergyman was plain in appearance, but he had a broad, high, thoughtful forehead, and he was evidently thoroughly in earnest.

The sermon went to my heart; it was on this text: “To be spiritually minded is life and peace.” I came out of church feeling that the sermon I had just heard was one which I could not discuss or remark upon, but was one which I should never forget. It was a searching, practical sermon, and it had probed my heart to its very depths. What did I know of this spiritual-mindedness, of which Mr. Claremont spoke? What did I know of the life and peace which always spring from it? I felt that my thoughts, my motives, and my desires were far too much of the earth, earthly, far too little raised above the earth to things divine. And hence the want of life in my religion, hence the want of that deep and abiding peace which is the portion of all true believers in Jesus. I determined to pray more than ever before for this heavenly-mindedness, and to let my thoughts dwell less on earth, more in heaven.

The next day Mr. Claremont called at the Manor House, and was received by the sisters with all respect and dignity. I was practicing on the drawing-room piano when he came in, and was alone with him for a few minutes, whilst Miss Jane, Miss Hannah, and Miss Louisa were arraying themselves in their best caps.

He spoke to me very pleasantly, and I took the opportunity of mentioning Maggie to him, and he kindly promised to see her sometimes, and try to influence her aright.

Chapter 5: First Impressions

‘Twas the day before I left the old Manor House. I was packing my box in my bedroom, and thinking it would be rather hard to leave the kind sisterhood, and my little Maggie, and turn out into the world alone, when the door opened and Maggie came in with an open letter in her hand.

“Oh, May,” she said, “what do you think? Claude Ellis is going to be married!”

My heart beat so loudly that I was afraid Maggie would hear it, and I trembled so much that I was obliged to sit down on a chair by the bed.

“May, dear,” said Maggie, “what is the matter? You look so pale and ill. Shall I get you anything? I am afraid I startled you, coming in like that.”

“Oh no,” I said, trying to smile, “I am all right. Read me your letter, Maggie—from whom is it?”

“It is from Fanny, May” (Fanny was Maggie’s bosom friend and confidante). “Shall I read it all, or only the part about Claude?”

“Read the part about Claude first, dear,” I said, “and I will lie down on my bed whilst you read; I feel a little tired with packing, and I mean to take half an hour’s rest before dinner.” So I lay on my bed and turned my face to the wall whilst Maggie read as follows: “‘And now I must tell you the news. Who do you think is engaged? You will never guess, if you guess all night. It is Claude Ellis! I will tell you how I heard about it. Yesterday afternoon I went for a walk with Dash to the Endle Farm. As we were coming home, down that hilly part of the road where you and I played hide-and-seek amongst the furze bushes, I saw two people sitting on a stile at the bottom of the hill. One was Claude Ellis, and the other was a young lady. They did not see me until I was very near to them, and then Claude pretended not to see me and got up, and they both walked down the lane, and I followed them only a little way behind, so that I could see the young lady very well. She was prettily dressed, and was tall and very good looking. She had the loveliest hair I ever saw, done in a number of most wonderful plaits. I am sure she could not have done it herself. Claude was bending over her and talking to her; and he looked very happy, and so did she. They turned in at the Parsonage gate, and I went home wondering very much who she was. But I had not to wait very long, for that evening papa came in with the news that Claude was engaged, and that the young lady was staying at the Parsonage. Mr. Ellis had told him, so there could be no mistake about it. She is the sister of one of Claude’s Oxford friends; and he has been staying with them in Scotland the last few weeks. Her name is Alice Fitzgerald, and she is very rich indeed. Papa says she is quite a prize for Claude, and that he will be a very rich man now, with her money and his own money put together. And papa says, that is a very good thing, for he has heard that Claude spent a great many hundred pounds at Oxford, and that poor Mr. Ellis would have been almost ruined if Claude’s uncle had not died just then and left him the money. Papa thinks Claude is very extravagant, and he says he rather pities his wife. But I am sure Claude is very fond of her, and he looked so happy today I could not help feeling glad for him. He seemed so miserable the last time he came home. Do you remember when we met him in Bush Lane, how cross he was, and how he contradicted everything we said, and looked as if he had just heard all his relations were dead? Well, it’s getting late, and I must end my letter.’ That’s all about Claude, May,” said Maggie, as she stopped reading; “wouldn’t you like to see Miss Alice Fitzgerald?”

When Maggie had gone downstairs, taking her new writing case with her, that she might begin at once to answer her little friend’s letter, I got up and locked my door, and then sat down to think over what I had heard.

The news of Claude’s engagement had come upon me like a thunderclap. I tried to reason with myself that I ought to be very glad that Claude was engaged, and that as I could not be his wife he had found someone else to make him happy. And yet it was so soon, so very soon, for Claude to forget his love for me. I had thought that he cared for me more than that. I had thought that he held my love too dear, so quickly and so easily to exchange it for another’s.

I suppose it was my pride that was wounded, and that the tears which came, in spite of myself, and rolled down my cheeks, were tears of mortification. I felt very vexed with myself that it should be so. I called myself all sorts of hard names, and wiped my eyes, and tried to think how nice it was that all was so comfortably settled for me; how delightful it was that I could feel that I had done the right thing, and yet that I had not brought a gloom over the whole of Claude’s life. And yet, at the bottom of my heart, I detected a secret hope, which had been hidden there the last few weeks, that, some day or other, Claude might give up his infidel notions and become a real Christian, and that then we might meet again and become to each other what he had so earnestly wished us to be. I had even thought that perhaps this trouble might be the means of making Claude look into the reality of religion, and believe in that Saviour who is the only true source of comfort, and that thus the great obstacle to our union might be taken away.

Not that Claude was by any means my beau-ideal of all that a man and a husband should be. But then he was, after all, the nicest man I had ever met, and it might be that my ideal was a thing of imagination, never met with in real life.

And on this particular day I was feeling very lonely and desolate. I was about to turn out into the world alone—alone amongst strangers. I was going to a great and fashionable household, where, no doubt, I should be looked down upon, and despised as poor, and a dependent.

I had no one to take care of me, or to shield me from the rough places which I should be sure to come across. There was no one in the world that really belonged to me except my sister Maggie, and she was but a child. I felt very unprotected, desolate, and forsaken. I took up my Bible and turned wearily over the pages, if, perchance, my eyes might fall upon some words of comfort. And the words which caught my attention were these, in the thirteenth chapter of John’s Gospel: “Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end.”

“Unto the end,” an unchanging, an unvarying, an untiring love. I had chosen that love in preference to Claude’s. Had I made a bad exchange? I had given up a love which had proved itself, at the best, but fickle and shallow, and I had chosen Christ’s love, the love of Him of whom it was written, that having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end.

“His own.” Did that indeed mean me? or did it only apply to the few disciples gathered round Him in these last hours of His life on earth? Was it only these whom He loved unto the end? Or could I take up the words, and make them my star of comfort? Could I make them apply to myself now, as they applied to the apostles then?

Was it true now that I was His—His own? Was it true that I was in the world—in the wide, desolate world, alone, just as these apostles were so soon to be, and was it true that He would love me in spite of all my failings and all my sins, and that He would love me unto the end? Could it be true?

Another text came into my mind: “Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.”

These words surely gave me the right to take the other words and make them mine. What Jesus was then, in the yesterday of the past, so He is now, today; what He was to the apostles, so He is to me, and so He ever will be—the same in love, the same in sympathy, the same in constancy.

But I am so cold to Him, I thought, so ungrateful, so sinful. My love is so changeable and fluctuating. Surely He will not, He cannot, in spite of all this, go on loving me—loving me unchangeably. And yet, I knew that Christ’s love for us, if it exists at all, must exist quite independently of anything in us, for what can He see in the very best of men to win His love?

And I remembered that these very apostles, of whom this was written, were very faulty and imperfect in their love to Him. Only the very next day one of them, the one who had professed the most love for Him, denied Him with oaths and curses, saying, again and again, “I know not the man;” and every one of them, even the disciple whom Jesus loved, forsook Him in His hour of need and fled.

And yet of these very men, with all their failings and imperfections, it was written; “Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end.”

My heart grew light again, and I went downstairs quite comforted and happy, and without a single wish in my heart to change places with Miss Alice Fitzgerald.

The next morning I left the Manor House soon after breakfast. I was followed to the door by Miss Jane bidding me, in her calm, decided way, to be sure to choose a carriage with at least two elderly ladies in it, “because, my dear, one reads of such awful robberies and murders taking place in railway carriages!”—followed also by Miss Hannah, entreating me to remember what Miss Jane had said, and also to be quite sure that the guard had fastened the door well before the train started—followed even by Miss Louisa, suggesting the advisability of always having both windows closed, and both ventilators securely fastened, lest any draft should enter the carriage—followed, not only to the door but as far as the garden gate, by my little Maggie, sobbing as if her heart would break, and refusing to be comforted.

It was very hard to leave them all, and especially to leave my little sister, and to go forth alone into the world; but the words which had been my comfort yesterday were my strength now, and the language of my heart was, “I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”

How much I wondered, as I was traveling that day, what Miss Evelyn Trafford would be like, and of what my duties, as companion, would consist. But it was of no use wondering; that evening I should know.

I had a long, tiring journey, having to change my train no less than four times, and to wait at cold, cheerless junctions for several hours.

But in spite of the sisters’ oft-repeated predictions of the reverse, I and my luggage arrived safe and sound at the little station of Alliston.

As soon as I left the carriage a footman came up to me, and, touching his hat, inquired if I was Miss Lindsay. When I answered in the affirmative, he took charge of my luggage, and led the way to a carriage which was waiting for me outside the station.

We drove on in the darkness for some distance, through what seemed to be country roads and lanes, for I could see no lights by the wayside, and nothing to break the darkness of the night.

After a long time the carriage stopped in front of a small house, which I saw must be a lodge, for by means of the light which came from a diamond-paned window I could see a woman opening some large iron gates for the carriage to go through.

When we had passed the lodge I expected every moment to reach the house, and my heart beat faster and faster in expectation of my arrival. But we went on and on and on for at least a mile before the lights of the great house appeared, and we stopped before the door.

The footman got down from the carriage and rang the bell. The door was opened by a grave and solemn butler, and I went inside, feeling as if I were walking in my sleep, so tired and confused was I with my long journey.

I was ushered through a spacious hall, filled with stags’ horns and old swords, and stuffed birds and foreign curiosities, and old oak cabinets, up a very wide staircase to a room at the top of the house. It was not a large room, but it was very pretty and comfortable, and a cheerful fire was blazing in the grate.

The maid who had shown me my room told me that Miss Trafford would be glad to see me as soon as I was ready, so I hastened to take off my dusty traveling dress, and to make myself ready to go downstairs.

After about half an hour the maid came back again to conduct me. We went through several long passages, past a number of doors, until we arrived at Miss Evelyn Trafford’s room.

The maid opened the door and I went in. The gas was not lighted, but the fire was blazing brightly, and by its light I could see a young lady lying on a low couch on one side of it. She was very pretty, with small, delicate features, and a beautiful fair complexion, and appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age. On the sofa beside her were lying two kittens curled up on a velvet cushion, and in front of the fire was a little spaniel fast asleep on the hearth-rug.

As soon as the door opened Miss Trafford held out her hand to me.

“Come in, Miss Lindsay,” she said; “come to the fire; you must be tired and cold; it’s dreadfully cold out, is it not? There, Flossy, get up and let Miss Lindsay come to the fire.”

She had a pretty, childish manner, which was very winning and pleasant. “I am so glad you have come,” she said, when I was seated, “and you look so nice. Do you know I thought you would be dreadful, before you came! When papa said one day that it was so dull for me up here alone he must get me a companion, I actually cried, Miss Lindsay. It was very silly of me, I know, but then I always am a silly child. I pictured to myself what this companion would be like, and I thought she would have gray curls, and spectacles, and a brown alpaca dress, and always talk as if she were talking out of a book.”

I could not help laughing heartily when she said this.

“Oh, I am so glad you can laugh,” said Miss Trafford; “the companion, in the picture I made of her, never laughed—she only smiled, as if she was thinking, How foolish everyone in the world is, and especially this weak-minded child I have to take care of.”

This, of course, made me laugh again, to Miss Trafford’s great satisfaction.

“Papa said he would get me somebody young and charming if he could, and he told me when he was writing about you how old you were, but I didn’t think I should like you a bit, and I didn’t want you to come at all.”

“I hope you will change your mind soon, Miss Trafford,” I said; “I will try not to be very disagreeable.”

“Oh, I have changed my mind,” she said, quickly; “I changed it as soon as you came in at the door. I always judge by first sight. If I love people when I first see them, I always love them; and if I hate them, I always hate them. I never change my mind afterward.”

“Do you think that is a good plan?” I said; “don’t you think it is rather an unfair way of judging?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said; “it always answers very well for me. I liked you when you came in at the door, and I mean always to like you. I wish Ambrose would bring the dinner, the gong sounded long since. I am sure it is time for it, and you must be so hungry. Miss Lindsay, will you please ring the bell?”

One of the footmen soon appeared with a small round table, which he placed between Miss Trafford’s couch and my chair. The table was already prepared for dinner, with everything in its proper place.

“Oh, it is so nice to have you here,” said Miss Trafford. “Do you know, I haven’t been downstairs to dinner for five months. Isn’t that dreadful? And I have always had dinner quite alone, except twice, when there was no one staying here, and then papa came up to my room and had dinner here. It was such fun; he and I had this little table, and Ambrose came in here to wait. I laughed all the time, and so did papa; it seemed such a little room after the dining room, and the three men did not at all know where to stand, because there was no room for them to come close to the table.”

“Then you have only been ill five months?” I said.

“Only five months! as if that were not long enough,” she said; “it seems more like five years to me!”

“Yes, it is a long time,” I said; “but I was afraid you might have been ill longer still. I do not know what made you ill.”

“Didn’t papa tell you? How funny of him! Now, if I had been writing to you, I should have told you the whole story. What did he tell you?”

“He only said that he wanted a companion for his daughter, and asked for my references.”

“That was just like papa,” said Evelyn; “he always does everything in what he calls a business-like way, which I always say means never telling anybody anything.”

“Will you tell me what made you ill?” I asked.

“Yes, it was that young horse,” she said; “such a beauty! you must see him, Miss Lindsay; he is quite black, and has a white star on his forehead, and his name is Wildfire, because he flies along so fast. Papa said he was too young for me to ride; but I was not a bit afraid, and Cousin Donald asked me to go out with him for an hour. Cousin Donald is very fond of me,” she said, laughing; “he would like me to marry him; but that would never do, you know. Papa says he is very poor, and he would not hear of such a thing. But Cousin Donald is very good-looking, and I like riding with him, he rides so well, and we had a splendid ride that day; but then Wildfire threw me, and all my fun was over.”

“Were you much hurt?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said; “the doctors said my spine was injured; only a little though,” she added, quickly, “and if I keep very, very still, and never walk about for a year, they think I shall be quite well again. Oh dear! I wish the year was over now! But it will be much nicer now you have come.”

“You must tell me, please, Miss Trafford, what my duties are,” I said.

“Oh, don’t talk about duties,” she said, pretending to stop her ears; “I can’t bear the word. I never could do anything because it was a duty. That’s just the sort of word the companion in my picture used to say. She used to draw up her head and look through her spectacles, and say, solemnly, ‘Miss Evelyn, remember your duties.’”

“But you will tell me what my work is to be here,” I repeated; “Sir William did not mention it in his letter.”

“You won’t have any work,” she said, “except to amuse me; you are to be my friend, if you like to call that work—to read to me, and talk to me, and have meals with me, and make the year go a little quicker.”

“That isn’t very hard work,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she answered; “you’ll find me a very tiresome child sometimes, and if you had been the brown alpaca dress, and gray curls, and spectacles, I would have led you such a life that in less than a week you would have said to papa, ‘Sir William Trafford, I must beg to resign the charge of your flippant and willful daughter.’ Before you came, papa said we were to have some profitable reading in a morning, and storybooks only after luncheon; but I hate profitable reading, and papa never makes me do what I hate.”

“What kind of reading do you mean?” I inquired.

“Oh, history and geography, and all such things; I never could bear them. What is the good of knowing who Henry VIII.’s wives were, and which of them he beheaded; and nearly giving oneself brain fever in trying to remember what relation John of Gaunt was to everybody else.”

“I am very fond of history,” I said; “I think some parts are quite as interesting as a story-book.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” she said; “you are talking just like the brown alpaca dress! I shall expect you to pull the spectacles out of your pocket in a minute.” And then I could do nothing but laugh, and in a moment she had changed the conversation, and was rattling on about something else.

“There are not many visitors here just now,” she said; “you’ll see them all by and by. They generally pay me a visit after dinner. And mind you stop when they come; I want you to see them all. The brown alpaca dress always got up when anyone came in, and made a very stiff bow, and went away and shut herself up in her bedroom. So mind you don’t do the same; you must look at all the people well, and tell me what you think of them, when they are gone.”

“Oh, I should not like to do that,” I said.

“Why not?” she said, laughingly; “I don’t mind telling you what I think of anyone. There is Lady Eldridge; she is very grand and stately, and I don’t like her a bit; and there is Lord Moreton—he never has a word to say, and is very stupid; but he has a quantity of money and a splendid estate, and papa is always saying what a nice young man he is. And so he may be, perhaps, in some ways; at least he is very harmless, but then he squints, and I never could marry anyone who squinted—could you, Miss Lindsay?”

“I don’t know,” I said, laughing; “I never thought about it.”

“Well, I couldn’t, it would drive me mad. And then there is Alicia Hay—papa’s old maid cousin—and if you ask me what I think of her, I think she is trying very hard to get married and never will. And then there is Lilla—but I won’t tell you about them all now, you will see them for yourself by and by.”

Chapter 6: Alliston Hall

“Shall I ring the bell, Miss Trafford?” I inquired, when dinner was over. “Don’t call me Miss Trafford,” she said, quickly; “call me Evelyn, it sounds much nicer, and is six letters shorter.”

“But perhaps Sir William would not like it,” I objected.

“Oh, papa likes everything I like,” she said, decidedly. “I wish you to call me Evelyn, and mean to call you by your first name too— ‘Miss Lindsay’ sounds just like the brown alpaca. What is your Christian name?”

“My name is May,” I said; “and I shall be very glad if you will call me May, instead of Miss Lindsay; shall fancy I am at home again.”

“Well then it’s settled, May,” she said, laughing; “and now you may ring the bell.”

Soon after the dessert was cleared away a rustling of silk was heard in the passages, the door opened, and three ladies entered the room.

The first was a stout, elderly lady, very handsomely dressed. In her younger days I felt sure she had been a beauty, and I think she must have been greatly admired. But she had, I thought, an unpleasant expression in her face, and a haughty and disagreeable manner.

“Well, Evelyn,” she said, as she swept past me without a word or a look, “how are you feeling now?”

“Oh, very nicely, thank you, Lady Eldridge,” she said; “Miss Lindsay and I have had quite a pleasant chat together.”

“Miss Lindsay, ah! yes, I see,” said Lady Eldridge, turning to me for the first time; “the young person whom Sir William has engaged as your companion, Evelyn, I believe.”

And then she took no further notice of me, but sat upon the sofa at Evelyn’s side, fanning herself vigorously.

There was something in Lady Eldridge’s manner which made me uncomfortable and uneasy, and I had withdrawn to the table with my work as the two other ladies advanced to the fire, not intending to take any part in the conversation, when a pleasant, gentle voice by my side said kindly, “You must be tired with your long journey, Miss Lindsay; had you to stop many times by the way?”

I looked up and met one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen. It was not exactly a pretty face, and the features were far from handsome, but there was such a beautiful expression upon it that you could never have called it plain. I should have been very puzzled if anyone had asked me how old she was. At one time she looked quite young, not more than four or five and twenty; and the moment afterward I detected strong marks of care, or anxiety, or trouble on the face, which made me think she must be at least ten or fifteen years older.

I told her about my journey, and then she asked me one question after another, in the kindest, pleasantest way, as if she really cared to know all I had to tell her. She led me on from one subject to another, and I found myself telling her of our old home; of Maggie, and my hopes and fears for her; and of many other things, whilst Lady Eldridge and Evelyn were talking together on the sofa; and all the chill and repression, which had come over me when Lady Eldridge entered the room entirely passed away, and I felt perfectly at my ease again.

When I told her of our leaving our dear old home, her eyes filled with tears, and she said quietly, “I know what a trial that is; I have gone through it myself. What a comfort that there is one home where there will be no parting and no going away!”

Such a happy, thankful feeling came into my heart as she said this. There was something in the way she said it, as well as in the words themselves, which made me feel sure that my new friend was one who loved the same Lord I loved. And, if I had felt drawn to her before, I was doubly drawn to her now.

We had no opportunity for further conversation, for Evelyn was growing weary of Lady Eldridge, and invited us to come nearer to the fire.

“Put away your work, you industrious girl,” she said to me. “The brown alpaca always had her work close to her fingers’ ends at a moment’s notice.”

“My dear Evelyn,” said Lady Eldridge, “a most profitable way for a young person.”

But Evelyn took no notice of her, and turned to my new friend.

“Where have you been all day, Lilla?” she said. “You have only been to see me three times.”

“Have I been so negligent as that, dear?” she said. “I must mend my manners tomorrow; but I have been very busy writing letters, so you must forgive me.”

Until I had turned to the fire, I had not looked at the third lady who had come into the room. She was sitting languidly in an armchair by the fire, with her eyes fixed on the door, as if she were looking anxiously for someone to enter. She was decidedly advanced in middle age, yet she was dressed like a girl of seventeen: in a low, white evening dross, and a most elaborate gold chain and locket round her neck. She looked dissatisfied and restless, as if she was always striving to reach some object which was eluding her grasp. She took no particular interest in the general conversation which was going on, but seemed either lost in thought, or not thinking at all.

Lady Eldridge was giving an account of Eastern life, which she described as the most delightful life on earth. I found she had lived many years abroad, and was going to Constantinople the following spring. She could not settle in England more than a year at a time, she said. “Those miserable skies; those depressing fogs; those dreadful rainy days, enough to make any one commit suicide who has lived in the East, my dear.” And Lady Eldridge fanned herself again, at the bare recollection of it.

She kept up a continual run of conversation for about half an hour; but she gave me the idea of being a woman who had hardly opened a book in the whole course of her life, and who was thoroughly ignorant of everything except the worldly ways of the worldly world, in which she seemed to be anything but ignorant.

But her chattering was brought to a close by a rap at the door, and the announcement that the gentlemen had arrived in the drawing room.

“Those tiresome men!” said Lady Eldridge; “as if they could not amuse themselves for half an hour without sending for us. Well, Alicia, I suppose we must obey the lords of creation and go downstairs. Goodnight, Evelyn, my dear.”

And, without taking the slightest notice of me, Lady Eldridge sailed out of the room.

The other two ladies said good night to both of us and followed in her train, and Evelyn and I were left alone.

“Well, what do you think of them?” she said, as soon as the door was shut; “bring your chair close to the fire and tell me.”

“I think that the lady who sat near me has one of the sweetest faces that I ever saw,” I said. “I could quite believe in anyone loving her at first sight.”

“Oh, Lilla, yes; isn’t she nice?” said Evelyn, carelessly; “everyone seems to like poor Lilla.”

“Why do you call her poor?” I asked.

“Oh, because she has had so much trouble,” Evelyn answered; “she was engaged to a young officer a good many years ago, and it was broken off; his father persuaded him to marry someone with more money. Lilla is papa’s first cousin, and she often stays here; it is very dull for her at home; her father has married again, and his new wife is such a horrid old thing, who treats Lilla as if she were a child of twelve. But Lilla never complains; she is very patient. And what did you think of Lady Eldridge?”

“I had rather not say, please, Evelyn; I do not think it is very kind to talk about people so much.”

“Oh, it won’t hurt Lady Eldridge, I assure you,” she answered; “she is miles too high up in the world to be hurt by anything you or I may say or think of her—at least she thinks that she is. Papa says she has nothing to boast of, if her antecedents were looked into. She was quite poor, and lived in some remote Eastern city, when her good looks attracted Sir Hugh Eldridge’s attention, as he was passing through the place, and he married her. But she thinks herself a perfect queen now, and lords it over everybody. I often pity her poor maid. It is ‘Lawrence, here;’ ‘Lawrence, do this;’ ‘Lawrence, do that;’ from morning till night; for Lady Eldridge thinks it is a disgrace to do the simplest thing for herself, or even to know how it ought to be done. She boasts of being as ignorant as a baby about all money matters, and cannot even pay a bill for herself. Silly old thing!” said Evelyn, contemptuously, “I have more respect for Alicia Hay than I have for her.”

“Is that the lady who sat in the armchair by the fire?” I asked.

“Yes, poor thing!” said Evelyn; “she wouldn’t talk a bit tonight. I know why, just as well as if I had been there. It was just because Lord Moreton didn’t take her down to dinner;” and Evelyn laughed at the thought of it. “Didn’t you see how she looked at the door every time a step came in the passage, because, sometimes, papa comes up for a few minutes on his way to the drawing room, to cheer me up a little; and sometimes he brings one of the gentlemen with him; but they didn’t come tonight, so poor Alicia was quite disconsolate; she had not the heart to talk to anyone. And if she only knew, oh, if she only knew what Lord Moreton really thinks of her!”

“Poor thing!” I said; “is she very fond of him?”

“Oh, not of him in particular,” said Evelyn, laughing; “but you see poor Alicia is getting old; she really is, though she would be very angry if any one told her so, and she wants very much to be married, and to have a home of her own.”

I was not sorry when Evelyn asked me to ring the bell for her maid Clemence, and I was at liberty to go to my own room, for I was very tired after all the traveling and excitement I had gone through that day.

I lay awake for many hours, watching the flickering of the firelight, and listening for the striking of a large clock in the hall, whose deep, sonorous voice could be heard in every part of the great house.

The next morning I awoke before it was light, and had been dressed for more than an hour before Clemence came to conduct me to her young mistress’s dressing room. I found Evelyn lying on a sofa by the dressing room fire, in a pretty pink dressing gown, and with her fair hair hanging down in long waving tresses. She looked a perfect picture, I thought, and one that any artist would take pleasure in painting. She seemed pleased to see me, but was languid and tired, and not so much inclined for talking as she had been the night before.

Breakfast was brought up soon after I arrived, and, whilst we were eating it, the door opened, and an elderly gentleman came in. He had evidently been very handsome in his younger days, and there was a cheerful, pleasant, good-tempered expression on his face, which made him look younger than I imagine he really was.

“Oh, papa,” said Evelyn, brightening up the moment that she saw him, “I am so glad you have come! How naughty of you not to come last night! I wanted you so much to see Miss Lindsay—May, I call her now,” she added, laughing.

Sir William shook hands with me very kindly, and said he hoped I should soon feel at home, and that his little daughter would not wear me out with her chattering.

“Now, papa, what nonsense!” said Evelyn, gaily; “May was at home when she had been here ten minutes, were you not, May? And she likes chattering just as much as I do. You talk just as if she was the brown alpaca I told you about. But she is not a bit like her; she is so nice, papa, and we get on together famously.”

“That’s right,” said Sir William, seating himself on the sofa; “and how is my little puss this morning?”

“Only a little tired, papa,” she said, wearily; “the pain kept me awake last night.”

He looked at her very anxiously, I thought, as he stooped over her, and gently arranged her pillows, as carefully and tenderly as any woman could have done.

“Keep very quiet this morning, little girl,” he said; “I will not let any of them come near you. Miss Lindsay will read to you, and you can lie quite still.”

“Oh no, thank you, papa,” she said, cheerfully; “let them all come, it does me good to have people coming in and out; it amuses me; they are so funny, some of them, aren’t they, papa? Don’t they make you laugh sometimes?”

Sir William made some evasive answer, and glanced towards the end of the room, where I was sitting at work.

“Oh, you need not mind her, papa,” said Evelyn aloud, “she is not the brown alpaca. I mean to tell her everything, and to talk just the same when she is in the room as when she is out of it.”

Sir William seemed rather amused at the rapid friendship that had sprung up between us, but it did not appear to displease him, for he smiled kindly at me, and gave me a few more words of welcome as he rose to leave the room. But when he got to the door he said gravely: “Lord Moreton is very anxious to see you this morning, Evelyn; shall I let him come when you get into the other room?”

Evelyn laughed heartily.

“Yes, if it is any amusement to him, papa,” she said; “I am sure he amuses me. Oh! if you had only seen him the other day; he came up when Alicia Hay was sitting beside me, and neither of them spoke a word. He sat looking at me, and she sat looking at him, and they were both perfectly stupid.”

“Lord Moreton is a very worthy young man, Evelyn,” said her father, gravely.

“Oh, a very worthy young man,” she repeated, in exactly the same tone, so exactly that I could scarcely keep from smiling; “but the worst is, papa, that I don’t like very worthy young men; they are so dreadfully uninteresting—at least, if Lord Moreton is a specimen—they sit and look at you, and then clear their throats, and try to make some feeble remark, and break down in the middle. Oh dear I it is so amusing. Now Cousin Donald never does that; he can make himself very agreeable; I wish he would come to see me.”

“Donald has other business to attend to,” said her father, rather sharply; “he has no time to lose now; Donald must make his way in the world.”

“Yes,” she said, rather sadly; “poor Donald!”

“I do not know why he need be pitied,” said Sir William, dryly; “if he will only work he will soon be able to earn a very fair income.”

“But Donald does not like work,” said Evelyn; “he says he would like to be independent, and to have plenty—plenty of money.”

“He never will have plenty of money,” said Sir William, almost angrily, as he shut the door.

“Papa does not like poor Donald,” she said, as soon as he was out of hearing; “but he is so handsome, and he has such nice brown eyes. I do not know why papa dislikes him so much. I think it is because he is afraid he likes me too much. It is very strange that he does like me; I should have thought that he would have hated me, because if I had never been born Cousin Donald would have lived here, and would have been just like papa’s son. That makes me feel so sorry for him.”

“Is he much older than you?” I asked.

“Yes, he is six years older,” said Evelyn; “and papa and mamma had been married a long time, and they thought they would not have any children of their own, so papa was talking of adopting Cousin Donald, and educating him and leaving the property to him. Uncle and aunt were very pleased about it, because they have so many children. Cousin Donald is the eldest of thirteen now, and there were plenty of them even then, so they were quite willing to spare him to papa. But of course when I came I put an end to all that little plan,” she said, laughing.

“And where is your cousin Donald now?”

“Oh, poor fellow, he is in a bank, and he does so hate doing sums; he always did. They make his head ache, he says. He likes riding and shooting and fishing, and all such things, just the kind of life he would have had here, you know; it is very hard for him, is it not? And I am afraid he is rather lazy, and they say he wastes his money. But he is so good. looking, and I really think he cannot help it—yes, I really think he cannot help it.”

“Cannot help what?” I inquired.

“Oh, being extravagant,” she explained. “He buys beautiful little bouquets for his button-hole, and all sorts of little unnecessary things of that kind, and the money goes very fast. But it must be so hard to see pretty things and not to be able to buy them. I should never be able to do that; as soon as ever I see anything I like I send into the shop and have it brought out to me at once.”

I smiled. to myself as I went on with my work, for I was thinking how different Evelyn’s experience had been from mine She seemed to guess my thoughts.

“I suppose you have not always had everything that you wanted and wished for?” she said.

“Everything I really wanted—yes,” I answered; “everything I may have wished for—no.”

“Oh dear! was it not very tiresome?” she asked. “I think it was good for me,” I said.

“Good for you!” she repeated; “that’s just like the brown alpaca. How could it be good for you?”

“I think it made me enjoy all the more the good things which were given me,” I said; “things that perhaps you might have thought nothing of, and things which would have given you no pleasure at all.”

“What sort of things?” asked Evelyn.

“Oh, any little present that was given me; any new book, or picture; any little pleasure, or treat of any kind. We had so few new things, that when anything fresh came it was prized and valued. more than I can tell you. I really think it gave us more enjoyment than far grander things would give you.”

“Oh, I dare say,” said Evelyn; “there are some things that I wish for, just for a minute, and then when they come I do not care for them. If you only saw the number of books on those shelves, the leaves of which have never been cut. I wished. for them, and ordered them, but when they arrived. I had given up wishing for them, and I have never begun to read them.”

I thought of the little shelves at home, which had held my small library, each volume of which was the prized gift of some friend, and which had been read and re-read, until I knew their contents almost by heart.

Before I had been long at Alliston Hall, I came to the conclusion that the enjoyment of this life is much more evenly distributed than many of us think. For where pleasures are many the enjoyment that they give comparatively small; whilst where they are few and far between they cause so much larger an amount of enjoyment, that the lives of those who receive them are 1uite as full of sunshine and brightness as they would be if their pleasures were more in number.

Chapter 7: Conscience at Work

My life at Alliston Hall was a very happy one. Day after day went by without any care or anxiety, and everyone was so kind to me that I could not feel lonely or homeless any longer.

The more I knew of Evelyn Trafford the more I loved her. In spite of her light, careless way of talking, there was a great deal of genuine kind feeling in her, and I am sure she did all in her power to make me happy. I never once remember, the whole time I was with her, feeling uncomfortable on account of my position in the house. Both Sir William and Evelyn treated me as if I were one of the family, and I received nothing but kindness from their numerous visitors and friends. Lady Eldridge was the only exception. She, whenever she made her appearance at Alliston Hall, thought it her duty to keep me fully aware who she, Lady Eldridge, was, and who I, May Lindsay, was, and of the immense and immeasurable distance between us.

The guests at Alliston Hall did not pay very long visits, so I had constant change and variety in my life, and heard and saw a great deal more of the outer world than in our quiet country home.

And yet, although everything around me was so pleasant, and though everyone was so kind to me, I had not been many months at Alliston Hall before I began to feel restless and unhappy. For I felt that I was not walking so closely with God as I had done before. I had become cold and careless, rising late in the morning and hurrying over my prayers, and then going through the day in an idle, careless spirit, hardly ever thinking of my Lord or trying to please Him.

For some time this did not make me at all unhappy. I had so much to think of, and there were so many pleasant visitors staying in the house, and so many books to be read, and there was so much to be done to amuse Evelyn and to make the days pass happily for her, that I gave myself no time to think about the state of my soul. But the visitors left and we were quiet again, and then I felt an empty, dissatisfied feeling in my heart, which I cannot put into words. My conscience was very busy now, and brought to my recollection all my neglect of my best and dearest Friend, all my coldness and indifference to Him. I would have given anything to feel His presence as in times past; but He seemed far away from me, and I felt too cold even to pray to Him. But though I had so terribly forgotten Him, my Lord still remembered me.

It was Sunday afternoon. Evelyn had fallen asleep on the sofa, and I went out into the garden till she awoke. There had been showers all the morning, but now the sun was shining brightly, and the raindrops were sparkling like diamonds on the grass.

I went along one of the grassy terraces, and turned down a quiet path, shut in by evergreens, which led by a gentle descent clown to the sea. This was my favorite walk, and I always chose it when I came out alone. There were several seats on this path, so situated as to catch a peep of the sea through the shrubs and trees, which grew down to its very edge.

As I turned a corner in this winding path, I suddenly came upon Miss Lilla Irvine, sitting upon one of the seats reading her Bible. I apologized for disturbing her, and was going to turn back, when she asked me if I would not stay a little and read with her. “You and I love the same Lord, May,” she said; “I know we do, and I think it would help us to talk together of Him sometimes; at least,” she added, “I am sure it would help me.”

“Oh, Miss Irvine,” I said, as I sat down beside her, “if you only knew—”

“If I only knew what?” she said, gently.

“If you only knew how careless I have been lately; I have hardly thought about Him at all.”

“What has been the matter, May?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered; “I think everything has been too smooth and nice lately; somehow, it is easier to do right when the road is rather rough; don’t you think it is, Miss Irvine?”

“Yes,” she said; “when things go wrong, and all seems against us, we are driven to prayer, May—we feel we must pray then; but we ought not to need driving into our dear Lord’s presence.”

“Oh no,” I said; “I know we ought not.”

“And oh, May,” she said, earnestly, “if we get self-confident, and leave off prayer, we shall soon have a fall; we are not safe for a single moment if we are not strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might. You will be having a fall if you do not come back to Him, May.”

“I wish I could come back, Miss Irvine,” I said, “but it is easier to get wrong than to get right again. I got up this morning rather earlier, and tried to pray, but I could not fix my thoughts on what I was saying; all sorts of things kept coming into my mind, and I gave it up at last.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know what that is; heart answers to heart. I have often found it so when I have left God, and have been pleasing myself, I have lost the power to pray.”

“How is it, Miss Irvine?” I asked.

“I think,” she said, “that the Holy Spirit has been grieved, and without His help we cannot pray.”

“Then what do you think I should do?” I asked.

“I think,” she said, “you should go back to the Lord, just in the same spirit in which you first came to Him, Go to Him, and ask Him to receive you, to take away all the sin which is separating you from Him, and to give you the comfort of His presence again. And then I think you should especially pray that you may once more have the help of the Holy Spirit. I like that old hymn so much:

“Return, O Holy Dove, return,

Sweet messenger of rest;

I hate the sins which made Thee mourn,

And drove Thee from my breast.

So shall my walk be close with God,

Calm and serene my frame;

So purer light shall mark the road

That leads me to the Lamb.”

“Will you not go back to Him at once, May?” she said, laying her hand upon mine.

“Oh, Miss Irvine, I will; indeed I will,” I said.

“Go now, dear,” she said.

So I left her sitting there, and went on, down the winding, shady path to the sea. It was a quiet, solitary place. The only sounds that were to be heard were the splashing of the waves upon the rocks, and the cries of the white seabirds as they flew backwards and forwards on the little rocky islands, which lay about half a mile from the shore.

I knelt down in a sheltered corner, and felt myself alone with God. I do not think that I have ever realized the Lord’s presence more than at that moment. And then I confessed it all to Him, all my coldness, all my carelessness, all my neglect of prayer, all my indifference to Him. I came back to Him, and asked Him to receive me, and to give me the light of His countenance again. And then, as Miss Irvine had advised me, I prayed very earnestly for the Holy Spirit, pleading that promise, “If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?”

Oh, how thankful I felt that Miss Irvine had spoken to me that afternoon! I am sure that God put it into her heart to do so.

When I went back to the house I found her still sitting in the same place, and she said, as she took hold of my arm to walk home with me: “Is it all right, dear?”

“Yes, Miss Irvine, I hope so. I have asked Him to forgive me, and I think He has.”

“Yes,” she said, “if you have asked Him I am sure He has. He is always ready to forgive us, if we will only go to Him. If we only realized how much He loves us, May, and how much it grieves Him when we are cold and heartless to Him, I think we should be more careful never to leave Him.”

As I look back upon that part of my life which was spent in Alliston Hall, I cannot be too thankful that God gave me the friendship of Miss Lilla Irvine. I found in her a true friend, one in whom I could confide all my troubles and anxieties, and one who was ever ready to sympathize with me, and to advise me. Her visits, to my great joy, were very long ones. At the time of which I am now writing she spent several months at her cousin’s house, so that I had many opportunities of seeing her, and of learning to love her more and more.

As Christmas time drew near the good sisters at Branston Manor House wrote to ask me to spend Christmas with them, and Sir William most kindly gave me a fortnight’s holiday. Evelyn was very loth to part with me, and told me she would be dreadfully dull whilst I was away. But Sir William would not hear of my refusing the invitation, and promised to do his best to make up for my absence.

“Oh dear, oh dear, it will be a long fortnight” Evelyn said, the night before I left. “You shouldn’t be so nice, May; if you were only a little more disagreeable, just the smallest degree more like the brown alpaca, I should not miss you half so much!”

“Very well,” I said, laughing, “I will come back provided with spectacles, and a brown alpaca dress, and be as prim and precise as you please, and the I suppose I shall get plenty of holidays! Not that I want holidays,” I said, in a different tone, as I noticed the troubled expression on her face, “I was only joking, dear Evelyn; my whole life here is a holiday —I am very, very happy, you are all so good to me.”

“Just as if we could help being good to you, May,” she said; “I told you that I loved you at first sight, and always should love you, and I am sure I do. And I do hope you will enjoy being with your little sister, only you must be sure to come back as soon as they can spare you.”

It was six months since I had seen Maggie, and my heart beat very fast as the train drew up at Branston Station, and my little sister came forward to meet me. She had grown very much since I had seen her last, but she was the same dear, simple-minded child as when I had left her, and was just as loving and true.

Old John was waiting for us with the two luxurious horses, and we drove to the Manor House at the usual measured pace.

It was quite touching to see the welcome which the three kind sisters gave me. If I had been their own child they could not have seemed more glad to see me. Miss Jane, especially, took me under her wing from the moment that I entered the house, and it would indeed have been my own fault if I had not spent a pleasant Christmas time at Branston Hall.

But what I enjoyed, perhaps, more than anything else, was hearing Mr. Claremont’s sermons. There was something in his plain, practical way of preaching, which went direct to my heart, and I always came away from hearing one of his sermons feeling thoroughly dissatisfied with myself, which perhaps, after all is the best proof how very useful they were to me.

On the last Sunday of the year, especially, I felt that indeed there was a message for me. In both his sermons that day Mr. Claremont spoke of the year that was past, gone forever, with all its shortcomings and sins, all its neglected opportunities, all its wasted moments. In the evening his sermon was addressed more especially to the unsaved in the congregation, urging such not to let the last moments of the old year pass away until they had been to the fountain, Christ Jesus, the fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness, and had washed their sin-stained souls till they were whiter than snow.

But in the morning Mr. Claremont spoke to Christians, to God’s own children. He spoke of the sins of which we Christians had been guilty during the past year, and above all of our sins of omission. He told us that God had given to each of us a special work to do for Him, and that if we did not do it the work would be left undone. And then he asked us whether all those who lived in the house with us were amongst the saved. Were there any, was there one, with whom we spoke day by day, and whom we loved perhaps very much, and yet whom we knew to be still outside the refuge, still unsaved?

And then Mr. Claremont pleaded with us, if this was the case, to give ourselves no rest until that one was safe in Christ, but to speak to him about his soul, him, and, whenever we had an opportunity, to plead with and to urge him to come to Jesus before it was too late.

“Another year gone, just gone, and your loved ones what if this new year should be still unsaved. Oh, their last! What if next New Year’s Day the opportunity should be over, and they should be gone! Up, children of God, up and be doing, let not their blood be on your heads. Oh, if they should come up to you at the last day, and say, with bitter reproaches, ‘Why did you not warn us? If you really believed, knew that this was before us, why did you not give yourselves no rest, day nor night, until you knew that we were saved from it? Oh, why not?’ What will you say to them then? Friends, be up and doing, for the night cometh when no man can work.”

As Mr. Claremont spoke one face was ever in my mind’s eye, one form was ever before me. It was Evelyn Trafford, my own dear little Evelyn, of whom I thought. I knew she was not safe. Loving and amiable and sweet tempered as she was, I knew that she cared nothing for the Lord I loved. She had been brought up entirely for this world, and she had never been taught to think of things above.

And yet what could I do for her? I had sometimes tried to get a word in, edgewise as it were, for my Master, but it was very difficult, and it never seemed to do any good.

Sometimes I thought it did harm. If she was alone with me she turned the subject so quickly, and called me precise and particular, and did not seem so much at her ease with me afterward. And if anyone else came into the room, she would begin to talk almost scoffingly of all that I loved and reverenced, as if she were determined to show me how little she cared for it all. And so I was beginning to think that it was wiser to be quiet and to say nothing.

Yet this sermon had made me uneasy. If Evelyn, my dear Evelyn, should die unsaved, and I had never once really spoken to her about her soul’s interests, oh, how I should blame myself! And yet, when could I do it? How could I begin the subject?

I met Mr. Claremont the next day, as I was going to see one of Miss Jane’s sick people, and I ventured to tell him how much I had felt his sermon.

“But does it not require very great wisdom in speaking to others?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly,” he said; “there is a time to speak, and a time to keep silence.”

“But with me, Mr. Claremont,” I said, “it always seems the time to keep silence.”

“Have you been looking out for an opportunity?” he said; “ready to speak and longing to speak, whenever and as soon as God shall give you one?”

“Hardly that,” I said; “I have often thought I ought to speak, but have always persuaded myself that it was not the right time to do it.”

“Ah” he said; “perhaps if you look carefully within, Miss Lindsay, you will find that at the bottom of it all there has been a little cowardice, a little unwillingness to be brave for the Master’s sake—please forgive me for saying so—but I have often found it so myself. Often, when I have neglected speaking to others about their souls, I have found that it was not from want of opportunity, but from want of courage to use the opportunities that were given me.”

“Yes,” I said, “I believe you are right.”

“Pray for opportunities to be given you, be on the lookout for opportunities, and use the opportunities as soon as ever they occur, and you will, I am sure, Miss Lindsay, find that there is indeed a time to speak, as well as a time to be silent.”

Chapter 8: Alice Fitzgerald

I went back to Alliston Hall determined to be on the watch for the time to speak, and longing most earnestly for that time to come. Evelyn welcomed me very warmly, and told me she had never known a fortnight to pass so slowly.

“Have you many visitors here?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “there is only Alice Fitzgerald; I did not know she was coming when you went away, but I found out she was staying with friends of hers not far off, so I asked her to come here on her way home; her father is an old friend of papa’s.”

“Alice Fitzgerald!” I repeated; “Alice Fitzgerald, I wonder if it is the same!”

“The same as what, May?” she said, laughing at my astonishment “do you know an Alice Fitzgerald?”

“No,” I said, “I do not know her; but she is a great friend of a friend of mine!”

“Well, this Alice Fitzgerald—how pale you are, May,” said Evelyn, suddenly stopping short in her explanation; “are you very tired?”

“No, not at all,” I said; “go on, I want to hear about your Alice Fitzgerald.”

“Well, my Alice Fitzgerald is a very pretty girl, at least I think she is, and a nice sort of girl, though she isn’t a bit like you. I don’t mean that you are not nice, you dear old thing,” said Evelyn, laughing, “but she is quite different from you; I’m rather afraid you will quarrel.”

“Oh no, I hope not!”

“No, you must not quarrel,” said Evelyn, “though she has some very strange ideas; but, after all, what does it matter what one believes?”

I was about to answer her when the door opened, and the subject of our conversation entered. She was a tall, fair-haired girl of about my own age, and was indeed, as Evelyn had said, very pretty.

“Alice, this is my friend, May Lindsay,” was Evelyn’s introduction, as she came in.

Miss Fitzgerald shook hands with me pleasantly, and then sat down on a low seat by the fire, and took her work out of a pretty, embroidered pocket which hung by her side.

“I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Lindsay,” she said, laughing, “for I have been hearing your praises sounded morning, noon, and night, ever since I came.”

“Well, isn’t she very nice, Alice?” said Evelyn, raising herself on the sofa; “didn’t I give you a good description of her?”

“I expect Miss Fitzgerald is not so hasty in forming her opinion as you are, Evelyn,” I said.

“By the by, Alice,” Evelyn went on, “May thinks she knows a friend of yours; at least, if you are the same Alice Fitzgerald. What is her name, May?”

“It is a gentleman,” I said, turning very red, in spite of all my efforts to the contrary, “Mr. Claude Ellis.”

“Claude!” repeated Miss Fitzgerald, in astonishment; “do you know Claude? I never heard him speak of you.”

“No, perhaps not,” I said; “but I do know him very well indeed; we were playfellows when we were children, and have lived next door to each other all our lives.”

“How very strange that I never heard your name!” said Miss Fitzgerald; “and I was staying at the Parsonage last spring; would you be at Acton then?”

“No,” I said, “we had left a little time before you went there. Do you remember noticing a house, standing in a large garden, close to the Parsonage?”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Fitzgerald; “it was shut up when I was there, and Claude said the doctor used to live there.”

“Yes, the doctor was my father,” I said, checking the tears, which would come in spite of myself, and which nearly choked me.

“Well, that’s very funny!” said Evelyn, “that you should know this dearly beloved Claude, about whom I have heard so much lately! Do you know he is coming here tomorrow, to make my acquaintance? Papa has invited him to come for a day or two whilst Alice is here.”

Claude coming to Alliston Hall! Claude coming tomorrow! How I wished that my stay at the old Manor House had been a little longer. I made some excuse to leave the room soon afterward, and went to my own bedroom, and locked the door.

“Claude coming tomorrow!” I repeated over and over to myself. All the old trouble seemed to have come back again. I had hoped that I should never see him again, that our paths in life would never cross each other. And now Claude was coming tomorrow. How astonished he would be to see me here! I wondered how we should meet, and whether he would feel it as much as I did.

As I sat alone in my room I prayed for grace and help, and I felt that the strength came as I prayed. Still I felt that I could not go downstairs, until Evelyn’s maid came to tell me that Miss Trafford wanted me. “You naughty girl!” said Evelyn when I entered, “what have you been doing? Why, you are as cold as ice; come to the fire and warm your hands. I really could not let you stop up there any longer. Do you know I thought you were, at last, turning into the brown alpaca! She always shut herself up in her bedroom half the day.”

“And who in the world is the brown alpaca?” said Alice Fitzgerald; “do tell me about her, Evelyn.”

Evelyn was only too pleased to do so. And then we went on from one laughable subject to another, and Alice Fitzgerald told us a number of amusing stories, in such an absurd way that we laughed until we were quite tired.

“There,” she said, at last, as Evelyn declared that she had not laughed so much the whole time she had been ill, and that she felt all the better for it, “that’s just what I was saying before Miss Lindsay came into the room; if only people, when they are in low spirits, would laugh more, they would be all the happier.”

“But when you are in trouble you can’t laugh, Miss Fitzgerald,” I said.

“Oh, then, you should try,” she said; “try to forget the trouble, and laugh it off. That’s always my way when anything bothers me or vexes me. I try to think of something amusing, and forget it.”

“And do you always succeed?” I ventured to ask.

“Well, no, not quite always,” she said, rather gravely. It was the first time that I had seen her look grave; her merry, laughing face was clouded for a moment. But it was only for a moment.

“Anyhow,” she said, “if you don’t quite succeed in forgetting your trouble, it does not make it so hard to hear; it is better to go laughing through a trouble than crying through it. But laugh it off if you can, that’s much the best way.”

“But, suppose you can’t laugh it off,” I said; “you owned that there were some troubles which were too deep to be got rid of in this way—suppose you can’t laugh it off, and the trouble comes back after every laugh as heavy as ever—what then?”

“Oh then,” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, “we must bear it, I suppose—bear it as best we can. Don’t you think so?”

“I never try to laugh trouble away,” I said; “I try to pray it away.”

“Oh,” she said, scornfully, “you believe in prayer, do you?”

“Yes, don’t you, Miss Fitzgerald?”

“No, not now,” she said; “I did once. That is to say, I never prayed much myself, but I used to believe that it did some people good; but Claude says that is all nonsense. My brother Arthur and he are always having long discussions about these things. Arthur believes in the Bible with all his heart and soul, and Claude does nothing but laugh at him.”

“And you agree with Claude, of course,” said Evelyn, laughing.

“Yes,” said Alice, “I agree with him and yet, do you know, I sometimes wish I didn’t.”

“May I ask, why not?” I said.

“Well,” she said, “you mustn’t tell Claude, he would be so angry; but I can’t help thinking if Arthur should be right after all—what then?”

“Yes, what then?” I said, “if the Bible is true—what then?”

“Why then,” she said, laughing again, “we are all lost, I suppose; so the best we can do is to enjoy ourselves as much now as we can. A short life and a merry one, that’s my motto! Well, I suppose it is getting near dinner time,” she said as she hastily rose, gathering up her work, and left the room.

“She is a queer girl,” said Evelyn, as soon as the door was shut.

“She is not really happy, Evelyn,” I said. “She tries to laugh it off; as she says; but there is a great deal of miserable uncertainty in her heart, I feel sure of that.”

“Well,” said Evelyn, turning the subject, “won’t you dress for dinner? Ambrose will be here in a moment.”

So I left the room and went upstairs, and prayed very, very earnestly for them both, and especially for Alice Fitzgerald. Oh, if she only knew where true joy was to be found!

The next day Claude arrived. I was in Evelyn’s sitting room when Alice Fitzgerald brought him in to introduce him to her. And then she turned to me.

“An old friend of yours, Claude, I believe,” she said.

Claude started; he had not noticed me before.

“May—Miss Lindsay,” he said, coloring painfully, “I did not expect to see you here.”

And then he turned the subject quickly, and began to give us an account of his journey, his Oxford adventures, and all sorts of other things, till dinner was announced. I could see that he was not at his ease, and I was almost afraid that Alice Fitzgerald noticed it also.

I saw very little more of Claude that evening, for I always dined upstairs with Evelyn, and he spent the evening in talking polities with Sir William over the library fire.

But the next morning when I came downstairs, Claude was alone in the breakfast room. I shook hands with him, and said “Good morning;” and then was about to leave the room again, when he called me back, and said hurriedly:

“May, what did you tell them?”

“Tell whom?” I asked.

“Tell her,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “What did you tell her about me?”

“Only that we played together when we were children, and lived next door to each other.”

“Was that all?” he said.

“Yes, every word,” I answered. “You surely did not think, Claude— “

“Oh no,” he said, “of course not, only it’s more comfortable to know. All right, May,” he added, carelessly, “we will let bygones be bygones now.”

And then he sat down to the piano and played a merry air.

I stood and looked out of the window, and wondered at the shallowness of his heart. And I felt, as I had never felt before, that I had not made a bad choice when I chose Christ’s love and gave up Claude’s.

In a few minutes the others came down, and we had breakfast; and whilst we were at breakfast, Ambrose came in with the letter bag, which he solemnly laid before Sir William, as was his daily custom. Sir William took a key from his watch chain and unlocked the bag, and then proceeded to distribute the letters.

“None for you this morning, Miss Alice,” he said, laughing. “Which would you choose: to have your young man here to talk to you, or to get a letter from him? None for you, Miss Lindsay, not a single one; six for me, and one for Mr. Ellis—that’s all!”

Claude took his letter, opened it, and glanced hastily through it. The contents did not seem to be of the most agreeable nature, for he looked very annoyed as he read it, and then crushed it up impatiently, and thrust it into his pocket. Alice glanced. inquiringly at him, but Claude appeared to be engrossed in the carving of a chicken, and took no notice of her inquiring looks.

When breakfast was over, Sir William went into the library, where he generally spent the morning looking over the newspapers and writing his letters. We went up to Evelyn’s room. I thought Alice wanted to linger behind, that she might speak to Claude; but he did not seem disposed to take the hint, and followed me closely upstairs.

We found Evelyn lying on the sofa, and waiting for me to show her how to do a new pattern in crochet work, which I had learned from Aunt Jane, who was very clever with her fingers. I sat down on a low stool close to Evelyn, directing her as she worked; and Alice and Claude went to the other end of the room, into the large bow window.

Claude had brought a newspaper upstairs with him, and, throwing himself into an armchair, he began to read it, with an air which plainly intimated that he did not wish to be disturbed.

Alice Fitzgerald came behind him, and leaning over his shoulder, with her arm on the back of the chair, she seemed to be reading the newspaper with him. But after a minute or two I heard her say:

“Let me see that letter, Claude; what was it about?”

“Oh, it was nothing particular,” said Claude, turning to another part of the newspaper; “it was only a business letter.”

“That’s always the way with men,” said Evelyn, laughing; “whenever they don’t want you to see a letter they always say ‘It’s only a business letter.’ Papa always does so and it’s of no use my telling him that I like business letters; he only laughs and says, Women don’t understand business, or, if they do, they ought not.”

But Alice Fitzgerald did not let the matter drop. In a few minutes I heard her ask again from whom the letter had come, and Claude answered in a vexed tone:

“It is only from my father, Alice. There, take it and read it if you make such a fuss about it!” and he tossed the letter out of his pocket.

Alice sat down and read it, and, when she had gone through it once, she turned it over and read it again, and then, folding it up very gravely and slowly, she handed it back to Claude. He put it into his pocket, and went on reading. Alice leant over his shoulder, and her face, which was generally so bright and merry, was very grave and thoughtful. Evelyn and I were busy with our pattern, and for some minutes no one spoke.

Then I heard Alice say, in a low voice, “ What enclosures were there, Claude? What is it that has vexed your father so much?”

“Oh, only some rubbishy old bills,” said Claude, impatiently; “those Oxford tradesmen are the greatest scoundrels on the face of the earth! It’s always their way! But the best plan is to take no notice of them; shy their bills into the fire, and leave them alone.”

And, in spite of Alice’s remonstrances, he walked to the fireplace, and thrust a roll of letters, which he took from his pocket, into the flames, and watched them turn to ashes.

“They will send them in again, Claude,” said Alice, gravely.

“Then I shall burn them again,” he said, with a laugh; “the rascals ought to know better!”

“But are you quite sure they are wrong, Claude?” she said, as they went back to the window; “are you quite sure you never bought any of the things? Have you looked them carefully through?”

“Oh, I know all about it,” said Claude, in a vexed voice; “do let it alone, dear. I have plenty of money to pay them all, if necessary; so please leave me to manage my own affairs. There’s a splendid leader in the Times today, Miss Trafford; have you read it?” he said, turning to Evelyn, and beginning a conversation with her on the politics of Europe.

Alice Fitzgerald left the window, took her work out of her pocket, and sat on a low stool by the fire; but she did not recover her usual good spirits for some time afterwards.

Chapter 9: Was the Promise Binding?

From this time, as the spring advanced, Evelyn began to grow much stronger, and the doctors seemed very hopeful that she would soon be able entirely to leave off her invalid habits. She was strong enough to go upstairs and downstairs quite comfortably, and although she still spent a good deal of time on her couch, it was more because Sir William insisted upon it than because she felt it really necessary.

I began to think that my stay at Alliston Hall was drawing to a close, for when Evelyn was able to return to the gay and active life that she had led before her illness, she would not need me any longer; but when I once hinted at something of the kind to her, she vehemently declared that I should never leave her, and that she should be ill again directly, if I were to go away.

If I had had a pleasant life before, it was still more pleasant now; for we were able to drive out together, or to sit with our work on a seat on the lawn whenever the weather was warm enough.

I shall never forget that spring. Everything looked so lovely in that beautiful park. The long avenue with its budding trees; the soft, fresh green of the grass; the woods yellow with primroses, and the birds singing their happy songs in the trees; everything seemed full of life and of joy.

Evelyn was like a bird which has been long shut up in a cage, and has suddenly regained its liberty. Her merry laugh was to be heard almost all day long, and her light step, as she went about the house again, showed that she was fast recovering her health and strength.

Yet one thought troubled me. Could it be that the opportunity was gone—that I should never now be able to lead her to think seriously about her soul and about eternity? I had tried so very often since my visit to Branston to begin to talk to her about these things, but the attempt had always ended in failure; and though I prayed most earnestly that God would make a way for me, and give me the opportunity for which I was now eagerly watching, yet no way seemed to be opened, no opportunity seemed to be given. And now Evelyn was getting well, and what chance was there that she would be led to think seriously when all around her was so bright and pleasant? Still I prayed on.

I had found out a few poor people in the neighborhood of Alliston Hall, amongst whom I was able to do a little work for the Master. There were one or two old people who were glad for me to read to them, and there was a girl, dying in consumption, who was always pleased to see me. Thus, whenever I managed to get an afternoon for myself, when Evelyn was engaged with visitors, or was driving out with her father, I went across the park to visit these poor people, and always came back feeling refreshed in mind and body.

One afternoon I had been out rather longer than usual. I had left Evelyn busy with her letters, and, as it was now past post-time, I was afraid she would be wanting me, and would think that I had been a long time away. So, as soon as I had dressed for dinner, I hurried down to Evelyn’s room.

As I came up to the door, I heard a voice inside, and when I went in, I found to my astonishment that a young man was there. He was sitting on a footstool in front of the fire, stroking Evelyn’s little dog, and was apparently quite at his case. He was a very handsome man, tall and well-built, with fine features and large dark eyes.

Who could he be? Where had he come from? I had not heard that any visitors were expected that day, and I was utterly at a loss to account for his sudden appearance.

He jumped up when I came into the room, and threw himself into the armchair by the fire.

“This is Cousin Donald, May,” said Evelyn as I came up to her; “do you think papa will be very angry with him for coming?”

“Oh no, of course not; why should he be?” said Mr. Trafford carelessly; “when a poor fellow has been toiling away day after day for months, it would be a crying shame to grudge him a little change of air when he happens to get a day’s holiday.”

“Don’t you like the bank any better, Donald?” asked Evelyn.

“Any better!” exclaimed Mr. Trafford, starting from his seat; “I hate it, Evelyn. I shall run away some day, I declare I shall.”

“Oh no, you won’t, there’s a dear, good Donald,” she said; “papa would be so angry.”

“I can’t help that, Evelyn,” he said; “you would run away if you were in my place; it is nothing but work, work, work, day after day, and I hate work, I can’t help it, it is my nature. I was never meant to work; some people are, and they like work; but I never did and never shall.”

At this moment Sir William’s step was heard in the corridor.

“Here’s papa,” said Evelyn hurriedly; “oh, Donald, I wonder what he will say.”

“I don’t care,” said Mr. Trafford, with a laugh; “if the old gentleman has the least sense of—"

But here the door opened, and Sir William came in.

His nephew rose to meet him in the most affectionate and confident manner, and as if he were perfectly sure of a welcome.

“Well uncle, how are you?” he said; “I’m so glad to find Evelyn better; it is so nice to see you again, uncle.”

Sir William took his hand and shook it coldly.

“And pray where did you come from, Donald?” he said, sternly.

“Why the fact is, uncle,” said the young man, “today is a bank holiday, and I have been working so hard lately that I thought a little fresh air would set me up again, and as I had not seen you for such a long time, I thought I would look you up.”

“When I was a young man, Donald,” said his uncle, dryly, “I waited for an invitation before I went to visit my friends.”

Mr. Trafford colored, but he answered gaily, “I can put up at the Royal Oak, tonight, uncle, if it is at all inconvenient for me to stay here; I did not think the house would be full at this time of year.”

Sir William did not answer him, but turning to Evelyn told her that the gong had sounded, and asked her if she wished to go downstairs to dinner.

“No, papa” said Evelyn; “I think May and I will dine upstairs. I feel rather tired this evening.”

“Very well, then, we will go downstairs, Donald,” said Sir William; and they left the room.

“Oh dear, May,” said Evelyn, as soon as the door was shut, “I am afraid papa is very angry; I never saw him look so vexed before. But I don’t know why he should be so angry, do you? It isn’t as if Donald was no relation of ours, and I am sure he is very nice. I can’t think why papa is always so vexed when he comes here.”

“I am very sorry you are so tired, Evelyn dear,” I said, as I made her lie down on the sofa till dinner was brought upstairs.

“Oh, I’m not so very tired, May,” she said, “but I wanted papa and Donald to have dinner alone, because, don’t you see, papa will be obliged to talk to him now. If we were there I know just how it would be. Papa would talk to you and talk to me, and hardly say a word to Donald. But now, you see, he must talk to him, because there is no one else there, and you will see they will be quite friendly after dinner; at least, matters will be much better than they are now.”

And, to a certain extent, Evelyn was right. When we went into the library we found Mr. Trafford sitting comfortably in an easy chair, with the Times newspaper in his hand, discussing the events of the day with his uncle, apparently quite at his ease, and looking as comfortable as if his presence in Alliston Hall was the result of an urgent and pressing invitation.

And Sir William? He was not at his ease. I could see that by his tightly compressed mouth when his nephew was speaking, and by the careful way in which he tried to engross Evelyn’s attention as soon as she came into the room. But still I could see that he found it very difficult to keep up any appearance of displeasure in the face of Mr. Trafford’s pleasant, cheerful manner, and almost impossible to quarrel with a man who was quite determined not to quarrel with him.

Evelyn was very silent the whole evening, and seemed in bad spirits. She talked a little to me, but she very seldom spoke to her father or her cousin. Altogether it was a most uncomfortable evening, and I was not sorry when it was over.

The next day we did not see much of Mr. Trafford, for Sir William took him out with him after breakfast, and managed to keep him to himself nearly the whole day. Only once, when Sir William was unavoidably absent for a short time, was he left in the library with Evelyn and me.

“I wish you liked the bank better, Donald,” said Evelyn, as soon as her father had left the room.

“I never shall like it better, Evelyn,” he said, impetuously; “it is absurd my trying to live in London on the miserable allowance I get there. It is utterly ridiculous; no gentleman could do it.”

“But Donald,” Evelyn said, “you really should be more careful of your money; you ought never to have bought—”

At a sign from him she stopped suddenly short in what she was saying.

“You really ought not; ought you, Donald?” she said, instead.

“Yes, I ought, Evelyn,” he said, in rather an annoyed voice; “it’s all right. But it is really absurd their paying a fellow such a miserable salary. I don’t mean to stand it much longer. I shall run away, and try my fortune somewhere else.”

“Oh no, Donald dear, you must not run away,” said Evelyn, beseechingly; “just think how angry papa would be!”

But just then Sir William came back, and invited Mr. Trafford to walk with him as far as his farm-bailiff’s house, and we did not see him again until he came to take leave of us before starting for the railway station. He whispered something to Evelyn as he bent over her to say goodbye, and I distinctly caught the words, “Remember promise;” and then he hastily shook hands with me and went out of the room.

I never knew Evelyn so difficult to please as she was that evening. Nothing that I did seemed to be right, and she was fretful and tired; and even when her father was in the room, she made no effort to rouse herself or to talk to him.

Sir William looked at her very anxiously from time to time. I could see that he attributed this change in her to her cousin’s visit, and I heard him once expressing a hope that that was the very last time that Master Donald would come without an invitation; he did not approve of the free-and-easy manners of the rising generation, and he was glad that he had spoken to him pretty plainly on the subject.

Evelyn went early to bed, and I went to my room, but not to sleep. I felt very unhappy and perplexed. Those two words which I had heard, against my will, haunted me: “Remember—promise.”

What did he mean by it? What was Evelyn to remember, and what promise had she made which she would not speak either to her father or to me? It was so unlike Evelyn to keep a secret. She generally came out with everything at once, and told me just what she was thinking about. I felt sure that this must be something she did not wish her father to know, and the thought troubled me very much indeed.

As I got up the next morning, I prayed for grace and strength to help me, if possible, to influence Evelyn to do what was right.

I found her in a very different frame of mind from what she had been the night before. She was still silent, and looked unhappy, but she was very loving and affectionate to me.

“May, darling,” she said as she put her arms around my neck and kissed me, “are you very angry with me?”

“Angry with you? no, indeed, Evelyn,” I said; “why should I be angry?”

“Oh, I was so horrid to you last night, I know I was; I can’t bear to think how nasty and disagreeable I was. How you must have hated me!”

“No, Evelyn dear,” I said; “you were only tired and—"

“And what?” she said.

“And troubled, were you not, dear?” I ventured to say; “troubled about something of which I did not know, and so could not sympathize with you.”

“Yes,” she said, “I was very bothered and troubled, and I wanted to tell you about it so much; but I did not know whether I ought to do so.”

I did not answer her, but went on quietly with my work.

After a minute or so, she said in a whisper; “May, I’m not going to tell you anything, but I’m going to show you something. That won’t be telling, will it? Hush! is that anyone coming? No, it is no one coming; it is only Clemence going downstairs; but, mind, if the door opens, you must look just the same as usual, and not say a word. Mind!”

She drew from her pocket a little leathern case and opened it. Inside was a beautiful diamond ring.

“Isn’t it pretty?” She asked, as she showed it to me.

“Very pretty,” I said, “very beautiful. Did Sir William give it to you?”

“Oh no,” she said; “papa does not know anything about it, and I must not tell him. You can guess who gave it to me; I am not going to tell you, but you can guess. And then, don’t you see, if you know about it, then I can wear it sometimes; it seems such a pity never to wear it. I can put it on now and then, when we are here alone, and slip it off if I hear anyone coming. Don’t you think so, May dear? How grave you look!” she said in an altered voice; “what is the matter? Are you very angry with me?”

“Not angry,” I said, “not angry, Evelyn; but I feel troubled about what you have told me. Why don’t you tell your father about it, dear?”

“Oh I could not,” she said, “he would be so vexed, so very vexed. I dare not tell him.”

“Why do you think he would be vexed?” I asked.

“Oh, because it must have cost such a great deal of money. Look, May, they are real diamonds; and Donald has so little money to spend, and papa thinks he is so very extravagant. There! I’ve told you who gave it to me; I did not mean to do so, but of course you had guessed before.”

“I think it would be much better if you told Sir William,” I said; “he might be a little vexed at first with your cousin for giving so much money for it, but I am sure he would be far more vexed if, by any means, he found out that Mr. Trafford had given it to you, and yet you had never told him of it.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know he would; but the worst of it is, that isn’t all, May. If I told him that, I should have to tell him something else, I could not stop halfway.”

“But I think you ought to tell him all,” I said, “and to hide nothing from him which you feel he ought to know. You would be much happier, Evelyn, if you told him.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know I should; but then you see I promised not to tell him, and it would never do to break my promise.”

“But if you promised to do what was wrong,” I said, “it can surely not be right to keep your promise.”

“Do you think so, May?” she said; “I thought it was a dreadful thing to break a promise.”

“Yes, so it is,” I answered, “if there is nothing wrong in what we have promised; but if conscience tells us afterwards that we ought never to have made the promise, and that we cannot keep it without doing what is wrong, then I feel sure that we ought to break it.”

“Do you think so?” she said, again.

“I am sure of it,” I answered. “It is wrong to promise to do what is wrong, but to keep the promise is doubly wrong.”

“I don’t see that at all,” she said; “I think if you promise to do anything, you ought to keep your promise, whether the thing is right or wrong.”

“Suppose I should promise some enemy of yours that I would poison you, Evelyn,” I said; that would be wrong, would it not.”

“Yes, very wrong,” she said, laughing, though she had tears in her eyes; “what a dreadful illustration to use!”

“Never mind, it will show you what I mean. It would be very wrong of me to promise to do such a wicked thing, but it would be still worse if I kept my promise, and really did poison you; now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “I see; of course it would!”

“Well,” I answered, “I think that rule applies to all promises. It is wrong to promise to do what is not right, but it is doubly wrong to keep our promise, and to do it, because, you see, that is only adding sin to sin. The making the promise is one wrong action, and the fulfilling the promise is only adding to it another and a still worse action.”

“I never thought of that before,” she said; “I have been wishing ever since that I had not promised not to tell papa. You see, May, I promised Donald that afternoon, before you came in, that someday or other I would be his little wife. I know I ought not to have promised him, but he was so nice and seemed to love me so much. He said he had brought that ring with him that I might always keep it near me, and that whenever I looked at it I might think of my promise. And then he said that I must not tell papa, because he would be so very angry if he knew. I told Donald that I should be obliged to tell papa, for how could we ever be married if papa did not know about it?”

“And what did Mr. Trafford say?” I asked.

“Oh, he said there was plenty of time for that—we could not be married for many a long day, and he would tell papa himself, some day. So then he made me promise not to tell him till he gave me leave; and just then you came into the room, and we could not talk any more about it. I do wish I had never promised him.”

“Yes, it was a great pity,” I said; “but now I think the best thing you can do is to write to Mr. Trafford, and tell him you feel you were very wrong to make the promise, and that you feel it would be still worse to keep it.”

“Do you think that would be a good plan?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I am sure it is what you ought to do, Evelyn.”

She did not answer me at once, but sat looking into the fire and thinking. I sent up an earnest prayer that she might be led to do what was right.

Presently she looked up at me, and said: “I can’t do it, May, it is no use thinking of it; I can’t tell papa. Donald would be so angry; I don’t think he would ever forgive me.”

“Evelyn,” I said, “you remember Herod’s promise to give Herodias whatever she asked for; and you remember why he kept that promise, even when the keeping of it made him commit murder.”

“Yes,” she said; “doesn’t it say it was because of his oath’s sake; I suppose Herod did not like to break his word.”

“And Evelyn,” I said, “there is another reason given; do you remember what comes next?”

“No; what is it?” she asked.

“‘And because of them which sat with him at meat.’ I think that was the real reason why Herod kept his word. It was not because he minded breaking his promise—he was not the kind of man to mind that—but it was because he was afraid of what his friends might say or think; he may have thought, too, that his wife would never forgive him, and so he kept his promise, and cut off John Baptist’s head—he was not brave enough to do what he knew was right.”

Evelyn covered her face with her hands and cried. I sat beside her and put my arm round her, and we sat thus for some time in silence. Then she suddenly jumped up, went to the table, opened her portfolio, and began to write.

“I am going to be very brave, May,” she said, as she smiled through her tears.

What Evelyn said to her cousin I do not know, but she cried a great deal whilst she was writing it. Then she slipped the letter into her pocket.

“It won’t do to put it into the post-bag,” she said; “we will get out at the post office, and post it when we drive out this afternoon, and then I will tell papa this evening, after dinner.”

Oh, how thankful I was to hear her express this determination! I felt as if a great load had been lifted off my heart.

Chapter 10: Evelyn's Confession

Evelyn was very pale, and trembled very much, as dinnertime drew near. She went downstairs as usual, and tried to talk to her father, and to appear as if nothing was the matter, but I could see that it was a very great effort for her to do so, and that she was dreading the time when her secret must be told. She had posted the letter to her cousin that afternoon, so it was too late to draw back; and I do not think that she wished to do so, but she dreaded her father’s displeasure, and longed to feel that the trying disclosure was made.

When dinner was over we went into the library, and Sir William made Evelyn lie down on her couch, for he had noticed that she was pale and tired, and 1, according to previous arrangement with Evelyn, made some excuse for leaving the room, and left her alone with her father.

I went upstairs into Evelyn’s room, and sat waiting for the result, and praying that she might have courage to tell Sir William all, and that he might not be very angry. It seemed a long time before anyone came. I took up a book and tried to read, but, though my eyes followed the words, I could not fix my thoughts upon what I was reading. Then I tried to sew, but that attempt was also a failure. So I went to the window, and sat looking out at the setting sun till the room drew dark. Then Clemence, Evelyn’s maid, came into the room for something, and, seeing that I was in darkness, she lighted the gas, and drew the curtains, and then once more I was left alone.

At last I heard a step on the stairs. It was Sir William, and he was coming up alone. He came into the room, and shut the door behind him, and, coming up to me, he said kindly: “Miss Lindsay, I have to thank you for the kind way in which you have influenced Evelyn today. She tells me that it is entirely owing to you, that she has been led to confess to me her foolish conduct.”

“I am quite sure, Sir William,” I said, “that Evelyn is very thankful that she has told you. She loves you so much, that it was misery for her to feel she was deceiving you.”

“Yes, poor child!” he said; “she has suffered a great deal these last two days. I do not blame her; of course she acted very wrongly, but the chief fault does not lie at her door.” I did not answer, and he went on:

“That nephew of mine wants putting in his proper place. I hope this will be a lesson that he will not forget! I shall not spare him, I can tell you. I am afraid he is a designing fellow! Evelyn does not see through him, of course, but I do; and I shall let him know it too. But I need not trouble you with this, Miss Lindsay,” he said as he rose to leave the room. “I just wanted to thank you very much indeed for being a true, wise friend to my dear child, and to tell you how I value the influence you have over her.”

This was a great deal for Sir William to say. He had never before given even the slightest hint that he was pleased with anything I did. He was a very silent man, and seldom expressed his feelings, and, therefore, a few words of praise from him were worth double what they would have been had they come from anyone else, and I felt very thankful that God had enabled me to please him in this matter.

“Evelyn is coming upstairs now, Miss Lindsay,” said Sir William, as he left the room; “will you be so kind as to see that she goes to bed at once?”

I promised to do so, and presently he brought her upstairs. She looked very tired and troubled, and her eyes were swollen with crying, but she put her arms round my neck and kissed me, and was very loving and affectionate to me. When her father had gone downstairs she said: “Oh, May! I am so glad I told papa, so very glad; I am so much happier now.”

“I was sure you would be, Evelyn dear,” I said; “it is terrible to have a secret like that weighing on the mind!”

“Yes,” she said, “I am very glad I told him; but oh, May, he was so angry—not with me, not half enough with me; he would not see that it was my fault, but he was terribly angry with Donald.”

“I do not think you can be surprised at that, Evelyn dear,” I said; “I do not think Mr. Trafford behaved honorably, and Sir William is such an honorable man himself that he felt it very keenly.”

“Yes, perhaps so,” she said; “but I don’t think Donald meant any harm. Poor Donald does not think before he does things; he—”

But I would not let Evelyn talk any more about it that night, but rang the bell for Clemence, and went with her to her bedroom. She kissed me at the door, and as she said “good-night” she whispered:

“Papa has taken that ring, May; he says it must have cost at least £50, and he is sure Donald has no money to pay for it.”

The next morning no one alluded to what had happened the night before; even when we were alone Evelyn did not seem inclined to speak of it, and I made every effort that I could to turn her thoughts into another channel.

Sir William spent most of that day in his private room writing letters, and we seldom saw him, but he was very tender and loving to Evelyn whenever he came into the room, and seemed anxious to make her feel how entirely he had forgiven her.

Evelyn and I were sitting together at the window with our work, when the man started for the village with the post-bag. Evelyn watched it out of sight, and then turned to me with a sorrowful face:

“Poor Donald!” she said, “what will he say when he gets it?”

It was the first time that she had mentioned her cousin that day. I begged her to try not to think of what he would say, but to feel very thankful that she had done what was right, and could now look her father in the face with a happy heart.

It must have been, I think, two days after this that, as Evelyn was lying on the sofa reading, and I was sitting beside her writing a letter, we heard a carriage coming quickly up the avenue.

“A carriage!” said Evelyn; “I wonder who is coming! Just look out, May.”

I went to the window, but I did not know the carriage at all, and as it came nearer I saw that it was a hired one, and that there was one gentleman inside.

“Can you see who it is?” Evelyn asked.

“I can see him, Evelyn,” I said, “but I do not know who it is; it is no one that I have ever seen before. I think he wants Sir William; he and Ambrose have come out upon the drive together, and Ambrose is pointing in various directions. There! he has sent the carriage away; he is evidently going to stay!”

“This is quite exciting!” said Evelyn, laughing; “I must come and look.”

She put down her book, got up from the sofa, and came to the window. Ambrose was still taking to the strange gentleman in the middle of the drive, and pointing to various parts of the park, as if he were trying to tell him where Sir William had gone.

“Oh, May,” she said, “it is Uncle Edward; what can he want?”

“Uncle Edward?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said, “Donald’s father. Oh, I wonder why he has come! I am sure it is about Donald. What can be the matter?”

She sat down looking quite faint and ill.

“Don’t be troubled about it, Evelyn dear,” I said, “very likely your uncle has only come in answer to Sir William’s letter. Sir William would be sure to write to him about what you told him the other night; would he not? And most probably your uncle wants to talk it over with him.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “that must be it; do you think I should go down and speak to Uncle Edward?”

“No,” I said, “you must lie down directly; you do not look at all fit to go downstairs, and I will tell Ambrose to ask your uncle to come up here.”

But before I had time to carry out my intention the door opened, and Mr. Edward Trafford came in.

“How do you do, Evelyn, my dear?” he said, in an agitated voice; “can you tell me in which direction your father has gone? Ambrose has been trying to explain to me, but I could not quite make out what he meant, these different turnings in the park are so bewildering.”

“Had not you better wait, uncle, till papa comes back?” said Evelyn; “I do not think he can be long now, and you might miss him if you want to meet him.”

“Yes,” he said, “so I might; I think I will wait.”

“You will have luncheon, uncle?” said Evelyn.

“No, no! indeed, my dear,” said her uncle, “no, I had something as I came along—no I could not touch anything now. I will go downstairs and look if I can see your father coming.”

“Is anything the matter, uncle?” asked Evelyn, anxiously; “are any of them ill at home?”

“Oh no,” he said hurriedly, “no dear, no one is ill. I just want to see your father on business.”

He was very pale and agitated, and looked, Evelyn said, years older than when she had seen him last.

We watched him go out upon the drive again, and look first in one direction, and then in another. Then he passed up and down in front of the house for more than half an hour, looking troubled and distressed, and with his eyes fixed on the ground, but glancing up hastily every few minutes to see if his brother was in sight.

At last, Sir William appeared, and we saw the brothers meet. They did not come into the house, but they turned into one of the private walks in the park, and paced up and down, backwards and forwards, for more than an hour. Each time that they turned round they came for some little distance within sight of the house, and then they were hidden from our view by the trees and we could not see them again till they came back to the same place. They seemed to be talking very earnestly, and now and again they stood still and spoke to each other face to face, as though they were arguing some important point, on which they could not agree, or at least could not come to any satisfactory conclusion.

Evelyn was very restless the whole time. She began to follow the example of her father and uncle, and to pace up and down the room; but I insisted on her putting her feet up on the sofa and remaining quiet.

At length, the two gentlemen brought their walk and their talk to a conclusion, and came towards the house. Sir William ran upstairs as soon as he came in.

“How are you, my dear child?” he said to Evelyn, even more tenderly than usual; “you look so pale. Please take care of her, Miss Lindsay, and make her lie down.”

“What is the matter, papa?” whispered Evelyn, whilst I prepared to leave the room, thinking Sir William might wish to speak to her alone.

“Oh, I will tell you about it afterwards, dear,” said her father; “it is some rather unpleasant business about which your uncle wanted to see me. Don’t go away, please, Miss Lindsay; we have letters to write at once, I must not stay now.”

In spite of Evelyn’s pleading glances Sir William went downstairs, and he and his brother, after hastily partaking of dinner, spent the rest of the evening together in Sir William’s private room.

“What can it be?” Evelyn kept saying. “What can papa mean by unpleasant business? It can’t be about what I told him the other night, or he would have said so. What can be the matter?”

Of course, I could not help her to find out, we could only wonder and wait.

Mr. Edward Trafford left the next morning at a very early hour, that he might catch the first train for London. Sir William and I were alone at breakfast, for Evelyn was not well enough to rise.

“How is Evelyn this morning?” said Sir William, anxiously, as I entered the room.

I told him that she had had a bad night, and was still in bed.

“Oh dear! oh dear!” he said; “I will not tell her today; I think it might upset her still more; I will wait till she is somewhat better.”

“Don’t you think, Sir William,” I ventured to say, “that the suspense of not knowing what is the matter is worse for Evelyn than knowing the truth?”

“Well, perhaps you are right, Miss Lindsay,” he said; “I will tell her after breakfast.”

“I hope it is no great trouble, Sir William?”

“Well, it is a most unpleasant business,” he said; “the fact is, that nephew of mine is a downright rascal. What poor Evelyn ever saw to admire in him I never could tell. I always knew he was good for nothing but mischief, and he has proved I was right. I will tell you about it, Miss Lindsay, and then you can advise me as to the best way of telling Evelyn. You know my brother was here yesterday—poor fellow, he is dreadfully crushed. by it! I am very sorry for him, although, as I could not help telling him, he has himself to blame for it. He was so weak with that boy; he gave him everything he wanted as a child, and spoiled him, and pampered him, and petted him, and let him order everyone in the house about, and then was foolish enough to expect him, after this, to turn out well, and to earn his own living. But to make a long story short, my brother received a telegram the night before last, telling him that his son had run off from the bank, taking more than £500 with him. No one knows where he is gone, and, of course, detectives have been sent off in all directions to catch him, and his poor father is quite weighed down with shame and sorrow. If he is found, of course he will get a long term of imprisonment; and, if he escapes, it is not likely that his friends will ever hear of him again, for he will never dare to come to England.”

“Where do they think he has gone?” I asked.

“Probably to Spain,” Sir William said, “but we cannot tell. And now, what do you think about my telling Evelyn? I am afraid it will upset her very much.”

“Yes,” I said, “I am afraid it will; she will feel it dreadfully, but still I almost think it would be better to tell her, for she must know some time, and she will be less able to bear it if she is kept longer in suspense.”

“Well,” said Sir William, “I believe you are right, Miss Lindsay; I will go upstairs now; it will be better to get it over.”

I sat waiting his return in the library, but more than an hour passed before he reappeared. Then he said, “I have told her, Miss Lindsay, and she bore it better than I expected, poor child. Will you go upstairs and try to comfort her a little?”

I went upstairs, and found Evelyn still in bed; her face was buried in the pillow, and she was crying bitterly. I sat down beside her without speaking for some time, just holding her hand in mine, to show her how much I was feeling for her. What could I say to comfort her? I hardly knew what to say, and perhaps, after all, silent sympathy was the best.

At length, after a long time, she grew calmer, and then she said, without uncovering her face:

“Oh, May, isn’t it dreadful?”

“Yes, darling,” I said, “ I am very, very sorry; I had no idea it was anything so dreadful as that!”

“No,” she said, “and I am sure I had not; the very worst that I could think of was that Donald had got very badly into debt, and had wasted all his money. I never dreamed that he—”

But here she burst into tears, and could not go on with what she was saying.

“Evelyn dear,” I said, “for your father’s sake try not to make yourself ill; he is so fond of you, and so distressed at the thought of what this trouble must be to you.”

“Yes,” she said through her tears, “papa has been so kind, so very, very kind. He told me that it was because he loved me so much that he could not bear to think of me caring for Donald. Papa says he always thought that Donald was good for nothing; but he seemed. so nice, May, so very nice he was to me. I knew he was foolish and careless, but I never thought he could do a wicked thing like that!”

Evelyn had stopped crying now, and could talk quite calmly.

“Do you remember, May,” she said, “when he was here last, something that Donald said to you and to me about running away?”

“Yes,” I said, “I remember it quite well; he mentioned it twice when I was in the room.”

“Yes,” she said, “so he did. Oh, May, could he have been thinking of taking the money then?”

“I do not know, dear,” I said, “we must hope not; we must hope that he yielded to a sudden temptation, and that he has been sorry for it ever since.”

“Oh, May, I am afraid not,” said Evelyn; “do you know I seem to see Donald in quite a different light from what I did before—more as papa has been seeing him all the time. I am afraid papa was right about him, May, and I was wrong. Ah! poor, poor Donald!”

“Will you ring for Clemence, May?” Evelyn said, a few minutes after this, “and I will get up; I shall feel better if I am dressed and in the other room.”

But the other room made very little difference in poor Evelyn’s spirits. She tried to work, she tried to read, she tried to write, but all were alike impossible; her thoughts were ever busy with her trouble, and every attempt to divert them was in vain.

As the day went on she talked much more, and it seemed a relief to her to tell me everything that her father had told her that morning.

“May,” she said, “did papa tell you about the ring?”

“No,” I said, “he only just told me in a few words what was the matter, that I might be able to tell him whether I thought it would be better to tell you about it at once, or to wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh, I am so glad you asked him to tell me today,” said Evelyn; “it would have been dreadful to have waited all that time, and not to have known what was the matter. But I was going to tell you about the ring. You know Uncle Edward went, first of all, as soon as he received the telegram, to London, that he might hear all he could about Donald’s disappearance. Tie went, amongst other places, to his lodgings, and looked about the room, and turned over all his papers, to see if he had left any note behind him; and do you know Uncle Edward found such a quantity of bills, most of them unopened, and all of them unpaid, and amongst others there was one from a London jeweler for a diamond ring worth £75. Uncle Edward could not imagine why Donald had bought such an expensive ring, and said it would be a very heavy sum to pay, for he means to pay as many of the tradesmen as he can. So then papa told him the story of the ring, and gave it back to him, that he might return it to the jeweler instead of paying the bill. Uncle Edward was very much annoyed that Donald should have treated papa so badly, after papa’s kindness to him, for he would. never have got that good place in the bank if it had not been for papa.”

Oh, how I wondered if this was the opportunity for which I had been praying so long, the opportunity of speaking to my dear Evelyn about eternal things, and of leading her to the Saviour. I hoped it was, and I turned the hope into an earnest prayer, that I might have the wisdom to follow as God should lead, to step into the door as soon as ever His hand opened it. Once or twice I thought of speaking, but then again I felt, perhaps, that, till the first burst of her sorrow was over, it was wiser to be silent. But a sweet thought came across me as I sat at my work that evening, that, after all, the nearest way to reach the heart of one we love is to go round by heaven; and I tried, oh, how earnestly, to reach Evelyn’s heart in that way.

Chapter 11: The Opportunity Given

The next morning, as I was looking at the newspaper on the library table, my eyes caught the words “Ellis—Fitzgerald.”

I found that it was an announcement of Claude’s and Alice’s marriage. It was wonderful to me how calmly and composedly I could read it. That trouble was, in deed and in truth, a thing of the past. I could rejoice today; the pain was over long ago. I could thank God, with all my heart, that He had not let me yield to the temptation which at that time was so strong to me, and that He had saved me from the lot which, a year ago, I had thought would be so bright.

I took the newspaper with me when I went to Evelyn’s room, and pointed to the marriage. I thought it might help to turn her thoughts a little from her trouble.

“So Alice is married, poor girl!” she said; “I had forgotten that it was to be so soon.”

“Why do you call her poor, Evelyn?” I asked; “most people would say happy girl.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Evelyn, “perhaps I ought not to have said so. Mr. Ellis is a great friend of yours, I know; but, somehow, I do not think I should like to marry him myself; now would you, May?”

“No,” I said, very decidedly, “not at all.”

We went on with our work without speaking for some time, and then Evelyn asked: “May, do you remember what Alice Fitzgerald said about laughing trouble away?”

“Yes,” I said, “quite well.”

“I don’t at all agree with her,” said Evelyn; “I can’t laugh when I am in trouble, it would be of no use trying. I could not laugh today—if I tried to laugh I should begin to cry directly.”

“And even if you could laugh, Evelyn dear,” I said, “the trouble would come back again the next moment heavier than ever.”

“Oh, May,” said Evelyn, suddenly, “I wish I could do the other thing.”

“What other thing?” I asked.

“Why, pray,” she said. “Don’t you remember you said that you always prayed when you were in trouble. I wish I could do that.”

I did not answer her until I had sent up an earnest prayer that I might use the opportunity now that it was given to me, and that I might step inside the door, which at last seemed to be opened to me.

“But why can’t you pray, Evelyn dear?” I asked.

“Well, May, I will tell you why,” she said; “I have wanted to talk to you about it so very much, only I didn’t like to begin. You see I have been thinking a great deal lately, and wishing that I was happy like you; and, one day when you were out of the room, you left on the table a bundle of those little books that you take with you when you go to see your poor people; so what do you think I did? I thought I should like to see what they were about, so I got one and read it; and then I put it back so carefully afterward, just in the same place, that you might not find out what I had been doing. You did not find out.”

“Oh no,” I said, “indeed I did not; but which one was it that you read?”

“It was about the prodigal son; don’t you remember that one?”

“No,” I said, “I have not read them all; was it a nice one?”

“Yes, very nice, and it made it very clear about prayer. I have been thinking of it often since.”

“Will you tell me what you read?” I asked.

“It pictured the prodigal son,” said Evelyn, “going home, after he had treated his poor old father so badly, and beginning ‘Please, father, I want a new coat,’ or, ‘Please, father, give me some new shoes,’ or, ‘Please, father, I want some food very much.’ It pictured him asking his father to supply his wants before ever he had asked him to forgive him for his bad behavior to him. That wouldn’t have been the right way, would it, May?”

“No,” I said, “it would not have done for that to come before the ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’”

“Yes,” said Evelyn, “and your little book said it was just the same now, and yet so many people wanted to go to God, and to ask Him for all sorts of things when they got into trouble, and yet they had never thought of asking Him to forgive them.”

“I see what you mean,” I said; “we must speak to God about our sins, before we can speak to Him about our troubles.”

“Oh, May,” said Evelyn, “I wish I could do that. I wish I could talk to God about my sins. I never knew till now how bad I had been to Him; but last night I seemed to see myself in quite a different way. I used to think, May, that I was not so very bad. I didn’t think that I was at all good like you, still I thought that there was not so very much wrong with me. But now I see that I’m bad altogether; I don’t think I have ever, done anything good at all.”

“Why don’t you go and tell God that, Evelyn darling, just as you have been telling me? That would be a prayer, just like the prayer of the prodigal son, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee.’”

“Yes, May,” she said; “but suppose I tell Him that with all my heart, is that enough?”

“Yes, quite enough, if you ask God to forgive you because Jesus has died, and if you trust in Jesus as your own Saviour,” I said.

“Oh, May,” said Evelyn, with a sigh, “come and it beside me, and make it very plain and simple for me—as you would for a little child. I am so much afraid of making a mistake.”

Oh, how earnestly I prayed that I might also make no mistake, but might be helped to lead her to Jesus!

“Evelyn,” I said, “I want to tell you something that I was reading in one of my favorite books the other day, because I think it makes it so very plain. You remember the three crosses on Calvary?”

“Yes,” she said, “there was the middle cross, with Jesus on it, and on each side of Him there was a thief.”

“Yes,” I said, “and both the thieves had been great sinners, both had led bad lives, and yet, oh, how differently they died! One thief went straight to Paradise, to be welcomed there by Jesus, the other went down to hell. Now, why was there this difference? Did you ever think why it was that one thief was saved, and the other thief was lost?”

“I suppose,” she said, “it was because one thief looked to Jesus, and the other did not.”

“Yes,” I said, “quite so; but that is not all. What did looking to Jesus do for the thief?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well,” I answered, “my book puts it in this way. Both thieves deserved to go to hell because of their sins; both of them before they were nailed to the cross had sin in them, for they both had sinful hearts, they were born in sin, and they were both sinners. And they had also both of them sin on them, the burden and guilt and punishment of their sins resting on them; they both must suffer the consequences of their sin—both must go to hell.”

“Yes,” she said, “I see that.”

“But now let us look at them again some hours later. They have been nailed to the cross, and one thief has looked to Jesus, but the other thief has not. Just look at the three crosses now. First, here is the thief who would have nothing to do with Jesus. Has he still sin in him?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Has he still the guilt of sin resting on him?”

“Yes, he is just as he was before.”

“Now, then, look at the middle cross; look at Jesus; Has He sin in Him?”

“Oh no,” she said, “He never sinned; He was quite holy.”

“But was there no sin on Him?” I said.

“Was there, May?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered, “don’t you remember it says, ‘The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.’ It was not His own sin that was resting on Him, but ours.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “I see what you mean.”

“And now look at the third cross. There hangs the thief who has looked to Jesus. He still has sin in him; till he gets to heaven, his heart will be sinful still. But has he sin on him? That is to say, do the guilt and consequences of his sin still rest on him?”

“No, I don’t think they do,” she said.

“Oh no,” I said, “for he has laid his sin on Jesus; it is no longer resting on him: it is taken off him, and put on to Jesus, and therefore this thief is saved. Now, do you see what looking to Jesus means? It means that the thief looked to Jesus as the One who was being punished for his sin, and who was suffering in his place. Do you see?”

“I think I do,” said Evelyn.

“Well, my book goes on to say, that all the people in the world die as one or other of those thieves died. All without exception die with sin in them, for the Bible tells us that ‘if we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves.’ But those who look to Jesus as the One who has been punished in their place, though they have sin in them till they die, yet they have no sin on them, for the guilt and responsibility of their sins no longer rests on them but on Jesus. You remember that hymn:

“‘I lay my sins on Jesus,

The spotless Lamb of God;

He bears them all, and frees us

From the accursed load.’”

“Yes,” she said, “I like that hymn very much. I do wish I could do it, May.”

“You are going to do it this morning, Evelyn dear,” I said.

“Oh, May, do you think I can?” she asked.

“I am sure of it, darling Jesus is willing, Jesus is longing for you to cast your sin upon Him. He says to you: ‘Look unto Me, as the One who died instead of you; look unto Me, as the One who was punished in your place; look unto Me, and be ye saved.’”

“Oh, May, I should like to do it at once,” she said.

So I went downstairs and left her alone, and yet not alone.

I did not see Evelyn again till I went upstairs to her room for luncheon. She was lying quietly on the sofa where I had left her, but she called me to her side and whispered: “Oh, May, I am so happy now. Sin is still in me, but no longer on me, for I have laid it on Jesus.”

I need hardly say how very thankful I felt to God for answering my prayer. It seemed almost too good to be true. A blessing that we have been waiting for, anxiously longing and waiting for, is always of double value when it comes.

From that day I began, as it were, a now life in Alliston Hall. Before this, Evelyn used to dislike and avoid any approach to what she considered “religious talk;” but now her great delight was to read a chapter with me in the Bible, and to ask me questions about anything which she did not quite understand.

I shall never forget that summer; it was a very peaceful and a very happy one. I had every reason to believe that Evelyn’s heart was indeed changed. Everyone noticed the difference in her, and many, who did not understand what is the power of the Holy Spirit in the heart, wondered what was the cause of it.

There was one who rejoiced in this change in Evelyn quite as much as I did, and that one was Miss Irvine. She spent nearly the whole summer at Alliston Hall, and Evelyn, instead of avoiding her company as she had so often done before, delighted to have her with her, that they might talk together about heavenly things.

Day by day Evelyn grew in grace, and seemed more anxious about the welfare of her own soul, and of the souls of those around her. She was much. braver than I was, in speaking to others about their eternal welfare. I often felt ashamed of myself when she told me how she had spoken to Clemence, or to one of the other servants; and she did it in such a simple, natural way, that it was always well received, and never gave offense.

But, though Evelyn was growing in grace day by day, she was not growing in bodily strength. Indeed, as the summer went on she seemed to get weaker instead of stronger. The trouble she had had about her cousin Donald had been so sudden and unexpected, that she had not recovered from the effects of it.

Evelyn never, so far as I knew, mentioned her cousin’s name in Sir William’s presence; and only once did she name him to me, when she asked me if I knew whether anything had been heard of him; but I noticed how anxiously she asked for the newspapers every day, and with what trembling fingers she turned over the pages. There had been an account of the affair in the Times the same week that it happened, and Evelyn was continually expecting to find that Mr. Trafford had been apprehended. But there was no further notice of it in the newspapers, and, one day, Sir William told me that his nephew had evidently made his escape to some foreign land, and he did not think that he would ever be heard of again.

As the summer passed away, and the days became shorter and the nights cooler, Evelyn became no stronger; she had a very troublesome cough, which kept her awake at night, and she looked pale and fragile.

Sir William was very anxious about her, and had many consultations with the doctors, and at last it was agreed that the best thing possible for her would be to leave England for a time and to spend the winter abroad.

The doctors said that the warmer climate would be good for her health, and Sir William felt that the excitement and pleasure of traveling would turn her thoughts, more than anything else, from her trouble and disappointment.

“And where do you think we are going, May?” said Evelyn, when she had told me with great joy what her father had decided.

“I do not know at all, Evelyn,” I said; “I thought perhaps it would be to Mentone, or perhaps somewhere in Italy.”

“Oh no,” said Evelyn, “nowhere so commonplace as that! Guess again!”

But I could not guess, so she told me, with great delight, that Sir William’s plan was to go down the Mediterranean to Egypt, and then, if Evelyn was well enough, to go on in the early spring to Jerusalem.

“To Jerusalem! Oh, Evelyn,” I said, “you will enjoy that.”

“Yes, and so will you, May,” she said. “I know how you long to go there; I was quite as glad for you as for myself when papa told me.”

“Oh, Evelyn,” I said; “do you mean to say that I am going too? I never dreamed of that.”

“Of course you are going,” she said, indignantly. “Do you think I could do without you? Oh, May, isn’t it delightful!”

It seemed to me far too good and too wonderful to be true. To go to Jerusalem, the city which our Lord loved, and over which He wept; to see the hillsides where He so often sat, and to tread the mountain paths on which His feet had so often walked,—this seemed far too great a joy ever to be mine.

But there was very little time to sit and dream over it, for we were plunged, at once, into all the bustle and confusion which a departure from home for a long time causes in large households as well as in small ones.

We were to start in three weeks’ time, for Sir William was anxious that we should get the sea voyage over before the weather became colder and more unsettled. He very kindly gave me leave to go to the Manor House at Branston for a few days, that I might say goodbye to my little sister before being parted from her for so long. I should never have thought of asking for a holiday at this busy time, but Sir William proposed it himself, and was good enough to say, when I began to suggest difficulties, that he should insist upon my going whether I liked it or not.

It was indeed a pleasure for me to see my dear little Maggie again, and the three sisters were kindness itself to me. But they did not at all like the idea of my going to Jerusalem; indeed, at first, they even wanted me to throw up my situation because of having to go abroad. However, when they saw that it was of no use trying to persuade me to do this, and that I was looking forward to the proposed journey as to a most delightful and pleasant thing, they all united in trying to warn me of the consequences. Miss Jane had a very ancient book, describing the adventures and narrow escapes of some travelers in Palestine many years ago, and she brought this book out from her bookcase, and read all the most alarming passages for my edification, till poor Maggie was quite frightened and clung to me, and said she would never let me go.

I assured them that traveling in Palestine twenty years ago was a very different thing, and that now the dangers were much less, and the difficulties not nearly so numerous. But Miss Jane did nothing but shake her hear mournfully, and said she should indeed be thankful if I came back alive; whilst Miss Hannah and Miss Louisa actually shed tears at the bare thought of the perils I was about to undergo. However, I comforted them by promising them to write often, and I told them that I would give them an account of all my adventures, though I did not think they would be so exciting or remarkable as those of the gentlemen in Miss Jane’s book.

When I returned to Alliston Hall I found that all necessary preparations were made for the journey. Sir William was anticipating it quite as much as we were. He had travelled a great deal when he was a young man, and he was very much looking forward to taking Evelyn to some of the places which he had visited so many years before.

At length the last night came, when everything was packed, and we had nothing to do but to sit at the window and to talk of the journey before us.

I was feeling the reaction, which so often comes after the excitement of the preparations for a journey, and was almost wishing that, after all, we were not going so far away. Who could tell whether we should all return again? Who could tell whether I should every see my little sister again?

At this moment the door was opened, and a letter was brought in which had come by the evening post. The letter was from dear Miss Irvine, to say how much she should think of us whilst we were travelling, and how often she should turn the text, which she enclosed, into prayer on our behalf.

“What is the text, I wonder?” said Evelyn, as she put down the letter. “Oh, I see; here are two cards in the envelope; one for you and one for me.”

She handed me mine, and the text seemed an answer to my fears; “The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore;” and underneath the text there was this hymn:

Going out from the ones I love,

Far over land and sea;

Going out into dreary ways,

Working, my Lord, for Thee;

Going out with an anxious heart,

Serving in earth’s rough soil;

Going out to the daily fight—

Worry, and care, and toil.

Going out when the work is done,

Leaving the earthly strife;

Going out to the unknown world

Passing through death to life;

Going out, and yet, not alone;

Lord, Thou wilt go before;

Keep me, Lord, in my going out,

Now and for evermore.

Coming in from the distant land,

Thankful no more to roam;

Coming in from the outer work,

Meeting the cares at home;

Coming in from the larger field,

Sowing the Master’s seed;

Dropping some in the children’s hearts,

Yearning their souls to feed.

Coming in to the Father’s home,

Welcomed with joy at last;

Coming in to go out no more,

Partings forever past;

Coming in, and yet, not alone—

Standing beside the door:

Meet me, Lord, in my coming in,

Now, and for evermore.

Chapter 12: Brindisi

We left England, and began our delightful journey at the end of October. Evelyn improved in health and spirits from the moment that we started, and Sir William was thoroughly happy in witnessing the enjoyment of his child. I need hardly say what a treat this journey was to me. I had never been out of England before, and, therefore, everything abroad was quite new and strange to me, and I felt as if I was having a very pleasant and delightful dream.

We spent some time in Paris, and went about to all the places of interest both in and near the city. From we went to Turin, where we rested for more than before undertaking the long and tedious journey from Turin to Brindisi. We arrived at Brindisi late on Saturday night; we were all very tired and worn out, and exceedingly glad to get to our journey’s end. We stayed at an hotel near the sea, such a curious Eastern-looking place, with bare stone floors and whitewashed walls, and only just as much furniture in the large rooms as was absolutely necessary.

The next morning I awoke early, and went to my window and looked out. It seemed a perfect fairyland to me. The harbor was as still as a lake, and covered with the reflection of the ships and boats, with their pretty latteen sails. And beyond the harbor there was the blue Mediterranean sparkling in the morning sunshine.

It looked very unlike Sunday, for work was going on just as on any other day; and the people of Brindisi were buying, and selling, and hurrying along, as though it were the busiest day in the week.

I took my Testament, and sat at a little distance from the window, and had a quiet time alone before Clemente came to say that Evelyn was dressed, and was going downstairs for breakfast.

We were to go on board the steamer that night, as it was to sail early the next morning; but Sir William arranged that during the day we should stay quietly at the hotel.

The weather had been very cold when we were at Turin, and we found a great change of climate at Brindisi. The sky was a deep, unclouded blue, and the sunshine was so hot that we found it difficult to keep cool. Evelyn and I discovered a seat on the flat roof of the hotel, where we were shaded from the hot sun and could read together quietly. We read aloud the Psalms for the day verse by verse. One of these was Psalm 122, and it was with a wonderfully strange feeling that we read those words: “Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem.”

“May,” said Evelyn, “can you believe that verse is really true of us?”

When we had finished our reading, Sir William came out to us, and persuaded us to venture out of the shady corner in which we had been sitting, and to walk to the other end of the roof, that we might look at the view to be seen from thence.

To our surprise we found that we were not alone on the roof. An English gentleman was leaning over the parapet with a book in his hand, looking towards the sea. He turned round as we came up, and slipped his book into his pocket. I fancied that it was a, Bible.

Sir William and the strange gentleman soon got into conversation about Brindisi and its surroundings, and he pointed out to us several objects of interest in the neighborhood. He was not a very young man, though I fancied that he looked older than he really was. There was something in his face, when it was at which made me think that he had been through a great deal of trouble, and yet, when he smiled, his whole face was lighted up in a moment, and he looked perfectly different. He was not exactly a handsome rote, and yet his was a face which, having once seen, yea could never forget, and which you could not help liking. That was my first impression of Mr. Stanley, so far as I can now remember.

Sir William was very charmed with him, and said afterward that he had seldom met such a well-read, sensible man. We sat together on the roof, and Evelyn and I acted the part of listeners, whilst the two gentlemen talked.

“You are going to Jerusalem, I think,” said Mr. Stanley, as Sir William was unfolding his plans to him; “I have been there several times.”

This led to many inquiries on Sir William’s part about the accommodation to be found in Jerusalem, etc. etc. But Evelyn and I wondered very much how Mr. Stanley knew that we were going to Jerusalem. Could he have heard us reading that Psalm, and saying that it was soon to be true of us?

“I am afraid you will be disappointed in Jerusalem,” said Mr. Stanley, turning to us; “you must remember that though it is still beautiful for situation, ‘yet Jerusalem is no longer the joy of the whole earth.’ It is, indeed, beautiful at a distance, and everyone is charmed who sees it for the first time; but when you go inside the walls, and know it well, you cannot help feeling depressed and saddened.”

“But there are brighter days coming for Jerusalem,” I ventured to say.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Stanley, “Jerusalem will be a hundredfold more than she ever was before—the City of the Great King.”

But Sir William always regarded the study of prophecy as a mixture of presumption and romance, and he quickly led the conversation into a different channel; but I longed to hear what Mr. Stanley’s views were about the return of the Jews and the restoration of Jerusalem.

That evening we went on board the steamer which was to take us to Alexandria. There were a great many first-class passengers, and we had some difficulty in obtaining a cabin to ourselves. At length Sir William managed to secure a small one for Evelyn and me, in which there were only two berths, and as soon as table d’hôte was over we went to our cabin.

There were very few passengers present at dinner; Mr. Stanley was there, and a few others whom we had seen in the hotel at Brindisi; but most of the people came on board as we were going to bed. They had just arrived by the late train from Turin, and had secured their cabins beforehand by telegraphing to the captain.

Evelyn and I were undressing when we heard a voice in the saloon, which we were almost sure we knew. It was a lady’s voice, and she was giving orders to the stewardess in an imperious tone, with regard to the arrangement of her cabin.

“That must be Lady Eldridge,” said Evelyn to me; “it is exactly like her voice.”

Clemence went, at this moment, to get some hot water, and returned with the information that it was Lady Eldridge, and that she had taken the next cabin to ours.

“Oh dear!” said Evelyn, “I wonder where she is going. I hope not to Cairo; I remember she often spends the winter there. Well, we shall hear in the morning!”

As Lady Eldridge’s voice had been the last thing we heard at night, so it was the first thing that we heard in the morning. She had brought no maid with her; and, as she was utterly unable to do anything for herself, she was constantly calling the poor stewardess, who had already more work than she could got through, to help her in the various stages of her toilet.

“Oh dear!” said Evelyn, as Lady Eldridge’s voice was heard again and again, “I do hope she is not going to Cairo; we must find out at once.”

We met Lady Eldridge at breakfast; she professed herself delighted beyond measure at meeting Sir William and Evelyn, and wished to know where they were going, and how long she would have the wonderful pleasure of traveling in their company.

“It is such trying work traveling alone, my dear,” she said to Evelyn, “and I am naturally very nervous; it is really quite miraculous my meeting you. Sir William, I feel sure, will not refuse to take me under his care.”

Sir William bowed, and said he would be very glad to help Lady Eldridge in any way he could; but I did not think he seemed particularly glad of the addition to our party, for such Lady Eldridge, from that moment, considered herself to be. She turned over all responsibility about her baggage to Sir William, and she used Clemence as freely as if she had been her own maid.

“But,” said Lady Eldridge, as we were finishing breakfast, “you have never yet told me where you are going, Evelyn, my dear.”

Evelyn was about to answer her, when, to my surprise, Sir William prevented her.

“Our plans are not yet formed, Lady Eldridge,” he said; “I am going to consider this morning what our tour will be, and then I shall be able to let you know.”

“Oh, you must come to Cairo,” said Lady Eldridge, decidedly: “there is no place like Cairo in the winter. The climate is simply perfect, my dear,” she said, turning to Evelyn. “Now, Sir William, you must decide to stay at least three months at Cairo, and then we can all spend the winter together. Now come, I think that is a capital plan!”

Sir William smiled, and said he would consider the matter; but there were many other places that he wished to visit, and he could not make up his mind hastily. We did not see much of Lady Eldridge after breakfast, for she remained in the saloon the whole day reading a French novel, and seemed to think us very extraordinary girls because we chose to go on deck.

Evelyn and I found a sheltered seat, where the cold wind did not reach us; and here we sat with our hooks and our work until the evening. The steamer had started early in the morning, and though a fresh breeze was blowing, still the sea was not uncomfortably rough, and we were beginning to think that sea voyages were not half so disagreeable and uncomfortable as people made them out to be.

Sir William paced up and down the deck with Mr. Stanley nearly all the morning, discussing his future plans. Every now and then they stopped to examine a map or a guidebook; and at length they sat down on a seat, and Sir William took a pencil from his pocket, and wrote at Mr. Stanley’s dictation.

“I wonder what papa has settled!” said Evelyn. “I wish he would come and tell us. I am sure he does not want to go to Cairo, now that Lady Eldridge is going there. Did not you notice that he would not let me say where we were going?”

When Sir William had finished writing he and Mr. Stanley came towards us, and Sir William told us, to our great joy, that we were going at once to Jerusalem. Mr. Stanley had told him that there was a clean, comfortable hotel there, and that the climate in December and January was generally beautiful.

“So I think we will stop in Jerusalem a month or two,” said Sir William, “and then decide where we go next. What do you say to that, Evelyn?”

“Oh, papa,” said Evelyn, “it is just what I wanted. I am longing to get to Jerusalem!”

“Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem,” said Mr. Stanley, with a smile. And then we were sure that he had heard us reading the Psalm.

At sunset the wind became very strong; the ship rolled heavily, and the passengers were glad to go to their cabins. It was a dreadful night. I shall never forget it. Every hour the storm became more terrible.

I had never thought that a storm at sea could be so dreadful. The waves were beating over our heads, and, every now and then, the cabin was lighted up by a vivid flash of lightning, which was followed almost immediately by a terrible clap of thunder. Every two or three minutes we heard the crash of breaking crockery, and the broken cups, and jugs, and glasses were thrown backwards and forwards on the floor, as the ship pitched and tossed.

I wonder that so many people have such peaceful ideas of the Mediterranean Sea, after reading the Bible accounts of it. Oh, how often during that dreadful night we thought of the Apostle Paul in the storm, probably just in this very part of the Mediterranean; and we could so well picture that scene in Jonah’s life when the sailors, unwilling to cast him overboard, made a last mighty effort to bring the ship to land, but the sea wrought and was tempestuous, and they were not able to manage it.

And then David’s description of the storm, in Psalm 107, must refer to this very sea. How often we repeated those verses to each other that night: “He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven.”

“Oh, May,” said Evelyn, as I crept to her side when the storm was at its height, “what a comfort it is to know we are safe, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, “I cannot think how any one dare travel, and go through all the perils by land and water without knowing that.”

“I should not have known it if we had come a year ago,” said Evelyn. “Oh, May, I should have been terribly frightened then!”

We did not sleep once the whole night, and very long the hour seemed to us.

At about three o’clock in the morning we heard Lady Eldridge’s voice loudly crying for help. She was calling, first for Clemence and then for the stewardess, but their cabins were at the other end of the saloon, and neither of them heard her.

“What can she want?” said Evelyn.

I put on my dressing-gown, and managed to go as far as the door of Lady Eldridge’s cabin, that I might see what was the matter.

“Just look here, Miss Lindsay!” she said; “the porthole burst open, and the water has come over my bed. Do go and call the stewardess, and tell her to bring me clean linen and blankets.”

“I don’t know whether I can walk as far as the stewardess’s cabin, Lady Eldridge,” I said, “but I will try; it is terribly rough!”

“Oh, nonsense!” she said; “hold on by the wall, and you will be all right. You don’t mean to say you are seasick, Miss Lindsay; you should get over it. I never believe in seasickness; if people only try they can keep it off. I feel as well at sea as on land!”

I could not help thinking, that this being the case, she might have gone for the stewardess herself, instead of insisting that I should go for her. However, I did my best, and managed to stagger down the saloon, though I fell several times, and cut my hand very much with a broken plate, which was being swept across the floor, backwards and forwards, as the vessel rolled from side to side.

I found the stewardess lying on the bed in her cabin, crying. She told me that she was a widow with three little children, whom she had left in England. She had been persuaded to try this way of earning her living, and this was her first voyage; but she did not think she could ever go again, she had no idea that it would be so dreadful. She told me this as she was getting out the sheets for Lady Eldridge’s bed, and she said that, just as I came in, she was crying because she thought she would never see her little children again.

I tried to say a word to comfort her, but the noise of the storm was so great that we could hardly hear each other speak. It was some time before she had collected everything that was necessary, and Lady Eldridge was very impatient and cross when we arrived at her cabin. I helped the stewardess to arrange the bed, and then went back to my own berth, very thankful to be able to lie still again.

Morning came, but the storm still continued. It raged all Tuesday, all Tuesday night, and all Wednesday, and we were not able to leave our cabin the whole time. Only on Wednesday did the storm begin to abate, and we were able at last to have a quiet sleep. We awoke on Thursday to find the wind gone and the sea much calmer. We were to arrive at Alexandria in the afternoon, and everyone seemed glad that the stormy voyage was drawing to a close.

Lady Eldridge was very much annoyed when she found that we were not going with her to Cairo. She told Sir William that it was simple madness, on his part, to take a delicate girl like Evelyn to Jerusalem; but Sir William only smiled, and said it was Evelyn’s wish as well as his own, and he thought that, if Lady Eldridge made further inquiries, she would find that in the winter months the climate of Jerusalem was all that could be desired.

I had a talk with the stewardess that morning, and I was so glad to find that the poor woman knew where to turn for comfort and for help. She was a real Christian, and, in simple faith, she had trusted her children to God’s care, and she felt sure that He would watch over them till she was able to be with them again. She had left them with her brother and his wife, and her thoughts seemed to be constantly with her little absent treasures. I was so glad that I had spoken to her, for she thanked me very much, and told me that the few words I had said to her in the storm had been a great comfort to her, and had made her ashamed of herself for being afraid.

At length we arrived at Alexandria, and very much enjoyed the sight which met our eyes—the intensely white city, the blue water in the harbor—the pilot, with a dark hood over his head, arriving in his little boat, and coming on board the steamer; and then the countless other boats, filled with clamorous Arabs, who were contending with one another to secure the largest number of passengers to row to shore. It was very curious to watch them fighting like wild beasts for their prey, and looking so picturesque in their various costumes that it was impossible to feel angry with them.

After much pushing, and quarreling, and scuffling, and shouting had been gone through, we found ourselves in the same boat with Mr. Stanley, who had taken us all, Lady Eldridge included, under his care, and had bargained on our behalf in Arabic, and made, after much difficulty, a fair agreement with the boatman as to the price he would charge for his boat.

We stayed one night in Alexandria at the hotel, but we did not see much of the city, for we were too tired and worn out with the voyage to go out, and were glad to rest quietly until it was time to go on board the ship which was to take us to Jaffa, and which started early the next day. We left Lady Eldridge in the hotel and were not sorry to say goodbye to her.

It was a small old-fashioned vessel which was to take us the rest of the way, very dirty and forlorn, and very different from the comfortable steamer of the Peninsular and Oriental Company which we had just left; but the sea was calm, so we felt as if we could thankfully bear any amount of discomfort.

We were the only first-class passengers on board, but a large party of travelers were to join us at Port Said, and they had already engaged their cabins.

We stayed on deck until quite late that evening, walking up and down, looking at the sun setting over sea and talking of all that was before us. Sir William had numberless questions to ask about Jerusalem, and Mr. Stanley was well able to answer them all, for only two years before he had spent a whole winter in Jerusalem that he might sketch some of the many places of interest in the city and its neighborhood, and he promised, at Sir William’s request, to let us see his sketches someday.

Chapter 13: Was It He?

Early on Saturday morning we arrived at Port Said, and Sir William proposed that we should go on shore and escape from our uncomfortable quarters in the dirty little steamer.

We had no difficulty in obtaining a boat rowed by Arabs, but immediately we touched land we were marched off to the Custom House, that our passports might be examined. Sir William had been told in London that passports were now quite unnecessary, so we had not provided ourselves with any, and he was rather at a loss what to do. However, Mr. Stanley came to the rescue, and after he had harangued the Turkish officers in Arabic, and had given them a proper amount of “baksheesh,” we were politely bowed out of the office and allowed to enter the town, although we had no passports.

Here Mr. Stanley left us, and we found our way to the one hotel of the place, where we had breakfast amidst a crowd of English and American travelers, who we found were to be our companions into Syria.

The hotel was uncomfortably small and very noisy, so after breakfast we took a walk to see what was to be seen in Port Said.

It was such a curious town; it looked as if it had sprung up in a single night like a mushroom. Nearly all the houses were made of wood, and looked like large booths put up hastily for a pleasure fair, to be taken down again as soon as the fair was over.

The streets or rather the empty spaces between the rows of houses, for they did not deserve the name of streets, were covered with orange peel, oyster shells, dead dogs and cats, decaying vegetables, and all manner of filth; and the whole place looked, Sir William said, like pictures he had seen of the wooden towns set up near the gold diggings in America.

We met people of almost every nationality in the streets of Port Said. Many of them were very unprepossessing in appearance, and we were told that a number of the worst men of all nations find their way there, for they know that there is very little law or order in the town, and that they will therefore be free from observation, and allowed to do as they like.

The week before we arrived at Port Said there had been a great many murders there, and we saw a notice in the hotel advising Europeans not to go out after as dark, as the authorities would not answer for the consequences if they did so.

An open square in front of the hotel had been turned into a garden. There were not many flowers in it, but there were a few trees and shrubs, and small stone fountain stood in the center. There was a seat in this garden, and Sir William, Evelyn, and I sat here for some time, watching the tourists coming in and out of the hotel, consulting their guidebooks, asking countless questions of their dragoman, and apparently very impatient to be once more on the move.

There were several French shops, in a block of buildings which formed one side of the square. Evelyn caught sight of these, and asked me if I thought she would be able to buy one or two little things which she was anxious to get before going to Jerusalem, “where,” she said, “I suppose we shall find no shops at all.”

“Go and see, my dear,” said Sir William, “and I will wait here till you come back; I shall be close by if you want me for anything, and I can see which shops you are in as I sit here.”

So Evelyn and I opened the gate of the hotel garden, and crossed the road to the shops. They were very curious shops, a great variety of articles seemed to be sold in them; all kinds of French goods, fancy articles of every description, and a few useful things, such as traveling bags, knapsacks, sunshades, and pith helmets.

We selected the shop which appeared most likely to contain all we wished to buy. Evelyn went in first, and I followed her. The shop man was at the other end of the shop, attending to some customers, and Evelyn and I examined the articles which were exposed for sale until he was ready to wait upon us. Then he came up to us, and asked in French what we wanted. Evelyn looked up from the box of ornaments over which she was bending, and was about to answer him when I saw her suddenly start back in astonishment.

I looked up, to see what had taken her so much by surprise, and I saw in a moment what it was.

The young man in the shop was no French tradesman, as we had taken him to be; he was her cousin, Donald Trafford! Evelyn had not looked at him when we first came into the shop, but, as soon as their eyes met she recognized him, in spite of his foreign dress and appearance, and he at the same moment recognized her.

Before we had time to recover from our surprise he was gone; he had disappeared through a door into an inner room, and had sent a young Frenchwoman to wait upon us.

“Oh, May,” whispered Evelyn to me; “never mind about the things, let us go back to papa!”

1 made some excuse to the French girl, telling her we could not wait longer, and we left the shop at once. But when we were outside, Evelyn turned so white and faint that I did not know how to get her back to the garden. I made signs to Sir William to come; but he was reading the newspaper, and did not look up, and I did not like to leave Evelyn alone whilst I went to call him.

At this moment, to my great joy, Mr. Stanley came up, and seeing how ill Evelyn looked, at once offered her his arm; and walked with her back to her father.

As I followed them into the garden I could not help contrasting Mr. Stanley’s open, manly face with that of Mr. Donald Trafford, who had by no means improved in appearance since I saw him last. I wondered whether Evelyn was struck by the difference. I almost thought that she was, for she thanked Mr. Stanley very pleasantly for his kind help, and explained that she had suddenly turned faint when she was in the shop, but said she would be quite better in a few moments.

Sir William was very much frightened when he saw his daughter come up to him, looking as pale as death, and leaning on Mr. Stanley’s arm; but she tried to laugh him out of his fears, and told him that she was rather tired, and that it was nothing of consequence. Mr. Stanley, however, hurried up to the hotel to get a glass of water, and, as soon as he had gone, Evelyn burst into tears.

“What is the matter, my darling?” said Sir William, in a very distressed voice; “I am afraid the journey has been too much for you. Perhaps I was foolish not to follow Lady Eldridge’s advice, and go on with her to Cairo. You are not strong enough to rough it yet; I almost think we had better turn back.”

“Oh no, papa, it is not that,” said Evelyn; “it is not that at all. Tell him, May, what it was.”

“Evelyn had a great surprise when she went into that shop, Sir William,” I said, “for there, dressed like a foreigner, and selling behind the counter, was her cousin, Mr. Trafford!”

“Donald!” said Sir William, starting from his seat, “Donald in that shop! Surely not! Surely you must have been mistaken! I cannot think that he would dare to come to a place like Port Said where so many English people are continually passing through. Oh no, Evelyn, child, you must be wrong.”

“No, Sir William,” I said, “we certainly saw Mr. Trafford; I am quite sure we were not mistaken.”

At this moment Mr. Stanley returned, and we could not talk any more about it. But Sir William seemed lost in thought, and did not enter into the conversation, which Evelyn and I tried to keep up.

“Miss Lindsay,” he said, at last, “would you show me in which of those shops you made your purchases just now? Evelyn dear, you sit still here till we come back. Mr. Stanley, may I leave my daughter in your care for a few minutes?”

I thought Mr. Stanley was not sorry to be left in charge; but Evelyn had turned as pale as she was bet; To, and was trembling from head to foot.

Sir William and I left them on the seat near the and walked towards the row of shops. “I really think you must have been mistaken, Miss Lindsay,” he repeated; but I told him that I was sure Mr. Trafford had recognized us, for he had strangely and suddenly disappeared, and had sent a Frenchwoman to wait upon us.

I waited outside, whilst Sir William went into the shop. He came out in a few minutes, looking very much relieved.

“It is quite a mistake, Miss Lindsay,” he said; “Donald Trafford is not here; I have made full inquiries.”

Then he told me that there was no one but the Frenchwoman in the shop when he went in, but that he had asked to see the young Englishman who was waiting in the shop about a quarter of an hour before. The Frenchwoman, however, had assured him that there was no Englishman there, nor was there anyone who could speak English. It must have been her husband whom the ladies had seen; he was in the shop a few minutes ago, but he was an Italian—his name was Signor Rialti. Sir William had asked to speak to her husband, but she told him he had been suddenly called away on business; he was away now, and would not return till Monday.

“Then Signor Rialti is evidently the name Mr. Trafford has taken,” I said.

“Oh, I think not, Miss Lindsay,” said Sir William, decidedly; “you and Evelyn have been mistaken. I have no doubt that the young Italian bears a strong resemblance to Donald Trafford, and that that circumstance has led you both to imagine that it must be he.”

But, though I was silenced by Sir William’s very decided manner, still I was far from being convinced; for I was firmly persuaded in my own mind that it was indeed Evelyn’s cousin whom we had seen that morning.

Mr. Stanley seemed to notice, with the ready perception which he always showed, that something had happened to disturb us, and that we should like to be left alone, for in a few minutes he made an excuse about having to call on someone at the other end of Port Said, and took leave of us.

“Well, Evelyn,” said Sir William, as soon as we were alone, “you were quite wrong. You need not have been so agitated, dear; it was quite a mistake; and he told her what he had heard in the shop.”

“It is all a tale, papa,” she said, when he had finished; “Donald is afraid of being found out, and he has put her up to telling that story, in case any inquiries should be made about him. He would not be back till Monday, did she say? Of course not; he knows quite well that the steamer will not start until early on Monday morning.”

But Sir William would not be convinced. His wish was, I think, father to the thought, for he would have been very much puzzled as to how he ought to act had he indeed found his nephew, and he was therefore only too glad to believe that he was still in ignorance of Mr. Trafford’s hiding place.

I saw Evelyn glancing several times at the French shop as we sat there talking of other things; and I was glad for her sake when Sir William proposed that we should return to the ship.

We spent a very comfortless Sunday on board the wretched little steamer. It was impossible to find any place below, for the saloon was filled by the large party which we had seen at the hotel at Port Said, and most of them spent the day in playing cards and chess, and in talking over their journey in loud voices; and made so much noise that we found it was utterly useless to attempt to read or to be quiet there. So we went on deck and found a shady corner, where we were at least in comparative quiet. But the lower deck was the scene of great confusion and noise, for a number of pilgrims, who were on their way to Jerusalem, were coming on board. There were Greek pilgrims, Latin pilgrims, and Muslim pilgrims, all of them dressed in what seems to us the most fantastic manner. They were regular Easterns and dreadfully filthy, and they were all jabbering their various languages at the top of their voices. Mr. Stanley told us that as Easter draws near the steamers are crammed with these pilgrims, on their way to the different shrines and holy places. They come from great distances and go through wonderful fatigue, and spend large sums of money to obtain, as they vainly hope, forgiveness of sin.

“I often think,” Mr. Stanley said, “that their earnestness puts us to shame.”

“Yes,” said Evelyn, as she watched a fresh detachment come on board, “and do you not long to tell them how sin can really be forgiven?”

“I do indeed,” said Mr. Stanley; “but, Miss Trafford, have you any idea what a difficult matter that would be? How many different languages do you think I should have to learn before I could speak to all these pilgrims?”

We thought perhaps five or six would be necessary, but Mr. Stanley told us, to our astonishment, that he had just had a conversation with a gentleman who had taken the trouble to go round the vessel in order to find out what were the different nationalities of the people on board, and he had made the discovery that there were men from no fewer than thirty different nations in that one steamer.

We sailed from Port Said on Sunday evening, and came in sight of Jaffa at six o’clock the next morning. We were up very early, for we were longing to get our first view of Palestine. It was a lovely morning, the sea was as smooth as a millpond, and the view was exceedingly beautiful, as the sun rose behind the Judean hills.

Jaffa looked a very pretty place as we saw it from the deck of the steamer, with its white houses overlooking the blue Mediterranean, a green circle of orange trees round it, and the quiet hills beyond.

But we had little time to realize the fact that we were now gazing at the very spot from which Jonah took ship for Tarshish, and where Peter lodged and saw that wondrous vision, and where Dorcas lived and made garments for the poor, in those far-off Bible days. We had very little time for thought of any kind, for, as soon as we came in sight of Joppa, numberless boats came out to meet us, as they had done at Alexandria, and after the usual tumult, we secured one, and were rowed to the shore, which was a mile and a half away. This is not at all a safe undertaking in stormy weather, for the only entrance to the harbor is a very narrow opening between most dangerous rocks. The harbor of Joppa is a natural one, and has never been improved since the time of Solomon, when the timber, which Hiram cut down in Lebanon, must have been brought to land through this very passage between the rocks.

When we drew near the shore we saw crowds of Arabs waiting for us, screaming and fighting and wrestling in savage earnestness. They seemed ready to tear us in pieces rather than lose the chance of carrying our luggage to the hotel. It really was a terrible sight to those unaccustomed to Eastern vehemence. Evelyn was very much frightened and clung to her father, and even Sir William seemed agitated and alarmed. But Mr. Stanley’s quiet voice reassured us:

“Oh, it is nothing,” he said; “you don’t know what Arabs are yet; they always make a noise like this. It is nothing unusual, I assure you,” he added, laughing, as he fought a passage for us through the howling crowd, and led the way to the little Custom House, which was already crowded with the travelers who had arrived. before us. We had, therefore, to wait outside for some time; but Mr. Stanley kept the Arabs who had followed us at bay, and gave Evelyn a camp-stool to sit upon, for she was looking faint and tired, and the heat, even at that early hour, seemed to us to be very great.

At last the Turkish office was at liberty to receive the “baksheesh,” which Mr. Stanley had ready for him. He passed our boxes without opening them, and we were allowed to proceed to the hotel.

It was a tiring walk, for the streets of Jaffa are covered with hot, burning sand, in which your feet sink every step you take. They are very narrow, and every now and then we looked round to find ourselves nearly knocked down by a huge camel, with boxes on its back, which had come noiselessly behind us over the soft sand; or a mule, laden with luggage, and rushing frantically along, was determined to pass us, and pushed its way through our midst in the most resolute manner.

Mr. Stanley had advised us to go as far as Ramleh that day, as it is forty miles ride from Jaffa to Jerusalem, and he thought we should be too tired if we went so far in one day. Accordingly that afternoon he hired horses for us, and we mounted for our first ride in Palestine.

It was no easy matter guiding our horses through the crowds of Arabs, the strings of camels and mules, and the heaps of filth, in the streets of Jaffa. We were glad to leave the town and get into the road, which took us through one of the orange groves by which Jaffa is surrounded. Everything looked so strange and Eastern, and the scent of the oranges was delicious. We passed through the Plain of Sharon, and at about five o’clock in the evening we reached Ramleh, after rather more than four hours’ ride.

Chapter 14: Jerusalem

There are some moments in our lives which it is impossible for us to describe. We never forget them, and the impression which they leave behind never fades from our memories; but still when we try to speak of them to others, even to those whom we love best, words fail us, and seem too weak to express what we mean.

I will not, therefore, attempt to describe what was the rush of feeling which passed through my heart when, for the first time, I came in sight of Jerusalem. Others who have had a like privilege will understand what I felt, as Mr. Stanley made us pull up our horses on the top of a hill, about half a mile from the city gate, and said to us, “Well, what do you think of Jerusalem?”

Neither Evelyn nor I could answer him. Sir William had many questions to ask about the houses and buildings on the road leading to the Jaffa Gate, but we scarcely heard what they were saying. At that moment, it seemed to us a matter of very small importance which was the Austrian consul’s house; which was the Paella’s country residence; which was the German deaconesses’ school; and which were the Russian church and convent. All these details interested us afterward, when we were more familiar with Jerusalem; but at that moment, when we were able, for the first time in our lives, to say “This is Jerusalem!” we had neither time nor thought to spare for any interest in the modern buildings of the city.

We rode on in silence, seeing, as if in a dream, the crowds of people taking their evening walk on the Jaffa road—people of numerous nations, and from every quarter of the globe, dressed in costumes as varied as the colors of the rainbow.

Mr. Stanley rode up close beside me as we went through the Jaffa gate, and said, in a low voice, “I know just how you are feeling, Miss Lindsay; it indeed, a wonderful moment in one’s life!”

We had some difficulty in getting through the gate, for a, number of camels and mules were coming out of the city at the time, heavily laden with baggage. Then we passed the Tower of David, and turned down a quiet street, where stood the hotel in which Mr. Stanley had secured rooms for us. He took leave of us here, as he was going to lodge at the Latin Convent, whir li was in another part of the city, and where he had stayed when he was last in Jerusalem.

The landlady of the hotel was a Scotch woman, and was very kind and attentive. Our rooms were beautifully clean, with white stone floors, white walls, white curtains before the windows, and white coverings on the beds.

We did not sleep much that night. The fatigue and excitement which we had gone through the day before would have been sufficient to keep us awake; but even had we felt disposed to sleep, I do not think we should have been able to do so, for the noises in the city, during the night, were so many and so varied, that it seemed to us that, under any circumstances, sleep would be very difficult to obtain. Our landlady had told us that she hoped we should not be alarmed at any sound we might hear in the night, for a wedding was going on in a house close by, and the festivities would be kept up until the morning.

Accordingly, for many hours we were kept awake by the noise of music and singing, by the beating of little drums, and by the shouts and laughter of the wedding party. But as morning dawned the wedding guests grew quieter, and we hoped to be able to sleep. Now, however, we were disturbed by the howling and barking of the street dogs, which at times was quite deafening. These dogs have no owners, but act as the scavengers of the city, eating anything they can find amongst the refuse and dirt of the streets. Each dog has his appointed place in the city, and there seems to be a code of honor amongst them, that no dog is to go into any other quarter of the city except that in which he was born and bred, and in which he ordinarily gets his livelihood Immediately a strange dog from another part of Jerusalem makes his appearance he is driven away by the united efforts of all the dogs in the street which he has invaded, with enough noise to awaken the whole city.

Poor Evelyn tossed about very wearily through the night, and I was really afraid that she would be ill again. But her merry spirits seemed to keep her up, for she found amusement in all our little discomforts, and made me laugh in spite of myself many times during that long, tiring night.

At length a lull came in the barking of the dogs; but now several bells began to ring in the Greek and Latin convents of the city, and then we heard the shouts of muleteers and camel-drivers, and the tinkling of the mule-bells, as different parties of people set off in the cool of the morning for Joppa, or some of the distant villages.

We got up at eight o’clock tired and unrefreshed. Sir William had slept much better, and was in good spirits, and very anxious to go out and explore Jerusalem. We needed no dragoman to take us to the various places of interest, for Mr. Stanley, who knew his way about the city as well as any of the inhabitants did, was very kind, and anxious to help us.

I fancied that it was something more than ordinary kindness which made him always so willing to make one of our party. I could not help thinking that he was attracted by my dear Evelyn’s sweet face and winning ways. Who could help loving her? I said to myself, as I thought the matter over a hundred times during our first day in Jerusalem. I noticed, I could not help noticing, how diligently he kept near us and how pleased he seemed that Sir William thankfully accepted his offer to be our guide whilst we stayed in the Holy City.

I shall never forget my first walk through the streets of Jerusalem. We grew so familiar, in a few weeks’ time, with all the Eastern sights and sounds that we scarcely noticed them, but that morning, everything was strange and fresh and full of interest.

We went first across an open square in front of the Tower of David, where a vegetable market was being held; and chickens and eggs, oranges and lemons, were being exhibited for sale by the women from the villages round Jerusalem, and were being bargained for and bought by the townspeople.

Mr. Stanley called our attention to the enormous cauliflowers, so large that one of them was sufficient to form the load of a small donkey, and so heavy that neither Evelyn nor I could lift them from the ground. We were curious to know how large the pans were in which they were boiled, but Mr. Stanley told us they are always cut in pieces before boiling, and that one cauliflower is sufficient to feed a family for a whole day. There was so much noise and confusion in this marketplace that it was difficult to keep up conversation. No business transaction is done in Jerusalem without a dispute, so fierce that, if it occurred in England, we should expect it to end in blows. The salesman asks three times as much for his goods as he expects to receive; and the buyer offers a third and of what he knows he will eventually have to give then they begin to dispute, and wrangle, and scream, and shout, and swear, and stamp their feet, and shake their fists, as if the affairs of a whole nation depended upon it. We saw one such business transaction going on, in a street through which we passed.

“What is the matter here?” said Sir William, as he tried to make his way through an angry, excited crowd, who were screaming and gesticulating in the most alarming manner, as they clustered round a camel and a camel driver.

“Oh, nothing at all!” said Mr. Stanley, laughing, as he listened to what they were saying. “That man in the center of the crowd is buying a load of charcoal, and he and the owner of the charcoal are disputing about a piaster, more or less, which in English money is about equal to two pence.”

“But who are all these other people?” said Sir William; “they cannot all have an interest in this one load of charcoal.”

“Oh no,” said to Mr. Stanley; “but they happened to be passing at the time, and they have stopped to give their opinion, some taking the part of the buyer and some of the seller, and all of them adding to the general confusion by shouting and swearing and yelling at the highest pitch of their voices.”

We were glad to get out of the noisy crowd, and to descend a flight of steps in the narrow street.

“Do you mind coming in here, for a minute?” said Mr. Stanley, as he stopped before a clean-looking building and opened a small door in the wall.

We followed him into large room, and there we saw a very interesting sight. All round the room were Jewesses in their picturesque dresses, sitting on mats on the floor. They were busily engaged with various kinds of needlework; and an English lady was going about amongst them, superintending their work, and teaching them anything which they did not know. We were much interested in all—she told us of these poor women—they are learning by degrees to make their wretched homes bright and comfortable, and to make garments for their husbands and children. Above all, they are learning to love the Word of God, which is read aloud to them as they work, and which is quite a new book to them, for these poor Jerusalem Jewesses know as little of their Old Testament Scriptures as they do of the New Testament. We gave them several orders for various kinds of lace, which they make most beautifully; and Sir William left a donation towards their savings’ bank, which is doing much good amongst these poor mothers, encouraging them to lay by part of the money which they earn, as a fund from which they can draw in times of sickness or distress.

Then we passed from that room into another part of the building, which is used as a girls’ school for Jewish children; and it was indeed pleasant to see their bright happy faces, and to hear their intelligent answers to the questions put to them. Mr. Stanley told us afterward that there is a good work being done in this mission school—for the children are carefully and prayerfully taught; and as the mothers of the next generation, will undoubtedly pave the way for missionary effort among their nation. The lady who manages the school very kindly took us to see all the different classes, and we were especially interested in a large class of little Spanish Jewesses, natives of Jerusalem, who are being taught in their own language, and who are learning, little by little and step by step, to know and to love that Saviour whom their nation have rejected.

We left the school, hoping to visit it again another day, and were turning round a corner, when Mr. Stanley stopped us, and showed us some curious old stones in the wall of the street. These stones evidently formed part of an old archway; and Mr. Stanley told us that it was now thought to be the most ancient place in all Jerusalem, being supposed, by those who have studied the matter, to have been part of the old city of Jebus, where the Jebusites lived before David conquered them, and turned their old fortress of Jebus into Jerusalem, the City of David.

As we turned into the large bazaar in one of the principal streets in Jerusalem we had great difficulty in getting on, so narrow was the street, and so crowded with camels, donkeys, mules, and people standing before each of the curious little shops, bargaining with the shop man inside. We were making our way slowly down the street, when I heard a well-known voice behind us, saying:

“Miss Trafford! this is a surprise!”

Evelyn and I turned round, and I said involuntarily:

“Claude! where have you come from?”

He told us that he and Alice had been spending a mouth in Cairo, and had now come to see Palestine.

“But there does not seem to be much to see here,” he said; “it is a wretched place after Cairo!”

“How long have you been here, may I ask?” said Mr. Stanley.

“Just two days now,” said Claude; “we think of moving on again tomorrow.”

“Then you will excuse my saying that you have not begun to see Jerusalem yet,” said Mr. Stanley, with the least possible touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“Oh, I don’t know!” said Claude; “It seems a stupid place. I can’t think why so many people come here. But won’t you come and see Alice?” he said, turning to Evelyn; “She will be delighted to see you.”

“By the by, I met a friend of yours in Cairo, Miss Trafford,” said Claude, as we walked in the direction of the Damascus Gate, near which their tents were pitched.

“A friend of mine!” said Evelyn, coloring; “whom do you mean?”

She thought, and I thought too, that he must have met Donald Trafford; and Evelyn was considerably relieved by his answer.

“It was Lord Moreton; he was there with a party of his friends, staying in the same hotel that we were. They were going up the Nile. He told me that you were traveling in the East, but the East is a wide term, and I did not expect that we should meet.”

“But why do you call Lord Moreton a friend of mine?” said Evelyn, laughing, though her father looked at her reprovingly.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Trafford,” said Claude; “I thought he was a great friend of yours. I assure you he talked so much of you and Sir William in the short time that we were together, that I thought—”

But Claude did not tell us what he thought, for we had to separate at that moment to let a string of laden camels pass by, and the conversation took another turn when we were able to walk together again.

Claude and his wife were travelling with a small party under the escort of a dragoman, and their tents were pitched in the olive grove just outside the northern gate of the city. Alice was very glad to see us, and she, Evelyn, and I had a long talk together as we sat in patriarchal fashion at our tent door, whilst the gentlemen paced about amongst the olive trees, talking to the dragoman, and referring to their guidebooks.

“Is it not strange to be in Jerusalem, Alice?” said Evelyn; “I feel as if I were dreaming.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alice, laughing. “I have not been much impressed by it. You see, we have become quite accustomed now to Eastern manners and customs—we saw plenty of them in Cairo; and as for the old ruins and buildings here, they are not nearly so ancient as the Pyramids. And there is really very little to be seen, after all, except by those people who believe the lies that are told them about the holy sepulcher, and the tomb of the Virgin, and the manger at Bethlehem. Why actually, in one street, in quite a new wall, our dragoman pointed out to us a stone which is believed to be the stone that ‘would have cried out’ is the children had held their peace! Such nonsense! I have no patience with it!” said Alice, scornfully.

“Oh yes,” said Evelyn, “I quite agree with you about all those absurd tales. I would not walk a hundred yards to see one of those wonderful shrines; but, after all, this is Jerusalem, and it was here,” she added in a lower voice, “that our Lord walked, and preached, and died, and was buried, and rose again!”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Alice, carelessly, as if that fact was but of small importance to her.

“And if we really love Him,” said Evelyn; “if He is dearer to us than anyone else, don’t you think we must look upon Jerusalem, and those places He lived in, with a very strange and wonderful feeling?” Alice looked at Evelyn in astonishment; she had never heard her speak in that way before, and had no idea how much Evelyn was changed since she had seen her last. She made no answer, and I think would have turned the conversation to some other subject if Evelyn had not spoken first.

“You look surprised, Alice,” she said; “you did not expect me to say that, did you?”

“No, indeed,” said Alice, laughing; “I thought that both you and I were quite free from all sentimental nonsense. I am afraid Miss Lindsay has been talking you over to her way of thinking.”

“Is it nonsense?” said Evelyn, gravely, passing over Alice’s last words; “because if it is not nonsense, surely it is a great reality!”

“Oh, I don’t know” said Alice, lightly; “Claude says the greater part of religion is nonsense, and I suppose he ought to know; he has studied the matter, and I have not.”

“Oh, Alice,” said Evelyn, with tears in her eyes, “if you only knew how very, very happy I have been lately! I never knew before that it was possible to be as happy as I am now!”

“That may be,” said Alice, “and I am not happy. Sometimes I am miserable,” she said, bitterly, with that grave, sad expression that I had seen on her face once before; “but still I cannot help agreeing with Claude, that it is better not to be comforted at all, than to get comfort out of a lie.”

“Oh yes,” I said, “Mr. Ellis is quite right in that; but the whole question turns on this: is the Bible Satan’s lie, or God’s truth? It must surely be either the one or the other.”

“Well,” said Alice, lightly, “it is too hot to enter into a theological discussion. I will call the dragoman and get him to send us some lemonade: our cook makes it splendidly.”

“Poor Alice!” said Evelyn, when we were left alone in the tent.

“Yes,” I said, “she is very much to be pitied, for she is not comfortable in her unbelief; she has doubts even about her own doubting.”

Alice came back to tell us that the gentlemen had planned a ride to the Mount of Olives, and the dragoman had gone to hire horses for the whole party, so that we might start together from the Damascus Gate as soon as it began to be a little cooler.

Meanwhile Mr. Stanley guided us to our hotel. We went back a different way, keeping outside the city, till we reached, the Jaffa Gate. Sir William and I walked first, and Mr. Stanley and Evelyn followed, but as Sir William was reading his guide-book, which he kept often in his hand and consulted as he walked along, I had much time for thought, and once or twice I could not help overhearing the conversation which was going on behind me.

“So you know Lord Moreton, Miss Trafford.” I heard Mr. Stanley say.

“Yes; papa knows him very well, and he likes him very much,” said Evelyn, laughing.

“And you do not?” said Mr. Stanley, gravely.

“Oh, I don’t dislike him,” said Evelyn; “only I think him very stupid and uninteresting.”

I thought Sir William must have heard this remark, but if he heard it he took no notice of it, but appeared to be deep in his book.

“Lord Moreton stupid! Lord Moreton uninteresting!” repeated Mr. Stanley; “then excuse my saying, Miss Trafford, that if that is your opinion, I am sure you do not know Lord Moreton: no one who really knew him would ever come to such a conclusion.”

Mr. Stanley had spoken rather warmly, and Evelyn said in an apologetic tone: “I am very sorry, Mr. Stanley. I see Lord Moreton is a friend of yours; I did not know you knew him at all.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “we were college friends, and have been like brothers ever since. I think I may say that I know Lord Moreton better than anyone else knows him, and the more I know him, so much the more I respect him and love him.”

“He always seems to me to be so shy and awkward,” said Evelyn.

“Yes, so he is with strangers,” said Mr. Stanley; “he is a highly nervous man; it is his infirmity, and He knows it; but if he can only shake off his nervousness, he is quite another man. I wish you could have heard him address a meeting of Undergraduates the other day, you would not have believed it was the same man.”

“Addressing them! On what subject?” asked Evelyn, now more astonished than ever.

“Oh, about personal religion. Lord Moreton has a wonderful power with young men. He is not at all nervous when speaking to them. It is you ladies that make him so shy,” said Mr. Stanley, laughing; “you are such formidable beings!”

“Well, I am surprised!” said Evelyn; “I could not have believed it, if you had not told me. And he is a real Christian? I am very glad to hear it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stanley, “he is a man who lives very near to his God; and his one desire and aim is to bring all under his influence to the Saviour. Indeed,” he added, in a lower voice, “if it had not been for Lord Moreton, Miss Trafford, I should have been to this day a man of the world; it was his words and his example which first made me decide for Christ.”

I could hear no more, for we had reached the Jaffa Gate, and had passed into the noisy square in front of the Tower of David.

Whether Sir William had overheard the conversation I did not know. He looked very pleased and half amused as it was going on; but perhaps he may have been reading some interesting anecdote in his wide book.

Mr. Stanley left us at the Tower of David, and we went to the hotel to rest till the evening.

Chapter 15: My Olive-Leaves

It was still very hot when we started from the Damascus Gate and rode in the direction of the Mount of Olives.

“What wretched little hillock it is!” said Claude, as we drew near to it. “It does not deserve the name of hill, much less of mountain.”

But to most of us this “wretched little hillock” was the most sacred spot on earth. There was no doubt about its identity; “the mountain on the east side of the city” could not be mistaken for any other. No vain superstition, no improbable legend had fixed upon this hill as the place where our Lord’s feet had so often trod. The hand of time, and the cruel devastations of war, which had laid low the beautiful temple, and made Jerusalem a heap of ruins, had not been able to obliterate this spot, nor to make us doubtful as to whether it were indeed the same Mount of Olives of which we had read so often in the Gospels.

We crossed the Valley of Jehoshaphat, passed the wall of the so-called Gethsemane, and began to ascend one of the steep, stony paths which led across the mountain to Bethany.

“Do you know, Miss Lindsay,” said Mr. Stanley, “that these paths, on the hill sides, are probably less changed than anything in the whole country They must have gone in the same direction years ago, and this is, without doubt, the very road our Lord’s feet so often trod to and from the city on His way to Martha’s house.”

I felt as if it were almost too sacred ground. I did not answer him, for I could not have done so without tears. So we rode on in silence, a little way behind the others, and Evelyn told me afterward she would have been very thankful to have been with us, for Clemence and Alice were laughing and talking the whole way, telling amusing stories of things and people in England, and taking little or no notice of the scenes and places around them. The Mount of Olives was nothing to them!

Mr. Stanley rode forward as we came to a turn in the road on the shoulder of the hill, and made them all stop and look round at the city: for it is at this place that, when coming from Bethany, Jerusalem first comes in sight, and there, he said, must have been the very spot on which our Lord stood when “He beheld the city and wept over it.”

Evelyn came close to me and whispered, “Oh, May, I cannot help it, the tears will come; let us go a little way off by ourselves; Claude and Alice will chatter so.”

We got off our horses, and left them with the dragoman and went a short distance from the road to a clump of olive trees; and here we stood, looking down upon the city. If our Lord wept as He gazed on it in its glory, because He saw, in the far distance, the shadow of ruin and desolation creeping towards it, how much more should we weep, who saw the once beloved city, the joy of the whole earth, made a very curse amongst men!

“Look forward as well as backward,” said Mr. Stanley’s voice behind us.

“Forward to what?” Evelyn asked.

“Forward to that day when the Lord will no longer weep over Jerusalem, but will rejoice over her. Remember that passage in Isa. 65: ‘Be ye glad and rejoice forever in that which I create: for, behold, I create Jerusalem a rejoicing, and her people a joy. And I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and joy in My people: and the voice of weeping shall be no more heard in her, nor the voice of crying.’ You see the Lord will rejoice in Jerusalem Himself, and call upon us to rejoice with Him; and surely those who have been one with Him in His sorrow will be the ones whom He will call to rejoice with Him in His joy.”

“Doesn’t it remind you of the shepherd’s joy,” I said, “as he brought back his lost sheep, rejoicing himself, and calling together his friends, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost?’”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Stanley; “I never thought of that; the two passages are wonderfully alike.”

“Oh, Mr. Stanley,” said Evelyn, as he turned round, “must we go? It is so delightful to be here.”

“I think we must come again another day, by ourselves,” said Mr. Stanley, in a whisper, “your friends are rather impatient to be moving; they find very little to interest them on the Mount of Olives.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Evelyn; “half the Bible they do not believe in, and the other half they do not care for, but, oh dear, I do wish they had not come with us; I did not think we should feel it so much.”

Evelyn went on, reluctantly, to join her father. Mr. Stanley stayed behind a moment, and gathered a spray of olive-leaves, which he gave to me and asked me to keep it, “as a remembrance of the place, and of our coming here together.” I have that spray of olive-leaves now, and shall keep it as long as I live.

So we went on to Bethany. The road must have taken the same course in our Lord’s time, for there is a deep valley, and the road runs at its head. And it must have looked just the same then, with the same wildflowers growing by the wayside, the same blue mountains of Moab in front, and the same green valley beneath. Mr. Stanley pointed out to me some fig trees, growing close to the road, just as they did when the Saviour, hungry with His long walk from Bethany, searched amongst the leaves for fruit to refresh Him on the way. I had had no idea before that it was so far from Jerusalem to Bethany. He must have been very weary as He went backwards and forwards every day of that last, sad week of His life on earth. Only once do we read of Him riding; it was all on foot, in the weariness and heat of the day, with the same sun beating on His head as was shining on us at that very moment.

And then, as I rode at Mr. Stanley’s side, he reminded me of that last walk, when He led His disciples out as far as to Bethany, and we wondered if, as they trod this road, they knew that He was so soon to leave them, and that it was the last walk that they would take with Him. If so, surely they must have been very sorrowful, surely their hearts must have been so full of the parting with Him that they must have lost sight, for a little time, of the blessing that parting was to bring to them, and the realization of which was so soon to make them return, by that very road, to Jerusalem, “with great joy, praising and blessing God.”

I never enjoyed anything so much as that ride to Bethany; it was very quiet and peaceful, for Sir William and Claude were some way in front with the dragoman, and Evelyn, who rode next with Alice, was not much inclined for conversation, and kept her laughing companion tolerably still, so that we were not interrupted in our quiet talk together.

Then we came to Bethany, a miserable, wretched, dirty village, and here a troop of squalid Arabs came out of their houses to look at us, and to beg of us, and a number of noisy dogs barked, and howled, and jumped up at our horses’ heads, and we were very glad to get as quickly as possible out of the narrow, filthy street, and gradually to ascend the eastern side of the Mount of Olives.

“I think the Ascension must have taken place somewhere here,” said Mr. Stanley; “it would be just far enough away from the noise of the village, and such a likely place for them to come to.”

A lovely view was spread out before us; the village of Bethany lay at our feet, and then there stretched far away the great wilderness of Judea, and, beyond it, in the far distance, the fertile plain of the Jordan, like a line of silver running into the deep blue Dead Sea. Then the view was shut in by the grand Moab mountains, standing out like a wall against the sky. “This is very fine!” said Claude, as we stood looking at it; “this is well worth coming to see!”

It was the same view that Lot had gazed on, yet where were the cities of the plain which he had seen in their glory?

Then we crossed over the top of the mountain, and began to descend the western side, by the very path which David took when fleeing from Absalom, when, we read, he climbed up the ascent barefoot, and with his head covered, weeping, as he went, at the ingratitude and cruelty of his son.

We had a different view now, and yet a very beautiful one. The city of Jerusalem was lying at our feet, nestling amongst the hills.

“‘As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people, from henceforth, even forever,’” said Mr. Stanley to Evelyn and to me, as he rode between us.

“If we could only remember that,” said Evelyn, “how happy it would make us!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stanley, “it would indeed; but is it not a comfort to know that He is round us, whether we remember it or not? The mountains do not remove, even though the clouds hide them from our sight.”

“I shall never forget this ride,” said Evelyn, after a pause.

“I am sure I shall never forget it.” said Mr. Stanley.

“But I thought—” said Evelyn.

“What did you think, Miss Trafford?”

“I thought that it would not seem quite the same to you as it does to us. I thought you would have become so accustomed to it that you would not enjoy it so much.”

“Oh, I never feel that about the Mount of Olives,” said Mr. Stanley; “other places in Jerusalem, I grant, have somewhat lost their sacredness in my eyes, but the Mount of Olives always seems holy ground. I think we can never forget that this was the last place our Lord’s feet touched before He left us, and that it will be the very first place they will touch when He comes again; for His feet shall stand in that day upon the Mount of Olives, which is before Jerusalem, on the east.”

“And then,” he added, after a pause, “I have enjoyed it specially today.”

Claude and Alice left Jerusalem the next morning, to continue their journey through Samaria and Galilee; and we were not sorry to be alone when we visited the deeply interesting places in and near Jerusalem.

Sight-seeing in Palestine is, in this respect perfectly different from sight-seeing in other places; unless there is some communion of heart between you and those who are with you, unless they love the Book and the Name which make every place around you so sacred, their remarks, and indeed the whole tone of their conversation, cannot fail to jar upon you, and to be somewhat trying and irksome to you.

After they were gone, we thoroughly enjoyed our daily excursions in the city and its neighborhood. Although Mr. Stanley was comparatively a stranger, still we had learned to know him so well in those few weeks that he seemed more like an old and tried friend! He was a wonderful help to us in our exploration of the city, for not only did he know Jerusalem well himself, but he had, during his long stay there, made many friends among the residents in the city, who obtained for us admittance into several places which are closed to ordinary travelers.

One of these, a German gentleman, was most kind in guiding us to several very interesting spots, and, amongst others, to Solomon’s Quarry.

“Would you like to see Solomon’s Quarry?” said Mr. Stanley to Sir William, one day.

“Solomon’s Quarry?” repeated Sir William; “where may that be, pray?”

“It is underneath the city,” said Mr. Stanley, “and is a most curious and interesting place. My friend, who will guide us through it, has been very active in its exploration and he has made a splendid plan of the whole place; so that he knows every inch of the way.”

“But is it really Solomon’s Quarry?” said Sir William, incredulously.

“Probably so; for it is evident that stone has been taken out of it for some very great building, and then you remember what is told us of the building of Solomon’s Temple: ‘The House, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither: so that there was neither hammer nor ax nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building.’ Now, we have only to look at the stones which still remain of the wall which Solomon built round the Temple platform, to see that the stones he used were so enormous, that they could not have been brought from any great distance. In order to move them at all, the labor must have been immense, and it has always been a mystery how such huge blocks could be hewn from any rock within a short distance of the building, so that they could be easily moved to it, and yet be so far away that no sound of ax or hammer should be heard in the Temple itself.”

“I see,” said Sir William; “and the discovery of this quarry explains the mystery, for the stones could be hewn and finished underground, and then brought to the surface, and put at once in their proper positions. How very interesting!”

“But we have a still stronger reason,” said Mr. Stanley, “for feeling sure that this is Solomon’s Quarry, for there is no other place, in the whole country round, which shows signs of having been used as a quarry, from which stone could have been taken for any large building; and the stone in these underground quarries is, moreover, the very same kind of stone as we find in the temple building.”

“How very, very interesting!” said Sir William. “When can we go there?”

“I have arranged with my friend to meet us at the Damascus Gate tomorrow morning, if that will suit you,” he added, turning to Evelyn.

We had no engagement for the next day, so it was settled that Mr. Stanley should call for us at eleven o’clock.

But when the morning came, poor Evelyn was not well enough to go. She had a slight attack of the ague fever, which is so common in Jerusalem, and the doctor advised her to keep quiet for a day or two, lest she should have it more severely. I wanted to stay with her, but she would not hear of it, and insisted on my leaving her in Clemence’s care.

“If you don’t go, May,” she said, “I shall never hear anything about it. Papa never can describe places; now don’t be unkind and disobedient, but put on your hat and get ready.” So, rather against my will, I set forth with the others.

The gentleman who was our guide was most kind in explaining everything to us, and in giving us most varied and interesting information.

“How were these quarries discovered?” Sir William asked.

“In a very curious way,” he said. “Not many years ago there was a lad shooting rock-pigeons outside the northern wall. He had a dog with him, and the flog suddenly disappeared. He had seen it last going behind an olive tree which grew at the bottom of the rock on which you see the wall is built. He went to look for the dog, and found on the face of the rock quite a small hole, so small that he could not get through it himself, though he heard his dog barking inside. So he came back into the city for help, and then the hole was made bigger, and they discovered this place.”

“How very curious!” said Sir William.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Stanley, “here is the hole; now, Miss Lindsay, are you ready to leave the sunshine behind?”

We had brought candles with us, and we lighted them and began slowly to descend, crouching for some distance almost on our hands and knees, for there was not room to stand upright. But after we had gone thus for a few yards, we found ourselves in a large, rock-hewn cave, as spacious as an immense church, and from this point, passage after passage went in different directions.

Our guide led the way and we followed; hall after hall, passage after passage, we explored; we went for nearly a mile underneath the streets of Jerusalem.

“Can you picture the scene, 3,000 years ago,” said Mr. Stanley to me, “when the place was full of Solomon’s workmen? Look! here are the marks of their tools in the stone, as fresh as ever. And do you see this?” he said, as he pointed to a little niche in the wall; “this is where the workman put his lamp whilst he was at work; you see even the black smoke which the flame left on the stone above is still here.”

“How very wonderful!” I said; “oh, Mr. Stanley, it is an interesting place!”

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “I knew you would like it, that is why I wanted so much to come here; it is one of my favorite places, and I wanted you to see it. It is a great comfort to me, oftentimes, this deserted quarry.”

“How can it be a comfort to you?” I asked.

“It is such a wonderful picture,” he said.

“A picture of what?”

“Is not there a temple being built now?” he said, gently— “a far grander and more beautiful one than Solomon’s—the temple in the Heavenly Jerusalem; you see now?”

“Yes,” I answered, “I think I do; but please tell me; I like to hear your thoughts about it and why it comforts you.”

“Don’t you think the dark, dismal quarry is like this world; it is not a very bright place, is it? And you and I both know what trouble is.”

“How did you know that I did, Mr. Stanley?”

“I knew it by your face, I can read face very well,” he said, smiling; “but though we are both in the dark quarry now, we shall not always have to stay here—for God, the Master Builder, has hewn us from the rock, out us away from old surroundings, and from the old nature. We are no longer a part of the old rock, but by God’s grace have been taken out of it; do you see?”

“You mean when we were converted?”

“Yes, and it was a hard wrench at the time, was it not? But we can be thankful for the work of the crowbar now.”

“But we are still in the quarry,” I said.

“Yes, and why? Because the work is not done, we are not yet fit for the Temple—a rough stone would be a disfigurement to God’s beautiful building—each stone must be cut, and chipped, and faced, and squared after it is hewn out of the rock. Our bad tempers, and habits, and unholy thoughts must all, by degrees, be done away with. It is a work of time and patience; and it is not always pleasant to feel the pick and the chisel at work on us, but it is such a comfort to know in whose Hand the tool is, and that He can make no mistakes.”

“What are the tools?” I asked.

“Don’t you think there are different tools for different kinds of work?” he said. “Look how many tools have been used here. There is the mark of a heavy crowbar, which has severed the block from the side of the rock. And look here at this stone which has been left on the ground, you can see the mark of the pick, with which the block was brought a little into shape. And here you call see the marks of the finer tools, the chisels, which were used to give the necessary finish to the stones.”

“And God’s tools?” I said.

“Are just as varied, are they not? A great trouble comes—a heavy blow like the great crowbar, and separates us from the world. But, after that, day by day, and hour by hour, God must work upon us with His finer tools—small vexations, little crosses, little losses, home troubles; all these, I think, are God’s tools, making us ready for a place in the Temple. Don’t you think it is a wonderful comfort to look upon worries and cares as God’s tools?”

“Yes,” I said, “that is a nice thought.”

“And soon,” said Mr. Stanley, “the work will be finished, and then we shall leave the dark quarry behind forever, and be carried to our place in the sunshine and light of the glorious Temple above. So, you see, I was not wrong in saying that this deserted quarry was a comforting place; you will think of it sometimes, will you not?”

“Indeed I shall,” I said.

“And next time a trouble comes which you cannot understand, and which seems so very hard to bear, just say to yourself, ‘It is God’s chisel at work upon me.’”

I had much to tell Evelyn when I came back to the hotel, and much, very much, to treasure up in my own heart for use in days to come.

Mr. Stanley got for me a piece of stone from the walls of the quarry, with the marks of the chisel upon it, and I put it carefully away with my spray of olive leaves.

Chapter 16: A Mystery

The next morning Evelyn was much better. The fever had passed away, but she felt tired and exhausted, so she decided to keep quietly in her room until lunch time, as she was very anxious to join us in an expedition which Mr. Stanley had planned for that evening.

We were to visit an old tomb, which had just been discovered on the road to Bethlehem, and in which Mr. Stanley’s German friend, Mr. Schwarz, took a great interest. Mr. Schwarz would not be able to guide us there himself, as he was going away from Jerusalem for some weeks on business; but he very kindly promised that his daughter would show us the way to the tomb, as Mr. Stanley had never been there before.

Evelyn was most anxious to go with us, so we arranged to start when the day began to grow cooler, for Mr. Schwarz said that, as it was not a long ride, we could easily be back before sunset.

I was up very early that morning, and leaving Evelyn in bed I went downstairs to write an account of our visit to Solomon’s Quarry in a letter to my sister Maggie. Her aunts took great interest in hearing of all the places I was visiting, although they still predicted that I should not come back alive.

I was busy with my letter, sitting at a little table in the window of our sitting room, waiting till Sir William should come downstairs for breakfast, when the door opened and Mr. Stanley came in.

“Oh, how lovely!” I exclaimed, as soon as I turned round.

He had a pretty little basket in his hand, filled with maiden-hair ferns, scarlet anemones, and cyclamen.

“Oh, how very beautiful, Mr. Stanley; where did you get them?”

“I have been for an early walk in the Valley of Hinnom, and climbing about on the hills on either side. I am so glad you like them; I thought you would.”

“They are very lovely!” I said; “Evelyn will be charmed, she is so fond of flowers; I will put them in water, and take them upstairs to her. She is better today, Mr. Stanley.”

“I am glad of that,” he said; “the fever soon passes away if care is taken. But I gathered these flowers for you—if you will have them.”

“Thank you, very much indeed,” I said; “I did not know they were for me; it was very good of you.”

“I am so glad you like them,” he said; “I could see you were fond of flowers the other day on the Mount of Olives. I must be going now; will you tell Sir William I will meet you at the Jaffa Gate, at four o’clock? There are several people I must see today about various things, so I am afraid I must leave you all to your own devices until evening. Goodbye, take care of yourself; I don’t want you to have fever.”

He was halfway to the door when he turned back again.

“There is a little piece of paper here, in the middle of the flowers,” he said; “that is for you, for no one else, remember. The verses are only written in pencil; I don’t know whether you will be able to make them out. They are only about the flowers,” he added, smiling; “you will not be angry, will you?”

“Oh no,” I said; and he was gone.

I put the paper, which I found among the ferns, in my pocket, for a minute afterward Sir William entered the room. I gave him Mr. Stanley’s message, and he admired the flowers, and rang the bell for water that I might arrange them before they withered. I did not tell him that they were for me.

After breakfast Sir William asked me to read aloud to him the leading articles in a copy of the Times which had arrived by the mail that morning, and so it was some time before I could find an opportunity to look at my paper.

I opened it at last, as soon as I was alone, and read it more than once:

THE FLOWER’S MESSAGE.

We grew upon the very hills

Where Jesus used to stand;

We blossomed on the lonely paths

Of God’s once Holy Land.

There is a city near our home—

A sad and ruined place—

For those who lived within her walls

Let slip the day of grace!

Yet beautiful in all the earth

Mount Zion used to be—

The city of the Heavenly King,

And Israel’s glory she!

Now, filled with misery and sin,

Defiled by guilt and shame,

And trampled under foot by those

Of every creed and name.

Oh pray, then, for Jerusalem,

The city of our birth;

Oh shed a tear for her who was

The joy of all the earth.

The ancient promise holdeth good,

It hath not been reversed—

“Blessed is he who blesseth thee,

And he who hates is cursed.”

So we from the Judean hills,

This simple message bring—

“Oh pray for poor Jerusalem,

The city of the King.”

For M. L., from her friend HOWARD STANLEY.

I looked forward very much to that evening ride, and four o’clock seemed as if it would never come.

At last the horses arrived, and Sir William, Evelyn, and I mounted and rode to the Jaffa Gate.

Mr. Stanley had not come, but Miss Schwarz was there, waiting for us. We had been introduced to her the day before, so she came at once and spoke to us, and we rode up and down together, looking from time to time at the gate to see if Mr. Stanley were coming.

“It is very extraordinary,” said Sir William, “that he should be late! We have always found him such a very punctual man. Are you sure he said four o’clock, Miss Lindsay?”

“Oh yes,” I said, “quite sure; ‘Four o’clock at the Jaffa Gate,’ that was what he said.”

“Yes, he told me to be here at four o’clock,” said Miss Schwarz; “he will come in a few minutes, I should think; shall we ride towards ‘the big tree,’ as we always call it? It is not really a very large tree; but, you see, we have no trees that deserve the name in Jerusalem, so it looks very big to us. It is only a little way, and Mr. Stanley will see us there and we shall get some shade.”

“Very well,” said Sir William; “you had better go there; I want you to keep out of the sun as much as possible, Evelyn, and I will wait at this corner and catch Mr. Stanley as he comes through the gate.”

So we rode down to the big tree, and Miss Schwarz told us how she used to come and play there with her little friends when she was a child, and how beautiful and green she thought it till she had been to Germany, and had seen the trees in Europe.

We found Miss Schwarz a very pleasant companion, and the first few minutes passed away quite happily; but, as time went on, we began to wonder very much why Mr. Stanley did not appear.

After about half an hour Sir William came slowly down the road to meet us.

“I cannot see him,” he said; “it is very strange! He must have forgotten it! I think I will go as far as the Latin Convent, and inquire for him.”

“I do not think he would forget it,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Sir William; “young men often have short memories, and you said he was going to visit various friends this morning. I will just go and inquire for him. Will you ride up and down till I come back? I shall not be long.”

It was, however, some time before Sir William reappeared at the Jaffa Gate, and then he was alone; Mr. Stanley was not with him.

“Well, papa,” said Evelyn, “did you find our runaway dragoman?”

Sir William looked grave and perplexed. My heart beat very fast, for I felt sure that something was the matter.

“I can’t make it out,” he said; “he has gone to Jaffa!”

“Gone to Jaffa!” we all exclaimed together.

“Yes,” he said, “the porter tells me he took a horse early this morning; it must have been soon after you saw him, Miss Lindsay, about ten o’clock the man said, and he went down to Jaffa. The porter thinks he was going back to England. I can’t understand it; it is very strange!”

“What can be the matter?” Evelyn said.

“I cannot imagine,” said Sir William; “I think he might have let us know. The porter said he did not even take his luggage, but left it to be sent after him by the next steamer. It seems there is a steamer that leaves Jaffa for Alexandria tonight, and I suppose he wanted to catch that.

“Did not the man know why he left in such a hurry?” Evelyn asked.

“No, he did not seem to know. I asked him if a telegram had arrived for Mr. Stanley, and he said he did not think so, he had not taken one in; but the man talked such extraordinary French that I could not understand him very well. I wonder Stanley did not let us know he was going; it was very thoughtless of him.”

“Perhaps he will write from Jaffa,” Evelyn suggested.

“Well I hope so,” said Sir William; “but I think he might have let us known before this afternoon, and not have kept us waiting here in the sun. I gave him credit for more thoughtfulness. It is a very strange thing; I do not like it at all. Well, what are we to do? Miss Schwarz, we ought not to keep you standing here; will it be too late to go to the tomb?”

“Oh no,” she said, “not at all; it is quite a short ride, we shall be back long before sunset. Shall we go at once?”

“Yes, I think, perhaps, we had better go,” said Sir William, with some hesitation.

“You can talk Arabic, I suppose, Miss Schwarz, in case we need an interpreter.”

“Oh yes,” she said, laughing, “as well as an Arab. I could talk Arabic before I could talk German.”

So we set off for the tomb. But we were none of us in very good spirits. Sir William was complaining all the way of Mr. Stanley’s bad behavior to us, and Evelyn was defending him to the best of her power, and assuring her father that there was certain to be a letter from Jaffa.

I am afraid that Miss Schwarz must have thought us very dull and uninteresting people. She was an exceedingly nice girl, just my own age, and, at any other time, I should so much have enjoyed my ride with her. But that afternoon I could not tell what was the matter with me, but it was an effort to talk. I roused myself, once or twice, to take an interest in the places and the people that we were passing on the green Bethlehem plain; but I found it very difficult, my thoughts seemed to be far away. I was ashamed of myself, and struggled against it, and asked Miss Schwarz many questions about the place to which we were going, and she took great pains to explain everything to us, and to make our ride pleasant and interesting to us. I hope she did not think us ungrateful.

We went for some distance along the road to Bethlehem, and then we turned up amongst the mountains. It was a very wild, rough road, indeed after a time we had no road at all, but had to cross over plowed fields and the shingle-covered hill sides. The view was splendid; a valley was beneath us, quite surrounded by hills, on the sides of which we could see the remains of many of the ancient terraces. It must, indeed, have been a lovely place when it was planted with trees; but the bare, sandy heights were very tiring to the eye, and had it not been for a few patches of green, and the scarlet anemones and yellow Bethlehem stars which were peeping up between the stones, the hill sides would have been very uninteresting and monotonous. In the distance we could see the blue waters of the Dead Sea, and the white limestone mountains of Quarantania.

At last we reached a place where there were many ruins, the remains of an ancient village; there were several old wells, and stones with crosses carved upon them, which showed that they dated back to the times of the Crusaders. We passed through these ruins, and Miss Schwarz took us to the side of the hill, where the newly discovered tomb was to be found.

It seems that the Arabs, living in a village near, were plowing on the hillside, and one of them moved a large stone out of the way of his plow. To his astonishment he saw that the stone had covered a deep, dark hole; he went down into this hole and found himself in a stone chamber, the masonry of which was quite perfect. Another entrance had been afterward made into the tomb, and through this Miss Schwarz led us. She told us that her father thinks it was a burying-place for Christians in the fifth or sixth century, so it is not very old compared with most of the places in Jerusalem, but it is most curious and interesting. There are five stone steps leading down to the door of the tomb, and the door itself is made of one block of stone, and is still on its hinges, and moves backwards and forwards most easily.

All round the chamber were places cut out of the stone for the coffins to lie in—there were twelve of these in the principal room, but two other smaller chambers, leading out of the first one, contained more graves; these, however, had not been fully opened out when we were there. A large stone was at the mouth of each grave when it was discovered, and the Arabs had torn these away with the greatest haste, hoping to find some treasure buried with the dead. But though they opened every grave, they found inside nothing but dust.

We were just peeping into one of the further chambers, and trying to count the number of graves in it, when we heard a great noise outside—shouting, and yelling, and jabbering, and, to our great alarm and dismay, a number of Arabs rushed into the tomb, shaking their fists at us, and screaming at the top of their voices. Sir William was very much agitated and frightened, for it was a wild and lonely place, far out of the reach of any European building or any public road.

We scrambled out as quickly as we could, followed closely by the Arabs. Miss Schwarz was haranguing them in Arabic, but as we could not understand either what they were saying to her or she was saying to them, we were very much alarmed indeed, and felt sure that they intended to rob us, or even to murder us.

When we came out of the tomb we were still more terrified, for we saw that some of the Arabs had seized our horses, which we had tied to a tree near, and were preparing to lead them away.

“Oh dear, I wish we had never come!” said Sir William. “What shall we do? If I could only talk to these fellows! Don’t be frightened, Evelyn darling. What do they want, Miss Schwarz? What do you think had better be done?”

“I think they only want money,” she said, turning away from the Arabs, who were shaking their fists at her most fiercely. “I will see what can be done. They say we have insulted the sheik of the village by entering the tomb without leave, and of course they threaten all sorts of dreadful things. But I will manage them; don’t be alarmed! Have you any money with you, Sir William?”

“Yes, a little,” he said, “not very much. How much will they want?”

“Oh, they shall not have very much,” she said.

“Have you a mejedie? It is a large Turkish coin—larger than half a crown; it is worth about three and six pence.”

“Yes, I think I have,” he said; “I will look.”

“No, not now, please,” she said; “wait a minute or two.”

So she had another long conversation with the Arabs, and then, to our astonishment, they brought up our horses, and helped us to mount in the most gallant manner. Then, when we were quite ready to start, Miss Schwarz turned to Sir William.

“They may have the mejedie now,” she said; “if you will give it to me, I will hand it to the sheik, and he will divide it amongst them.” For they were all holding out their hands greedily to Sir William to receive the coin.

“Now it is all right,” she said; “let us ride on quickly.”

“You are a splendid dragoman, Miss Schwarz!” said Sir William; “how did you manage them so well?”

“Oh, I threatened them with the English consul, and the German consul, and with the Pacha, and with all sorts of other authorities,” she said, laughing. “I knew they would not dare to hurt us; they would never hear the last of it if they did. And, besides, the sheik knows my father well, and as soon as I mentioned his name they became very civil. I hope you did not mind giving them the mejedie, Sir William, but I promised them a little reward if they were good.”

“Oh, not at all,” he said, laughing; “it was a cheap way of getting off! They would not get much each, poor fellows!”

“Oh, quite plenty,” said Miss Schwarz; “if they had been more civil we might have given them a little more. I hope you were not very much frightened, Miss Trafford.”

“Oh, only a little,” said Evelyn; but she looked pale and tired, and we were all very glad to get safely back to the hotel.

Evelyn lay on the sofa in the sitting room all the evening and I sat beside her, whilst Sir William went into the coffee room and discussed the adventures of the day with a party of English travelers who had arrived that evening from Jaffa.

My beautiful ferns and flowers looked withered after the heat of the day, so I gave them fresh water, and pressed one or two of the prettiest in blotting-paper. Then I sat down beside Evelyn, with my work in my hand, but I did not feel inclined to sew. I felt very dull and depressed, and Evelyn seemed so likewise. I said to myself that it was only the reaction after the excitement and fright we had experienced that afternoon, and yet I felt that, after all, that was not the real reason.

Was it because—could it be because—Mr. Stanley had gone away? For, after all, he was only a stranger; —a pleasant—yes, a very pleasant—traveling companion, who had been very kind and useful to us when we were in his company, but who would think no more of us now that he had gone away. Like ships meeting on the sea, we had gone side by side for a little time, but now we had parted—probably never to meet again. That was all; it was nothing to be dull or miserable about. And I was quite angry with myself for having given way to the feeling of depression which had crept over me. I tried to think of my work, of Maggie, of our encounter with the Arabs in the tomb, of anything but of Mr. Stanley’s mysterious disappearance!

But, somehow or other, I could not tell why, my thoughts would come back to it, in spite of all my efforts to turn them to other subjects. I could not help wondering whether Evelyn was thinking of the same thing. Why was she so quiet this evening? Could it be that she missed Mr. Stanley? Was I right in fancying that was the reason? Did she really care for him more than for an ordinary acquaintance?

I looked up at her, and found she was watching me, with a curious expression on her face—half amused, half inquiring. I rather resented it I am afraid, and looked down again quickly, and went on steadily with my work.

“It will all come right, May dear,” she said, after a pause.

“What will come right, Evelyn?” I asked; “what do you mean?”

“I mean about Mr. Stanley’s mysterious disappearance,” she said, smiling; “I am sure we shall get a solution of the mystery in a day or two.”

“Oh yes,” I said, carelessly; “we shall have to find another dragoman; that is the only drawback.”

“The only drawback!” she repeated.

“You don’t think so,” I said.

“You don’t think so either, May,” she said; “I know you don’t.”

“Well, perhaps not,” I said. “How close it is tonight, Evelyn! Would you mind me taking a little walk on the verandah outside the window to get cool before bedtime?”

“Oh, not at all,” she said, smiling; “go, May dear, it will do you good.”

So I left my work and went outside the window.

It was a quiet, starlight night, and the stars in the East are wonderfully brilliant and beautiful. I walked up and down for some time, not exactly thinking, not exactly praying, but with my heart lifted upwards, above this changing world, to the unchanging Friend above. And an answer came to that upward appeal. It came in the recollection of some words I had heard a few days before: “Next time a trouble comes which you cannot understand, and which seems so very hard to bear, just say to yourself it is God’s chisel at work upon me—you will find it such a help.” And it was a help to me; the very help that I needed—God’s chisel at work upon me, then I must not complain; I must not murmur; I must not even wonder; I must just trust and wait.

Looking up at the bright, starry sky, I said, in the words of a favorite verse:

“He doeth all things well,

We say it now with tears;

But we shall sing it with those we love,

Through bright eternal years.”

Chapter 17: Sunday on Mount Zion

The next day was Sunday, and I think we were all glad of this. Sir William felt unable to make any plans without Mr. Stanley’s advice, but as we had already been several times to the pretty little English church, we had no difficulty in knowing how to spend our time on Sunday.

The service began at ten o’clock, so we were up early and started for church directly after breakfast. I felt comforted and rested during the service, and hoped to get just the message I needed from the sermon. I must confess I was somewhat disappointed when the text was given out, for it seemed to me that no comfort or help could be found in it. It was a singular text, and one I had never noticed before. The preacher was a German by birth, but he spoke English as if it had been his native language. We were told afterward that he was a converted Jew, and the missionary to the Jews in Jerusalem.

The text was from Lev. 23:40: “Ye shall take you the boughs of goodly trees, branches of palm trees, and the boughs of thick trees, and willows of the brook; and ye shall rejoice before the LA. your God seven days.”

The clergyman first answered the thought which I had had in my heart, that there was no lesson for me in the text, by showing that all God’s word was written for our learning, and that these Jewish feasts and ceremonies were wonderfully suggestive and helpful, if we looked into their real meaning and significance.

The text contained directions for the Feast of Tabernacles, the feast of joy. It came after the Day of Atonement, after pardon had been obtained, after sin had been put away. First must come forgiveness, then follows joy; pardon first, rejoicing afterward.

“And in the text,” he said, “we are given four conditions under which alone the joy of the Lord can be ours; four characteristics of the true Christian, who can alone rejoice before his God.”

I felt in my own heart, as he was speaking, how little I knew of the true joy of the Lord. I was so easily cast down by little earthly troubles and worries, and I so soon lost the happiness and peace of feeling the Lord’s presence with me, and the Lord’s smile upon me. The last two days, for instance; oh, how depressed and miserable I had felt! Could it be that I was overlooking and neglecting one of the four things pictured in the text?

Then the sermon went on to show that although these four kinds of trees meant nothing to our English ears, they meant a very great deal to the men to whom the direction was given, for, to them, each kind of tree was a word-picture of some particular grace. Just as we speak of the innocent daisy, the humble lily of the valley, the modest violet; and just as we take these flowers as emblems to us of innocence, humility, and modesty; and just as we talk of “a butterfly life,” and everyone knows at once what we mean,—so in the same way, the Jews had emblematic meanings for different trees, and flowers, and other things in nature, and they understood perfectly well what was symbolized when these trees or flowers were mentioned.

The four kinds of trees in the text had a very deep and beautiful meaning for them. The goodly trees, or citron trees, were their emblem for a pure and true heart; the palm trees were a picture to them of uprightness and bold straightforwardness. The thick trees, or myrtle trees, were their symbol of contentment. The myrtle leaf was supposed to be in the shape of an eye, and was always used by them as the emblem of a modest and contented eye. The willows of the brook were to them a picture of a mouth filled with words of kindness and truth. The leaves of the willow were thought to be in the shape of a mouth, Ind they were most particular that only those willow sees should be used in the Feast of Tabernacles as had smooth, soft leaves. Those of a sharp and prickly nature, and the edge of the leaves of which is rough like a saw, were never allowed to be gathered or used in this ceremony, that they might understand thereby, that in order to have true joy they must set a watch before their mouth, and only suffer words of truth and kindness to come out of it.

Four characteristics then were at once brought to their minds, when the direction in the text was given. The Israelites understood at once, that to be able really to rejoice in the Lord they must have a heart rue towards God, they must be upright as the palm tree, they must be contented as the myrtle, and they must have mouths ever speaking words of kindness and truth.

And then he asked us to examine ourselves by these four tests. Were we keeping the door of our hearts, guarding it against all evil thoughts, evil motives, evil desires? Were we also upright before God and man growing ever heavenward, Godward.?

Were we contented and happy to be just where God placed us, and to do just the work that God had chosen for us to do? And how about our words; were we careful to be strictly truthful in every little matter? And did we guard against ever letting unkind or hasty words come out of our mouth? “If not,” he said, “how could we expect to be able to rejoice before the Lord?”

I have not time to write down more of the sermon now, but I felt it very much; it went straight to my heart, and made me feel that it was my own fault that I was so seldom in a rejoicing frame of mind. Oh, how earnestly I prayed that I might be more careful over my heart, that I might be upright as the palm, contented as the myrtle, and that my words might ever be acceptable in the sight of my Lord.

A few days afterward, as we were sitting at breakfast, the waiter came into the room with a letter. Sir William looked at the postmark.

“Alexandria!” he said; “well, I am glad he has written at last!”

“Is it from Mr. Stanley, papa?” asked Evelyn.

“Yes,” he said, “I should think so; I do not know anyone else who is likely to be in Alexandria!”

He opened the letter and glanced hastily at its contents. Then he took up the envelope, and looked at it again; then he turned once more to the first page of the letter and began to read it through.

Evelyn and I sat watching him. I tried to go on with my breakfast, but I felt as if the food would choke me, for Sir William looked more and more impatient and annoyed as he went on reading.

When he had finished he tossed the letter on the table, saying angrily, “He is a good-for-nothing rascal!”

I looked up quickly, and Evelyn asked in a trembling voice:

“Who is, papa—not Mr. Stanley?”

“No, not Mr. Stanley,” he said, “at least he may be, I do not know that he is; but that cousin of yours, Donald Trafford—the letter is from him. An idle, good-for-nothing rascal, that is what he is! And I shall tell his father so when I see him!”

“Let me have the letter, papa,” said Evelyn. She was as white as a sheet, and trembling with agitation.

“Well, don’t trouble about it, darling,” said Sir William, in quite a different tone from that in which he had spoken before; “he is not worth troubling about, he really is not. If I could only get you to see that. Here, take the letter, I suppose I shall have to let you see it; but don’t make yourself ill again, for my sake!”

Evelyn took the letter and read it slowly through. As she read it a deep crimson flush came into her pale face, but this faded away and left her as white as death when she had finished reading. Then she rose from the table, without speaking a word, left the letter lying beside her plate, and went out of the room.

I was rising to follow her when Sir William said: “Wait a little, Miss Lindsay, perhaps she will get over it better alone, if she has a good cry it will do her good. Poor child, what a pity she ever took a fancy to that worthless fellow! Read his letter, Miss Lindsay, and tell me what you think of it.”

I took it up, and read as follows:

“MY DEAR UNCLE,

“I have no doubt you think that I am in Port Said, though I did contrive to keep out of your way during your short stay in that delightful place.

“But I am not there now, but have removed to a town many miles distant, which I will not name, lest you should feel it your duty to report me in England.

“I should not have troubled you with a letter, but that I wanted to ask you to lend me a trifling sum to start me in business in the town in which I am now living. I have had the offer of a first-rate partnership, which will enable me soon to become a rich man, but it is necessary that I should advance something in the shape of capital. My partner asks for £100, but I think he will be content with £50, if you are not inclined to forward me the larger sum.

“I am sure, dear uncle, you will not refuse to grant this trifling request, when I tell you that I have a wife depending on me, and that unless I can avail myself of this opening (which is really a splendid one), there is nothing but starvation before us both.

“As I am now a married man, there is no chance of my again being an annoyance to you, so I feel sure you will not deny me this small and last favor.

“Please address to ‘Monsieur Junot, Post Office, Alexandria.’ M. Junot is my wife’s brother; she is a French girl, and he will call for the letter, and forward the remittance to me.

“With love to Evelyn and yourself,

“Believe me, dear uncle,

“Your affectionate nephew,

“DONALD TRAFFORD.”

“P.S.—You will wonder how I knew you were in Jerusalem. I met a dragoman the other day who was on board the same steamer with you, and he heard that you were to spend a long time in Jerusalem.”

“Did you ever hear anything like that?” said Sir William, as I folded up the letter; “is not that a piece of cool impertinence?”

“He does not seem much ashamed of himself,” I could not help saying.

“Ashamed of himself! No, indeed! There is not a word about his running off with that money. He is an idle, selfish, good-for-nothing fellow! And he was always the same; it was always a mystery to me what Evelyn could see to like in him. Poor child, I hope it will not make her ill again!”

“Oh no, I think not,” I said; “I think she sees now what his real character is.”

“I hope so,” he said, anxiously; “perhaps if you went upstairs you could say a word or two to comfort her. You know best—do you think we should leave her alone or not?”

“I think I will just go upstairs and see,” I said.

To my astonishment I found Evelyn sitting in her room busily at work, and looking quite calm and cheerful. I fancied she had been crying a little, but she welcomed me with a smile, and asked me if I had read Donald’s letter. I told her that Sir William had wished me to do so, and then she asked me what I thought of it. I did not answer her directly, for I did not like to say what I really thought.

“I will tell you what I think of it,” she said, “and I shall tell papa when I go downstairs. I think it is a shocking letter. I cannot think how Donald could ever write it. But May,” she said, “please don’t think I am troubling about it. I had given up loving Donald some time ago, ever since I found out that he was so very different to what I always thought he was; but I pitied him dreadfully. I thought he would be so miserable and wretched, and feel so guilty and ashamed when he thought about his having taken that money. I always pictured him wishing, oh, so much, that he had never done it, and trying very hard to save his money so that he might be able to pay it back again. But now, May, I can do neither; I can neither love him nor pity him; he does not deserve either love or pity, does he?”

“No, he does not,” I said; “the only thing for which we can pity him is for his wickedness.”

“Just think of his marrying a French girl,” she said. “I wonder if it is the one who waited on us in the shop in Port Said. Well, I am glad he wrote that letter; it is far better to know what he really is. I can’t think how I could be so much deceived in him. I am afraid I cannot read people’s characters very well. But do not let us talk about him any more today, May; the trouble has quite gone, it has indeed, but I do not like to talk about it; let us speak of something else.”

Sir William was very much relieved to find that Evelyn was in good spirits, and that she took his view of Donald Trafford’s conduct. He was still very much ruffled and annoyed by the letter, and was, in consequence, fidgety and impatient with the world in general all day. Not liking to speak about his nephew for fear of distressing Evelyn, he gave vent, instead, to his feelings about Mr. Stanley’s disappearance.

“Mr. Stanley evidently did not intend to write now,” he said; “it was one of the strangest things he knew, his going off in that way. It just proved what he had always heard, that it does not do to make friends with people whom you meet whilst traveling. It is impossible to tell what they are, and you may be imposed upon to any extent.”

“Oh, papa,” said Evelyn, “what do you mean? Surely you do not mean that Mr. Stanley imposed upon us?”

“Well, I don’t say that he did,” said Sir William; “but I say that we don’t know that he did not. You must confess that it was a very suspicious thing his disappearing so suddenly, and never giving us a hint as to where he was going. I don’t like it at all.”

I longed to speak, but I felt as if I could hardly trust myself to do so, for I might have said more than I intended, if I had opened my lips. So I left the defense to Evelyn, and she took it up indignantly.

“It is really too bad, papa,” she said, “to speak of Mr. Stanley in that way! I think he is one of the nicest and best men I have ever seen.”

“So he seemed to be, I grant,” said Sir William; “but how do we know who he is, or what he is? We only know it from what he told us himself; and that may be true—I hope it is—or it may be false. That is why it is very foolish ever to be too friendly with people you meet when traveling; they may be all they profess to be, or they may not.”

“But Mr. Stanley is a great friend of Lord Moreton, papa,” said Evelyn; “I know he is. He told me he was the day Claude and Alice were here.”

“Yes, I know he told you so,” said Sir William; “I never heard Lord Moreton mention him.”

“Will you not write and ask Lord Moreton, papa? It is quite worthwhile, and then we shall know one way or the other.”

“Yes, perhaps I will,” said Sir William; “that will settle the matter anyhow; perhaps Lord Moreton may be able to clear up the mystery.”

The next day was the mail day, and Sir William gave me his letters to take to the man who was going to post them. I looked through the addresses as I went downstairs, but there was none to Lord Moreton; he had forgotten it.

We did not much enjoy our visit to Jerusalem after Mr. Stanley left us. We had very cold and cheerless weather, and the bare stone floors and covered stones were poor substitutes for the richly carpeted rooms and bright blazing fires in Alliston Hall. Then during the cold weather it rained incessantly the whole day, and the rain was far heavier than we ever see it in England. We were obliged to keep indoors in the hotel, listening to the sound of the water which was rushing down the spouts of the house into the cisterns, in which it was carefully preserved for use during the following summer, and trying to amuse ourselves as best we could with our work, and the few books to be found in the hotel. Sir William became very impatient, and a great longing came suddenly over him to go homewards. He was tired of foreign traveling, and foreign places, and foreign hotels, he said, and Evelyn seemed so well and strong, that he thought there could be no risk in her returning to England.

Evelyn and I assented cordially to the proposal, so it was decided to leave Jaffa by the very next steamer.

We visited many places in Italy and Germany, and spent a long time on the return journey; for Sir William was afraid, for Evelyn’s sake, of arriving in England till the spring had fairly begun.

I was very much interested in a great deal that we saw, and yet I did not enjoy it nearly so much as I had always imagined I should enjoy a tour on the Continent. I felt unsettled and restless, and longed to be back in England.

We stayed for some weeks in London before going to Alliston, for Sir William had some business that he was anxious to transact before returning home. London was bright and gay just then, and we enjoyed our visit to it very much. But what gave me more pleasure than anything else was meeting Miss Irvine again. Her home in London was in the next street to the one in which we were staying, and we saw her every day.

We were much interested in hearing of the work for God that Miss Irvine was doing in one of the very poorest and lowest of the London parishes. She spoke very little of it herself, but we found out by degrees that, during the last few months, a most wonderful work, of which she was the center, had been going on amongst the poor, lost people who are crowded together in the alleys and courts of that part of London.

Whilst we were there a tea was to be given to the women who attended her mothers’ meeting. Their husbands were also invited, for she hoped by this means to be able to reach many whom it was impossible to see or to speak with in any other way.

Miss Irvine asked us, the day before the tea took place, whether we should like to be present. Evelyn accepted her invitation joyfully, but Sir William demurred a little when he heard of it.

“I don’t like your going into those low parts of the city, my dear,” he said to Evelyn; “in your state of health you ought to be careful. There are sure to be people there just recovering from fever or smallpox, and it can’t be good for you to go through those dirty, filthy, close streets.”

Evelyn looked very much disappointed.

“I want so very much to see Lilla’s poor people, papa,” she said.

He was going to answer her, when Miss Irvine said, “Perhaps if Evelyn does not come, you will look in for a few minutes, Sir William? Lord Moreton is going to give them a little address after tea, and he would like to meet you.”

Sir William fell into the snare she had laid for him. “Lord Moreton!” he exclaimed; “how did you get him to come? Why, he is not in town now.”

“No—but he is coming up for my tea party,” said Miss Irvine, laughing; “he takes a great interest in my little mission work; indeed, if it had not been for Lord Moreton I could not have carried it on. He supplies the means, whilst I try to find the workers. He hires the room for me in which I have all my meetings, and in which the tea will be given tomorrow night.”

“Indeed!” said Sir William; “I had no idea of that. And you say he is going to give you an address?”

“Yes, he has promised to say a few words to the mothers; he has spoken to them before, and they felt it very much. He puts the way of salvation so simply before them that it seems to go straight to their hearts.”

“Well, I really think we must go and hear him. Evelyn, my dear, I don’t think it will hurt you if you do not dress too warmly; those places are always so close. We will drive there and keep the windows closed, so that the foul air of the streets will not come in. What time shall we be ready, Lilla?”

All arrangements were made, and Evelyn and I both looked forward with much pleasure to the following evening.

Chapter 18: The Mystery Solved

Miss Irvine’s mission room was a bright, cheerful place, and was very prettily decorated for one festive occasion. Texts cut out in red and in white paper, and wreaths of holly and ivy ornamented the walls; and the long tables, covered with white cloths, were spread with a most beautiful repast, which was arranged as prettily and tastefully as if it had been set out for a wedding breakfast.

The guests had all arrived when we went in, and were sitting at the tables, quietly admiring all around them. Poor tired mothers, many of them with babies in their arms; husbands, whose faces bore marks of care and toil, and many of whom showed plainly that drink and sin were bearing them down, and ruining their health and their homes; children, with pinched and unchildlike faces, were all gathered round the pretty tea-tables, looking forward to a happy evening in their unhappy lives. Most of the men were in working clothes, for they possessed no others in which to come; but they had all made themselves as clean and tidy as they could, and seemed shyly and quietly happy.

They began to feel more at their ease when a blessing was asked, the tea was poured out, and we all sat down together. Then the tongues began to be busy; and their poor, careworn faces looked glad and happy.

Lord Moreton was there, working busily, looking after the wants of every one of the poor people, and talking pleasantly to them all the time. He was a tall man, with dark hair; and I thought him very handsome indeed, in spite of the slight east in his eye of which Evelyn had complained so much. But it was so very slight that it was not at all unpleasant, and I wondered that she had considered it such a drawback to his face.

He came up to us as soon as we entered the room, and seemed very pleased to meet Sir William and Evelyn. But we had little time for conversation till the work of the evening was over.

After tea came Lord Moreton’s address. It was very simple, and very much to the point, and I could see that the poor people felt it. He spoke to them of the love of Jesus, and how He was longing and yearning to save them; how He was following them like the shepherd after the lost sheep, seeking them by night, seeking them by day, seeking them in sickness, seeking them in health, seeking them in their sin and trouble and misery, ever seeking them, ever longing for them to turn round and let Him find them.

And then Lord Moreton begged them to turn round to Him that very night, to leave drink behind, to leave sin behind, to leave shame behind, to turn their back on Satan and all his ways, to turn round to the Good Shepherd, and to say to Him, “Lord Jesus, save me.”

There were very few dry eyes when Lord Moreton had finished. He did not show his nervousness at all when he was speaking. I fancied that his hand trembled a little, but his voice was clear and steady, and he spoke so naturally and unaffectedly that you forgot the man altogether, and became engrossed only with what he was saying. There was something in his quiet, persuasive, pleading manner which it would require a hard heart to withstand. I could see that Evelyn felt it very much, though she made no remark upon it afterward.

When the poor people had left, and only the helpers remained in the room, we had more time for conversation. Then, for the first time, I saw that Lord Moreton was indeed a very nervous man. He was so shy and reserved when he first came up to us, that I could hardly believe he was the man who had spoken so easily and naturally to the poor people.

But Sir William soon set him at ease, by telling him of our journey to the East and of some of our adventures whilst we were there.

“You met a friend of mine in Jerusalem, I think,” Lord Moreton said.

“Oh yes, you mean Mr. Stanley,” said Sir William, as if he had never doubted, for a moment, Mr. Stanley’s friendship with Lord Moreton. “He proved a capital guide to us; we were sorry he had to leave so abruptly.”

“Yes, poor fellow,” said Lord Moreton; “it was a very great shock to him.”

“What was a great shock to him?” asked Sir William; “we never heard why he left Jerusalem so suddenly.”

“Oh, did you not?” said Lord Moreton; “he told me that he had written to you, and I think he was a little disappointed that he did not get an answer. It was on account of his father’s illness. I sent him a telegram to tell him how dangerously ill his father was, and he left Jerusalem immediately he received it. But he was too late; his father had been dead some days when he arrived. Poor fellow, it was a terrible time for him!”

“I am really very sorry,” said Sir William; “I had no idea that he was in such trouble; it seemed strange to us, as you may imagine, his disappearing so suddenly, and without any reason, so far as we knew.”

“Yes, of course it would,” said Lord Moreton; “he will be very vexed when he finds his letter did not reach you. He is such a nice fellow; he is just like a brother to me. The Stanley’s place is close to ours, so we see a great deal of each other, and of course we shall be more than ever together now that Howard has come into the property; for he will be still more at home now.”

“I am very sorry to hear of his father’s death.” said Sr; William again.

“Yes,” answered Lord Moreton; “and you would have felt it very much if you had seen his grief when he arrived, and I had to tell him that his father was gone; it was very sad. His mother died a few years ago, and there were no other children, so he and his father have been all in all to each other. Howard was very unwilling to go abroad this year, for he fancied his father was failing a little; but the old man insisted on his going, for Howard had a severe illness just this time last year, and the doctors said he would not be strong again until he had had a complete change. It was very sad, was it not, that it ended as it did?”

“Poor fellow!” said Sir William; “can you give me his address? I should like to write to him, and express my sympathy, and explain why I did not write before.”

“Yes, I will give it to you at once,” said Lord Moreton, as he took a leaf from his pocketbook, wrote the address, and handed it to Sir William. “Stanley is very busy now, of course, settling his affairs, but in a month’s time I have persuaded him to go with me for a run in the Highlands; I am sure it will do him good.”

“In the Highlands!” said Sir William; “then you will, of course, come to us on the way, both of you. And remember, we shall not be content with a three days’ visit; you must spare us a week or ten days at least.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Lord Moreton; “that will be very nice!”

“I will write to Mr. Stanley about it tomorrow; just name your own day when your plans are formed; we are expecting no visitors at present.”

So it was all settled, and Lord Moreton said goodbye to us, for he was to leave town by the early train the next day.

“Well, papa,” said Evelyn, as we drove home, “Mr. Stanley was not an escaped convict after all.”

“I never said he was, my dear; I always thought him a remarkably nice fellow; only, of course, his sudden disappearance was a little puzzling and somewhat mysterious. If we had only got his letter it would have been all right!”

Then Sir William changed the subject, by complimenting Miss Irvine on the success of her entertainment, and speaking very highly of Lord Moreton’s forcible address.

We went back to Alliston the following week, and, to my great joy, Sir William proposed that I should go at once to the old Manor House at Branston to see Maggie. The aunts were delighted to have me, so I went there the day after I had received their letter. I found everything in the house and around it just the same as when I had left it. The same neatness and order and punctuality and regularity reigned everywhere, and the same kindly feeling pervaded the whole place.

My dear little Maggie was on the platform to welcome me, and John and the comfortable horses were waiting for me at the entrance to the station. The sisters received me with open arms, and with tears in their eyes, and Miss. Jane returned thanks at family prayers that night, “for the marvelous escapes, and wonderful preservation in the midst of many and great dangers, which had been vouchsafed to one of their number, during her residence in the land of the infidel and the heretic.”

I had much to tell and they had much to hear, and the fortnight passed away all too quickly.

During the second week Maggie and I went for a two days’ visit to the Parsonage at Acton. Miss Richards was very anxious to see us again, and wrote me a very touching letter, saying, that if we would not mind spending a quiet day or two with her she would feel it a real kindness, and it would be a great cheer and comfort to her. She did not think her time on earth would be very long, she said; the doctor had told her that she might linger for a few months, but that she was suffering from a complaint which must end in death. “So he says, my dear,” wrote the good old lady; “but I would rather say, it must end in life—life in His presence, where alone is fullness of joy.”

We found Miss Richards very much altered, weak and ill, and fearfully thin; yet still able to go about a little, to look after her housekeeping, and to sit in her easy chair in the garden, with her work or her book.

We had many quiet, happy talks together, and I felt it a great privilege to be speaking to one, who was, as it were, close on the threshold of heaven itself.

Mr. Ellis was very much aged, and looked careworn and depressed. He was exceedingly kind to us; but he seemed as if a heavy weight were resting on him, which he could not shake off.

Whilst we were at Acton, Maggie and I went and peeped through the gate of our old home. It looked just the same; it was not altered at all. The rabbits were nibbling the grass on the lawn, the stream was trickling peacefully along, and every bush, and tree, and flowerbed looked just as they had done on that memorable day when I had sat by my bedroom window with Claude’s unanswered letter in my hand.

But the home was no longer ours, and even as we looked at it little children’s faces appeared at the window of my old room and reminded me of this.

I thought of Miss Irvine’s words as I turned away: “What a comfort that there is one home where there will be no parting, and no going away.”

That evening, after Maggie was in bed, Miss Richards called me into her room and spoke to me about Claude.

“May, dear, you remember our last talk together before you went away,” she said; “you were indeed right, and I was wrong. I would not have you Claude’s wife now for the world. You had, indeed, a very happy escape.”

“I think I told you we met them in Jerusalem, Miss Richards.”

“Yes, and they are still abroad, spending what money they have. It will all be gone soon, and then they will be obliged to return home, and the crash will come.”

“What do you mean, Miss Richards?” I asked; “I thought they were very rich.”

“So we thought, my dear, and so they thought; but Alice’s money has proved a mere bubble. Her father has speculated a great deal, and the whole of her money has gone now, every penny of it. They did not know that when you saw them in Jerusalem; it has come out since. And Claude, you know, has not very much money of his own. It would have been a nice little sum yearly if he had been careful. But oh, the bills, my dear! Scores of them are waiting for him; they send a great many here to be forwarded. I believe that is why he does not come home. But he must come, some time or other; and then his father thinks that more than the whole of Claude’s capital will be swallowed up in order to pay his debts. And what will they do then, my dear?”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” I said.

“Yes,” said Miss Richards, “and this trouble is just crushing the life out of his poor father. I try to comfort him; and I tell him that I hope this trial will be the means, by God’s blessing, of bringing Claude to the Saviour. But, though I tell Mr. Ellis so, my dear, I feel very doubtful about it, for Claude has so hardened his heart against all religion, and has so shut his eyes and refused to believe the truth, that I am very much afraid there is not much hope for him. I don’t tell his father so; but I have great fears myself that even this trouble will not bring him any nearer to God.”

“I was afraid his views were the same,” I said, “when I met them in Jerusalem.”

“Oh yes, they are even more pronounced,” said Miss Richards; “and he has made his poor little wife almost as great a doubter as himself. She is a nice little thing, very affectionate and good to me; and I feel for her terribly in this trouble. I am afraid it will make great unhappiness between them. I quite dread their coming home.”

That was the last time I ever saw Miss Richards. She took a loving farewell of me the next morning, and we both of us knew that, when next we met, it would be in the land where partings are unknown. I heard of her death, or rather of her entrance into life, only a few weeks after our visit to Acton.

Maggie’s aunts were very anxious that I should spend another week with them, before going back to Alliston Hall; but Evelyn had written to me, saying that Lord Moreton and Mr. Stanley were expected on the very day that I had already fixed to return, and she hoped that I should not fail to appear, as she wanted us all to have a good talk together about Jerusalem and our adventures there. I told Maggie and the aunts that I did not like to disappoint Evelyn, but felt that as she wished it I ought to go back at once. I did not say anything of my own feelings in the matter.

I arrived at Alliston Hall just as Evelyn was dressing for dinner. She welcomed me with great joy, and told me that the visitors had arrived, and that I must get ready with all haste, as the gong would soon sound for dinner.

When I was dressed I went into the library, thinking that I was late, and that everyone would have assembled, but I found no one there except Mr. Stanley.

I do not know how it was, but I suddenly turned very shy and nervous, and, after shaking hands with him, I was on the point of making an excuse about wanting to get my work, and by this means leaving the room, when he began to ask me many questions about Jerusalem, and I was obliged to stay.

“So I was put down as a suspicious character,” he said, smiling, “when I disappeared so suddenly.”

“Sir William thought it very strange,” I said; “and he began to doubt a little if you were what you said you were.” Mr. Stanley laughed.

“And you?” he asked.

“Oh, I knew it would be all right.”

“You did not doubt me then?”

“No, not at all,” I said.

“Thank you.”

There was a pause after this, and then he said gravely, “The chisel has been very busy since I saw you last.”

“Yes,” I said, “I was very sorry to hear of it.”

“We must not be sorry,” he said, gently; “for him it is great gain, and for me—”

“For you?” I asked, for he seemed as if he did not like to go on.

“For me, it is a hard bit of discipline; the Master Builder’s tools have cut very deep, but it is all right. I ought not to be sorry, ought I?”

“I see what you mean,” I said; “but are we not told to be ‘sorrowful, yet always rejoicing?’ Don’t you think it is a comfort that the two are put together?”

“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “I see; He does not blame us for being sorry, so long as we sorrow not as others which have no hope. ‘Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing;’ thank you so much for the thought.”

I fancied that he had a tear in his eye as he spoke, but I could not be sure, for a minute afterward Sir William entered the room, and then he seemed as cheerful and full of spirits as he had always been whilst we were traveling together.

“So you never got my letter!” he said, to Sir William. “I am very sorry; but I gave it to a dragoman whom I knew pretty well, and whom I met at the Jaffa Gate. He was not a Jerusalem dragoman, but one who had come with some people from Cairo, and he promised me to deliver it at once. He must either have forgotten it, or, Arab-like, he conveniently lost it, but took care not to lose the baksheesh I gave him at the same time. Well, it does not signify now!”

“Oh no,” said Sir William, “of course not; only that fellow deserves to hear of it again! But how was it they knew nothing of your telegram at the Convent?”

“I met the man in the street bringing it, just after I left you, Miss Lindsay. He knew me by sight, and handed it to me at once, and then I just hurried back to the Convent and told them I must leave that morning; but I had neither time nor inclination to enter into particulars with them.”

When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Stanley brought out a number of splendid photographs of Jerusalem and its neighborhood which he had bought in London, and had brought with him to show us.

Sir William was engrossed for some time in an interesting debate which he had just found in the Times newspaper; but Evelyn explained the Jerusalem photographs to Lord Moreton, and Mr. Stanley sat by me and pointed out the different places that we had visited together.

There was one beautiful view taken from the Mount of Olives, just at the turn of the hill where we had stood to look down upon Jerusalem.

We looked at this photograph a long time; I thought it more beautiful than any of the others. Jerusalem stood out clear and bright in the sunshine, each house, each mosque, each dome was standing out before us almost as distinctly as we had seen it on that lovely evening when, like our Lord and Master, we had beheld the city and wept over it.

“I shall never look at that photograph,” said Mr. Stanley, “without thinking of those words: ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which I had lost.’ Do you remember who said them to me there?”

“Yes,” I said; “that was a very pleasant ride.”

“Are the olive leaves safe yet?” he asked, in a low voice.

“Oh yes,” I said; “did you think I would lose them?”

“No, I did not think so; but I wanted you to tell me, that was all.”

How much there was to talk of during those few days, and how many times we said the words. “Do you remember?” I have heard it said that when we use those three words it is a proof that we are talking to friends and not to strangers. To strangers we can never say, “Do you remember?” but to friends, to those who have gone side by side with us along any part of the pathway of life, how often we say to them, “Do you remember this?” “Do you remember that?” And how pleasant it is to recall first one thing and then another in the past, and to talk it over together!

I think this will be one of the pleasures of heaven. We shall often there, I think, use those three words, “Do you remember” as we go over together in memory all the way that the Lord our God has led us, and as we recall the many proofs of His love, His goodness, and His wisdom, that we enjoyed together on earth.

It was the last evening of Lord Moreton’s and Mr. Stanley’s visit; the next day they were to leave us for the North.

We were wandering about the lovely gardens of Alliston Hall, gathering fresh flowers for Evelyn’s sitting room, for I would never let anyone else arrange the flowers there.

Lord Moreton was very anxious to see a new and very rare shrub that Sir William had had planted at the other side of the gardens, and Evelyn went to show it to him.

Mr. Stanley and I stopped behind, for he complained of feeling tired, and I had not finished gathering my flowers.

“I am so sorry we are going tomorrow,” he said.

I did not answer him, but bent over the bed to gather a beautiful white lily of the valley.

“But I shall not disappear so suddenly and mysteriously this time,” he said.

“No, that is a comfort,” I said, involuntarily, and then felt very angry with myself for having said it.

“Why is it a comfort?” he asked; “was my leaving Jerusalem any trouble to you?”

“Yes,” I said; “of course I was sorry. I did not like Sir William to doubt you.”

“I am very glad you trusted me through it all,” he said.

I was gathering some more lilies, so I did not look up till he spoke again, and then he only asked me a question, and I do not remember that I ever answered it:

“Will you trust me through life, May?” he said.

Chapter 19: Was I Right?

We often speak of “learning by contrast;” and, surely, some of our most forcible lessons, those which we never forget, are learned in this way.

I had been about three months in my new home, and I had always felt that it was the happiest place on earth, and yet, although I thanked God for giving it to me, every morning and evening, when I said my prayers, still I do not think I ever realized how happy, how peaceful, how blessed it was, until that Monday night.

For Monday morning’s post had brought me a letter, written in pencil and almost illegible. I did not recognize the writing, and therefore glanced to the end, and I was very much surprised to see the signature —Alice Ellis.

Yes, the letter was from Claude’s wife. It was a very short one. I turned to the beginning, and read as follows:
“My dear Mrs. Stanley,
“I want to ask a great favor of you. Will you come and see me, as soon as you can after you get this letter? I want very much to speak to you; there is something that I want to ask you.
“I am very ill, so please forgive this untidy note, for I am writing it in bed. Do come at once, if you can.
“Please forgive me for asking you.
“Believe me, dear Mrs. Stanley,
“Very sincerely yours,
“ALICE ELLIS.”

We do not live very far from London; it is only about an hour’s journey, so I went by the next train. I wondered very much why Alice had sent for me, and what she wanted to ask me.

When I arrived in London I took a cab to the address she had given me on the letter. The cabman drove for about a mile through a dirty and dismal part of the great city, and then he stopped before a high dismal house, in the midst of a row of high dismal houses, which was confronted, on the opposite side of the street, by another row of houses just as high and just as dismal.

I dismissed the cabman and rang the bell. The door was opened by an untidy servant, with no cap or collar on, but wearing a very dirty, ragged apron. She showed me into a room the windows of which looked out into the narrow street, and asked me to sit down whilst she sent to tell “the folks upstairs” that I had come.

The room was shabbily furnished, and smelt strongly of tobacco, and the atmosphere was close and stifling, as if the windows had not been opened for a long time.

Was it possible that Claude and Alice were living here, or had I made a mistake in the address? I referred to the letter in my pocket, and found I was correct as to the name of the street and the number of the house, and, certainly, the girl who had admitted me had said that Mrs. Ellis lived there.

But oh, how forlorn and dreary everything looked! I was quite glad when a slipshod footstep was heard on the stairs, and a sullen-looking girl, of about fourteen years old came in, and asked me to come upstairs to “missus.” She took me into a bedroom at the very top of that high house, and there, lying in bed and looking fearfully ill, I found Claude’s wife, Alice.

She welcomed me very warmly, and thanked me, again and again, for coming so soon; but I could hardly hear what she said, for her baby, who was lying on the bed beside her, was crying so loudly, and her every effort to pacify him was in vain.

“Jane, you can take baby into the next room,” she said to the girl; “he is so fretful! Does not he look ill?” she added, turning to me.

I took the child in my arms; he was dreadfully thin, and had a careworn, wasted face, more like that of an old man than of a baby three months old.

“Poor little fellow!” I said.

“Yes,” she said, with a sigh; “I almost wish sometimes that he would die.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ellis,” I exclaimed; “you don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, bitterly; “I had rather that he died before I do. Take him into the next room, Jane!”

The girl took the child from me and went away, leaving the door open behind her.

“Would you mind shutting the door?” said Mrs. Ellis; “she always will have it open. And then I can talk to you comfortably; we shall feel quite safe. I have been wishing to see you for more than a week,” she went on; “ever since I knew that I was so ill. Oh, Mrs. Stanley, I am so utterly miserable.”

“I am very sorry to find you so ill,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “I am very ill, and I shall never be well again. The doctor says I am in a rapid decline. It is trouble which has brought it on; you will have heard what trouble we have had.”

“Miss Richards told me something about it, when I was with her, a few months before she died,” I said.

“Yes, all my money has gone; every farthing of it. My father made some mistake about it, and the investments failed, and we lost it all. And Claude is so angry about it; he says my father has deceived him, and he is just as vexed as if it were my fault; he has not seemed to care for me a bit since then. But I did not mean to speak of that. I don’t want to complain. It is natural, I suppose, that he should be vexed. He thought we were rich, and we went on spending a quantity of money, and then, when this came out, all the people sent in their bills, and now all Claude’s money has gone too. I don’t know what will become of us.”

“And you look so ill,” I said; “you ought to be taken care of, Mrs. Ellis.”

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t mind so much for myself; it is poor little baby that makes me so unhappy. He cries so much, and that girl is so very careless with him. Old Mr. Ellis is very kind; he wants me to go there, but Claude won’t hear of it: I don’t know why. We could not live at all if it were not for Claude’s father; he is always sending him money.”

“But could you not be moved into a more comfortable lodging than this?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not. It is very dirty and untidy; but you see they are good in one way, they do not hurry us about paying them, so it seems a pity to move. But I did not send for you to tell you all our troubles, Mrs. Stanley,” she said; “I wanted you, if you could, to help me to get a little comfort.”

“In what way?” I asked, for I wanted to hear what she would say.

“Do you remember a conversation we had together when I stayed at Alliston Hall, Mrs. Stanley? I told you then that I always tried to laugh trouble away, and you said—do you remember what you said?”

“What was it?” I asked.

“You said that there were some troubles that could not be laughed away. Those troubles have come to me now; I can’t laugh now, Mrs. Stanley. But I wonder if you remember what else you said that day; you told me that you never tried to laugh troubles away, but you always prayed them away. Oh, if I could only do that!”

“Do you believe in prayer, Mrs. Ellis?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said, earnestly; “I do now. I used to laugh at it when Claude laughed at it, and I used to try to think it was all nonsense. But the other day the doctor was here, and I said, ‘Doctor, please tell me the truth; shall I ever get well again?’ And the doctor said, ‘I am afraid not, Mrs. Ellis.’ Then I asked him how long he thought I should live, and he said ‘perhaps a month or two.’ And then he went away. I told Claude what the doctor had said, but he answered: ‘Oh, nonsense, that doctor is a fool, don’t believe him; you have nothing the matter with you; you will be all right when the warm weather comes.’ And then Claude went out, and he did not come home till past midnight; he is always out till quite late every night. I do not know where he goes; he never will tell me, and he is always so tired and cross when he comes in. Well, that night I lay awake thinking the whole time, and oh, Mrs. Stanley, I was so frightened. I knew the doctor was right, I felt that I had not long to live, and then I asked myself, ‘where am I going?’ I must be going somewhere. Oh, Mrs. Stanley, I felt that night, and I feel now, that the Bible is true; my own heart tells me so. I cannot doubt, now that I am dying. I made up my mind that night that I would send for you, but since then I have been putting it off. I was afraid you would not like to come, we have seen so little of each other; but then, yesterday, I thought I would just write and tell you, for there is no one else I can think of who would be able to help me.”

“I am very glad you have sent for me,” I said, taking her thin hand in mine; “and now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“I want you to tell me very simply,” she said, “how to be saved; tell me what I must do to get rid of my sin—oh, Mrs. Stanley, I have been so very wicked, what must I do? I will do anything I can, if I only know what it is.”

“There is nothing to do,” I said, “nothing at all; if you feel your sin, and long to get rid of it, there is nothing to do.”

“Nothing to do!” she said, incredulously; “oh yes, Mrs. Stanley, there must be something to do!”

“No,” I said, decidedly, “there is nothing to do; but there is something to take!”

“Something to take!” she repeated in somewhat of her old manner. “I suppose you mean that I am to take salvation; but that is so very indefinite, Mrs. Stanley. I know all those set phrases so well; but they mean nothing to me. What is salvation, and how am I to take it?”

“You are quite right,” I said, “have nothing to do with set phrases; they are hollow and worthless. You have to deal, not with dead words but with a living Saviour, Mrs. Ellis. It is the Lord Jesus whom I want you to take—as your own Saviour. I want you to take Him as the One who can alone save you from the guilt and power of your sin, and who can alone give you the right to enter heaven. He comes to you, and He says: ‘Take Me, take My love as your own; look upon Me as the One who has died to save you, and then you need not fear.’ You understand how it is that He is able to save you, Mrs. Ellis, that He has been punished instead of you; that your sins have been laid on Him, and that He has suffered the penalty that your sins deserved!”

“Oh yes,” she said, “I know all that with my head; I know it theoretically, but I want to be able to put it into practice. How am I to be quite sure that Jesus has done that for me; how am I to know that He has taken my sin away?”

“Because God’s Word tells you so,” I said; and I took my Bible from my pocket and read, “He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned everyone to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.”

“Then what is there left for me to do?” she asked.

“Only to accept the Lord Jesus as your Saviour,” I said. “Go to Him and say to Him, ‘Lord Jesus, I do thank Thee for bearing my sins; I trust myself to Thee to be saved. I want to be forgiven through Thy death, and because Thou hast been punished in my place.’”

“Is that all?” she said.

“That is all!” I answered; “you cannot do more. One of my husband’s tenants was in great trouble a few months ago; he was not at all a rich man, and he had got into some rather serious difficulties with a neighbor of his. My husband heard of it, and when he had been told the whole story, he felt that the man was to be pitied. The poor wife came and pleaded with tears in her eyes that he would help them, so my husband went to the trial to see what could be done. The sentence was pronounced—the man was to pay £20, or failing that, he was to go to prison. The poor man could not have paid even £5, for he was very badly off, so he was quite prepared to be led off to prison. But at that moment my husband stepped forward, and laid down the £20. What was left for the man to do? Nothing, but to come forward and to say with tears in his eyes, Mr. Stanley, I thank you kindly, sir; I shall never forget it as long as I live!”

“I see,” she said; “I see it all now; and is that just what I have to do?”

“Exactly,” I said; “you must go to the Lord Jesus and say, ‘Lord, I have nothing with which to pay. I am a great sinner, and owe a great debt, but Thou hast paid it all; I look upon Thee as my Saviour, and I shall never forget it as long as I live.’ It is quite touching to see that poor man’s love for my husband now; he tries in every way he can to show his gratitude.”

“I see,” she said; “and we love Him because He first loved us. Oh, Mrs. Stanley, thank you so much!”

I did not leave the house until I had reason to believe that Alice had indeed taken the Lord Jesus as her own Saviour, nor until she could tell me with a smile on her thin, wasted face, “I am not utterly miserable now, for I have a sure hope for the future; He has forgiven me.”

I did not see Claude once, though I was with Alice for several hours. Perhaps he purposely kept out of sight, and, I must confess, I was glad, under the circumstances, not to meet him, for I felt very angry with him for his heartless neglect of his poor little wife.

I returned home by the evening train, and then came the contrast. My husband was at the station to meet me, and we drove back together to our happy home. On the way I told Howard of my visit to Alice, and of the conversation I had had with her. He was very much interested in all I told him, and when we had talked it over for a little time he said: “I have a letter for you in my pocket, May, which came by the evening post, and I think I have been very good not to open it, for I am most anxious to hear the news contained in it.”

The letter was from Evelyn Trafford. I took it from him and opened it.

“Oh, Howard,” I exclaimed as I glanced at the contents, “I am so very glad!”

“Yes, and so am I,” he said; “I know what it is about. There was a letter for me from Charlie by the same post. He has been staying at Alliston Hall for a week, and it seems to be quite settled now. How nice it will be for you to have your friend Evelyn so near. Carrington Hall is only five miles from us; you will be able to meet as often as you like.”

“Evelyn is so very happy,” I said, as I handed him the letter, “and she seems to have quite forgotten that she said she would never marry anyone who squinted; I have no doubt now that she would agree with me, that in spite of it, Lord Moreton is a very handsome man.”

“I am very glad it is so nicely arranged,” said my husband. “More than one good thing came out of our journey to Palestine, little wife! Do you remember that it was my conversation with Miss Trafford near the Damascus Gate which first made her look more favorably upon poor Charlie ‘the stupid, uninteresting man!’ she called him then.”

As he said this we turned in at the gate, and drove through the shrubbery to the house.

How beautiful everything looked that evening! The rhododendrons, the lilacs, and the laburnums were in bloom, and the evening sunshine was streaming across the distant hills, and casting a golden light over everything.

“Oh what a contrast, Howard!” I said, as we stood together at the window that evening.

“A contrast to what?” he asked.

“A contrast to the wretched lodging I have been in today. I always felt that mine was the happiest home in the world, but I feel it more than ever tonight.”

“Are you really happy, little wife?” he asked.

“Happy! oh, Howard,” I answered, “what a question! You know, surely, you know how very happy I am!”

“You are not more happy than I am, May,” he said; “I little thought when I met you first on the roof, at Brindisi, what bright days were in store for me!”

“Oh, Howard,” I said, after a pause, “just think if that wretched lodging that I saw today had been my home! And it might have been.”

He knew what I meant, for I had told him of Claude’s letter.

“Yes,” he said, “it might have been, if you had not resisted the temptation put before you that day, and gained a victory over yourself. But you are not sorry now, May, that you decided as you did; you think you were right, do you?”

“Right! oh, Howard,” I said, “I feel as if I could never be thankful enough that I chose as I did; God has been very good to me!”

“Yes, little wife,” he said, “the Lord never overlooks or forgets any self-denial for His name’s sake. You chose His love, His favor, His smile, in preference to an earthly affection; you chose to forsake an earthly love for His sake, and He did not forget it. I am sure those words of our Lord’s are true, May: ‘There is no man that hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother or wife, or children, or lands (in short, anything dear to his heart), for My sake, but he shall receive an hundredfold in this present time;’ or, as another Gospel has it, manifold more in this present time.’”

“I have indeed received the hundredfold, Howard,” I said.

“And then that is not the end,” he said, “for, after all, the second part of the promise makes the first part sink into insignificance. ‘And, in the world to come, life everlasting.’ Yes, May, there is a brighter home in prospect. Earth’s homes, the dearest and best, are only for a time—Heaven’s homes are for an eternity. I came across a verse today, which I thought very beautiful:

“What joys are lost, what promises are given,

As through this death-struck world we roam,

Awhile we think that Home is Heaven,

At last we find that Heaven is Home.”

“And we shall be together there, Howard,” I said, “with no fear of separation.”

“Yes, thank God!” he answered; “this bright, little earthly home is to us a faint foreshadowing of our heavenly home, where we shall be together with the Lord.”

“Yes,” I said, “a happy, earthly home now, in this present time, and a brighter, more glorious home awaiting me above, to be mine throughout eternity; was I not indeed right in my choice?”