"Effie, you may fetch the coffee," said her mother.

The supper that followed was a merry meal—Dr. Staunton told his best stories—they were capped by his wife's. Effie laughed as if she had never heard them before, and the children made themselves riotously agreeable.

When the meal was at an end, Dr. Staunton and his wife went out into the garden at the back of the house. He drew his arm round her waist, and they walked up and down together on the little rose path at the top of the garden.

Effie watched them from the parlor window. There was a queer lump in her throat. She could not get over the strange sensation of nervousness and coming disaster. The foreboding which filled her could not be fought down. She had laughed almost against her will at supper-time, but now she ceased to smile—she no longer made the faintest attempt to be cheerful. She hated the pretty room, and the sweet-peas, and the roses and mignonette.

The children were idly lolling about. She turned, and spoke almost crossly.

"Don't you know, Aggie, that it is long past the younger children's hour for staying up? Can't you make yourself useful for once, and go up and put them to bed?"

"Can't you come, Effie—we'd much rather have you," said little Phil and Walter, the brother next in age. "Agnes is so cross, she pulls our hair so when she combs it out."

"I don't, you bad boys!" exclaimed Agnes, coloring high. "Won't I give it to you next time we are alone for saying that!"

"She does, Effie; she does indeed," said little Phil, running up to his elder sister, and clasping his arms round her light blue dress.

"Don't, Phil; you will spoil my pretty frock!" she cried.

"Why, you are cross too," he answered, looking up at her. He was so startled and amazed at this new tone in Effie's voice, that words failed him altogether for a minute. It seemed to him as if a castle of cards had tumbled all over his head, and as if he stood in the middle of the ruins. If Effie were going to turn nasty, according to Phil's idea, there was nothing further to be looked for in life. Walter, however, who was older, had more discernment than his little brother.

"Effie has a headache," he said; "can't you see that she has a headache? We'll be very good indeed, Effie, if Agnes will put us to bed."

"Come along, then," said Agnes, scuttling them out of the room in front of her. "You must be quick about it, for I have not half prepared my to-morrow's lessons. Now then, out you go."

The children disappeared.

The room was once more empty, except for the silent figure who stood in the window. She could catch a glimpse of her father and mother walking up and down in the garden. Presently the two approached the house. Mrs. Staunton went straight upstairs to her room, and the doctor returned to the parlor.

"Your mother is very tired to-night, Effie," he said in a grave voice.

He sat down in the armchair just where he could smell the sweet-peas and the Banksia roses.

"Yes," he continued, "I am anxious about her." There was not a trace now of any of the jollity which had marked him at supper. His face was gray and worn—his voice decidedly husky. That huskiness in her father's voice went like a stab to Effie's heart. She shut the door and went and stood by his side.

"Don't you think you had better go upstairs and help your mother to get to bed?"

"No; she likes best to be alone," replied Effie. "I want to sit by you. What is the matter with your throat?"

"My throat!—why?"

"You are so husky."

"I am dead beat, that's the truth of it. I am as weak as a cat, and for no earthly reason. Don't bother about my throat, it will be all right after I have had a good night's rest. I tell you, Effie, I never saw a child so ill as that little Freda Harvey. That woman who nursed her is an angel—an angel."

"I didn't say too much about her, father, did I?" said Effie, with a little note of triumph coming into her voice even in the midst of her anxiety.

"That you didn't, my darling—she is one of God's angels and I say 'God bless her!' Now I want to talk about your mother."

"Yes, father," said Effie, laying her hand on his. She started back the moment she did so. The evening was a very hot one, and touching the doctor's hand was like clasping fire.

"How you burn!" she exclaimed.

"That's weakness," he said. "I shall take some bromide to-night; I am completely worn-out, shaken, and all that sort of thing. Now, Effie, don't interrupt me. I wish to talk to you of your mother. Are you prepared to listen?"

"Of course, father."

"She has been talking of you—she says you have got an idea into your head that you ought to make more of your life than you can make of it staying at home, and being the blessing of the house, and the joy of my life and of hers."

"Oh, father, father, I did wish it," said Effie, tears springing into her eyes. "I did long for it, but I'll give it up, I'll give it all up if it makes you and mother unhappy."

"But it doesn't, my dear. The old birds cannot expect to keep the young ones in the nest for ever and ever. Your mother spoke very sensibly to-night. I never saw any woman so altered for the time being. She would not let me imagine there was a thing the matter with her, and she spoke all the time about you, as though she wanted to plead with me, your father, to give you a happy life. Do you think I would deny it to you, my dear little girl?"

"No, father; you have never denied me anything."

"I have never denied what was for your good, sweetheart."

Dr. Staunton clasped Effie to his breast. She flung her arms round him with a sudden tight pressure.

"Easy, easy!" he exclaimed; "you are half-choking me. My breathing certainly feels oppressed—I must have taken a chill. I'll get off to bed as fast as I can. No, child, you need not be alarmed. I have often noticed this queer development of hoarseness in people who have long breathed the poisonous air which surrounds diphtheria and scarlet fever, but in my case the hoarseness means nothing. Now, Effie, let me say a word or two to you. I don't know what the future has in it—it is impossible for any of us to know the future, and I say, thank God for the blessed curtain which hides it from our view; but whatever it has in it, my child, I wish you to understand that you are to do your best with your life. Make it full if you can—in any case make it blessed. A month ago, I will admit frankly, I did not approve of lady-nurses. After my wonderful experience, however, with Dorothy Fraser, I must say that I have completely changed my opinion. The girl with heart and nerve, with common sense, with an unselfish spirit, can be a nurse whatever her station in life. If to these qualifications she adds the refinements of good breeding and the education of a lady, she is the best of all."

"Hurrah!" cried Effie—tears filled her eyes. "What a grand triumph for Dorothy!" she exclaimed.

"She deserves every word I have said of her. If she wishes to take you back with her to London when she goes,—if that is what is now at the bottom of your heart,—go, child, with my blessing. We shall miss you at home, of course, but we are not worth our salt if we are going to be selfish."

"You never, never were that," said Effie.

"Now I have one more thing to say—it is about your mother. I have never really told you my true fears about her. You know, of course, that she suffers from weakness of the heart. At present that weakness springs from no organic source, but of late there have been symptoms which make me fear that the functional mischief may be developed into the more serious organic form of disease, should any shock be given her. It is that fear which haunts my life—I could not live without your mother, child. Effie, child. I could not live without her."

The doctor's voice suddenly broke—he bowed his head on his hands, and a broken sort of groan escaped his lips.

"We'll take all possible care of her," said Effie. "She shall not have any pain, nor fear, nor anxiety."

"I know you will do your best," said the doctor; "but if you leave her——"

"I'll never leave her if it is to injure her—there, I have promised."

"You are a good girl. I trust you. I lean on you. Your mother could not live through an anxiety—a great fear, a great trouble would kill her."

"It shan't come," said Effie.

"God grant it may not come," said the doctor in his husky voice.

He rose suddenly to his feet.

"I must go to bed," he said. "I have not had a real proper sleep for nights and nights. By the way, Effie, you know, of course, that my life is insured for a thousand pounds. If—if at any time that should be needed, it will be there; it is best for you to know."

"I wish you would not talk about it, father."

"Very well, I won't; but talking about things doesn't bring trouble any nearer. I hold it as an article of faith that each man should arrange all he can for the future of his family. Arranging for the future never hastens matters. There is a God above. He has led me all my days. I trust Him absolutely. I submit to His mighty will."

The doctor left the room—his broad back was bowed—he walked slowly.

Effie stood near the door of the little parlor, watching him, until his gray head was lost to view. Then she went back and sat on the old horse-hair sofa, with her hands clasped tightly before her.

"My father is the best man in the world," she murmured under her breath. "I never met anyone like my father—so simple—so straightforward—so full of real feeling—so broad in his views. Talk of a sequestered life making a man narrower; there never was a man more open to real conviction than father. The fact is, no girl ever had better parents than I have; and the wonderful thing is that they give me leave to go, and take their blessing with me. It is wonderful—it is splendid. Agnes must be taught to do my present work. I'll train her for the next three months; and then, perhaps, in the winter I can join Dorothy in London. Dear father, he is nervous about mother; but while he is there, no harm can come to her. I do not believe one could live without the other. Well, well, I feel excited and nervous myself. I had better follow father's example, and go to bed."



CHAPTER VII.

Effie's little room faced the east. She never drew down her blind at night, and the sun was shining all over her face when her mother came in the next morning to call her.

Mrs. Staunton, standing in her nightdress in the middle of the room, called Effie in a shrill voice.

"What in the world is the matter?" said her daughter, sitting up, and pushing back her hair from her eyes.

"What I feared," said Mrs. Staunton. "I am not going to break down; don't think it for a minute. I am as well as possible." She trembled all over as she spoke. There was a purple spot on one cheek, the other was deadly pale. A blue tint surrounded her lips. "I am perfectly well," continued Mrs. Staunton, breathing in a labored way. "It is only that I have got a bit of a—— Your father is ill, Effie. He has got it—the—dip—dip—diphtheria. He is almost choking. Get up, child; get up."

"Yes, mother," said Effie.

She tumbled out of bed. Her pretty cheeks were flushed with sleep; her eyes, bright and shining, turned toward the eastern light for a moment.

"Oh, mother," she said, with a sudden burst of feeling, "do, do let us keep up our courage! Nothing will save him if we lose our courage, mother."

"We won't," said Mrs. Staunton; "and that's what I came to speak about. He must have good nursing—the very best. Effie, I want you to get Miss Fraser to come here."

"Miss Fraser! But will she leave little Freda Harvey?"

"She must leave her—the child is completely out of danger—anyone can nurse her now. She must leave her and come here, and you must go and fetch her. Your father may lose his life in the cause of that little child. There is not a moment to lose—get up, Effie. You can go at once to The Grange. Go, go quickly and bring Dorothy Fraser. We none of us can nurse him as she will. She will do it. He has been murmuring in his sleep about her, about something she did for little Freda, clasping his throat all the time and suffocating. One glance showed me what ailed him when I awoke this morning. He has a hard fight before him, but he must not die—I tell you, child, your father must not die!"

"No, no, mother! God will spare him to us," said Effie. Tears dimmed her eyes, she got quickly into her clothes.

"Now, I will go," she said. "I will bring Dorothy back with me."

"If there is any difficulty," said Mrs. Staunton, "if she hesitates for a moment, you must remember, there is only one thing to be done."

"Yes, mother; what do you mean?"

"You must offer to nurse Freda Harvey instead of her—do you understand?"

"And I am not to come back to father when he is ill?" said Effie, aghast.

"That is not the point," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton. "The only thing to be considered is, what will save him, and you and I, and our feelings, are of no consequence. His life is so valuable that no sacrifice is too great to keep it. Go, child, go. If you can come back, come—if not, stay."

"And who will manage the children—they ought not to remain in the house."

"Don't worry about the children. Get Dorothy as quickly as possible."

Effie buttoned her dress and pinned on her hat, and then went out on the landing.

"Where are you going, child? Why don't you go downstairs?"

"I must kiss father first."

"What folly!—why should there be this delay?"

"I won't be a minute."

Effie turned the handle of the bedroom door, and went softly into the room. Her father was lying on his back—there was a livid look about his face. Great beads of perspiration stood on his brow. His eyes were closed. He did not see Effie when she came into the room, but when she bent down and kissed his forehead, he opened his eyes and looked at her. He said something which she could not distinguish—he was too hoarse to make any words articulate.

"I am going for Dorothy," she said, with a smile,—"she'll soon make you better,—good-by. God bless you—father. I love you—father, I love you."

His eyes smiled at her, but his lips could not speak.

She went quickly out of the room.



CHAPTER VIII.

It did not take Effie long to harness the old horse to the gig. She had often driven old Jock, and this part of her task did not put her out in the least. She had a curious sense, as she was driving toward The Grange in the fresh early morning air, of the complete change which was awaiting her. She was quite certain that one door in her life was shut—shut forever. She had longed for change,—it had come at last with a vengeance; it was horrible,—it made her shudder.

Effie was a thoroughly healthy girl, healthy both in mind and body, but now a sick pain was over her. She did not care to think of the real terror which haunted her. She arrived at The Grange between six and seven o'clock. The woman at the lodge ran out and opened the gate for the doctor's gig in some surprise. She thought something was wrong again up at the house, but her surprise strengthened to astonishment when she saw that Effie was driving the horse.

"Why, Miss Effie, what is the matter?" she exclaimed. Everyone in the place knew Effie, and loved her for her father's sake.

"The doctor is ill, Mrs. Jones," said Effie, "and I have come to fetch Miss Fraser."

"Oh, God help us! he hasn't taken it?" said the woman, falling back a step or two in horror.

Effie nodded her head—she had no words to speak. She whipped up Jock, and drove quickly down the avenue.

A kitchen-maid was on her knees whitening and polishing the front steps. Effie jumped from the gig, and asked the girl to call someone to hold the horse.

"There ain't any of the men round just now, it is too early," said the girl.

"Then take the reins yourself," said Effie. "Stand just here; Jock won't stir if I tell him to be quiet. Hold the reins. I am in a great hurry."

"You are Miss Effie Staunton, ain't you, miss?"

"I am. My father is ill, and I want Miss Fraser."

"God help us! the doctor ill!" exclaimed the girl.

She stood where Effie told her, holding Jock's reins.

"Be quiet, Jock; don't stir till I come out," said Effie. The old horse drooped his head. Effie ran up the steps and into the house. She had never been at The Grange before, but she had no eyes for the beauties of the old place this morning. There was something too awful lying at the bottom of her heart, for any external things to affect her. She went quickly up the broad front stairs, and paused on the first landing. How was she to discover the room where Dorothy and little Freda Harvey spent their time together? She was about to turn back in utter bewilderment, when, to her relief, she saw another servant. The servant stopped and stared at Effie. Effie came up to her quickly.

"You may be surprised to see me here," she said. "I am Miss Staunton, Dr. Staunton's daughter. He is ill. I want to see Nurse Fraser immediately. Take me to her at once."

"We are none of us allowed near that part of the house, miss," replied the woman.

"You can take me in the direction, anyhow, and explain to me how I am to get to Miss Fraser," said Effie. "Come, there's not an instant to lose—be quick."

"Oh, yes! I can take you in the direction," said the girl.

She turned down a corridor; Effie followed her. The servant walked rather slowly and in a dubious sort of way.

"Can't you hurry?" said Effie. "It is a matter of life and death."

The girl hastened her steps a little. Effie's manner frightened her. Presently they reached a baize door—the servant pushed it open, but stood aside herself.

"It is as much as my place is worth to open this door," she said. "It is here the infectious case is, and Miss Fraser's own orders are that the door is not to be opened; but you frighten me somehow, miss, and I suppose there's no harm in it."

"No, of course there is no harm. Now, tell me which is Miss Fraser's room?"

"The nurseries are entered by the third door as you go down that passage, miss."

The servant banged to the baize door, and Effie found herself alone. She ran down the passage, and opened the outer nursery door. It was quiet and still, in perfect order, the blinds down, and the windows open. Effie, in spite of all her agitation, walked on tiptoe across this room. A door which led into another room was half open, and she heard someone moving about. That step, so quiet and self-possessed, must belong to Dorothy.

"Dorothy! Dorothy! come here," called Effie.

Dorothy Fraser, in her dressing-gown, came out to the other room at once.

"Effie!" she exclaimed. "Effie Staunton!"

"Yes, it is I," said Effie; "it is I." She began to unpin her hat as she spoke. "I have come here to stay; I am going to nurse little Freda, and you are to go back to father. The gig is waiting outside, and you can easily drive old Jock. Drive him straight home, and go as fast as ever you can."

"Is your father ill, Effie?"

"Yes; he has taken the diphtheria. He is very ill. Mother sent me for you. If father dies, mother will die. They love each other so dearly—so very dearly. One couldn't live without the other. Go, and save them both, Dorothy, and I will stay with Freda."

"You are a dear, brave little girl," said Dorothy.

She went and put her strong arms round Effie.

"I will go at once," she said. "But are you prepared to take full charge here, Effie?"

"Yes; tell me quickly what is to be done!"

"There's nothing to be done now but simply to see that Freda doesn't take cold. She is not free from infection yet, but she is quite out of danger, if she does not catch a chill. Treat her as you would any sick child. Rhoda is here. She is a capital girl, and will help you with Freda's food. Freda may come into this room for a little to-day, but you must see that she keeps out of a draught. Good-by. Effie. I won't be any time getting ready. I'll send you telegrams about your father. God bless you, Effie."



CHAPTER IX.

From the first it was a bad case. The throat was not so particularly affected, but the weakness was extreme. All imaginable devices were resorted to, to keep up the patient's strength. Notwithstanding all human precautions, however, that strength failed and failed.

In a few days the strong man was like an infant. He could not lift a finger, he could scarcely turn his head, his voice was completely gone. His stricken soul could only look dumbly into the world through his eyes. Those honest eyes were pathetic. Dorothy was unremitting in her attentions. She took complete charge from the very first. Dr. Edwards came and went, but he gave the nursing to Dorothy. She had prepared herself for a great fight. She had hoped to conquer, but on the third day of the doctor's illness she knew that the battle was not to the strong nor the race to the swift—in short, the good doctor was called to render up his account, his short span of mortal life was over.

One evening he had lain perfectly still and in a state of apparent stupor for several hours. Dorothy stood at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were fixed on the patient.

"It is strange how much I admire him," she said to herself. "I never met a nobler, truer-hearted man."

"Dorothy, come here," said the doctor.

She went at once, and bent over him.

"I am going," he said, looking at her.

"Yes, Dr. Staunton," she answered.

He closed his eyes again for a moment.

"The wife," he murmured—"does she know?"

"I am not sure," said Dorothy in her quiet, clear voice, which never for a moment sank to a whisper. "I think she must guess—I have not told her."

"She had better know," said the doctor. "Will you bring her here?"

"Yes, I'll go and fetch her at once."

Dorothy left the room. She stood for a moment on the landing.

The task which lay immediately before her made her spirits sink. She knew just as well as Dr. Staunton did how precarious was Mrs. Staunton's tenure of life. She knew that a sudden shock might be fatal. Were those children to lose both parents? The doctor was going,—no mortal aid now could avail for him,—but must the mother also leave the children?

"I do not know what to do," thought Dorothy. "She must see her husband—they must meet. He is the bravest man I know, but can he suppress his own feelings now—now that he is dying? No, no, it is too much to ask; but I greatly, greatly fear that if he does not, the shock will kill her."

Dorothy went slowly downstairs. She was generally decisive in her actions. Now, she trembled, and a terrible nervousness seized her.

When she reached the little entrance hall, and was about to open the door of the parlor where she expected to find Mrs. Staunton, she was surprised to come face to face with a tall, bronzed young man, who was taking off his hat and hanging it on one of the pegs in the hat-rack. He turned, and started when, he saw her. He was evidently unfamiliar with nurses and sickness. His face flushed up, and he said in a sort of apologetic way:

"Surely this is Dr. Staunton's house?"

"Yes," said Dorothy.

"I am George Staunton. I—I came down on pressing business—I want to see my father in a hurry. What is the matter?"

He stepped back a pace or two, startled by the expression on Dorothy's face.

"Come in here at once," she said, seizing his hand. She dragged him into the seldom-used drawing-room. The moment they got inside, she deliberately locked the door.

"You have come just in time," she said. "You must bear up. I hope you'll be brave. Can you bear a great shock without—without fainting, or anything of that sort?"

"Oh, I won't faint!" he answered. His lips trembled, his blue eyes grew wide open, the pupils began to dilate.

"I believe you are a brave lad," said Dorothy, noticing these signs. "It is your lot now to come face to face with great trouble. Dr. Staunton—your father—is dying."

"Good God! Merciful God!" said the lad. He sank down on the nearest chair—he was white to the lips.

Dorothy went up and took his hand.

"There, there!" she said. "You'll be better in a moment. Try to forget yourself—we have not, any of us, a single instant just now to think of ourselves. I have come down to fetch your mother."

"You are the nurse?" said George, glancing at her dress.

"Yes, I am nursing your father. It has been a very bad case—diphtheria—a very acute and hopeless case from the first. There's a great deal of infection. Are you afraid?"

"No, no! don't talk of fear. I'll go to him. I—I was in trouble myself, but that must wait. I'll go to him at once."

"I want you to go to your mother."

"My mother! is she ill too?"

"She is not exactly ill—I mean she is not worse than usual, but her life is bound up in your father's. It would be a dreadful thing for your sisters and yourself if your mother were to die. Your coming here at this moment may mean her salvation. I have to go to her now, to tell her that her dying husband has sent for her. Will you follow me into the room? Will you act according to your own impulses? I am sure God will direct you. Stay where you are for a minute—try to be brave. Follow me into the room as soon as you can."

Dorothy left the drawing room. As she went away, she heard the young man groan. She did not give herself time to think—she opened the parlor door.

Mrs. Staunton was sitting in her favorite seat by the window. Her face was scarcely at all paler than it had been a week ago. She sat then by the window, looking out at her trouble, which showed like a speck in the blue sky. The shadow which enveloped her whole life was coming closer now, enveloping her like a thick fog. Still she was bearing up. Her eyes were gazing out on the garden—on the flowers which she and the doctor had tended and loved together. Some of the younger children had clustered round her knee—one of them held her hand—another played with a bunch of keys and trinkets which she always wore at her side.

"Go on, mother," said little Marjory, aged seven. "Don't stop."

"I have nearly finished," said Mrs. Staunton.

"But not quite. Go on, mother; I want to hear the end of the story," said Phil.

Mrs. Staunton did not see Dorothy, who stood motionless near the door.

"They got so tired," she began in a monotonous sort of voice—"so dreadfully tired, that there was nothing for them to do but to try and get into the White Garden."

"A White Garden!" repeated Phil. "Was it pretty?"

"Lovely!"

"Why was it called a White Garden?" asked Marjory.

"Because of the flowers. They were all white—white roses, white lilies, snowdrops, chrysanthemums—all the flowers that are pure white without any color. The air is sweet with their perfume—the people who come to live in the White Garden wear white flowers on their white dresses—it is a beautiful sight."

"It must be," said Marjory, who had a great deal of imagination. "Are the people happy?"

"Perfectly happy—rested, you know, Marjory. They are peaceful as you are when you are tucked up in your little bed."

"I like best to play and romp," said Marjory in a meditative voice; "but then, you see, I am never tired."

"Dorothy is standing at the door," exclaimed Phil. "Come in, Dorothy, and listen to mother's beautiful story."

"Do you want me?" asked Mrs. Staunton, standing up. She began to tremble—the children looked at her anxiously.

Dorothy went straight up and took her hand. "Dr. Staunton wishes to see you," she said. "Will you come with me?" She looked anxiously toward the door.

Mrs. Staunton put up her hand to her head. "Good-bye, my darlings," she said, looking at the little pair, who were gazing up at her with puzzled faces. "Go and play in the garden, and don't forget the White Garden about which we have been speaking." She stooped down and deliberately kissed both children, then she held out her hand to Dorothy. "I am quite ready," she said.

At that moment George entered the room. He put his arms round his mother. He was a big fellow—his arms were strong. The muscles in his neck seemed to start out, his eyes looked straight into his mother's.

"You have got me, mother; I am George," he said. "Come, let us go to my father together."

Mrs. Staunton tottered upstairs. She was not in the least surprised at seeing George, but she leaned very firmly on him. They went into the sickroom, and when George knelt down by his father's bedside, Mrs. Staunton knelt by him.

The doctor was going deeper and deeper into the valley from which there is no return. Earthly sounds were growing dim to his ears—earthly voices were losing their meaning—earthly sights were fading before his failing eyes. The dew of death was on his forehead.

Mrs. Staunton, whose face was nearly as white, bent down lower and lower until her lips touched his hand. The touch of her lips made him open his eyes. He saw his wife; the look on her face seemed to bring him back to earth again—it was like a sort of return wave, landing him high on the shores of time.

His impulse was to say, "Come with me—let us enter into the rest of the Lord together;" but then he saw George. George had thrown his arm round his mother's waist.

"Let me keep her, father," said the young man. "Don't take her yet, let me keep her."

"Yes, stay with the lad, Mary," said the doctor.

It was a final act of self-renunciation. His eyelids drooped over his dying eyes—he never spoke again.



CHAPTER X.

George stayed at Whittington for a week; he followed his father to the grave. Mrs. Staunton clung to him with a sort of feverish tenacity; whenever he came into the room, her eyes followed him. A sort of wistful, contented expression came into them when he sat down beside her. During all the time George was in the house she never broke down. At last, however, the time came when he must leave her.

"I must go back to my work," he said; "but you are coming to London soon, then I'll be with you every evening. You know my father has given you to me to take care of. It will be all right when we are in London together."

"Yes, my boy," she replied, "it will be all right then. I don't complain," she added; "I don't attempt to murmur. I shall go to him, but he cannot return to me; and I have got you, George, and he gave me to you. I am willing to stay with you just as long as you want me."

It was late that night when George left his mother's room. Effie was standing in the passage—the brother and sister looked at each other. Effie had come home the day after Dr. Staunton's death.

"Come out with me for a bit, Effie," said her brother. They went into the garden, and she linked her hand through his arm.

Dorothy Fraser had now returned to her duties in London; the Stauntons were to go up to town as soon as ever the cottage could be sold. It had belonged to the doctor. George was to live with them when they were in town, and perhaps Effie would be able to follow the great wish of her mind. There was just a possibility that she might be able to be trained as a hospital nurse. She looked up at George now.

"You have been such a comfort to us," she said. "Dorothy told me everything; and I know that if you had not come just at the opportune moment, we should have lost our mother as well as our father. I'll do all in my power to hurry matters, so that we can come to London before the winter."

"Yes," said George. He was a finely built young fellow, with a handsome face. He was not the least like Effie, who was dark and rather small, like her mother. George had the doctor's physique; he had great square shoulders, his eyes were frank and blue like his father's, but his mouth wanted his father's firmness.

"Effie," he said. "I don't know how I am to bring myself to confide in you."

"Confide in me?" she said, with a little start. "We always did tell our secrets to one another, but all this terrible trouble seems to have put childish things away. Have you really a secret, George, to tell me?"

"I don't know how I can tell it to you," he replied; his lips quivered—he looked down. Effie clasped his arm affectionately.

"You know I would do anything for you," she said.

"Yes; I know you are the best of girls, and you're awfully pretty, too. I know Fred Lawson will think so when he sees you."

"Who is he?"

"A friend of mine—a right good fellow—he is a medical student at St. Joseph's Hospital. I have often met him, and he has talked to me about his own sisters, and one day I showed him your photograph, and he said what a pretty girl you were. Somehow, Effie, I never thought of you as pretty until Fred said so. I suppose fellows don't think how their sisters look, although they love them very dearly; but when Fred said it, it opened my eyes. Dear, dear, why am I talking like this, when time is so precious, and I—Effie, when I came down that day to see my father, I was in trouble—great trouble; the shock of seeing him seemed to banish it from my mind, but it cannot be banished—it cannot be banished, Effie, and I have no one to confide in now but you."

"You must tell me of course," said Effie; she felt herself turning pale. She could not imagine what George's trouble was. The night was dusk; she raised her eyes to her brother's face—he avoided meeting them. He had a stick in his hand, and he began to poke holes in the gravel.

"How much money have we got to live on?" he asked abruptly.

"How much money have we to live on?" repeated Effie. "I believe, when all is collected, that there will be something like a hundred a year for mother and Agnes and Katie and the two little children. Of course I am going to support myself somehow, and you are naturally off our hands."

"It's awful," said George; "it's awful to be so starvingly poor as that. Why, I get a hundred a year now; fancy five people living on a sum on which I never can make both ends meet!"

"What is the matter with you, George? How queerly you speak! You knew we should be awfully poor when father died. You are going to pay for your board, are you not, when you come to us, and that will be a great help."

"Yes, of course; I vow and declare that I'll give mother at least half of what I earn."

"Well, that will be fifty pounds—a great help. My idea for myself is—but——" Effie stopped abruptly. She saw that George was making an impatient movement. "I'll tell you another time," she said in a gentle voice. "You have something now to tell me, have you not?"

"I have—God knows I have. I want to get two hundred and fifty pounds somewhere."

"Two hundred and fifty pounds!" exclaimed Effie. George might just as well have asked her for the moon.

"I don't understand," she said, after a pause.

"No, and I never want you to, Effie," replied the young man. "I can't tell you what I want the money for, but it's a matter of life and death. I thought I had made up my mind"—a husky sound came into his throat—"I made up my mind to tell everything to my father when I came down that night—I could have told him. It was not a sort of thing to talk to you about, but I thought I could tell him; he died, and he gave me mother. He left mother with me. You know perfectly well, Effie, that our mother's life hangs on a thread. You know she must not have a shock, and yet—Effie, Effie, if I don't get that L250, she will have such a shock, such a terrible shock, that it will send her to her grave!"

"I must think," said Effie. "I cannot answer you in a moment."

"Is there no earthly way you can help me? I must be helped," said George in a frantic voice. "I have got six weeks longer—I must get that L250 in six weeks, or—no, I can't tell you."

"Yes, you must try—I won't help you unless you try."

"Well, then—here goes. If I don't get it, I shall have to go to—prison." George's voice sank to a hoarse whisper.

Effie could not suppress a cry.



CHAPTER XI.

"Then you have done something wrong," said Effie, loosening her hold of her brother's arm and backing to a little distance. He could scarcely see her face in the ever increasing darkness, but he noticed the change in her voice. There was an indignant note of pained and astonished youth in it. Effie had never come face to face with the graver sins of life; the word "prison" stunned her, she forgot pity for a moment in indignation.

"George," she said, with a sort of gasp, "father left mother to you,—in a sort of way he gave her up to you,—and you have done wrong; you have sinned."

"You talk just like a girl," said George; "you jump at conclusions. You, an innocent girl living in the shelter of home, know as little about the temptations which we young fellows have to meet out in the world, as you know of the heavens above you. My God! Effie, it is a hard world—it is hard, hard to keep straight in it. Yes, I have done wrong—I know it—and father gave mother to me. If you turn away from me, Effie, I shall go to the bad—I shall go to the worst of all; there will not be a chance for me if you turn from me."

The tone of despair in his voice changed Effie's frame of mind in a moment. She ran up to him and put her arms round his neck.

"I won't turn from you, poor George," she said. "It did shock me for a moment—it frightened me rather more than I can express; but perhaps I did not hear you aright, perhaps you did not say the word 'prison.' You don't mean to say that unless you get that impossible sum of money you will have to go to prison, George?"

"Before God, it is true," said George. "I cannot, I won't tell you why, but it is as true as I stand here."

"Then you will kill our mother," said Effie.

"I know that."

"And father left her to you. George, it cannot be. I must think of something—my head is giddy—we have not any money to spare. It will be the hardest fight in the world to keep the children from starvation on that hundred pounds a year, but something must be done. I'll go and speak to the trustees."

"Who are the trustees?" asked George. He rose again to his feet. There was a dull sort of patience in his words.

"Mr. Watson is one,—you know the Watsons, father has always been so good to them,—and our clergyman, Mr. Jellet, is the other. Yes, I must go and speak to them; but what am I to say?"

"You must not betray me," said George. "If you mention that I want the money, all will be up with me. In any case, there may be suspicion. Men of the world like Mr. Watson and Mr. Jellet would immediately guess there was something wrong if a lad required such a large sum of money. You must not tell them that I want it."

"How can I help it? Oh, everything is swimming round before my eyes; I feel as if my head would burst."

"Think of me," said George—"think of the load I have got to bear."

Effie glanced up at him. His attitude and his words puzzled and almost revolted her. After a time she said coldly:

"What hour are you leaving in the morning?"

"I want to catch the six-o'clock train to town. This is good-by, Effie; I shan't see you before I go. Remember, there are six weeks before anything can happen. If anyone can save me, you can. It is worth a sacrifice to keep our mother from dying."

"Yes, it would kill her," said Effie. "Good-night now, George. I cannot think nor counsel you at present; I feel too stunned. The blow you have given me has come so unexpectedly, and it—it is so awful. But I'll get up to see you off in the morning. Some thought may occur to me during the night."

"Very well," said George. He walked slowly down the garden, and, entering the house, went up to his own room. Effie did not go in for a long time. She was alone now, all alone with the stars. She was standing in the middle of the path. Often and often her father's steps had trodden this path. He used to pace here when he was troubled about a sick patient, when his anxiety about her mother arose to a feverish pitch. Now his daughter stood on the same spot, while a whirl of troubled thoughts passed through her brain. It had been her one comfort, since that awful moment when Dorothy had told her that her father was gone, to feel that George, in a measure at least, took that father's place.

George had always been her favorite brother; they were very nearly the same age—Effie was only two years younger than George; long ago George had been good to the little sister—they had never quarreled, they had grown up always the best and warmest of friends. Their love had been true—as true as anything in all the world.

George had gone to London, and the first tiny spark of discontent had visited Effie's heart. She would be so lonely without her brother. It was so fine for him to go out into life, her own horizon seemed so narrow. Then Dorothy came, and they had made friends, and Dorothy told her what some women did with their lives.

Effie had been fired with a sudden desire to follow in Dorothy's steps; then had followed the dark cloud which seemed to swallow up her wishes, and all that was best out of her life. George, at least, remained. Dear, brave, manly George! The brother who had passed out of childhood, and entered man's estate.

Her father's last message had been to George—he had given her precious mother into George's care.

It seemed to Effie to-night, standing out under the stars, as if George, too, were dead. The old George was really dead, and a stranger had taken his place. This stranger wore the outward guise of her brother—he had his eyes, his figure; his voice had the same tone, he could look at you just in George's way, but he could utter terrible words which George had never known anything about. He could talk of sin and prison. He could propose that Effie should rescue him at the risk of her mother's livelihood. Oh, what did it mean? How was she to bear it?—how could she bear it? She clasped her hands, tears filled her eyes, but she was too oppressed, too pained, too stunned to weep long. Presently she went into the house, and lay down on her bed without undressing.

During the whole of that terrible night Effie scarcely slept. It was the worst night in all her life. Toward morning she dozed a little, but sprang up with a start, fearing that George had gone to London without seeing her. For her mother's sake she must see him. Whatever happened, her mother must never know of this calamity. Effie got up, washed her hands and face, smoothed out her hair, and went downstairs. George was already up, he was standing in the little parlor. He turned round when he heard his sister's footsteps, and looked anxiously at her.

"What a brute I am!" he said, when he saw the expression on her face; "but I swear before God, Effie, if you will help me, I'll turn over a new leaf; I'll never do a wrong thing again as long as I live—I swear it."

"Don't swear it," said Effie; "it seems to make it worse to do that. If you did wrong once, you may again. Don't swear. Ask God to help you. I don't know that I have been praying all night, but I have been trying to."

"Well, Effie, what have you determined to do?" he asked.

"Is there no one else who can help you, George?"

"Not a soul; I have only one friend, and that is Fred Lawson."

"Oh, yes! I remember you spoke of him last night. Would he help you?"

"He help me!" said George, with a hysterical laugh. "Why, he is the chap I have wronged. There, don't ask me any more. If you can help me, I am saved; if you can't, say so, and I'll go straight to destruction."

"No, you shan't do that, George. I have thought of something—nothing may come of it, but I'm going to try. It is terribly repugnant to me, but I would sacrifice much to save my mother. If it fails, all fails."

"I have thought," said George eagerly, "that, as the case is such an extreme one, we might take some of the capital. There is a thousand pounds; a quarter of that sum would put me right."

"It cannot be done for a moment," said Effie, her face flushing hotly. "That money must under no circumstances be touched; my mother and the children depend on it for their bread."

"I don't know what is to be done, then," said George in a hopeless voice.

"You must trust to me, George; I am going to try to help you in my own way. If I fail, I fail; but somehow I don't think I shall. If I have any news I will write to you soon; and now good-by, good-by."

George turned and kissed Effie; she gave him her cheek, but her lips did not touch his. She was willing to help him, but her love for the time was dead or dying.

The young man walked hurriedly down the village street. Effie stood in the porch and watched him; his shoulders were bowed, he stooped. George used to have a fine figure; Effie used to be proud of him—she was not proud of her brother now.

She went back to the house, and sat down listlessly for a time in the little parlor—her hands were folded in her lap. It seemed to her as if the end of all things had come.

Presently the sound of the children's voices overhead aroused her; she went upstairs, and helped Susan to dress them. Returning to the everyday duties of life had a soothing effect upon her. She made a violent effort and managed to put her trouble behind her for the time being. Whatever happened, her mother must not see any traces of it.

When the baby was dressed, she took him as usual to her mother's room.

Mrs. Staunton sat up in bed and stretched out her arms to receive him. Effie gave him to her mother, who began to kiss his little face hungrily.

"Has George gone, Effie?" said the mother.

"Yes, mother, dear."

"Did anyone see him off—did he have his breakfast?"

"Yes, he had a good breakfast; I got it ready for him last night."

"But did anyone see him off?"

"I did."

"That's right; I should not have liked him to have had his last meal by himself. I miss him awfully. Effie, dear, how soon do you think we can go to London?"

"As soon as possible, mother—in about six weeks."

"Six weeks!" exclaimed Mrs. Staunton. "I can't live without George for six weeks."

"Oh, yes, you can, mother—at least you'll try."



CHAPTER XII.

When Effie had finished the many small duties which fell to her share in the household economy, she went up to her bedroom and hastily changed her everyday dress for her best one. She did not take long about this task. Her small face looked very pale and thin under the heavy crepe on her hat. Taking up her gloves she ran down to the parlor where her mother was sitting. Mrs. Staunton was busily mending some stockings for George. A pile of his clothes lay on the table by her side.

"I thought we might send these to London next week," she said, looking up as her daughter entered the room. "George will want a really warm greatcoat for the winter, and this one of your father's—why, Effie, my dear——" She stopped abruptly, and gazed up at Effie's best hat. "Where are you going, my love?" she said. "I thought you could help me this morning."

"I am going out, mother, for a little."

"But where to? Why have you your best things on?"

"I am going to the Harveys'."

"To the Harveys'—to The Grange?"

Mrs. Staunton shuddered slightly; she turned her head aside. "Why are you going there?" she asked, after a pause.

"I want to see them—I won't be long away. Please, mother, don't tire yourself over all that mending now."

"It interests me, my dear; I find it impossible to sit with my hands before me. I am stronger than I used to be. I have got to live for George; and George is young, he is entering life, he must not be saddled with an old, ailing mother. I must get strong, I must get back my youth for his sake. Don't be long away, Effie, dear. I wonder you like to go to the Harveys' under the circumstances, but you know best. Children are very independent nowadays," concluded Mrs. Staunton, with a sigh.

Effie went up to her mother and kissed her, then she softly left the room.

The day was a particularly fine one, the sun shone brightly upon the little High Street. Effie walked quickly; she soon turned into a shady lane, the lane led her into the highroad. By and by she stopped at the gates of The Grange.

The woman of the lodge came out when she saw her. This woman had been fond of Dr. Staunton, and she recognized Effie.

Effie's little figure, her heavy black dress, her crepe hat, her white cheeks and dark eyes, all appealed with great pathos to the woman. She ran towards her with outstretched hands.

"Miss Effie, my dear, you're welcome," she said. She caught Effie's little white hands in her hard, toil-worn ones. "You are welcome, Miss Effie," she repeated; "it is good of you to come. Eh, dear, but it goes to the heart to see you in that deep black! Come in and rest, my dear young lady—come in and rest."

"I cannot just now, Mrs. Jones," replied Effie. "I am in a hurry—I want to go up to see the Squire on business."

"And how is your mother, poor lady—how is she bearing up, my dear?"

"Wonderfully," said Effie. "I'll come and see you another day, Mrs. Jones."

"Eh, do! you'll be more than welcome. I long to hear all about the doctor, poor man, and how he went off at the end. The last words of the pious are always worth listening to. I'll be glad to hear particulars, if you can give me half an hour some time, Miss Effie."

"Some time," said Effie.

She walked on, trembling a little. The woman's words and her eager look of curiosity were dreadful to her; nevertheless, she knew that her father, under similar circumstances, would have been very patient with this woman.

By and by she arrived at the heavy front door of the old Grange. She walked up the steps and rang the bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by a servant in livery. He knew Effie, and asked her in.

"Is the Squire at home?" she asked.

"I am not sure, miss, but I'll inquire. Will you step in here while I go to ask?"

The man opened the door of a little sitting room. Effie went in, and he closed it softly behind him.

After what seemed a very short time, she heard eager steps coming along the hall—the room door was flung open, and Squire Harvey, accompanied by his wife, came in.

Mrs. Harvey looked like a shadow—but her sweet face had a tender blush-rose color about it, her eyes had the intensely clear look which long illness gives; she was better, but she looked so frail and delicate that Effie's heart went out to her.

"My dear child," said Mrs. Harvey, "how good, how very good of you to come! I am only just downstairs. Dr. Edwards only allowed me down yesterday, but I could not resist coming to welcome you myself. Won't you come into my sitting room? It is just at the opposite side of the hall. I'll send Rhoda upstairs to fetch little Freda. She will be so enraptured at seeing you. Come, my dear. Now that we have got you, we won't let you go in a hurry. I think it so sweet of you to come to see us, and under the circumstances. Don't you think it is sweet of her, Walter, dear?"

Squire Harvey had more perception of character than his wife. He noticed how white Effie's face grew; he noticed the pathetic trembling of her hands.

"My dear," he said, "perhaps Miss Staunton wishes to see me by herself. I understood from the servant that she had asked for me."

"Yes, I did want to see you very much," said Effie.

"Of course, dear little thing," interrupted Mrs. Harvey; "but I'll stay while you talk to her. I am immensely interested in you. Miss Staunton. I can never forget, as long as I live, what you and yours have done for us."

"Please don't talk of it now," said Effie. "I mean—I know how kindly you feel, and indeed I am not ungrateful, but I cannot bear to talk it over, and I want very badly, please, to say something to the Squire."

"Come with me to my study, Miss Staunton," said the Squire.

He opened the door, and Effie followed him.

"Be sure you make her stay, Walter, when your business is over," called Mrs. Harvey after him. "I'll send for Freda to my boudoir. Miss Staunton must stay to lunch. It is delightful to see her again, and it is so sweet of her to come to see us."

The thin, high voice kept calling these words out a little louder and a little louder as Effie followed the Squire down one long corridor after another, until at last they entered his special study.

He shut the door at once, and offered her a chair.

"If I can do anything for you, you have but to command me," he said.

"I see you are in great trouble," he continued. "Pray take your own time. I have nothing whatever to do—I can listen to you as long as ever you like."

Poor Effie found great difficulty in using her voice. For one dreadful moment words seemed to fail her altogether. Then she gave a swift thought to her mother, to George, and her resolve was taken.

"I want to make a very queer request of you, Mr. Harvey," she said. "It may not be possible for you to grant it. For my father's sake, will you promise that you will never tell anyone what I am now asking you, if you don't find it convenient to grant it to me?"

"I'll keep your secret, of course," said the Squire. "But permit me to say one thing before you begin to tell it to me: there's not the slightest fear of my not granting it. There is nothing that you can possibly ask of me, that, under the circumstances, I should think it right to refuse. Now, pray proceed."

"I want you," said Effie—she gulped down a great lump in her throat, and proceeded in a sort of desperation—"I want you to lend me 250 pounds. I'll pay you interest—I think five per cent. is fair interest—I'll pay you interest on the money, and return it to you by installments."

There was not the least doubt that Effie's request startled the Squire. The amount of the money required was nothing to him, for he was a very rich man; but the girl's manner, her evident distress, the look of shame and misery on her face, surprised him. He guessed that she was borrowing the money for another, but for whom?

"I can see you are in trouble," he said in his kindest tone. "Why don't you confide in me? As to the money, make your mind easy, you shall have it; but girls like you don't as a rule borrow a large sum of money of this kind. Do you want it for yourself?"

"No."

"You won't tell me who it is for?"

"I cannot, Mr. Harvey. Please don't ask me."

"I won't ask you anything that distresses you. As you are talking of money, you will forgive me for saying that I am told that your mother is left badly off."

"No; that's a mistake," said Effie. "She has money. My father left her very well off for a man in his position. He insured his life for a thousand pounds, and my mother had a little fortune of her own, which brings in about sixty pounds a year."

"And you think your mother well off with that?" said the Squire in a tone of almost amused pity.

"Yes, for a woman in her position," said Effie in almost a proud tone. "Forgive me," she said; "I know that, after the request I have just made, you would be justified in asking me any questions, but I would rather not say any more about my mother. If you'll lend me the money—if indeed you will be so good, so noble—when can I have it?"

"When do you want it?"

"I must have it before six weeks are up, but the sooner the better."

"You shall have it in a week. Come here this day week and I'll give you a check for the amount."'

"A check!" said Effie; "but I would have to pass that through mother's bank—and—and she might know."

"Are you really asking for this money without your mother's knowledge, Miss Staunton?"

"Yes; my mother is not to know. Mr. Harvey, the object of our lives is to keep all anxiety from our mother—she must never know."

"Forgive me," said the Squire, after a pause. "I know a great deal about business, and you very little. Would it not be best to open an account in your own name? I am told that you propose soon to go to London. I would introduce you to my bankers there, who would be very glad to open an account with you; and if at any time you should have need of assistance, Miss Staunton, you would give me the privilege of helping you. Remember, but for me and mine you would not now be fatherless. You must see that you have a claim on me. Allow me to fulfill that claim in the only possible way in my power."

"You are good, you are more than good," said Effie, rising. "But this is all I really need. I'll pay you the interest on the money every half year."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. I earnestly wish you would take it as a gift."

"Thank you, but that is impossible."

Effie stood up; she had nothing further to say.

"May I take you to my wife's room now?" said, the Squire. "I know she is waiting to see you, she is longing to be friends with you. Her recovery has been wonderful; and as to little Freda, she is almost herself again. You would like to see Freda, would you not?"

"Yes," said Effie, "but not to-day—I must hurry back to my mother. I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Harvey. Will you please tell your—your wife that I cannot stay to-day?—my mother wants me. Thank you—thank you."

The Squire himself showed Effie out. He stood for a moment by his open hall door, watched her as she walked slowly down the avenue.

"That is a plucky little thing," he said to himself. "Now, what in the world does she want that money for? Not for herself, I'll be bound. I do hope she has got no disreputable relations hanging onto her. Well, at least it is my bounden duty to help her, but I wish she would confide in me. She is a pretty girl, too, and has a look of the doctor about her eyes."

"Where is Miss Staunton?" asked Mrs. Harvey, coming forward.

"Vanishing round that corner, my love," returned the Squire. "The fact is, the poor little thing is completely upset, and cannot face anyone."

"But her business, Walter—what did she want?"

"Ah, that's the secret—she made me swear not to tell anyone. It is my opinion, Elfreda, that the child has got into trouble. We must do what we can for her."

"I wish she would come here and be Freda's governess," said Mrs. Harvey.

The Squire looked at his wife.

"That's a good thought," he remarked; "and we might give her a big salary—she is so innocent, she would not really know anything about it. We might give her two hundred a year, and then she could help her mother; but I doubt whether she would leave her mother—she seems simply bound up in her."

"It is our duty to help her," said Mrs. Harvey, "whatever happens. If she won't come to us, we must think of some other way."

"Yes we must," said the Squire.



CHAPTER XIII.

In less than six weeks the Stauntons were settled in London. George had taken lodgings for them in a cheap part of Bayswater. The rooms were high up in a dismal sort of house. There were a sitting room and three small bedrooms. George occupied one—Effie and the girls another—Mrs. Staunton, the baby, and little Phil the third. It seemed to Effie as if they had always lived in this uninteresting house, looking out on that narrow dismal street. They knew nobody. Their lives were very dull. Mrs. Staunton occupied herself over George, morning, noon, and night. She mended his clothes with scrupulous care; she washed his shirts herself, and took immense pride in bringing the fronts up to a wonderful polish. There was not a young man in the City who went to his daily work with such snowy collars as George, such neat cuffs, such a look of general finish. This work delighted Mrs. Staunton—it brought smiles to her eyes and a look of satisfaction to her face.

Effie had got the money from Mr. Harvey, and had handed it without a word to George.

He took it; his face flushed all over—tears filled his eyes.

He said, "God bless you, Effie; you are the bravest, best sister a man ever had"; and then he went out of the room and out of the house.

"He never asked me where I got it," thought poor Effie; "and now there's the interest to pay, and how can it possibly be taken out of our hundred a year? Mother must never, never know; but how is that interest to be paid?"

The Stauntons had been settled about a fortnight in their new home, when Dorothy came to pay them a visit.

She was very busy in her hospital life. She came in with her accustomed eager, purposeful walk. She sat down on the nearest chair, and began to talk cheerfully to the children and sympathetically to Mrs. Staunton.

As soon as she had an opportunity, however, she drew Effie aside.

"Now, my dear," she said, looking straight into Effie's brown eyes, "when are you coming to us?"

"Oh, if I could come," exclaimed Effie, "I should indeed be happy, but I don't see any chance of it."

"I do. You are not really wanted here; Agnes is growing a big girl. Your mother is devoted to your brother George; provided he comes home every evening, she scarcely gives a thought to anyone else. You can be spared, Effie, and it will be good for you. You do not look a bit the same girl. You have lost your 'go' somehow. You are very young. It is wrong to have a look like that when one is only twenty. You ought to come to the hospital, and there is a vacancy now for a probationer, if you can take it."

"If I dare to," said Effie, "but it does not seem right."

"Yes, I believe it is right. I know the matron of St. Joseph's Hospital so well that I think I can arrange with her that you should spend a part of every Sunday at home—at least, while you are training Agnes. The fact is, Effie, you are a born nurse, and it is a sin to lose you to the profession."

"I should like to come beyond anything," said Effie. "It is the very highest wish of my heart. The last night that I ever saw my dear father he spoke to me on this subject. He used to hate lady-nurses, but you won him over, Dorothy, and he said, if the time came, I could go with his blessing."

"Then surely that settles the matter," exclaimed Dorothy. "I'll speak to Mrs. Staunton before I leave to-day."

"Oh, no; don't! Mother seems quite happy and comfortable. I would not for the world do anything to upset or distress her."

"If it upsets and distresses her, you must give it up, that's all," said Dorothy, "but it is worth sounding her on the subject. Don't say a word, Effie, I'll speak to your mother about it."

Effie looked puzzled and anxious.

"I would give anything to go," she murmured to herself. "It is torture to live on here, thinking of nothing but how to make a hundred pounds a year pay everything that is expected of it. Then I should be one off the family purse, for all my expenses would be paid by the hospital. Yes, surely it must be right. At any rate, I'll allow Dorothy to speak."

When tea was over, George, who had come in, and was as usual devoting himself to his mother, tried to coax her to come out with him a little.

"No, not to-night," said Dorothy suddenly. "I have something very special to say to Mrs. Staunton—perhaps you would stay and listen too, George?"

George did not mind being called by his Christian name by Dorothy. She was regarded by the Stauntons as part and parcel of the family.

"I'll do anything to oblige you," he said, giving the handsome nurse a look of genuine admiration. "Come, mother, if we are not to go out, we can at least sit near each other."

He drew up a chair close to his mother as he spoke, and put one of his arms round her neck. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and sat there in perfect content.

After a time one of his strong hands closed over hers. She had never, even in the doctor's time, felt more warmly and happily protected.

"Yes, Dorothy, what have you to say?" she remarked. "George and I are all attention."

"George and you!" laughed Dorothy. "I never saw such a devoted pair. Why, you are just like a pair of lovers."

"Well, we are lovers, aren't we, mother?" said the son.

"Yes, my boy," she replied. "No love was ever stronger than that which binds us together."

"I love to hear you say that," remarked Dorothy; "but now I want to talk on quite another matter. I am very anxious about Effie."

"Effie!" said Mrs. Staunton, just glancing at her daughter. "What about her? She seems quite well. Are you well, Effie?"

"Yes, mother, I am perfectly well," replied Effie.

"Oh, it is not that," said Dorothy, a touch of scorn coming into her voice. "Effie may be well in body, but she is just starved in soul."

"Starved!" said Mrs. Staunton, with a start "What do you mean, Dorothy?"

"Oh, never mind her, please, mother," said Effie in distress. "I am all right, really."

"No, she is not," continued Dorothy. "She is not right in the way I should like to see her right. The fact is, she wants a change."

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Staunton. "We are not rich enough to think of changes."

"The sort of change she wants will not cost you any money. The fact is, I want her to become what Heaven has intended her to be, a thoroughly trained hospital nurse. There is a vacancy now for a probationer at St. Joseph's, and I can get her admitted at once. May she come? That's the main point to consider."

Mrs. Staunton looked at Effie. Effie looked back at her mother.

It seemed to Effie at that moment as if she would have given anything for her mother to say, "No, I cannot spare her." On the contrary, Mrs. Staunton said in a calm voice:

"I leave the choice entirely to Effie herself. If she thinks she can be spared, she may go. The fact is, Effie, my love, your—your dear father spoke to me on this subject the very night he was taken ill. He seemed to wish it then; that is, if you cared for it yourself. If you are still of the same way of thinking, I for one should not think it right to make the slightest opposition."

"But how are you to do without her?" asked George in some dismay.

"Oh, I can manage—I am not the helpless old woman you seem to consider me, George. I really feel better and stronger every day. The more I do for you, the less of an invalid I seem to be. Effie has been quite tiresome lately, trying to manage the money, and taking all care off my hands, but I am quite capable of seeing to matters myself; and then Agnes is growing a big girl, she can go out to buy what I shall order."

Effie looked very pale. She sat perfectly still for a moment. Then she stood up.

"Very well, mother, I'll go," she said in a subdued voice. "When can you be ready for me, Dorothy?" she continued.

"In a week's time," said Dorothy. "There are certain preliminaries to be gone through, but I will send you a paper of our rules. You must fill up a form—in short, you must do exactly what you are instructed to do on the paper. You will probably be admitted before this day week."

Dorothy said a few more words, and then took her leave. Effie accompanied her out on the landing.

"I think you make a mistake in letting Effie go, mother," said George, when he was alone with his mother.

"Not at all, my son. The fact is, fond as I am of my dear Effie, she takes almost too much control lately of our money affairs—I shall be glad to get them into my own hands. There are very many comforts which I could give you, darling, which are simply put out of my power by Effie's determination to keep the family purse."

George said nothing. He stooped to kiss his mother's cheek.

He had not looked at matters from that point of view before. He allowed his mother fifty pounds a year, which was half his present income, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was making a very generous allowance, and that he should have a full share of the benefit.

"What I have been thinking is this," said Mrs. Staunton. "Out of the fifty pounds a year which you, dear boy, give us, we ought to provide a certain portion of your wardrobe. You really want new shirts. I suggested to Effie a week ago that I should like her to buy some fine lawn, as I wanted to make them for you, and she said at once that we could not afford it. But never mind, dearest; when mother is put into her own position again, you shall have the best shirts of any young man in the City."

Now, George was really satisfied with his present shirts, but if his mother chose to make him better ones he did not care to oppose her. He hoped that he would be asked out a little in the evenings during the coming winter, and he wondered if his mother could possibly squeeze an evening suit for him out of the allowance he gave her. He did not express this thought, however, at the present moment, and as Effie re-entered the room the two changed the conversation.

George went out for a little, and Effie took up some needlework, sitting where the lamp in the center of the table fell full upon her bright brown hair.

"I wonder, Effie," said Mrs. Staunton in a tone of almost discontent, "that you did not speak to me before now on this subject. I cannot bear to think that a child of mine does not give me her full confidence. You know I am the last person in the world to keep you drudging and toiling at home when you yourself long for a wider field of usefulness."

"Yes, mother, I know that," said Effie in a grave voice "The fact is," she continued, "I did not think it would be possible for you to spare me; but if you can, and you think it right for me to go, I shall of course be delighted, for I have long had my heart in this work."

"You are like all other modern girls," said Mrs. Staunton in that provokingly inconsistent way which characterized her; "you are not satisfied in the home nest. Well, well, I have got my boy, and I must not complain."

"Oh, mother, dear mother, you have got us all." Effie rose from her chair, went over and knelt by her mother's side.

"I would give anything in the world," she said, looking full at Mrs. Staunton, "for you to say that you are going to miss me awfully."

The sight of her pretty face softened the mother's heart.

"Of course I shall miss you, my darling," she said, "You always were the best of girls; but I don't wish to stand in your way. I know you will be happy where your heart is, and your father wished it. That, in my opinion, settles the matter."

"Well, I have a week," said Effie more cheerfully, standing up as she spoke. "I must do all in my power to instruct Agnes. I must teach her the little economies which I have been trying to practice."

"No, you need not do that, Effie. When you go to the hospital I intend to resume full control of the family purse."

Effie hesitated, and looked anxiously at her mother as she said this.

"I wish it, my love, so there's no use in discussing the matter," continued Mrs. Staunton. "I know exactly what we have got to spend—L150 a year. It is very little, indeed, but I rather fancy I am as good a manager as my child. I have at least a wider experience to guide me. Out of that income dear George provides a third. It seems to me, Effie, that we should give him rather more comforts than he has had lately for this generous allowance."

"Oh, mother! George really wants for nothing."

"I cannot agree with you. I should wish him to have beer at supper every night."

"I do not think it can be managed. There is not a penny to spare."

"Well, my dear, we will see. It is also only just that a proportion of his money should be devoted to providing him with suitable underclothing."

"Oh, mother, mother, have you thought of the thousand and one things which are required for the children and yourself? Surely George can manage to buy his own clothes out of the fifty pounds which he reserves for his personal expenses."

"That's so like a girl," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton, clasping her hands. "She knows about as little of a young man's life as she does of his Greek and Latin. Well, my love, we will propose no changes while you are at home. You must go to the hospital with a light heart, taking your mother's blessing with you."

"A light heart, indeed!" thought poor Effie when she reached her room that night. "A light heart, with mother spoiling George as hard as ever she can! I wonder how the others are to fare when George is to be treated like a prince in every way, and I wonder how that interest is to be met. Oh, dear! oh, dear! but it shall be paid somehow. Well, I suppose I am doing right. Mother would not have been content with this state of things much longer, that's more than evident, and then my dear father wished it. Yes, I'll take up my new life—I trust it will bring a blessing with it—but oh, mother, how anxious you make me!"



CHAPTER XIV.

In a week's time Effie found herself an inmate in the great hospital which, for present purposes, we will call by the name of St. Joseph's. It was situated in the east of London. Dorothy had been trained here, and was now superintendent of one of the wards.

Effie was to go up for a month's trial. At the end of that time she would be paid at the rate of twelve pounds the first year, and twenty pounds the second. Her training would take two years. A certain amount of her uniform would be also provided, and everything found for her with the exception of washing.

She did not soon forget the evening of her arrival. She had said good-by to her mother, had kissed the children, had given Agnes all final directions, and at last found herself in the cab which was to take her to St. Joseph's. It drew up presently outside one of the large entrance doors.

A lady, who was called the Home Sister, received Effie very kindly, and offered her a friendly cup of tea. The hour of her arrival was about four in the afternoon. She was then taken up to her own room, and instructed how to put her cap on, and how to wear her new uniform in the neatest and most compact way. Her dress was a pretty lilac check, and she wore a cap with a frill round it, and long tails at the back. Her apron bib was high to the collar in front, and fastened with straps which crossed at the back. Nothing could be neater and more serviceable than the dress.

The kind Sister, having seen that Effie was all right, gave her a friendly smile, and then led her along several dim passages, up and down many stairs, until she finally found herself in a long, light ward, where from thirty to forty women were lying in bed. The Home Sister introduced Effie to the Sister of the ward, who went by the name of Sister Kate. Sister Kate nodded to her, said a word or two in a very busy voice, and then Effie found herself practically on the threshold of her new life. The Sister who had been kind to her during tea, who had shown her to her room, and instructed her how to dress, had vanished. Sister Kate looked far too busy and anxious to be worried by questions; and Effie, capable and active as she always was, found herself, for the first time in her life, with nothing to do, and overcome by strange nervousness. She was too much embarrassed to be of real use. Her face was burning with blushes. Sister Kate was tired with her long day's work. There was a great deal to be done to put the ward straight for the night, and she really had no time to devote to the probationer. The women lying in their beds seemed to have eyes and ears for no one but Effie. Between sixty and seventy eyes turned on her wherever she moved, whatever she looked at, whatever she did. Some of the eyes in the pale and harassed faces looked kindly and interested, some of them merely amused, some of them cross and discontented. Effie knew that these women would be querulous and even rude under the touch of strange and untutored hands.

At last the night nurses arrived, the bell rang, and Sister Kate came forward to show the new probationer the way to the dining hall.

Here were several long tables, where the nurses, all dressed exactly alike, sat down to supper. Effie took her place, and quickly discovered that the others were far too tired and hungry to pay any attention to her. She felt too excited to eat, and sat watching the faces of those around her.

Supper was immediately followed by prayers, and then came bed. Effie's first evening as a probationer was over.

She did not know whether to cry or to laugh as she laid her head on her pillow. The reality was so different from anything her fancy had painted. The practical character of the work, the absence of all sentiment, the real illness, the real burden of humanity, seemed to press down upon her.

She had thought, a week ago, when Dorothy proposed that she should come to St. Joseph's, of the delight of being in the same hospital with her friend, but she now discovered that she was unlikely to see much of Dorothy even though she lived under the same roof. Dorothy was Sister of a ward, and that ward was not the one where Effie was to serve her probationership. She had the comfort of a very small room to herself, and was just closing her eyes in sleep, when the handle of the room door was softly turned, and Dorothy, looking beautiful in her Sister's dress of soft navy serge, came in.

"So here you are, you poor little thing," said Dorothy, bending over Effie and kissing her. "I have just come in for one minute to say God bless you. You have come, the ice is broken. You have a fine career before you. Don't be discouraged by what you saw to-night."

"Oh, I am so lonely!" said Effie, with a quiver in her voice. "I was sure when I came here that I should be in the ward with you, Dorothy."

"No, my dear, that was not possible," replied Dorothy. "Of course I should have been very glad if it could have been arranged, but I had no voice in the matter. As it cannot be, dearest, try to believe that this is just the best thing that could have happened to you, to be flung at once, as it were, on your own feet. You will thus gain experience without having a crutch like me to lean upon. I know the first night is very bad, but you will soon learn your duties and become intensely interested in the life. You are with Sister Kate, are you not?"

"Yes," said Effie. "She scarcely spoke to me—I never felt so awkward in my life, and I know that I was never half so clumsy."

"Of course," said Dorothy, with a smile. "Don't I know the feeling well? It all passes over, my love, and far more quickly than you have the least idea of. Remember you have got the power—those little hands are capable, that head holds a steady and sensible brain. Why, Effie, you have gone through far worse times than this without flinching. Surely, surely you are not going to break down now?"

"Oh, I won't, I won't!" said Effie, with a sob; "but I felt lonely, very lonely, and it was so very kind of you to come to see me."

"Of course I have come to see you—I am only too delighted to do anything in my power for you. I would have rushed down to share your cup of tea on your arrival, but a bad case was just being brought into the ward, and I could not leave. Now, I must go to bed myself, or I shan't be fit for work to-morrow. Good-night, Effie. I have arranged that you are to spend every second Sunday at home."

"Oh, how good you are—how thankful I am!" exclaimed Effie.

Dorothy was leaving the room, when she turned back.

"I forgot to tell you that you are very lucky to be under Sister Kate," she said. "There is not a nurse in the whole hospital who trains as she does, and her probationers always get the best certificates at the end of the two years of training."

"She looks so severe and hard," said Effie.

"She is a little severe, and some people may call her hard, but she has a tender heart under all that strict, somewhat cold manner, and then she is so just. My dear, when you know more of hospital life you will be thankful that you are with a just and patient Sister. Sister Kate is both. She will soon recognize you, Effie, for what you are. Now good-night, my love."

Dorothy went away, and soon afterward Effie fell asleep.

The next morning she was awakened by a bell, at what seemed to her something like the middle of the night. She had to dress herself quickly, and then go into the ward and begin her duties.

She found, somewhat to her surprise, that she had to begin her nurse's life as a sort of maid-of-all-work; she had to scrub floors, to clean grates, to polish handles—it seemed to her that she never had a moment to herself from morning till night. Her feet felt very sore, her back ached. Once or twice she felt so dreadfully fagged that she wondered if she could keep up. But through it all, growing greater and greater as the days went on, there came a sense of full satisfaction, of something accomplished, something done, of the feeling that she was being trained thoroughly and efficiently, so that at the end of her time of probation she might be able to say, "There's one thing which I can do well."

When the first Sunday came she was glad to hurry home. She went back brimful of news, and looked forward to the quiet time in her mother's little parlor with great delight.

Mrs. Staunton was glad to see her. The children were all dressed in their black frocks, and looked neat and comfortable. George was in the room. It seemed to Effie as if she did not recognize his coat—she wondered if it could possibly be a new one.

She arrived at home a little before the midday dinner, and presently the landlady came in to lay the cloth. This used to be Agnes' occupation. Effie did not say anything while the woman was in the room, but when she went out she remarked on this change.

"Oh, it's all right," said Mrs. Staunton. "I pay half a crown a week extra, and the landlady now waits on us. It is much more comfortable, I assure you, Effie, and worth the extra bit of money."

Effie colored; she gave Agnes a reproachful glance, but did not say anything.

Agnes turned her back with a little sniff.

"Why, Effie," she said suddenly, "How coarse your hands have got! What in the world have you been doing?"

Effie laughed.

"Polishing, cleaning, and scrubbing," she said. "In short, doing very much what Mrs. Robinson's little maid of all-work does down in the kitchen here."

"Oh, dear, dear!" exclaimed Agnes; "if those are a nurse's duties, you won't catch me going in for that sort of profession."

"It's awfully interesting," said Effie. "I have, of course to begin at the bottom, but I like it very much."

While she was speaking, there came a knock at the door. George went to open it, and a young man came in. George brought him up to introduce him to his mother.

"This is my great friend, Fred Lawson, mother," he said. "Effie, let me introduce you to Lawson—Lawson, this is my sister Effie."

Effie bowed. She felt the color rushing all over her face. Lawson was the man whom George had wronged in some mysterious way. Lawson was the man for whom that dreadful L250 was required.



CHAPTER XV.

They all sat down to dinner, which Effie further noticed was a great deal more luxurious than when she held the purse strings. There was a nice little joint of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and one or two vegetables. This course was followed by an apple tart and custard; and then the board was graced with some russet apples and walnuts and a bottle of port wine.

Effie felt such a sense of consternation that she could scarcely eat this pleasant food. But Mrs. Staunton, George, Lawson, and the younger children enjoyed the dinner thoroughly. When the beef was taken away, there was very little left on the joint; and as to the fruit tart, it vanished almost as soon as it was cut. Effie could not help wondering to herself how L150 a year could meet this lavish style of living.

Lawson talked very pleasantly during dinner. After glancing toward Effie several times, he suddenly remarked:

"I cannot help feeling that I know your face," said he. "Where and when have we met before?"

"I saw you last night," said Effie, with a smile.

"You saw me last night! What in the world do you mean?"

"Yes," said Effie. "Don't you remember No. 17, in B Ward? You came in to stop that terrible hemorrhage from the lungs from which she was suffering."

"B Ward at St. Joseph's?" exclaimed Lawson.

"Oh, my dear Effie, now I beg of you not to allude to horrible things at dinner," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton.

"No, mother; I am sorry I mentioned it." Effie colored up.

"What have you to do with St. Joseph's?" said Lawson.

"I am a probationer in B Ward, under Sister Kate."

"Never! how extraordinary! Now I remember, you are the girl who held the basin. So you really are a probationer! A fresh one! Have you been there long?"

"Just a week."

"Well, let me congratulate you on one thing, you held that basin without shaking it; I expect you have got plenty of nerve. Of course, I knew I must have seen you before; I never forget a face."

Lawson presently went out with George for a walk. Agnes dressed the children and took them with her to the Sunday school, and Effie was alone with her mother.

"Come and sit by me, darling," said Mrs. Staunton. "It is so very nice to have you home again; I miss you very much, my dear daughter. But I am really getting better. George wants me to consult Dr. Davidson at St. Joseph's Hospital. He thinks that your dear father may have been mistaken about my heart, and that it may get quite strong and well again."

"If you feel better, I don't think I would consult anyone," said Effie, trembling a little.

"Well, dear, well, there's no hurry about it. But I always notice, Effie, and it distresses me not a little that any suggestion of George's you are likely to pooh-pooh; now, surely that is scarcely fair to him, dear fellow? You must notice, my love, how cheerful and pleasant we have made this room. George insisted on my getting new curtains—only white muslin, you careful child. They cost really very little, but they do make such a difference in the effect. Then he has also determined that I shall live better, plenty of meat and a little port wine. It is a most false economy, my dear, not to attend to one's diet. There's nothing else keeps up the health."

"Yes, mother, I know all that; but good, expensive, nourishing things have to be paid for."

"Now, Effie, don't let me hear you begin that dismal plaint. Do you really mean to insinuate that I, your mother, would go into debt for things?"

"Oh, no, dear mother! how could I think that?"

"You imply it, my love, by your manner."

Effie sighed.

It was hopeless to argue or remonstrate. She felt as if the little home, so different from the beloved one in Whittington, was in reality constructed over a volcano—any day it might collapse. The weight of sorrow which pressed against her heart as she thought of this, of her father, of the old life, quite crushed the brave spirit for the moment. Where was George's honor? How dared he lead his mother into these extravagances, when he knew, too, when he knew——

Effie clasped her hands tightly together. She restrained her emotions with an effort, and turned the conversation to indifferent matters.

Mrs. Staunton was certainly in better spirits. There was a little color in her cheeks, and some of the old sweet brightness in her eves.

When George had been absent about an hour, she grew restless and distraite; she left her seat by Effie's side, and, going to the window, looked up and down the street.

"I hope the rain isn't coming on," she said; "he forgot to take an overcoat."

"Who, mother?"

"George."

"But really, mother dear, he isn't sugar; he won't melt."

"There you are again, Effie, making little of your brother. It so happens that he has a nice new coat on to-day, and I don't want it to get shabby at once."

"A new coat! How did he buy it?"

"I lent him a little money for the purpose; he didn't go into debt, so you need not think it."

"I wonder you were able to spare the money."

"Oh, yes; some of my dividends fell due, and were paid on Monday. I lent George three pounds; I think he has got a wonderful coat for the money. He will pay me back as soon as he gets his own salary. Ah! and there he is, dear fellow, and that nice-looking young man, Mr. Lawson. Effie, now do ring the bell; Mrs. Robinson ought to have tea on the table."

With a great effort Effie kept from making remarks which she knew would only irritate her mother.

She said to herself, "There's no help for things to-day. The person to talk to is George; he ought not to allow mother to rush through her money in this way. I wonder if I am doing wrong in giving up my home-life to the hospital; but no, I don't think I am. Mother would have insisted on managing the money in any case."

Mrs. Robinson appeared with the tea-tray. There was a little jug of cream and a shilling Madeira cake; there was also a great plate of thick bread and butter for the children. The tea-tray was placed on the table, and George and Lawson took their tea standing. Effie helped them. Lawson looked at her once or twice, and thought what a wonderfully nice face she had, how true her eyes were, how good she seemed altogether.

"She's altogether of different metal from her brother," thought the young man. "I wish with all my heart he were like her; but although there is something lovable about him, and we are chums, of course, yet I never feel quite sure of myself when in his company."

The meal which followed was quite merry. Phil and Marjory had gone up to the top of their class in Sunday school; Agnes was promoted to teach a class of very little children; Katie was going in for the Junior Cambridge Examination, and eagerly consulted Effie about some books which she was obliged to procure. Effie promised to give her the money out of her first month's salary.

"But that will be some time off," she said, "for I am only going through my month's trial now, so you must be patient, Katie."

"I'll lend you the money," said George, stroking his sister's hair.

He looked so affectionate and handsome, and so manly and good-humored, that it was impossible not to feel pleased with him. Mrs. Staunton's eyes quite beamed as she glanced at her eldest son.

"Now, mother, I am going to sit near you," he said. He drew his chair close to his mother, and began to talk to her in a low tone.

Effie and Lawson exchanged a few words over hospital work. He would make an enthusiastic doctor some day! he loved the profession and thought it the noblest in the world. He reminded Effie a little of her father.

The quick hours flew all too fast. Effie's time was up. She went back to the hospital with a curious sense of uneasiness, but equally also of rest and refreshment. It was nice to think that George had such a good friend as Fred Lawson.



CHAPTER XVI.

Two months passed away without any special incident. Effie's month of trial being over, she was now established at St. Joseph's as a regular probationer. Her salary of twelve pounds a year began from the day her second month commenced. All those qualities which Dorothy was quite sure that Effie possessed were coming abundantly to the fore. She had tact, she had courage, she had nerve. She was also absolutely unselfish. Self was not in the foreground with her; the work which she had to do, the work which she meant to carry through in the best possible manner, in the bravest spirit, with the most conscientious sense of duty, ever filled her mental horizon. Sister Kate began to trust Effie. She began to smile at her now and then, and to give her not quite so much floor-scrubbing and grate-polishing, and a little more work to do for the patients themselves.

The patients liked to call Effie to smooth their sheets, to turn their pillows, to give them their drinks. One or two of them, when they had an odd moment, began to make little confidences to her. She learned their histories almost at a glance. She also studied their fancies; she began to find out the exact way Mrs. Robinson liked her gruel flavored, and how Mrs. Guiers liked her pillows arranged. Effie made no fuss over the patients,—fuss and favoritism were strongly against the rules,—but notwithstanding, she was a favorite herself.

More than one pair of tired eyes looked at her with longing and refreshment as she passed, and more than one pair of wearied lips smiled when she came near.

Two months went by in this fashion—very, very quickly, as such busy months must. It was found impossible to allow Effie to go home every Sunday, but she went, as a rule, every second one.

Things seemed to be going fairly straight at home. The extravagance she had noticed on her first Sunday was not repeated to the same extent. Mrs. Staunton seemed decidedly better, and Effie gave herself up with a thankful heart to her work.

It was now the middle of winter, close upon Christmas-time. The weather outside was bitterly cold, although, in the ward, Effie scarcely felt this. She wore her neat lilac print dress just the same in winter as in summer.

One day, about a week before Christmas, when a thick yellow fog was shutting out all the view from the high ward windows, Effie was doing something for No. 47, a poor, tired-looking woman of the name of Martin, when Lawson, the young medical student, came suddenly into the ward. He had been sent by the house physician to take notes on a certain case. This case happened to be the very one which Effie was attending. When he saw Effie a peculiar expression passed over his face. It was against the strictest of all rules for the medical students ever to address a word to the probationers; even the necessary duties required of them had to be conveyed through a Sister or a ward nurse. Effie was helping poor No. 47 to drink a little milk and soda water. As she put the glass back in its place, Lawson came close to her. He said abruptly:

"I am very anxious to have a conversation with you about George."

She colored crimson when he addressed her.

"Yes," she said.

"Nurse!" exclaimed Sister Kate's voice at that moment, in a harsh, sharp tone, "go at once and make up the fire at the other end of the room."

Effie went off, trembling and disturbed.

The fact of Lawson having specially addressed her passed out of her mind immediately, but the mention of George's name filled her with fear.

It was the first time in her hospital life that she absolutely forgot the rules laid down for her conduct. Sister Kate, who had the eyes of a hawk, noticed when Lawson bent over to speak to the pretty little probationer. It was her duty to correct the faintest attempt at flirting on the part of the probationers and medical students. She felt shocked at Effie, who was fast becoming a favorite of hers, permitting such a thing for a moment, and, when next Effie had anything to do for her, quite resumed her icy manner toward her.