No. 47 required some special attention again that evening—she was feverish, and not going on well. She called Effie to her side in an eager voice.

"You might turn my pillow again for me, dear," she said. "You know how to hitch it right under the small of my back, better than any of those other nurses. There now, that's better. Stoop your head a bit, love. I believe if you go downstairs into the hall near the surgery, you are safe to see that young doctor; he is sure to be in the dispensary about this time, and you might catch him when he is going out."

"Hush!" said Effie. "I know you mean kindly, but you ought not to talk like that."

"Oh, my love, I know, I know," said the woman, with a wink. "We was all young once—I am three-and-forty, and have never had a mate. I missed my chance when I was young. Don't you miss yours, nurse."

Effie turned pale with indignation; but then, seeing that the woman meant kindly, she tried to smile.

"I am very much obliged to you," she said, "but things aren't a bit the way you think." She then went off to perform her other duties.

Sister Kate spoke to her sharply.

"Nurse," she said, "I hope you remember the rule which forbids favoritism—I noticed that you stayed longer than was necessary with No. 47."

"She complained a good deal of her back, Sister, and I was arranging her pillows for her."

"Don't try to deceive me," said Sister Kate. "You know perfectly well that you did not spend all that time arranging a pillow. Now, go and help to bring up the teas."

Effie turned to her duties with a tingling sensation in her eyes.

It was the first time since her arrival at St. Joseph's that her work seemed almost impossible to her. Her heart quite ached with longing to know what Lawson had meant. What had he to tell her about George? As she thought, her fears grew greater and her memory of the hospital rules less and less.

She determined at any risk to try and see Lawson that evening. It would be impossible for her to venture down into the central hall of the hospital, but she knew for certain that he would come into the ward again late that evening.

Sister Kate would be off duty at nine o'clock, and Sister Alice, the night superintendent, was not nearly so strict. Effie hovered about near the door; she knew she was disobeying rules, for she ought to have gone to bed soon after nine o'clock. No one noticed her, however. The night nurses were all busy taking up their different duties, and Sister Alice was talking to the house physician at the farther end of the ward.

Suddenly Effie, standing near one of the doors, saw Lawson coming upstairs; she ran to him without a moment's hesitation. "What have you to tell me about George?" she said.

He colored, and looked almost annoyed when she spoke to him.

"I cannot tell you here," he said in a hasty voice. "Are you going home next Sunday?"

"No; it's my Sunday in—unless I could get one of the other probationers to change with me."

"I wish you would manage to do that; I really want to see you very badly. If you'll go home on Sunday, I'll call in the course of the afternoon, and then I can walk back with you to the hospital. Now, go at once—you must not be seen talking to me."

Effie flew down the corridor to her own little room.

That night she could scarcely sleep; she felt oppressed with all kinds of forebodings. The idea of her having broken one of the rules, and, in fact, laid herself open to dismissal, never once entered into her head.

She was still the faithful nurse—the earnest-minded, gentle, good girl, who would give up her whole life to the alleviation of the sufferings of others. The fact of Effie having a dual life, of having a nature which could not forget the old home ties, was not likely, however, to be recognized in the hospital.

The next morning at breakfast she noticed that one or two of the probationers giggled a little when they saw her. She sat down in her usual seat, and one of the girls nudged her elbow.

"Well," she said, "you're no better than the rest of us."

"What in the world do you mean?" said Effie, coloring scarlet.

"Oh, don't be so sly!" said the girl, with a poke which she intended to make playful. "He is a very good-looking young fellow, too; only, if you don't want to get into mischief, don't let Sister Kate see it."

"I know what you mean," said Effie in a steady voice; "but you are altogether mistaken. I scarcely know Mr. Lawson; he only spoke to me yesterday because he happened to be a great friend of my brother's."

"Oh, the usual thing," laughed the girl. "It's so very convenient to have brothers; is it not, Lucy?"

The girl addressed as Lucy grinned, and Effie felt very uncomfortable.

At dinner that day, it suddenly passed through her mind that she must, by hook or by crook, induce one of the probationers to change Sundays with her. Lucy was usually a good-natured girl. Her people did not live in town; as a rule she spent her Sundays out with her aunt-in-law. Effie went up to her when she had a moment to spare.

"Lucy," she said, "I wish you would do something for me."

"To be sure I will, Effie," she replied—"anything in my power."

"I want to go home very badly next Sunday; do you think it would be possible for me to change with you?"

"Heigh-ho!" said Lucy, "You want to meet Mr. Lawson; I know your sly little ways."

"No, indeed, it is not true," began Effie; but then she stopped, for she knew it was true. She would meet him. "Oh, how little Lucy knows the burden that is pressing on me!" thought the poor girl.

Tears suddenly rose to her pretty brown eyes.

"I cannot explain things to you," she said; "I would if I could. You must believe in me and trust me. I have a great deal of anxiety. Oh, it has nothing to do with the hospital; it is about my home life. There is a great burden laid upon me. I want very much to go home on Sunday. Indeed, Mr. Lawson has little to do with the real burden, only I believe he can tell me something."

"I know you are a good girl," began Lucy, who became grave on the spot. "Of course you shall take my turn if Sister Kate will allow it."



CHAPTER XVII.

Sister Kate made no objection, and Effie hurried home in a state of excitement which she could scarcely restrain. Mrs. Staunton did not expect her, and the poor girl felt her heart sink low in her breast when she saw that her unexpected arrival scarcely gave satisfaction. There was a nice white cloth on the table, and a large bunch of flowers in a pretty cut-glass jug stood in the center. An attempt at dessert again graced the board, and Effie noticed that a bottle of sherry and a bottle of port stood on the little sideboard.

She felt a sense of dismay.

"Even mother is beginning to keep things from me," she said to herself. "It is all George, of course! They did not expect me home to-day, so they are having a particularly good dinner. Is it possible that even mother would try to deceive me? Oh, dear, dear! how changed all our life is, now that father is no longer here!"

There had never been the faintest shadow of concealment about the honest doctor, and while with her husband Mrs. Staunton was the most straightforward woman imaginable; but, alas! her character was a weak one—she was now completely under George's influence, and George had learned to walk in those crooked paths which those who begin to do wrong are always tempted to follow.

He came in presently, looking particularly handsome and manly. He had on a nice new coat; and his beautifully got-up collar showed off his fresh young face to the best possible advantage.

Mrs. Staunton called him up at once for Effie to criticise.

"Doesn't he look well in a white silk tie?" she said. "I like white ties better than colored ones for him, and they are not so expensive either, for I can wash them myself."

"I wonder all that washing does not fag you, mother," said Effie.

Before Mrs. Staunton could reply, Mrs. Robinson appeared with the dinner, and the family sat down to an excellent meal.

Effie saw quite plainly that it would be useless for her to attempt to expostulate. Mrs. Staunton, after her first start of unconcealed dismay, was very affectionate to her daughter. She told Effie that she thought she looked a little pale, and wondered whether all that nursing was not too much for her.

"No, mother, I love the work," said Effie.

"But that is not the question, my love," said Mrs. Staunton, shaking her head. "The question is this: is it undermining your health?"

"Well, in any case I should have to earn my living," said Effie. "I could not possibly afford to do nothing at home. As well earn it as a nurse as in any other way, and I love nursing beyond anything else in the world."

"You always were an obstinate dear little girl, was she not, George? But, after all, Effie——" Here Mrs. Staunton paused and looked at her son. "I think I might tell Effie?" she said, giving him a bright nod.

"Oh, I don't suppose there is anything to make a fuss over," replied George. He colored as he spoke, and looked out of the window. He could easily hoodwink his mother, but it was difficult to meet Effie's clear eyes and not to feel sure that she was reading him through, and seeing him as he really was.

Agnes jumped up, saying it was full time to go to Sunday school; she carried off the children with her, and George, his mother, and Effie were alone.

"Sit down in your usual chair, George," said his mother. He did so, bringing up the port wine as he spoke, and pouring out a glass, which he insisted on his mother drinking. He tossed off one or two glasses himself, after which his eyes grew bright and steady, and a color came into his cheeks.

"Yes, tell Effie," he said.

"I think you might do so, George; I am so proud of you."

"No, mother. I like to hear you describing me; you make me feel such an awfully fine fellow."

George laughed as he spoke.

"Well, then, Effie," said his mother, "you will in future learn to appreciate our dear George as he deserves. The fact is this: he has just got a rise in his salary of a whole hundred a year. George is now earning two hundred a year; and he has arranged, dear fellow, to give me one hundred a year, in order that I may have those little comforts which he thinks I require."

"Is that really true?" said Effie, coloring. "Oh, what splendid news!" She looked eagerly at George as she spoke. She longed to jump up, throw her arms round his neck, and kiss him.

"Is this true?" she repeated. "Oh, I am so glad! We do want the money so badly."

George stooped to flick off a speck of dust which had settled on his immaculate shirt-cuff; his eyes would not meet Effie's.

"Of course it is true," he said in a bravado sort of voice. "You don't suppose I would tell mother a lie, do you?"

"Oh, Effie! how could you doubt him?" said Mrs. Staunton, almost crying.

"No, mother, I don't doubt him," Effie replied. She walked to the window. Her momentary pleasure was over; she knew, just as well as if George had told her, that the whole thing was a fabrication. If he had more money, he was not getting it in his situation. His look, his attitude, joined to the few words Lawson had said to her, made Effie quite certain on that point. Burning words half rose to her lips, but she checked them. She did not doubt George. She read the truth in his eyes; what fell from his lips was nothing.

Mrs. Staunton kept on talking. "We shall have real comforts at home now," she said. "I am, as my boy says, a wonderful manager."

"The best in all the world," interrupted George; "there never was such a mother."

Mrs. Staunton's eyes quite shone with pleasure.

"What I was thinking was this, Effie," she continued, "that if you really are not strong enough to go on with your work, we can now afford to keep you at home."

"Of course we can," said George.

He had scarcely said these words, half turning his back on Effie as he spoke, when the room door was opened by Mrs. Robinson, and Lawson was announced.

When he saw his friend, George suddenly turned pale. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and went forward to meet him, speaking in a loud and bragging voice.

"Is that you, Lawson? Welcome, old chap. We did not expect you to-day, but we are right glad to see you, of course."

"You will stay and have tea with us, won't you, Mr. Lawson?" said Mrs. Staunton in her sweet voice.

"Yes, certainly," said Lawson.

He had given Effie his hand when he came into the room, but he scarcely looked at her.

He sat down near Mrs. Staunton, and began to talk to her in his usual bright way. She yielded after a moment to his charm. Lawson was a young fellow with a great amount of general information; he had also abundance of tact, and he knew how to suit his words to Mrs. Staunton's requirements.

When George saw his friend talking to his mother, he went up to Effie and stood near her.

"Come to this end of the room," he said abruptly.

Effie followed him.

"I am likely to make quite a pile of money," he said, speaking in a low voice and glancing toward his mother. "I know you think badly of me,—it's awfully hard on a fellow when his sister thinks badly of him,—but, nevertheless, I am likely to be in a real good way of business soon. And what I want to say now is this, Effie. I am anxious to pay back that L250 which you borrowed for me."

"I wish you would," said Effie.

"Well, I dare say I can give you fifty pounds toward it this week. Squire Harvey won't require the whole of the money back at once."

"Oh, he doesn't require it at all," said Effie. "It is I who require it. It is my honor and the honor of my dead father that demands it. It ought to be paid back, and you ought to do it."

"Don't speak so loudly—you do get so excited about things," said George.

Effie lowered her voice. Lawson, as he talked to Mrs. Staunton, glanced sharply at her.

Tea was brought in, and Effie had to take her place at the tea-tray. George's words had made her feel more uncomfortable than ever. It was absolute nonsense to suppose that he could be earning money at this rate.

After tea, Effie had to go back to the hospital.

"Good-by mother," she said. "I won't see you now for a fortnight."

Mrs. Staunton got up and put her feeble old arms round her daughter's neck. "Good-by, my darling," she said. "Take care of yourself; don't overwork yourself. Remember it is unnecessary. You have got a home, and a dear, noble, faithful brother to provide for you."

"Yes, Effie, you are heartily welcome to all that I can give you," said George in a lofty tone.

Effie pressed her lips to her mother's, kept her arms for one moment round her neck, and then turned away with tears in her eyes.

"Good-by, George," she said, holding out her hand.

"I'll see you back to the hospital," said George.

"Don't do that. It is a beautiful evening; mother would like you to take a walk with her."

"And I'd have the greatest pleasure in seeing Miss Effie home, if she would let me," said Lawson.

George hesitated for a moment. For some reason, which was more than evident, he did not want Effie to be alone with his friend.

He looked at his mother. She did not catch his eye, or she would have read his wish by instinct. The evening was really very fine, and she liked to walk round the square leaning on George's arm. When well enough, too, she liked him to take her to church.

"I think I'd enjoy a little walk with you, George," she said. "The evening is quite like spring—Wonderful weather for so near Christmas; the air is as mild and soft as milk; and as Mr. Lawson has so kindly promised to see Effie back, perhaps you'd come?"

"All right," said George. "By-by, Effie; you'll hear from me, perhaps, in the course of the week."

Effie went downstairs, followed by Lawson. As soon as ever they got out, he looked her full in the face.

"You must be greatly amazed," he said, "at my presuming to bother you about your family affairs."

"Oh, no!" she replied. "I think you are kind, but your words have made me very anxious."

"Then," said Lawson, "you see for yourself that things are not all right."

"I have known that for some time."

"George is a great friend of mine," continued Lawson. "We saw a good deal of each other when he first came to town—he was a right jolly sort of fellow then; it was only about six months ago that, all of a sudden, he seemed to change. I suppose he took up with some bad companions, but I really can't say for certain."

"But what about him now?" said Effie, in a voice almost irritable with anxiety. "Have you anything fresh to tell me?"

"You heard him, probably, say to your mother that he had a rise of salary?"

"Yes."

"The fact is," continued Lawson, "I know that not to be true."

Effie also in her heart of hearts knew it not to be true, but she could not bear to hear a stranger abuse her brother.

"How can you be sure?" she said, somewhat inconsistently.

"How can I be sure?" he retorted. "This is not a matter of sentiment, I happen to know. George is working with a relative, it is true, but Mr. Gering is one of the hardest men in the City. Everyone who understands him knows the system on which he works, and a relative has no more chance with him than another. George will have to take his rise step by step at something like the rate of ten pounds a year. Perhaps he has told your mother that he has had quite a large rise."

"He said a hundred a year; he said he was now receiving two hundred a year."

"What is to be done?" said Lawson, "Something ought to be done to stop it. Your mother will certainly live beyond her means, and then you will all get into no end of a mess. Do forgive me for taking an interest; the fact is, George was a great friend of mine once."

"Oh, please don't give him up!" said Effie. "If good men turn against him, what chance has he, poor fellow?"

"I won't, if you wish me to look after him," said Lawson, giving her a quick glance.

At this moment two nurses from St. Joseph's Hospital, who were crossing the street, saw Effie. They noticed her earnest face, the sparkle in her eyes; they also observed the glance which the handsome young medical student gave her. The women nudged one another, smiled, and went on.

Effie never saw them.

"Let us walk a little faster," said Lawson, who was not so unobservant. He felt vexed that the women should see him with Effie, but now that he was with her he must at least unburden his mind.

"George told me," said Effie,—"perhaps it is not wrong to repeat it to you,—that he is likely to make a great deal of money."

"Did he? Did he tell you that—did he happen to say how much?"

"Well, he spoke as if money were very easily earned," said Effie. "He said something about getting fifty pounds this week."

"I must tell you the truth," said Lawson. "There's no help for it. Your brother will go straight to the bad if he is not rescued, and that at once."

"What do you mean? Oh, how you frighten me!"

Effie's face was as white as a sheet.

"I am ever so sorry," said Lawson; "but what is the use of keeping back the truth? George has had no rise of salary—indeed, if he is not careful, he is mother has gone far beyond our means. She hasn't [Transcriber's note: text of this paragraph in original is as shown and ends abruptly at this point.]

"Then how does he get his money?"

"He gets it by gambling."

"Gambling! Oh, no! oh, no!" said Effie.

She had the horror of that vice which a pure-minded, well-brought-up girl must ever have.

"It is true," said Lawson; "it gives me the greatest pain to tell you anything so bad of your brother, but there's no help for it."

"But how do you know?" interrupted Effie.

"I know by the best of evidence. I have had my suspicions for some time, but I happened to see him coming out of one of those places last week—yes, I must tell you, I saw him coming out of a gambling den. I think he goes night after night. At present he is winning more than he loses, but that is always the game for drawing fellows on."

"It must be stopped," said Effie. She felt quite faint and sick. If her mother knew this it would kill her on the spot.

They had nearly reached the hospital, and Effie turned and faced Lawson.

"You don't half know what this means to me," she said. "George is not exactly like an ordinary brother. When my father died quite suddenly of diphtheria some months ago, he left my mother in George's care. If George goes to the bad now, she will certainly die; you must have noticed for yourself how she is wrapped up in him."

"Yes; no one could fail to notice it. I think her love for him beautiful; and he loves her, too. Poor fellow! that is his great redeeming point."

"Oh, I don't call it real love," said Effie, almost with passion—"to deceive her as he does—to do wrong, and that sort of wrong. Oh, I think my heart will break!"

Tears choked her voice, she had the greatest possible difficulty in keeping them back. Lawson took out his watch.

"You are not late," he said. "Let us take a turn round this square."

They had entered an old-fashioned square where there were very few people. They walked round and round the dismal central garden for some time. Lawson talked, and Effie listened. After a time they decided that George's perilous downward career must be stopped at any cost. Lawson said he would make it his business to see George the following evening, to tell him quite frankly what he knew, and, in short, to compel him, if necessary, to do what was right.

"He'll be obstinate," said Effie—"I know he'll be hard to deal with. Oh, what shall we do?—what shall we do? I am quite certain that already my mother has gone far beyond our means. She hasn't been half careful enough since I left her. If George stops getting money in this way she'll wonder and question. I doubt very much whether you can have the least influence over him. What is to be done?"

"Don't be so down-hearted," said Lawson. "He requires a man to tackle him—a man who really knows the temptations young fellows meet. If you'll allow me to say so, Miss Staunton, I don't think the case quite hopeless; anyhow, you may be quite sure I'll do my best for him."

"Thank you," said poor Effie; "you are more than good, and I do trust you." She hurried back to the hospital; but, to her dismay, when she got there, found that she was a quarter of an hour late.

Absolute punctuality in returning from any outdoor pleasure is expected from all nurses. She hurried upstairs, hoping that she might gain her room, put on her cap and apron, and return to the ward before Sister Kate had time to miss her. This might have been the case—for Sister Kate had been very much occupied with some anxious cases during the afternoon—had not one of the nurses, who had a spite against Effie for being prettier and cleverer than herself, drawn Sister Kate's attention, to the fact that the young probationer was behind her time. This nurse had seen Effie walking with Lawson. Immediately her spirit of jealousy and envy was up in arms; she did not for a moment consider what injury she might do the poor girl by her false and unkind words.

"Nurse Staunton is late," she said. "I don't know how I am possibly to get the ward in order for the night unless I have some help."

"I must speak to her," said Sister Kate, glancing at the clock, and looking a little annoyed. "This wasn't her Sunday to go out, either. I cannot let the rules be broken in this way. Let me know as soon as ever she comes in."

"I suppose there's some excuse to be made for her," said the nurse, speaking in a knowing way. "She's a very careful, good sort of girl, but there are times when the best of us forget ourselves."

The woman knew that Sister Kate would interpret her words as she wished her to do. She went off in a hurry to perform her duties, and when Effie entered the ward, Sister Kate received her with marked coldness.

"You are very late, nurse," she said. "Where have you been?"

"I have been at home with my mother."

"Was your mother ill? Is that your excuse for being behind your time?"

"No; mother was well—better than she has been for some time."

"Then why are you late?"

"The fact is, I was walking with a friend, and forgot to notice the hour."

"That's no excuse. You have certainly behaved very carelessly, and have put the other nurses out by not being in time to take your duties. Who was the friend with whom you were walking?"

Sister Kate had no right to ask this question, but she felt much provoked at the moment, and the color which rushed all over Effie's face excited her curiosity.

"Perhaps you'll think I did wrong," said Effie, looking up at her almost defiantly. "The friend was Mr. Lawson. He knows my brother very well; he was talking to me about him. I cannot refuse to speak to him when I see him out of doors, can I?"

"Don't be pert, nurse! You know it is one of the strictest rules of the hospital that none of the nurses are to speak to the medical students."

"I know; and I don't wish to speak to him in the hospital."

"See you don't, or you'll be dismissed at once; in fact, the less you know of any of the medical students, the better for you. I am very sorry that this young man knows your brother. I should not have had anything to do with you, had I been aware of this fact."

"How absurd and unjust!" murmured Effie under her breath. She turned away—she felt absolutely cross.

Sister Kate called her back.

"Now, bustle about," she said. "The supper-trays want to be taken away; the women are perfectly tired of waiting to be settled for the night."

Effie moved mechanically about her duties. Her heart felt sick. She did not think she could remain much longer under Sister Kate's care. "If she treats me like this," thought the proud girl, "I cannot endure it. Mr. Lawson is nothing to me—he is only my brother's friend. He is good, and wants to help us in an hour of great perplexity. What shall I do? I feel tied and fettered in every way."

She laid her head on her pillow only to burst into tears. She cried herself to sleep. All the world seemed black to her.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Effie saw very little of Dorothy Fraser, but on the following day, to her great surprise and pleasure, as she was leaving the dining-hall, Dorothy came up and spoke to her.

"You have a minute to spare," she said; "just come out on this balcony and talk to me."

Effie obeyed her.

"What do you want with me, Dorothy?" she asked.

"I wish to know why you look so pale and worried—you seem to have displeased Sister Kate, too."

Effie very nearly burst into tears, but she restrained herself.

"I'll tell you what it is," she said. "It is the most unjust thing!"

She then mentioned in as few words as possible the circumstance of Lawson having spoken to her—of her great anxiety about George—and of her having walked back with the young medical student from her home on the previous evening.

Dorothy looked very grave while Effie was speaking.

"It is unfortunate," she said. "This is just the sort of thing that injures a girl at the commencement of her hospital life."

"But it is so ridiculous and unjust," said Effie. "What in the world can Mr. Lawson be to me?"

"Oh, nothing, of course, my dear," replied Dorothy. "But still the rules cannot be too strict on this point. You know I am not a prude, but all girls are not like you, Effie; and, in short, Sister Kate is in the right. Someone must have seen you walking back with Mr. Lawson, and must have told her, or hinted, at least, at the state of the case. Nothing else would have induced her to question you."

"She had no right to speak to me about acquaintances that I meet out of the hospital."

"Strictly speaking, she has no right; that's why I say she must have got a hint."

"Oh, well, never mind her," said Effie. "I won't speak to Mr. Lawson again, unless I meet him out of doors, where I can, and shall, whatever Sister Kate may say."

"Effie, you must be careful."

"I don't want to think of myself at all. Can't you see how miserable I am about my mother and about George?"

"Yes; it is a most wretched business. I am more sorry for you than I can say."

"Oh, I wish something could be done," said Effie. "I feel tired and fettered here—I feel almost wild. I cannot devote myself to my necessary duties."

"Poor child," said Dorothy in her caressing voice. "Let me think: I must help you in some way. Suppose I go to-day to see your mother? I had a chance of having the whole afternoon to myself, but, as I had nowhere in particular to go, was determining not to avail myself of it, but now I can be of use to you."

"Oh, Dorothy! would you really go to see mother? It will be of the greatest possible use. You have such tact—you can say things that no one else would venture to say; and then if only you could see George!"

"I'll take the thing up somehow," said Dorothy; "you shan't be dragged and worried to death, you dear, brave little girl. Give me a kiss, Effie, and go back to your work. Between Mr. Lawson and me, we will pull you through this trouble, see if we don't!"

"Do you know Mr. Lawson, Dorothy?"

"Know him! Of course I do. He is one of the very nicest fellows here—as good as gold and as steady as a rock, and with such a beautiful enthusiasm for his profession—he'll make a splendid doctor by and by. Yes, Effie, don't mistake me: it is not the man I object to, it is the fact that he is a medical student, and that you are a nurse. So many bad things have been said about nurses and medical students that all nurses worthy of the name have to make up their minds to show the world that they can and will nurse without even the thought of flirtation coming into their head."

"You're right, of course," said Effie, with burning cheeks. "But it's a shame, it's horrible! How can anyone think I wish to flirt?"

She turned away—she was obliged to go back to her duties; but her heart felt much lighter after her conversation with Dorothy.

That afternoon Sister Kate, watched Effie as she would, could find no fault with her. She was attentive, tactful, kind, and considerate; a little bit of her old pleasant cheerfulness had also returned to her—her face looked less careworn.

The fact is, she was leaning on Dorothy, and felt the comfort of Dorothy's strong support.

The patients were only too glad for Effie to do things for them; and No. 47, who was very weak and low, smiled whenever the girl approached her bedside.

"Hold my hand, love, whenever you have a minute to spare," said the poor creature. "I feel low like, awfully low; I am going down—down, and it supports me to hold your hand; you're a good girl, anyone can see that."

"I try to be," said Effie, tears springing to her eyes.

"Ah, it's well to be good," continued the woman. "When we come to lie as I'm lying now, we think a sight of goodness."

"I hope you'll soon be better," said Effie.

"Never, my love, never again. I'm going out—that's what is happening to me; it's a lonesome thing to die, but I don't feel so lonesome when I'm holding your hand."

Effie came to the poor creature as often as she could. Once again the fascination of the life she so dearly loved drew her out of herself, and enabled her to forget the heavy home cares.

In her bedroom that night Sister Dorothy paid her a visit.

"Well, Effie," she said, "I've news for you. Mr. Lawson saw George last night. He spoke to him quite frankly, and said that, if he did not immediately give over this awful gambling, he'd go and see his cousin, Mr. Gering."

"And what did George say?" asked Effie.

"Oh, he promised as faithfully as possible that he'd give it up. Mr. Lawson seemed quite pleased with him, and said he didn't think he'd have been so penitent and so easily influenced as he has been."

"But will he give it up?" questioned Effie.

"He promised to. Of course he is anxious at not being able to earn more money, for the foolish fellow encouraged your mother to be extravagant, and now there are several debts which must be met somehow. What's the matter with you, Effie? Why do you start?"

"How can I help it? Debts would kill mother. Perhaps I ought to tell you, Dorothy—you have been so good to me, and I trust you so much that I don't think it can be wrong to tell you any trouble which concerns me."

"No, of course it isn't. Speak out what is in your mind, Effie."

"Well, George was in trouble that time he came to see father—that time when father was dying. He owed Mr. Lawson—I can't tell you how, I can't tell you why—L250. He said that if the money were not paid back within six weeks, that he, George—oh, Dorothy, how can I say it?—that he'd have to go to—to prison! He said he must have the money; I felt, too, that he must have the money; for our mother's sake. So I went to see Squire Harvey, and he—he lent it to me."

Dorothy sat down on the side of the bed. Effie's story made her feel very grave. She paused for a moment, puzzled what to say.

"He lent me the money," continued Effie, looking straight at her friend with her bright eyes. "I know he never wants it back again, but he must have it back."

"Oh, yes! he must have it back," exclaimed Dorothy.

"Well, he lent it to me," continued Effie, with a sigh; "and I thought, of course, that George would be all right after that, and I arranged that the Squire should have his interest regularly. I thought my own salary would nearly cover that."

"It can't be done," interrupted Dorothy. "Your salary barely pays for your washing and your few out-of-pocket expenses. It's absolutely impossible that you can live here without a penny; the little you earn must go to yourself."

"Then there's nothing for it," said Effie; "I must go where I can earn more. I hate the thought beyond all words, but I must—I must do it!"

"You don't mean to tell me that you would give up your life as a nurse?"

"Do you think for a moment, Dorothy, that I'd give it up willingly? It makes me sick to think of relinquishing what has been my dream ever since I was a little girl; but I see plainly that I must do something to earn money to help mother; and then, if George does keep straight, perhaps we may all be happy some day."

Tears choked Effie's voice, her eyes grew dim.

"What do you think of doing, dear?" said Dorothy in a gentle voice.

"I'll go to the Harveys and ask them to take me as a governess for Freda. I fancy, somehow, that they might be induced to give me a good salary—something like fifty or sixty pounds a year, and I can teach a child like Freda very well indeed, for her father saw that I was well educated. There's nothing else for it, I can see that; but it breaks my heart all the same."



CHAPTER XIX.

Dorothy talked a little longer to Effie. When at last she left her, the poor girl felt soothed and strengthened. She dropped off to sleep, to dream of the old days when she was living in the pretty little cottage in Whittington, and when she longed so earnestly to go out into the wide world. Effie woke long before it was time to get up. She thought of her dream, and sighed heavily to herself. She was in the wide world now with a vengeance. Did it look as fair, as rose-colored, as fascinating, as it used to look in her early dreams? No; the reality was bitter enough. She would have given a great deal at that heavy moment of her life to turn back the page and be a child at home again.

The nurses' bell rang, and she got up quickly. Next week she was to take her turn at night-nursing. She was getting on well, and, notwithstanding the small cloud which now existed between her and Sister Kate, Sister Kate knew Effie's value. There are nurses and nurses. Many girls who go as probationers to the great hospitals are thoroughly unsuited to the life; their qualifications are not those essential to the good nurse; they are destitute of tact, of presence of mind, of that tenderness which can be firm as well as gentle. But Effie was an ideal nurse; her soft and gentle ways, her kind yet firm glance, the cleverness she showed, the tact she displayed, all proved to Sister Kate that the young probationer might one day be a valuable help to her. She was angry with Effie at present, but she was determined to leave no stone unturned to help the girl and train her thoroughly in her noble profession.

During that night Sister Kate had thought of Effie. She had noticed her pale face during the past day, the sadness in her eyes, the heaviness in her steps, and her heart smote her a little, a very little.

"I don't believe that girl could do anything mean or underhanded," she reflected. "Of course it is tiresome that she should know any of the medical students, but I believe I can trust her word that she will never speak to this young man except out of the hospital."

Accordingly, Sister Kate met Effie the next morning with much of her old pleasantness. Effie's sad heart bounded again in her breast when Sister Kate spoke kindly to her, and she went about her duties with the determination not to leave even the smallest matter undone. Thoroughly but carefully she went through all the minutiae of those everlasting cleanings and brushings.

At last her morning's work was over, and now came the crucial moment when she must speak to Sister Kate. The doctors had gone their rounds, the patients were all settled for the morning. Effie came up to Sister Kate in one of the corridors.

"Can you spare me a few moments of your time?" she asked.

The Sister looked up at the tall clock in the passage.

"Do you want to see me about anything important?" she asked.

"Yes, it is something important."

"Well, come into my private room; I can give you five minutes."

Sister Kate sat down—Effie stood before her.

"I'll try and tell you what I want as briefly as possible," she said. "I wish to know if I can be spared to go out this afternoon?"

"It is not your afternoon out. What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary. The fact is, there's great trouble at home, and I—I must see my mother, and perhaps I may have to make another visit."

Sister Kate frowned.

"I don't wish not to sympathize with you, of course," she said, after a pause, "but the fact is, nurses should detach themselves as much as possible from home-life. The nurse who really gives herself up to her splendid calling has to try to forget that she has a home. She has to remember that her first duties consist in taking care of her patients and in learning her profession."

"Then I can't be a nurse," said Effie, the color rushing into her face.

Sister Kate looked at her and shook her head.

"I am very sorry," she said, after a pause. "The fact is, I had great hopes of you—you have many of the qualifications which go to make a splendid nurse; I won't recount them here. I had, as I said, great hopes of you, but your words now make me fear that, excellent as those qualifications are, they are overbalanced."

"By what?" asked Effie.

"By sentimentality—by nervous overworry about matters which you should leave in other hands."

"I have no other hands to leave them in; the fact is, home duties must always be first with me. I've got a mother and several young brothers and sisters. I am the eldest daughter. I cannot let my mother suffer, even to indulge what has been for a long time the great dream of my life. It is very probable that I shall have to give up being a nurse."

"How can you? You are engaged here for three years."

"I must beg of the Governors of the hospital to let me off; the case is a special one—the trouble under which I am suffering is most unexpected. I fear, I greatly fear, that I shall be obliged to leave the hospital for a time."

"I am truly sorry to hear that," said Sister Kate. "Does your friend Miss Fraser know of this?"

"Yes."

"I hope it may not be necessary. As I said, you have the making of a good nurse in you. You want to go away for a few hours? Well, I'll try and manage it. Perhaps when you go home and see your people, you will find that it is unnecessary for you to sacrifice yourself to this extent. Anyhow you can have from two till five to-day. Now go and much in train for the afternoon as you can. You can stay out from two till five. I hope you'll have good news for me when you return."

"I hope I shall," said Effie; but her heart felt low. She had little expectation of being able to continue the life which she longed to perfect herself in. At two o'clock she went out, and did not take many minutes in reaching her mother's door.

Mrs. Staunton looked surprised to see her.

"What is the matter. Effie?" she said. "How white and worn you look! Why have you come back to-day?"

"I wanted to see you, mother, so I got an afternoon off duty. Sister Kate was kind—I begged of her to let me come. I have a great longing to see you."

"Well, my dear, I'm all right. The fact is, I get better and better."

Mrs. Staunton was seated by the window. She was making a pinafore for little Marjory—her needle flew in and out of the stuff. She was trimming the pinafore with narrow lace. Effie took it up and sat down by her mother.

"Your hands tremble, mother; are you really well?"

"Oh, yes, my love; yes! You look at me as if you thought there was something the matter. Have you—Effie, your looks frighten me."

"Don't let them frighten you, dear mother. You know the greatest longing of my heart is to help and serve you. If there is anything worrying you, you'll tell me, won't you?"

"I will," said Mrs. Staunton. She paused and looked at her daughter. "There's nothing exactly worrying me," she said, after a pause, "but still I feel a little bit anxious."

"You'll tell me, won't you?"

"You won't scold me, Effie?"

"As if I could, mother darling!"

"Well, perhaps I did a rash thing—poor dear George!—You know how devoted I am to him, Effie?"

"Oh, yes, mother darling, anyone can see that."

"Well, the fact is, I—I yielded to his entreaties. Perhaps I ought not to tell you, Effie—perhaps it will displease him."

"Yes, do tell me," said Effie. "There ought not to be any secrets in one's family. I ought to know—I will know. You are worried about something, and I will know what your burden is. What is it, mother?"

"I'll tell you in a few words. There's nothing in it, after all. Shortly after you left us, George persuaded me to put my money into the City Bank in his name. He said it seemed such folly to have two accounts for such very small sums."

"You did it?" said Effie, her face turning white.

"Yes, yes, I knew you would reproach me. I won't be reproached—I won't!"

"I will not say a word, dearest, dearest mother. Take my hand—your hand does shake so. Now tell me all about it."

"Oh, it's nothing, my love, really, only——"

"Yes, mother—only?"

"Only this morning I asked George to fill in a check for me before he went to town. He did so. It was for five pounds. He seemed vexed at my requiring so much, but I said I couldn't do with less, for there was the landlady to pay, and the butcher has been so troublesome with his bills. I couldn't do with less than five pounds, and George drew a check for me for that amount. I sent Aggie with it straight to the bank, and——"

Mrs. Staunton's face became very pale, her hand shook more violently than ever.

"Yes, mother?" said Effie.

"They sent it back. Effie, with 'No effects' written across the back. I am sure there must be a mistake, but they told Aggie that George had overdrawn his account, and that they couldn't cash this check—there were no effects, that was it."

"No effects!" said Effie, her face scarlet. "But hadn't you some of your money still left in the bank?"

"Yes, I had over fifty pounds. I put the money into the bank in George's name over a week ago. It was to last us for some time. Oh, Effie, don't look at me with those reproachful eyes! I feel faint."

Effie got up quickly; she poured some sal-volatile into a wineglass, and, filling it up with water, brought it to her mother to drink.

Mrs. Staunton was soon better. The passing weakness went off quickly.

"What is to be done?" she said, raising her eyes to her daughter. "Oh, I am so glad you don't scold me, Effie."

"Of course I don't, mother darling. You must have money, you can't get on without it."

"That's just what I say. I am sure I am as saving as woman could be, but the expenses are so heavy."

"Yes, of course."

"I'm expecting George in every minute," said Mrs. Staunton. "He has very likely put the money back into the bank now. He is doing such a splendid business that perhaps he drew the fifty pounds—meaning to return it at once. He has such a capital head for making money—really, I never knew such a boy. I dare say he has put it back doubled."

"Oh, mother, don't you know better?—how can he do that? But now let us talk of something else. Here's Agnes, that's right. Agnes, will you get some tea for mother? She's quite weak and upset. I'm going out. I must hurry, for I've to be back at the hospital at five. I'm going out, but I'll come to see you mother, before I return to the hospital. Get the tea, Agnes; don't be long about it."

Agnes put a little kettle on the fire.

"Do you know about—about the check?" she asked Effie in a whisper.

"Oh, yes; don't make a fuss over it—it will be all right."

"Mrs. Robinson says she must be paid—she is owed four weeks' rent, and she won't let it go on any longer."

"I'll see her when I come back," said Effie. "Now, do take care of mother. I won't be away a minute longer than I can help."

"Won't you have a cup of tea first, Effie?"

"No, no; I've no time."

Effie ran downstairs, and went out into the street. She felt nerved and braced now. The moment of indecision was past—the moment for definite action had arrived. There was no question with regard to her duty. It lay plain and straight before her.

She happened to know that the Harveys were in town. They were staying in Eaton Place. She took an omnibus, which presently brought her into the neighborhood of Victoria; a few minutes afterward she rang the bell at their hall door.

A man-servant, whom she did not know, opened it.

"Is Mrs. Harvey at home?" asked Effie.

"I believe so," he replied, "but I'm not sure if she can see anyone."

"Perhaps she will see me if you give her my name," said Effie in a gentle voice. "Say Miss Effie Staunton, please, and that I am anxious to see her on pressing business."

The man withdrew, inviting Effie as he did so into the hall.

"He takes me for a servant," she said to herself. "Well, what matter? That truly is only a pinprick."

In a minute or two he returned, with a changed expression on his face.

"Follow me upstairs, please, miss," he said. "My mistress will see you."

Effie followed him up some low stairs—her feet sank into the rich carpets. The contrast between this luxurious house and the severity of the hospital sickened her.

"I shall choke if I live here," she said to herself. But then she crushed all thought of self.

The men led her up two or three short flights of stairs. At last he knocked at a door, before which a rich curtain hung. A voice said "Come in," and Effie found herself in Mrs. Harvey's presence. She was seated in a deep armchair; her maid stood before her, holding out different rich brocades and silks which had just been sent round for her to see.

"That will do, Carey," she said, when she saw Effie. "You can take all those things away. Tell Madam Miller that I have decided on this blue silk crepon, and this rose-colored silk. I'll call round to be fitted to-morrow morning. Now, Miss Staunton, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. How do you do? I am so glad to see you."

Mrs. Harvey was not so impulsively glad as she had been the last time she saw Effie. The doctor's death—the death he had died for her—seemed removed into the background; her existence was absorbed in pleasure, in gayety and excitement. She had an affectionate, kindly nature, however, and one glance into Effie's sad eyes softened her toward the poor girl.

"Well, what can I do for you?" she said. "How are you? Why, you are a nurse—you are in nurse's dress—how capital! What a splendid idea!"

"Yes, I am a probationer at St. Joseph's," said Effie.

"Oh my dear child, that's splendid for you, of course; but I trust you have brought no infection in your clothes."

"No," said Effie, with the faintest of smiles. "I have nothing to do with any of the infectious wards. I am quite safe. I want to speak to you."

"I shall be very glad to listen to you, my dear. You know, of course, that the Squire and I take the deepest interest in you and in your family. By the way, how is your dear mother, and how are all those pretty girls and boys getting on?"

Effie could not remember that Mrs. Harvey had ever seen her mother—why, therefore, should she speak of her as "dear"? and as to the boys and girls, they were not specially remarkable for their good looks, and if they were, Mrs. Harvey knew nothing about it. She answered these conventional inquiries in a quiet voice.

"I hope you'll forgive me," she said, at the first possible pause, "but I am in a very great hurry. I have promised to be back again at St. Joseph's at five o'clock, and it's nearly four now. May I tell you what I really came about?"

"Oh, yes, of course, of course!"

"Do you remember, before I came to London, the very kind offer you and the Squire made me?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Harvey, "if you mean our wish that you should become governess to little Freda. But Freda goes to a kindergarten now. Carey takes her around every morning, and Rhoda goes to fetch her at dinner time. The life seems to suit her very well. Of course we did wish for you very much, but as you could not come—oh, no doubt you have chosen wisely."

Mrs. Harvey yawned; she stretched out her hand and rang the bell. The servant appeared almost immediately.

"Tea for two," she said, "and be quick, Andrews."

"I can't wait for tea," said Effie, rising. "I am very much obliged. I only came to say that circumstances would make me inclined to accept your offer now, but as you don't want a governess there's nothing more to be said."

"Oh, it's so sweetly good of you, Miss Staunton, and had matters been different we should have been pleased. Well, good-by, if you must go. Where did you say your mother lived?"

"A long way from here."

"But do give me her address. I should be so pleased to drive round and see her some day. Perhaps she would go for a drive with me. What a good idea! Yes, I'll come. Where did you say you lived?"

Effie had not said anything.

Mrs. Harvey held out her limp, long hand. "Good-by, Miss Staunton. You know I take a great interest in you," she exclaimed.



CHAPTER XX.

Just at this moment the door was opened, and the Squire came in. He was of different stuff from his wife. When he saw Effie, his face beamed with pleasure, and he held out a big, hearty hand.

"Miss Staunton!" he exclaimed. "Why, this is a pleasure! Oh, you must not run away; you must sit down and tell me all about yourself—I've been longing to hear about you. How is your brother in the City, and your mother? I do hope she is a little better. And all those other lads and lasses? Sit down, my clear child, I insist on it—I have lots of things to say to you."

Mrs. Harvey, who was standing near the mantelpiece, came gently forward when the Squire began to speak. She looked at Effie with new interest. Her face was long and pale, she had no color in her lips, her light hair was very fashionably dressed. She wore a dress of the latest mode, and her thin fingers were loaded with rings, which flashed and shone whenever she moved her hand.

Effie hated those flashing rings—she turned her head so that she need not see them.

Mrs. Harvey began to talk in a high falsetto voice to her husband.

"Do you know, my dear," she exclaimed, "that Miss Staunton has just been so kind? She came here to offer her services for Freda; but you know dear Freda is getting on so capitally at the kindergarten, that—— Why, what in the world is the matter, Walter?"

"Matter!" exclaimed the Squire in his hearty voice. "Why, that we won't be such fools as to reject Miss Staunton's offer. I was told only a few minutes ago that that kindergarten is simply full of whooping-cough and measles—children sickening with them and going home almost every day. I was going to say that Freda must be moved."

"Oh, I should think so, indeed," said Mrs. Harvey. "Whooping-cough and measles! how terrible! and I never had whooping-cough—why, I shouldn't be able to go out for the whole season. I do hope and trust the dear child hasn't contracted the infection. Dear Miss Staunton, of course you'll come. It is exactly what we'd like best. How soon can you come?—to-morrow?—to-night?"

"Neither to-morrow nor to-night," said Effie. "But if you really wish for me, and if we agree as regards terms, the day after to-morrow."

"What do you mean by saying if we agree as to terms?" asked Mrs. Harvey.

"I want a big salary," said Effie, looking up bravely at the two, who were watching her with half-amused, half-anxious expression. "I want to come to you, and to leave the work which I love best, because I hope you may be induced to give me an exceptional salary. I want the money because my mother and my—my young brothers and sisters are almost—at least they will be, if I don't get it, almost starving."

Effie spoke in jerks. She had the greatest difficulty in keeping back her emotion. It was dreadful to have to plead with these rich people—these people who knew nothing whatever of her sore need—to whom money was so plentiful as to have lost its freshness, its desirability, its charm. It was awful to look into their faces—to see the blank, non-comprehending stare which came into Mrs. Harvey's pretty blue eyes, and to notice the puzzled expression on the Squire's face.

"You can't mean that?" he exclaimed. "You can't mean there's any chance of that?"

"There is a chance of it, but not if I come here. I know how kind you are, how noble you have been to me. I'll come to Freda. I'll do everything for her; I'll teach her, and I'll play with her, and I'll love her, and I'll nurse her if she is ill, but oh, do please be generous and give me as big a salary as you can."

"What do you expect—what do you think fair?" asked the Squire.

"I thought—I know it seems a great deal, but I thought you might be willing to give me sixty pounds a year."

"Bless you, my dear child!" exclaimed the Squire; "if you'll accept it, we'll give you a hundred and fifty."

"No, I couldn't accept that," said Effie. "It is not fair."

"Why not? We couldn't get anyone else to exactly take your place for the money; and remember we have plenty of money."

"I'll take a hundred a year, because I am in sore distress," said Effie, after a brief pause; "and—and will you pay me monthly, and may I have my first month's salary in advance? I wouldn't ask it if they didn't want it terribly at home. Will you do this?"

"Yes, with pleasure," said the Squire. "I insist on your accepting ten pounds a month—that will be one hundred and twenty a year. Now, will you have a check, or shall I give you the money in gold and notes?"

"The gold will be the most acceptable," said Effie. "Oh, I feel so ashamed!" she added.

"Why should you? You give us an equivalent. Besides, it makes matters more tolerable. I cannot forget——"

"Oh, don't, Walter—don't allude to that awful time!"—cried Mrs. Harvey.

The Squire shut up his lips. He took a little bundle of gold out of one of his pockets and put ten sovereigns into Effie's hand.

"It is a bargain," he said. "I cannot tell you how relieved we are. You'll be with us the morning after next? Elfreda, my love, we must tell our little Freda what a pleasure is in store for her."

"Yes, I am more than delighted," exclaimed Mrs. Harvey. "This plan suits me in every way. You won't fail us, Miss Staunton? for, in case Freda by any chance has taken that awful whooping-cough, you can keep her in isolation from the very first."

"Oh, yes!" said Effie, smiling; "but I dare say she is all right."

She shook hands with her new employers and left the house.

The gold was in her pocket. She felt that she had sold herself and her mission in life for ten sovereigns. "It is the present need which makes the thing so desperate," she said under her breath. "If George has drawn all the money, they have absolutely nothing to live on; but more will come in, and there's this to go on with. We'll manage somehow now."

She returned to the lodgings, but before she went upstairs she had an interview with the landlady.

"What do you charge my mother for rent?" she asked.

"Well, Miss Staunton," exclaimed the woman, "with the dinners and one thing and another, I am obliged to make it a pound a week."

"That is a great deal too much," said Effie. "I don't suppose it is too much for your rooms, but it is more than we can afford just now. When we first came to you, you agreed to let us the rooms without attendance for fifteen shillings a week. We cannot by any possible management afford to pay more."

"But Mrs. Staunton wished for attendance, miss—she said it made all the difference; there was half a crown for attendance and half a crown extra for kitchen fire."

"But the kitchen fire was included in the fifteen shillings a week."

"Then there wasn't late dinner."

"Surely there is no late dinner now?" exclaimed Effie.

"Oh, yes, miss; every evening Mr. Staunton requires a nice little bit of dinner sent up when he comes home. You see, miss, it is quite impossible for me to have extra fires without charging for them."

"Certainly. Well, I don't think there will be any extra dinner in future. And now please tell me exactly how much is due to you."

"Four pounds, miss; but if I'm paid one, on account, I shan't mind waiting. I'd be really sorry to dislodge such a nice lady as your mother, Miss Staunton."

"Here is the money in full," said Effie. "Will you give me a receipt?"

"Oh, with pleasure, miss. Won't you sit down? I hope, Miss Staunton, nothing will induce your good mother to move from here. I will do everything in my power to make her comfortable."

"You must understand," said Effie, "that in future she only pays fifteen shillings a week without extras. My sisters Agnes and Katie are quite old enough to do all the waiting which my mother requires. In fact they must do so, for we can't afford to pay a penny more."

"Am I to understand, miss, that there's no late dinner?"

"Certainly not."

"Very well; I am sure I'll do all in my power to oblige."

Effie left her, putting her receipt carefully in her pocket as she did so. She went upstairs and entered the little sitting-room where her mother was now pacing quickly and restlessly up and down. There was a deep flush on her cheeks, and a look of despair in her eyes.

"Oh, Effie, you've come!" she exclaimed, the moment she saw her daughter. "George has been in. There's something wrong, I know—I know there is. He came in just for a minute and he kissed me, and said he wasn't coming home to-night, and he—he looked wild. He stuffed a few things into a bag, and said I wasn't to expect him back to-night. I didn't dare ask him about the money. What—what can be the matter, Effie?"



CHAPTER XXI.

Effie did all in her power to soothe her mother. It was past the hour for her return to St. Joseph's, but under the present circumstances she could not give this matter a thought. Mrs. Staunton was strung up to a terrible condition of nervousness. She walked faster and faster about the room; she scarcely spoke aloud, but muttered words under her breath which no one could hear. At every footfall on the stairs she started. Sometimes she went to the door and flung it open—sometimes she went to the window and pressed her face against the glass. Darkness set in, and the lamps were lit in the street. Katie went to the window to pull down the blinds.

"No, don't touch them," said Mrs. Staunton fretfully—she still kept staring out into the street. Presently she called Effie to her.

"Doesn't that man turning the corner look something like George?" she exclaimed.

Effie looked eagerly.

"No, that's not George," she said.

"Agnes, you have better sight," called Mrs. Staunton to her next daughter; "come and watch with me—we are sure to see him soon. It can't be that he has gone away for the night—for the whole night. Isn't that him? Look at that man,—that one crossing the road—that one in the waterproof. Oh, how hard it is raining! If George is out much longer, he'll be drenched to the skin. Aggie, look; and you, Katie, can't you watch? Now, that man, isn't that George?"

"No, no, mother!" answered the poor children, in affright.

Mrs. Staunton kept on making exclamations. Again and again she cried out hopefully that surely George was coming now; but George himself never really appeared. Effie knew that she would get into hopeless disgrace at St. Joseph's. No matter! she could not leave her mother at such a moment. Each instant she became more anxious about her. She called Agnes aside, and told her that she had put a stop to the late dinner, and also to the extra attendance, but as probably some dinner had been ordered for that evening, she had better go down and bring it up, as Mrs. Staunton must be forced to eat at any cost.

Agnes tripped out of the room, and presently returned with a couple of pork chops and some baked potatoes. She flung them down on the table, exclaiming that the tray was heavy. She looked cross, and evidently seemed to think that Effie was making a great fuss over nothing.

"Why can't George be away for a single night without everyone getting into such a state?" she murmured.

Effie took the tray from her and gave her a look of reproach. She laid the cloth herself, and made the table look as pretty as she could. She then went to her mother, drew her gently but firmly away from the window, and, making her sit down, tried to coax her to eat.

Mrs. Staunton looked at the chops with dazed eyes.

"Those were for George," she exclaimed. "What a shame to bring them up before he has come into the house! They'll be cold and sodden, and he hates his food sodden. You don't suppose I'm going to touch my boy's dinner? No, not I! Put the chops down in the fender, Aggie. When George comes in, I always ring the bell twice. How careless of Mrs. Robinson! Effie, my dear, I don't think we can stop with her if she treats us in this fashion. It's perfectly disgraceful to cook George's food before he is ready for it."

Agnes began to explain that George was not coming home, but Effie silenced her with a look. She saw, to her horror, that her mother's mind was beginning to wander. She was really expecting George—who had not the faintest idea of coming back. Poor Effie saw there was nothing for it but to humor her mother. She put the food inside the fender, and then, going to a davenport in a corner of the room, wrote a hasty letter to Dorothy Fraser.

"We're in great trouble," she wrote. "I know you can't come. I know it is absolutely impossible for you to come, but neither can I go back to St. Joseph's this evening. Please tell Sister Kate, make any excuse for me you like—say anything that comes into your head. My career as a nurse is ended."

A big tear dropped from Effie's eyes as she wrote these last words. She folded up the letter and gave it to Agnes.

"Agnes," she said, "you must take this at once to St. Joseph's Hospital."

"Oh, I don't know how to get there," said Agnes, "and I was never out so late before in the evening."

"I am sorry to have to send you—stay, you had better take Kate with you. It would be better for the two of you to be together. Put on your hats and your warm jackets; don't be longer away than you can help—you have just to give this note to the hall porter and come straight back. You must take the red omnibus that goes along Oxford Street, and——"

Effie added a few more practical directions. Agnes' eyes sparkled at the thought of a little variety in her dull life. Katie ran willingly into her room to fetch her own and her sister's hats and jacket's. They were dressed in a very short time. Effie heard them running downstairs, and listened to the slam of the hall door. She had now set the irrevocable seal to her own act. She had deliberately turned her back on the life that she loved. She stood for a moment with a dizzy feeling in her head; then, with a little prayer which she sadly needed, to help her, she put aside all regret, and turned with a brave heart to face the dark present and the gloomy future.

Mrs. Staunton stood near the window, with her back to her daughter. Effie listened with a sick heart to her mutterings. She knew that her mother could not possibly get better if she refused to eat.

She was wondering what to do, and how she could dare to leave her, when a quick step was heard running up the stairs, and the next moment Fred Lawson came in.

Effie never to her dying day forgot the feeling of relief, of almost joy, which ran through her heart when she saw his clever, resolute face. He came in, in his usual quick, brisk, determined way—stopped short a little when he saw her, and then glanced significantly at her mother.

Mrs. Staunton had turned as eagerly as Effie when she heard the quick footsteps. Now her face was an absolute blank—she had come a step forward,—her hands suddenly fell to her sides.

"My mother is not well," said Effie. "She's upset."

"No, I'm not upset; you're greatly mistaken," said Mrs. Staunton. "Why should I be upset? There's not a happier woman in Christendom than I am. It's true my beloved husband has left me, but then I have got my boy—there never was a braver boy. How do you do, Mr. Lawson? Pray forgive me for not shaking hands with you when you came into the room—the fact is, I have been expecting George. His dinner is in the fender. The landlady did very wrong indeed to send it up before I rang for it. I always ring twice for George's dinner, don't you understand? It is a good plan. George likes his meals hot and tasty. No wonder—he earns them; he is a dear, good, clever fellow—he is getting a fine salary. Did you happen to meet him on the stairs? Perhaps you passed him—he is a little late, just a little late. Effie, can you tell me if Mr. Lawson has good sight? If he has, perhaps he'll come and watch by the window. I'm watching, but my eyes are a little weak at times. I might not see George when he is really there. Will you come and see, Mr. Lawson? He ought to be coming now, my dear boy,—my dearest,—my boy!"

Lawson gave Effie a glance. In a moment he read the true position. The poor weak brain had suddenly given way. He went up gently to Mrs. Staunton, and took one of her hot hands in his.

"When George comes in," he said, "I'll be here, and I'll tell him about his dinner. I know he'll be late to-night, and you mustn't wait up for him any longer. Come, Miss Effie will put you into bed. When you are in bed I'll give you something to make you sleep. Come now, don't delay; you're quite worn out. If you don't go to bed you'll be ill, and then you'll be of no use to your son."

"Do you really think so?" said Mrs. Staunton. "Yes, I mustn't be ill; George doesn't like it—it quite frets him. He is not like his dear father. He wants a cheerful home—no wonder, he is young, dear lad, he is young. Yes, I'll go to bed, and then I'll be all right in the morning. Come, Effie, help your mother to bed."

Effie took the poor woman out of the room. They went into the little bedroom. She helped her mother to undress. When she saw her lay her head on the pillow, she went back to the sitting room, where Lawson was quietly standing.

"I happened most fortunately," he said, the moment he saw her, "to have some packets of bromide in my pocket. There is sal-volatile in the room. I have made up a rather strong composing-draught for your mother. If she takes it, she will sleep peacefully and will not be likely to wake until the morning. Give it to her at once, and then come back to me—I have something to tell you."

Effie's trembling knees could scarcely support her as she went back to the next room.

"Has George come yet?" asked the mother.

"Not yet, mother; won't you take this medicine, please?"

"Yes, my love, yes. Effie, you are a very good girl—a great comfort to me, my darling. I'm glad you never went to the hospital; it was a mad, foolish scheme, and George never liked it. You are a great comfort to me, and a great comfort to your dear brother. You'll be sure to give him his dinner comfortably when he comes back, Effie?"

"Yes, mother, yes. Now do go to sleep, dear mother."

Mrs. Staunton drank off the medicine, laid her head on her pillow, and closed her dim, dark eyes. Effie watched by her until she thought she was dropping asleep. Pretty little Marjory was lying sound asleep in the same bed. Phil opened his big eyes as his sister passed.

"Is anything the matter?" he whispered. "Is anything wrong with George?"

"Pray for him, Phil," said Effie, tears suddenly filling her eves.

"Yes, yes," said the little fellow. "I always do."

Effie went into the next room.

"You have plenty of pluck, haven't you?" said Lawson, when he saw her.

"I hope so—I had need to have."

"Yes, I know that. Well, that unfortunate boy has put his foot in it at last,—he is in trouble,—detectives are after him."

"Detectives after George!" exclaimed Effie. "What can you possibly mean? Oh, do tell me at once—don't leave me in suspense."

"Sit down and I will tell you. Try not to agitate yourself, try to listen to me quietly. Remember that a brave woman can always control her nerves."

Effie sat down when Lawson bade her. Something in his quiet but resolute voice soothed her impatience; she looked up at him as he stood by the mantelpiece, resting one arm on it.

"The facts are these," he began at once; "Staunton has been going wrong for a long time——"

"I know it—I know it well," interrupted Effie.

"Yes, I feared that you knew it. Poor fellow, soon after his arrival in London he got with bad companions. He has naturally extravagant tastes—they introduced him to some of those gambling saloons. Given a weak nature, the love of money for the pleasure it can give, a will weakened with self-indulgence, and the result is easy to forecast. George has been going from bad to worse for months past. He has sometimes won considerable sums of money, and these successes have excited him to try again—with this devil's luck, as the saying is. Of late, however, that luck has turned against him, and the events which took place to-day are only the natural consequences."

Effie rose slowly from her seat.

"Go on," she said, coming up to Lawson. "What took place to-day? Go on, please,—I am quiet,—I am prepared for anything."

Lawson gave her a look of admiration.

"You are a brave girl," he said briefly. "The world would be a better place if there were more like you in it. Well, what took place is this. Staunton won heavily at cards the night before last. Not content with his gains, however, he persevered until the luck turned against him. Before he left the gambling saloon he had lost all his gains, and was in debt fifty pounds. To meet that debt he drew your mother's money from the bank yesterday morning."

"I know," said Effie, with white lips—"mother told me. She sent Agnes to the bank to cash a small check. Agnes was told that George's account was overdrawn. Yes, I know that. Is there more behind? Surely that must be the worst."

"Alas! I wish it were. This morning the poor fellow, while engaged in his duties at Gering's office, met with the temptation for which he was so ripe. It was a horrible one. He knew that your mother had not a penny. His feeling for her I need not enter upon. He found himself in the room with an open till, and took fifty pounds out of it. Soon afterwards, he made an excuse to leave the office. He wandered about all day in an indescribable state of misery. At last he summoned courage to go to the bank and deposit forty-five of the fifty pounds. He then rushed home, and, packing his things, prepared to run away. He said he was certain to be taken if he stayed, and simply could not bring himself to face the risk. He went to Waterloo, and to his horror discovered that he was watched. A man, undoubtedly a detective in plain clothes, was following him from place to place. The man watched him take his ticket for Southampton, and noticed the corner in which he deposited his bag in a third-class carriage. George seemed to lose his head at this crisis. He managed to elude the detective, slipped out of the station, took a hansom and drove straight to my rooms. Luckily I was at home. He made a clean breast of everything to me. He is in my rooms now, and safe for the time being, for no one will think of looking for him there. I want you to come with me at once to see him, for there is not a moment to be lost in deciding what is best to be done."

"Yes," said Effie, "I will come."

She felt stunned—her keenest feelings of anguish were lulled into momentary quiet by the greatness of this blow.

"I will write a note to Agnes," she said; "she is out—I had to send her to the hospital to say that I could not return there to-night." Then she added, her face turning whiter than ever, "If my mother knows of this, it will kill her."

"Your mother is the person to be considered, of course," said Lawson. "But for her, I should say that the best thing possible for George would be to undergo the punishment which he merits. As it is, however, matters are different. Well, write your note, and let us be quick. That strong opiate will keep your mother sleeping quietly until the morning. All your sister has to do is to watch her."

Effie drew a sheet of paper toward her, scribbled a few hasty lines on it, folded it up, and left it where Agnes could see it the moment she returned; then she followed Lawson into the street.

He hailed a passing hansom, and they drove straight to his rooms on the Embankment.

The feeling of a dream remained with Effie all during that drive; she kept rubbing her eyes and saying to herself, "It's only a dream—I shall awaken presently and find myself back at St. Joseph's."

The hansom drew up at the lodgings, and Lawson preceded Effie upstairs. He threw open the door of his little sitting room.

"Come in," he said. "Here is your sister, Staunton," he sang out.

Effie entered. She found herself in a small bright room. The gas was turned full on; one of the windows was open—a fresh breeze from the river came in. George was seated on a horse-hair sofa at the farthest end of the room. He held a small walking-stick in his hand, and was making imaginary patterns with it on the carpet. His shoulders were hitched up to his ears, his eyes were fixed on the ground. Effie looked at him. She said:

"George, I am here—I have come."

He did not make any response. She gave a little cry when he took no notice of her, and sank down helplessly on the nearest chair.

Lawson strode across the room and grasped George's shoulder.

"Look here, Staunton," he said; "you have got to pull yourself together. I have brought your sister here to consult what is best to be done. Look up, old chap! Take courage—all isn't lost yet. Now try and tell your sister everything."

"I have nothing to tell her," said George—he raised two lackluster eyes and fixed them with a sort of dull stare on Lawson's face.

"Don't talk folly—you have to tell her what you told me. You know the position you are in—you may be arrested at any moment. No one can help you but your sister; don't turn away from her."

"Oh, I understand all that," said George, shrugging his shoulder out of Lawson's grip. "I know well enough what has happened—I have gone under. I'm only one more. I—I can't help it—I have nothing to say."

Lawson looked at the big fellow almost in despair. He was really puzzled what to do. This was the moment, however, for Effie to take the initiative. She sprang suddenly to her feet, dashed the tears from her eyes, and went up to her brother. She fell on her knees by his side, and put her soft arms round his neck.

"Think of the old days, Geordie," she said, "when we were both little children. Think of mother and father, and the little old house, and the apple tree in the garden. Don't you remember the day when that ripe red apple fell, and we ate it bite about?"

When Effie began to speak, George trembled. He avoided her eyes for a moment longer, then he gave her a quick, furtive glance.

changed voice. "Before God, I couldn't help it." a changed voice. "Before God, I couldn't help it." [Transcriber's note: These two fragmented lines appear, as shown, at this point in the original text.]

Lawson stepped softly out of the room.

The moment he had done so, George said eagerly:

"He has told you, hasn't he?"

Effie nodded.

"Then I needn't go over it. Let's talk of something else. How is mother?"

"She is very ill indeed—she watched for you all the evening."

"Watched for me? But I told her I shouldn't be back to-night."

"Yes; but she didn't believe you, or she forgot it—anyhow, she watched for you, and when you didn't come, her mind began suddenly to wander; she is in bed now—she is very, very ill."

"Go on," said George; "hammer it in hard—I deserve it all."

"Oh, George, why will you talk like that? Don't you believe in my love for you?"

"I believe in mother's love. It's the only thing I have left to cling to. I believe she'd go on loving me even after this—I do truly."

"Of course she would—nothing could turn her love from you. Now, won't you let us consult together when Mr. Lawson comes into the room?"

"There's nothing to be done—nothing; I'm perfectly safe to be committed for trial, and then I shall get at least two years. Mother will die. And I shall have gone under forever."

"Nonsense! I have a thought in my head."

"You?" George spoke with almost contempt. "You always thought a great deal of yourself, Effie, but even you can't pull the ropes on the present occasion. I'm a thief, and I must suffer the penalty. That's the long and short of it."

Effie rose suddenly and walked to the door. She called Lawson—he came in at once.

"I think George will talk over matters now," she said. "But before we begin any discussion, I wish to say what I have made up my mind to do. I don't know Mr. Gering, but that does not matter. I mean to go to see him the first thing to-morrow morning, and beg of him not to prosecute George. That is the only chance for mother's life, and I mean to try it."



CHAPTER XXII.

When Effie said these words, Lawson gave her a startled glance, and George's sulkiness seemed to vanish magically. He opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them again; a rush of color spread over his face, and he turned his head aside.

"I fear it is impossible that you can do the least vestige of good, Miss Staunton," said Lawson. "All the same it is a brave thought, and worthy of you."

George looked round when Lawson said this; he fully expected Effie to explain herself more fully, to argue the point, and to give her reasons for approaching Mr. Gering. To the surprise of both the men, however, she was silent. After a little pause, she said, turning to Lawson:

"Do you think George will be safe here until the morning?"

"I do—perfectly safe," answered Lawson.

"Then I will say good-night. I will come to you, George if I have news, in the morning."

"Oh, you won't have news," replied George; "there never was such a hard nut to crack as old Gering."

Effie made no reply.

"Good-night," she said to her brother.

He did not offer to kiss her, but he took her hand and gave it a silent squeeze. It seemed to Effie then that she got near his heart.

Lawson took her downstairs and put her into a cab.

"You are only wasting your time in going to Mr. Gering," he said, as he stood for a moment at the cab door.

"I must waste it, then," replied Effie; "for, whatever the consequence, I am going."

"Then, if you will go, you had better do so early. Gering is always at his office by nine o'clock. George may quite possibly be arrested to-morrow morning, and brought before the magistrates at Bow Street at ten or ten-thirty. When once he is arrested, Mr. Gering can do nothing. The law then takes up the case, and prosecutes on its own account. You will see, therefore, that if you wish to save your brother you must be astir betimes."

"I quite see, and thank you very much," said Effie.

Lawson said good-by, the cab rolled away, and Effie soon found herself back again at her own lodgings.

She ran upstairs, to find that her mother was still sound asleep. She sent the two tired girls to bed, and, lying down on the sofa in the sitting room, tried to sleep. She had left her mother's door slightly ajar, and knew that she would hear the least movement in the room. All was perfect stillness, however, and presently Effie fell into a light doze.

She awoke long before the dawn of day, thought carefully over the whole complex situation, and then rose and dressed herself. She slipped softly into her mother's room. The opiate was still taking effect. Mrs. Staunton's face looked pinched and drawn as it lay on the pillow, there were blue lines under the eyes, and a blue tint round the lips which spoke of heart trouble; but just at the present moment the spirit was at peace, and the body resting calmly.

"Poor mother!" murmured Effie; "poor, tried, faithful heart! If you really knew what I know, you could not survive the shock. Oh, George! who could have thought of this who remembered you in the old days? Yes, I will do what I can to save mother and to rescue you. It is true that I am only a weak girl, but sometimes girls like me have power. I will not be afraid; I will go now to exercise all the power that is in me."

Effie left the room; she went to the one where her sisters slept, changed her dress and washed herself, and then waking Agnes, to tell her to be sure to look after her mother, she ran downstairs.

The landlady, Mrs. Robinson, met her in the passage.

"Why, surely, Miss Staunton," she said, "you are not going out on a raw, foggy morning like this without breakfast?"

"Oh, I can't wait for breakfast," exclaimed Effie.

"I have some tea in my sitting room—do come in, and let me give you a cup, miss. Do, now—you're so white, you look as if you'd drop."

"Thank you," said Effie, after a little pause. "I should be very glad of a cup of tea," she added.

The landlady bustled her into her little sitting room, seated her by the fire, and would not leave her alone until she had swallowed a cup of tea and a piece of toast.

"I'm all the better for the tea," said Effie; "thank you very much."

The unlooked-for kindness cheered the poor girl; she looked upon it as a good omen. She walked quickly up the narrow street which led into the larger thoroughfare, and was soon on her way to Mr. Gering's office in Leadenhall Street.

She arrived there just as the clock was striking nine. She did not allow herself even to feel nervous, but, walking boldly in, asked to see Mr. Gering at once.

"Have you an appointment with him?" asked the clerk whom she addressed.

"No; but I hope he will see me without that; my business is very pressing."

"What is your name, miss?"

"Staunton." Effie hesitated for a minute, then she said abruptly, "I am the sister of George Staunton, who is a clerk here."

The moment she uttered the words every clerk in the place looked up with interest, and one, coming up in a somewhat familiar way, said cavalierly:

"I don't think there's the least use in your troubling Mr. Gering; I may as well tell you beforehand that he certainly won't see you."

At this moment a man came out of an inner room. He spoke to the head clerk, who gave him a bundle of letters.

"Take these to Mr. Gering at once," he said.

Effie followed this man with her eyes.

The other clerks stared at her, expecting her to go.

She looked at the one to whom she had first spoken.

"Will you take my message to Mr. Gering?" she said. "Will you tell him that Effie Staunton—George Staunton's sister—wishes to see him on most important business?"

There was much distress in her tone, but withal such firmness that the clerk could not help looking at her with admiration.

"I would gladly take your message, Miss Staunton, but it would be useless. I know beforehand that nothing will induce Mr. Gering to see you."

"He must see me," replied Effie in a firm voice. "If no one here will be polite enough to take him my message, I will go to him myself."

Before one of the clerks could prevent her, Effie walked across the large room, opened the door where the clerk who took Mr. Gering his letters had vanished, and found herself the next moment in a handsomely furnished room, where a portly old gentleman was seated at a desk.

He looked up in unfeigned astonishment when he saw a pretty girl standing near the door.

As she did not speak for an instant, he raised his voice with an inquiry.

"May I ask what you are doing here?" he said.

"I have come to speak to you about my brother," said Effie.

"Your brother! What do you mean? Who is your brother?"

"George Staunton."

"Then, Miss Staunton, let me tell you that you have taken a great liberty in coming to see me. You have forced your way into my room unannounced. I must ask you to have the goodness to retire as quickly as you came. If you do not leave my room this moment, I shall be forced to compel you to go."

"No, you will not," said Effie—"no, that is not like you. You would not willingly be unkind to a suffering and innocent girl, when she forces herself, against her true inclinations, against her real modesty, to seek an interview with you. I come in great sorrow and despair, and you are not the man who will treat me roughly—I don't fear it. You like to say harsh words, but your heart is not harsh. I beg of you, therefore, to listen to my story. I will not keep you long."

"You are a very queer, courageous sort of girl," said Gering, after a pause. "As you have come, I suppose I may as well listen to you; but please understand at once that I have no mercy for your brother; that his career here is ended."

"That is only just and right. I have not come to plead with you to take George back—I know that that would be asking too much. What I have come to say I can say in a very few words."

"They must be very few if you expect me to leave my business to attend to them."

Effie came close to where Mr. Gering was seated; he did not rise, nor motion her to a chair. At this moment the clerk who had refused to take her message entered the room.

"Leave us for a moment, Power," said Mr. Gering. The man withdrew immediately.

"Thank you," said Effie. Then she added abruptly, "I won't keep you a moment. I will tell you quite simply what I want. My brother George has behaved very badly."

"To put it plainly," interrupted Mr. Gering, "your brother George is a scoundrel."

"You may call him any names you please," said Effie; "I have not come here to defend him. I know that he stole fifty pounds from you yesterday."

"Oh, you know that, do you?"

"Yes. Forty-five pounds of that money he put into the City Bank in my mother's name. That forty-five pounds you can have back within an hour. We shall then be in your debt five pounds, which I want you to let me pay you back. I have just secured a very good situation as a governess, and am to be in receipt of one hundred and twenty pounds a year. I can pay you back the money in about a month's time out of my own salary."

"You are very conscientious," said Mr. Gering, with a slight sneer, "and I shall be glad to have my money back. If that is all your business, perhaps you will leave me."

"No, it is not all my business. I want you to forgive George,—not to prosecute him,—not to give him up to the law."

"Ah! I thought that was coming. And why, pray, should I not prosecute the young rascal? Don't you think he richly deserves punishment?"

"Honestly, I do."

When Effie said this, Mr. Gering's eyes twinkled for the first time.

"Eh, eh!" he exclaimed. "I am glad we're of one mind on that point. We both doubtless believe that punishment would be good for him."

"We do."

"Then why deprive him of anything so beneficial?"

"Because of my mother."

"Your mother! Is there a mother in the case?"

"There is—a mother who lies now at the point of death. Let me tell you her story."

"I haven't read my letters yet, Miss Staunton."

"Oh, never mind your letters! Let me tell you about my father and my mother. Four months ago my father was alive. He was a country doctor. He was very good, everyone loved him. He caught diphtheria, and died. My mother has heart disease, and my father felt sure that the shock of losing him would kill her. He loved her most tenderly. When he lay dying he was certain that God would allow them both to leave the world together. My mother was kneeling by his bedside; and George, my brother, knelt there too. And my brother said. 'Don't take mother away, father;' and then father said to mother, 'Stay with George.' At that moment something strange must have happened—all my mother's great love seemed suddenly directed into a new channel. Her love for George since that moment has been the passion of her life. He was not strong-minded."

"No, indeed," interrupted Mr. Gering.

"No; and he yielded to temptation and got into trouble, and—and lost money. But all the time my mother has been imagining that he is the best and steadiest fellow in London. She lives in a sort of golden dream about him. If she learns the truth she will certainly die, and George will be lost. He will then, as he himself expresses it, 'go under' forever. He won't be able to stand the thought that through his sin and weakness he has killed his mother."