"Have we not all one Father?" she murmured; "and have I not One to love me who has said, 'Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto Me'?"

Glancing again to the hill, she perceived that the children had stopped, and were forming a little group as they looked backward up the path.

"They 'll be late, my little loiterers," said Elsie, with a smile; "I must scold them well. But what is it?"

An uncommon sight indeed for Tor Glen, and one that might well distract the whole school's attention. Two discreet ponies were picking their way down the zig-zag path, while behind walked a man. But greatest wonder! on each pony was seated a real lady. Erect and gracefully, too, did they keep their seats, as the patient beasts let themselves slip down the gravelly path.

"It's early for tourists," thought Elsie, as she quietly walked on her way.

The travellers and their attendant group of urchins had now passed out of sight behind a screen of the thick foliage, which we have described as adorning the sheltered bottom of the glen. Elsie thought no more of the tourists. Their pleasure-seeking was a thing she had absolutely no experience of, and the sight of her scholars had banished all other thoughts but practical ones as to the conduct of the afternoon lesson.

A sudden turn brought the young mistress in front of her school. It was a humble enough affair—a mere shed in fact, built on to the end of Mrs. McAravey's cottage, and adorned over the door with a plainly printed sign-board, "Tor Glen National School." But the place did not look uncared for. The school indeed was bare enough, and surrounded by a brown wilderness, in which the children used to play, but the adjoining dwelling-house was made green and warm with ivy and fuschia, while the little garden was neat, and for April almost gay.

To her surprise, Elsie's ear caught no sweet clamour of children at play; there was indeed a sound of voices, and as she turned the corner some dozen eager voices cried together, "Here she is; here's mistress."

Elsie stepped hastily forward, fearing some mischief, and then paused as she saw the two strange ladies standing in the midst of an admiring and wondering group of children, while the guide stood by, a pony bridle in each hand.

In a moment one of the ladies had pushed through the little circle and seized the girl's hand.

"Elsie Damer! I 'm your godmother, Eleanor More. I 'm so glad."

Poor Elsie knew not where she was, or what it meant, and could find no better thing to say than "Your ladyship!"

"There, don't talk like that," was the quick reply; "I'm so glad we've met at length. What a sweet little nest this is, hidden away from the world by these great cliffs. We were fortunate, too, to find you out so soon," continued Lady Eleanor, who, perceiving that Elsie had not recovered the sudden shock and embarrassment, considerately gave rein to her power of speech, which was by no means limited.

"We met a nice little fellow on the top of the hill, and I asked him whether he knew where Elsie Damer lived. I stupidly forgot about the name, so he answered 'Now.' Then I remembered, and asked about Mrs. McAravey. 'It's teacher she 's askin' for,' said a little girl who had come up. Then I saw it was all right, and so we all came tumbling down the hill together."

"I saw you," said Elsie, "in the distance, but of course I had no idea who it was. How very kind you have been to me!" and again the tears were trembling in the nervous eyes of the poor, overwrought girl.

Lady Constance had now joined them, and the children stood around, all eyes and ears.

"Kate, take them in," said the mistress to a tiny monitress, when she became conscious of the inquiring glances. All were seated demurely as Elsie and the two ladies entered.

"Now," said Lady Constance, "do you not think you might give these little ones a holiday this fine afternoon, so that you and my sister may have a good chat?"

"Perhaps I had better," replied Elsie; then turning to the eager audience, "Children, these kind ladies have come all this way to see me, and have asked me to give you a holiday; what do you say?"

"Thank you, ma'am," responded the little chorus.

"Very well," said the mistress; "mind you don't get into any mischief. No noise," she added quickly, as she perceived that Lady Eleanor's friend was expanding his lungs, and gathering up his little bantam-cock-like figure, preparatory to starting a cheer. "No noise; poor gran is very bad to-day, and would not like it. Go quietly."

And so they did, under the generalship of tiny Kate, all defiling past in silence, save Master "Naw," who, being the hero of the school, thought it necessary to distinguish himself; therefore, being forbidden to cheer, he stepped forward, and touching his forehead with a bow, said—

"Thank your ladyships both;" and then, with a rush to the door, "Now, boys, we'll have a look at the ponies."

"He is almost past me," said Elsie, laying her hand on the boy's shoulder as he darted through the door.

"You have them in very good order, I think," said Lady Constance; "but I was sorry to hear you say the old lady was so poorly. Let us go and see her."

Elsie led the way, and as she lifted the latch they caught Mrs. McAravey's plaintive voice—

"I 've been thinking long for you, Elsie, lass, for I heard the children say as the ladies had come. You won't take her from a poor old creature, will you, miss?" she added, as the visitors came in view; "I won't have long to trouble you."

"O no," said Lady Eleanor, kindly; "we 've only come to pay you and Elsie a visit. She is just like her mother, Mrs. McAravey; and now that you are so weak and low you ought to be glad she has found some of her mother's friends. We will always take care of her."

"The Lord be thanked!" murmured the old woman, lying back with closed eyes; "and I bless His name He has brought me to see the day. Elsie's a good lass—none better, ladies."

Almost immediately she fell off into a broken and uneasy sleep, while Elsie and her friends whispered together at the door.

"We shall gee you again the day after to-morrow, Sunday," said Lady Eleanor, as they prepared to start. "We are going to Ashleigh Church, and will lunch at Mr. Smith's—he says you always stay for Sunday-school."

"Yes," said Elsie, "that is very nice, and I'll be sure to be out—unless gran is too bad," she added, anxiously glancing towards the bed.

Sunday came, and there was quite an excitement at Ashleigh Church when the clumsy hired carriage from Ballycastle drove up, and the two ladies appeared.

The Rev. Cooper Smith, who had been popping his head out of the vestry door off and on for the last ten minutes, was in readiness to receive his guests, and then retired to have as much time as possible for a last look at the specially prepared sermon. Mrs. Cooper Smith was too anxious about the lunch to go to church, but all the rest of the family were assembled in full force. Elsie, however, did not put in an appearance, and the absence of her fine voice left a sad gap in the somewhat too elaborate service that had been, got up for the occasion.

After service was over the clergyman took his guests to see poor Elsie Damer's grave. Lady Eleanor suggested that something should be added to the inscription, setting forth the way in which the name had been discovered. How this should be done was the subject of conversation during the walk to the rectory. There they found Elsie just arrived. Mrs. McAravey had been much worse all Saturday, and Elsie could not get away in time for church. She had only come now because the dying woman had expressed a wish to see Mr. Smith. This news cast a shadow over the party. Elsie remained for luncheon, on Mr. Smith's promising to be ready to start immediately after, when the returning carriage could bring them a considerable distance on the way, dropping them at a point not more than two miles from Tor Bay.

"I must say good-bye now," said Lady Eleanor, drawing Elsie aside as they left the dining-room; "I cannot tell you how glad we are to have found you, and to have found you so like your dear mother too. It is too bad papa and mamma cannot see you, as we must leave to-morrow; but we shall meet again soon."

"I do not know about that," replied poor Elsie, almost breaking down.

"My dear child, you do not think we are going to let you be lost again! And this is what I want to say to you, Elsie, dear: will you promise to come over to us when—I mean if anything happens to Mrs. McAravey?—she cannot live long, poor old body."

"Oh, you are too kind!" cried Elsie, fairly bursting into tears, and hiding her face on her new friend's shoulder—"you are too kind; but how can I promise? It sometimes seems my duty to stay here."

Eleanor More was a true woman, and so—though surprised at this sudden outbreak—she lifted the girl's head between her hands, and kissing her forehead, said, "There, Elsie, child, don't fret, I will not press you now. God will show you your duty, and make your way plain before you. They are coming now, and the carriage is at the door."

CONCLUSION.

The summer had waned away; the autumn tints were already on the trees, and the light of the September afternoon was growing feeble and uncertain, as a dainty little figure scrambled out of the low carriage that had drawn up before the neatest and most ideal of English cottage homes. Lady Eleanor More stood at the garden wicket to receive her friend, and behind her in the doorway was to be seen a tidy, white-capped little old woman.

"So we have got you at last, Elsie; and here is the prison where you are to be confined at hard labour, and this is your gaoler, Mrs. Nugent. How do you like it all?"

Elsie was delighted, and could find no words in which to thank her kind patron. Everything was charming, and everything had been arranged with that thoughtful consideration which nothing but real affection produce.

The old man and woman with whom Elsie was to be lodged, for the present at least, were established pensioners of the Waterham family. They had known and sorrowed for Elsie's mother, who had stayed with them for a few weeks after her unfortunate marriage. Thus the orphan felt almost at home, and was rejoiced to find that a little room had been set apart for her private and special use.

Nor was it designed that Elsie should become a mere dependent. Fortunately enough a vacancy had recently occurred (by marriage) in the mistress-ship of a small school situated close to the gate of Burnham Park, and almost opposite Nugent's cottage. This was the sphere of labour for which Elsie was destined. The school was a neat, well-cared-for place—the special hobby of Lady Eleanor, who seldom let a day pass when at home without visiting it. Here Elsie Damer at once commenced her labours. The children were bright and clean, and had evidently been carefully taught by her predecessor. Miss Damer was also a welcome acquisition to the village choir; and those were among the happiest moments of her life when she let her rich, clear voice ascend in songs of praise to the throne of Him who had guided her all her journey through, while her dear friend and second mother presided at the organ.

Elsie's only care was about Jim. She had seen him in Belfast looking worn and anxious. His letters had never been complaining, nor were his words so then; yet he could not conceal the fact that his position was by no means satisfactory. But this cloud too was soon to be cleared away. The earl had been favourably impressed with the lad, and was highly amused when he heard from his daughter a somewhat toned down version of the foolish conduct which had resulted in his resigning his situation. In the course of a year after Elsie's establishment at Burnham, a post of some responsibility in the earl's rent office became vacant, in which we find Jim shortly afterwards comfortably installed.

* * * * * *

And here ends our tale. Elsie Damer's life is after all only beginning, and doubtless she will have her trials and sorrows. Not for ever can she be the young girl living in that sweet rose-covered cottage. Indeed, before we lose sight of Elsie, there is rumour of a coming change. Mrs. Nugent said, "It's a shame to take you from us, Missie, but every one likes a spot of their own, I suppose; I know I did in my time." And Robert Everley, the head-gamekeeper's strapping son, who was settled now in one of the home farms of Burnham, blushed and looked apologetic as the earl hailed him one day, "Hey, Bob! what's this I hear about you, lad? I wonder what Lady Eleanor will say to it, stealing her godchild from her."

"I couldn't help it, your lordship," replied the embarrassed Bob.

"Well, all I say is you are a lucky fellow, and Elsie might have done worse too."

But whatever lies before our Elsie, she has deep stored within her that hidden peace that the world knoweth not, and which can smooth over, as with holy oil, the roughest and most sudden-rising of life's stormy waves. The discipline of the past had moulded and set, without unduly hardening, the lines of her simple, cheerful character. Looking back to the earliest dawn of her recollection, she believed herself able to trace a golden thread through all. The ideal of calm beauty and purity which the child's vivid imagination had developed out of the dim memory of her drowned mother's face had been her good angel, and had led her, by sweet, insensible gradations, up to Him of whose glory all earthly beauties are but the far-off reflection. From first to last she had lived in the consciousness of the Unseen Presence, and no words better expressed her simple faith for the present and for the future than those of her favourite hymn—

"The King of Love my Shepherd is, Whose goodness faileth never, I nothing lack if I am His And He is mine for ever. * * * * "And so, through all the length of days, Thy goodness faileth never; Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praise Within Thy house for ever."



THE END.