"Of course he will," replied Winnie; "there's no doubt about that."

Then the two began to talk seriously and lovingly their own heart-thoughts, and the minutes passed all too rapidly. Both started when the clock struck the hour for retiring, and there was a little quiver in Winnie's voice as she wished her brother good-night, and thought that only another evening, then the kind face bending over her would be looking out on the wide waste of waters, and she would have to whisper her loving good-nights to the stars instead. "Oh, my dear, my dear," she sobbed to herself in the darkness, "how sorely, sorely I shall miss you! But I am so glad there is a great, good Father in heaven who will guide and keep you wherever you are. Oh! if Aunt Judith were only here to say something comforting to me—something that would ease this ache of sorrow at my heart and help me to feel strong and brave."

Then, as she lay weeping out her loneliness in the quiet night, some words she had read in one of Aunt Judith's books stole softly into her mind, like a ray of golden sunlight penetrating through the chinks of a darkened room: "Whatever is grieving you, however burdensome or trivial the trouble may be, tell it to Jesus."

Winnie's eyes flashed, and springing out of bed with sudden determination she knelt down, a little, fragile figure, by the window ledge, and prayed reverently and trustingly her first heart-prayer. It was a very simple petition, uttered in Winnie's own quaint style, at the language of which some people might have smiled; but I think that in heaven there would be a great hush amongst the white-robed throng as they bent their heads to catch the first breathings of a child's soul upwards. And oh, the bursts of hallelujahs as the trusting words floated to the throne of grace, and told of a young heart groping in the darkness for the strong, firm clasp of a Father's hand!

Next afternoon, when the carriage drove round to the door as appointed, the little girl, running downstairs warmly muffled up, found Edith wrapped in soft velvets and furs, thoroughly equipped for the drive. There was the faintest suspicion of a smile wreathing the corners of her lips as she stood tapping impatiently the tesselated floor of the hall with her tiny high-heeled boot, and running the gauntlet of a few teasing remarks from her two brothers, who were loitering near; but on Winnie's approach she turned round, and waving a careless farewell, accompanied her little sister down the broad stone steps to the carriage, where Mr. Blake was awaiting them.

The drive proved to be a pleasant one, and in a short time they found themselves at the docks, and saw the great ships ranging far and near, with their tapering masts pointing upwards to the cloudy sky. The Maid of Astolat lay close at hand, and as they went on board Dick appeared, his face black and grimy, but all aglow with a welcoming smile.

"You come along with me," he said, drawing Winnie aside, as the captain, a tall, gentlemanly-looking man, stepped forward and addressed Mr. Blake. "I'll do the honours of the ship tip-top, Win, and show you all round in first-rate style;" and the little sister delivered herself over to his guidance.

How they peered about, to be sure—here, there, everywhere; and how proudly Dick aired the small amount of nautical language he had managed to pick up! Rough men turned and smiled half unconsciously as the two blithe figures flitted past and their merry laughter rang out in the frosty air. They seemed so happy, and the hearts hardened by sin and adversity sighed over their bygone childhood's days, and thought what a blessed thing it was to be young.

Returning from their exploration, brother and sister found Mr. Blake and Edith still talking to the captain, whose grave, stern face was rapidly relaxing under the influence of that young lady's winning manner and bright, sparkling conversation. Dick eyed the group as he drew near, and then a comical thought seemed to strike him, for he was heard to mutter, "Jemima! what a lark!" and he twitched his face into a decided grimace of amusement.

There was scant time in which to make remarks, however, for Mr. Blake required to be back in the city at a certain hour, and Winnie must not be exposed to the night air. So good-byes were courteously exchanged. The Blakes, re-entering their carriage, drove rapidly away, and soon the high, tapering masts appeared like specks in the distance.

Next day the Maid of Astolat sailed from the harbour, bearing on board the strong, stalwart figure and honest, true face of Richard Blake.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE PRIZE ESSAY.

One day, towards the close of the school, great excitement prevailed in Mrs. Elder's Select Establishment for Young Ladies, the cause being a communication made through the lady-principal to her pupils from a gentleman and relative of hers lately returned from India. He had visited the school several times within the last few months, and seemed to take an interest in it; but still there was no lack of astonishment when Mrs. Elder announced one morning that her friend, Mr. Corbett, had intimated his intention of awarding a special prize to the pupil who would write the best essay on any of the three following subjects—namely, Christmas joys, a short account of the French Revolution, and a brief review of one of Sir Walter Scott's novels. The babble of tongues that ensued after this intimation was wonderful. Mrs. Elder laughingly beat a hasty retreat, and Miss Smith lay resignedly back in her chair, and waited till peace and order were restored.

"Of course Ada will win the prize," was the general comment, "she is so clever, and Mr. King always praises her essays. Nellie can't come near her in the way of composition; but we must all try to do our best, for the honour of the school."

The elder girls, who were not included in the list of competitors, felt inclined to second these remarks, and Ada smiled triumphantly when she heard them whispered abroad. There was little doubt in her own mind as to who was likely to be the successful candidate, and she only wondered which subject would best show forth her brilliancy of style and composition.

Winnie and Nellie, firm friends still in spite of all restraints, consulted together, and spoke of the utter uselessness of their most strenuous endeavours. "We've no chance against Ada," they said disconsolately, "but like the others we'll have to attempt something."

"What will you try, Winnie?" inquired Nellie. "I think I'll tackle 'the French Revolution.'"

Winnie's brow was wrinkled in perplexity. "Do you know, Nell," she said at length, looking up with a curious gleam in her eyes, "I never tried very hard in all my life to write a really good essay. I just mixed anything together and popped it down higgledy-piggledy style, as Dick would say. Yet sometimes I have beautiful thoughts, and they run together in such beautiful words that I think I may manage to produce a respectable paper after all. I know nothing about the French Revolution, simply nothing. I have never read any of Sir Walter Scott's novels, and could not criticise or review one to save my life. But Christmas joys—ah, yes, I might attempt that;" and Winnie looked hopeful at this point.

"Very well, Win, we've decided," responded Nellie; then, Agnes Drummond coming forward and addressing them, their conversation was interrupted for the present.

Ada Irvine's triumph was by no means so complete as she fancied it would be, though there was still much to cause her satisfaction. Almost every day she had the pleasure of seeing Winnie grow furious and Nellie wince under some cutting sarcasm thrown out with well-directed aim by some of the most fashionable girls in the school, and not even the former's reappearance and championship could allay to any extent the open insults which beset the defenceless girl during school hours.

"Go! you are not my friends," the stanch little ally had said when she found how matters stood on her return after her illness. "I hate and despise every one of you from the bottom of my heart. You call yourselves ladies, but I tell you no true lady would lower herself to utter such words as fall from your lips. I know who your ringleader is, and if the heartiest hatred will do her any good, she has mine. But act as you please; only remember Nellie is now, and ever will be, the one true friend of my life. And as for her aunts, let me tell you you are not worthy to touch the hem of their garments."

"Oh, nonsense, Winnie!" one of the girls had replied, in a half-condescending manner; "I am sure you can't forget your mother's opinion on the subject."

"And who informed you about my mother's opinion? It must have been Ada; and that throws light on what has puzzled me lately. I think I may thank her for all this trouble I have been and am still experiencing. No, do not try to defend her; one day we shall be quits."

"But Ada is never rude or disagreeable to you now, Win," pleaded another girl. "There has been a marked change in her manner lately. She is very gentle and kind to you. As for blaming her about telling tales, that is hardly fair. She really said very little concerning Mrs. Blake and her opinion of Nellie. Where she got her information we do not know, but she told us decidedly it was not from your step-mother."

Winnie looked incredulous. "That is quite sufficient," she replied with dignity; "I would rather hear no more. But you may tell Ada from me that I am not to be deceived by her new tactics, and have no desire to possess such a treasure as a serpent-friend."

The subject had then been dropped, and from that time Winnie would have nothing to do with any girl who uttered a single word against her friend. Ada she treated with supreme indifference, and disdained to accept a proffered friendship vouchsafed to suit that young lady's amiable plans. As regarded Nellie, she never walked with her after school hours, or sought her society so frequently as she had done in the happy bygone days (Miss Latimer had strictly forbidden that); but still the love betwixt the two was warm and true, and Ada felt her hatred deepen as she saw how all her endeavours failed to break the strong bond of friendship binding the one to the other. A certain circumstance, however, caused her immense satisfaction—namely, Mrs. Elder's growing dislike of Nellie Latimer. The lady-principal was, unfortunately, guilty of favouritism, and ever since Ada had been placed under her charge she had shown a marked preference for and indulgence towards her. Such being the case, one can readily imagine how a woman of such a weak, selfish nature would resent the quiet dethronement of her young favourite, and see the honours she had been accustomed to take now won by an insignificant girl of no particular birth or station in society. Ada, not slow to find all this out, viewed it with supreme delight, and was careful to fan the flame by various hints and insinuations thrown out with becoming modesty.

Nellie marked the change, but bore it uncomplainingly, striving to live it down and let the discipline accomplish its own sharp yet beneficial work. "I shall withdraw you from the school should you choose, Nellie," Miss Latimer had said once when the girl broke down and wept over the heavy burden laid upon her. "But I would like you to fight it out, and grow better, braver, and nobler under the conflict." That was sufficient for Nellie, who, meekly relifting the old cross, strove to carry it cheerfully, feeling amply rewarded for her quiet endurance when she daily realized the rare love and tenderness that surrounded her in the peaceful home at Broomhill Road.

The examination day was fast approaching, and the prize essays, which had to be given in a week beforehand, were delivered over to the lady-principal's charge—neat rolls of paper prettily tied up with gaily-coloured knots of ribbon. Then followed more excitement, till the hour arrived when guests and pupils met together in the large school-room, and the usual performance took place before the eyes of smiling mothers and friends. At length it was over, and the clergyman stepping forward to award the prizes, Winnie found some leisure to gaze around and scan the sea of faces in front of her.

There was Mrs. Drummond, calm and placid as usual; her own step-mother and Edith, both looking so fresh and fair in their bright summer attire, and—but here Winnie caught a glimpse of a noble, true face looking at her from under the brim of a quiet Quaker bonnet, and in a moment her little face was all aglow with a great throb of love.

What occurred after that seemed a blank. She never heard Nellie's name called repeatedly, or noted Mrs. Blake's haughty look as the young girl modestly received her prizes and blushed under the words of commendation uttered by the clergyman. Her thoughts were far away in the past, and she was living those two happy days over again at Dingle Cottage, when the world appeared so wondrously fair, and life full of bright laughing sunshine.

But now came a pause in the proceedings. The prizes were all distributed, and pupils and friends wakened to a state of great expectancy as old Mr. Corbett stood up by the minister's side and nervously prepared to make his oration. After a few preliminary remarks customary on the occasion, he spoke of the surprise and pleasure he had experienced in reading over the essays delivered to him by Mrs. Elder, his old and esteemed friend. They displayed much talent and brilliancy of style, and reflected great credit on the school. One especially amazed him (here Ada's head drooped modestly) by the rich, beautiful thoughts, set, as it were, in such quaint, original language. He was almost startled by the amount of genius shining forth from every sentence; and although the essay was written in a crude girlish style, it was worthy of the highest commendation, and he had great pleasure in awarding the prize to—Miss Winnifred Blake.

There was a long silence, followed by murmurs of amazement and congratulation. But Winnie did not seem to hear them; she only sat gazing dreamily, with dim, dazed eyes, as if hardly capable of realizing the good fortune which had befallen her.

"Rise, dear," whispered Elsie Drummond, who was standing close by; "every one is waiting to see you receive the prize. We are all so glad over your success. Now go;" and she gave the child a gentle push in the clergyman's direction. The words wakened Winnie, and then, with a great flash, came the realization that she, and not Nellie, had triumphed over Ada; and as the knowledge came home with full power to her heart, her great eyes sparkled their mischievous joy, and she stepped forward, a glad, triumphant gleam shining in their depths.

Few of the onlookers that day ever forgot the scene before them: the little fairy figure clad in daintiest summer attire; the flushed gipsy face and dark, lustrous eyes peeping from under the mass of curly hair; and the wondrously joyous smile which broke over her lips as she bent her pretty head on receiving the glittering medal from the minister's hand. I think Mrs. Blake was proud of her step-daughter for once in her life.

A short time afterwards, just as she was preparing to start homeward, Winnie remembered that her music was lying in one of the school-rooms, and bidding some of the girls wait her return she bounded up the steep flight of stairs to go in search of it.

On reaching the top step, however, Ada met her, and the pale, angry face and haughty mien roused every malicious feeling in Winnie's nature. Looking up with a face in which wicked triumph and delight were plainly depicted, she said sweetly, "O Ada, would you care to inspect my medal? You have been so kind to me lately I am sure you will rejoice at my wonderful success."

Ada returned her gaze with one of steady, contemptuous disdain, and dropping the mask of friendship which had been so hard for her to wear, she replied haughtily, "Wonderful indeed! so wonderful, in fact, that I may be pardoned for refusing to credit the essay as being your own composition. Do you think it is natural for a dunce (I repeat the word), who has been in the habit of writing the most childish nonsense, to break on the world suddenly as a genius, and startle every one with her wonderful thoughts? It stands to reason that some underhand work has been going on; and such being the case, I prefer to hold myself aloof from one who could be guilty of any mean, despicable action."

Strong language to use. Winnie's anger rose to a white heat as she listened. "Explain yourself!" cried the enraged child; "I fail to understand your words."

Ada's lip curled. "You are an admirable actress," she said calmly; "you would make your fortune on the stage. Unfortunately, however, I am not easily deceived. You know perfectly well the prize essay is no work of yours."

"Whose then?" in a voice of suppressed passion; and the quiet, mocking tones answered,—

"Suspicions are easily roused, and when one can disobey a parent once, one can easily do so again."

Winnie looked bewildered. "You are speaking in riddles," she cried angrily; "I demand a proper explanation."

"Then you shall have it," replied Ada, spitefully enjoying her momentary triumph. "Mrs. Elder, Miss Smith, and ever so many of the girls believe that your wonderful Miss Latimer assisted with your essay. Nay, do not interrupt: we give you credit for the bare outline, but the originality and quaint rich thoughts are decidedly beyond the powers of a dunce."

Winnie listened in amazement, and as the last words fell slowly from the lips of the cold, haughty girl, she cried out in her bitter anger,—

"It is false! false! and you know that too; but, Ada Irvine, I can almost excuse your insulting words. It must be humiliating to see a dunce, and one towards whom you bear so much affection, win a prize of which you deemed yourself secure. I forgive you when I think how hard it must be to feel yourself the laughing-stock of the school; and I would remind you in the future to value your talents at their true worth."

Winnie paused, and it seemed, to use a common-place phrase, as if the tables were turned; for the little girl looked cool and calm now, while her adversary's face was white and set with passion. Springing forward she raised her hand, and Winnie, in order to avert the blow, stepped back, forgetful of her dangerous position. Then rang through the house a wild scream followed by the sound of a heavy fall; and the startled inmates, gathering from various quarters, found lying at the foot of the steep stairs a prostrate figure with white upturned face and firmly-closed eyes.



CHAPTER XV.

HOW SHALL I LIVE THROUGH THE LONG, LONG YEARS?

A balmy summer morning in the month of July. Outside, and far up overhead, a dappled sky shining down on a world of light and beauty; green verdant slopes and wide sweeps of meadowland glistening still with the early dew; flowers blossoming everywhere, from the modest daisy and golden buttercup to the queenliest rose and fairest lily; birds singing from every bush and tree their morning trill of flute-like melody; bees humming busily hither and thither; butterflies flitting idly by or resting snugly in the heart of a flower; in short, the world of nature all awake and joying with a pure, glad joy in the golden summer sunshine.

Inside a darkened room, with softly-shaded blinds and peaceful hush brooding over all, a girl—one might almost say a child—lying quietly on a dainty bed with white, weary face and closed eyes, round which dark lines of pain and suffering are plainly circled; and lastly, a young lady nestling back in a low basket-chair and keeping tender watch over the slight figure stretched so motionless before her. Suddenly the heavy lids unclose, and a pair of tired eyes are raised, with a sad, pathetic look, to the watcher's face.

"Is that you, Edith?" asks the weak voice in low, feeble tones; and the young lady, bending down to press a kiss on the white brow, answers,—

"Yes, dear; and I am so glad you have enjoyed such a nice long sleep."

The child raised one thin, fragile hand, and pushing back the hair from her damp forehead, spoke once more. "I was dreaming, Edith,—dreaming the old days were back again, and that Dick and I were having such fun in the oak parlour. Archie Trollope was there too, and we were chasing each other round and round the room; but neither Dick nor Archie could catch me, my feet seemed so nimble. I thought it was true, Edith, and a great weight rolled from my heart; but oh"—and the low wail accompanying the words pained the listener sorely—"I awoke and found it was all a dream."

"My poor little Winnie!" replied the young lady, smoothing the pained lines from the invalid's brow with soft, gentle touch. But the child had not yet finished.

"Edith," she continued, a wild, haunting look of unrest stealing into her eyes, "I am so tired lying here day after day. I want to be out in the sunshine with the birds and the flowers. Tell me, when shall I be able to walk in the sunlight once more?"

Edith's face was wet with tears. "Try to be patient, dear," she said in a somewhat broken voice; "one does not recover very quickly from an illness such as yours."

Winnie seemed dissatisfied. "You don't look me straight in the face when you speak, Edith, and your voice has a little tremble in it. Hush! hear how the birds are singing! They know I dearly love the sunshine, and are calling me out into the midst of it; I hear them every day warbling so happily. Do you think they ever wonder why I never come—why I never dance up and down the garden walks and spend hours with them and the flowers as I did last year? And the sea, Edith—some nights, when the wind is sleeping and not a leaf stirring on the trees, I can hear the waves crooning a low, sweet song as they wash along the wide beach of sand. They also seem to be calling me out into their midst; and I—O Edith, I cannot come."

There was a passionate ring of pain in the voice, and the look of unrest had given place to one of intense yearning. Edith's tears fell fast as she laid her head down on the pillow beside her little sister and pressed warm kisses on the quivering lips.

"Little Winnie," she whispered, "don't you think it is hard, hard for us to see you lying suffering here? Oh, my dear, can't you guess how we miss your little dancing figure, and your bright, merry chatter? Our hearts are sore for you, dearest, in your pain and weariness, and we would sacrifice anything to be able to raise you up strong and well soon. But we cannot; and, oh, little sister, try to wait patiently a little longer."

"You say that every day, Edith," answered the child pettishly. "It is always the old, old story—wait a little longer; and when you speak in that strain a great fear creeps into my heart and won't be shut out. I try not to listen; I think upon other things; I tell it to go away, but it still remains. Edith, O Edith! tell me that some day I shall stand up strong and well; tell me quick, quick, for something whispers that will never be."

"Nonsense, dear!" faltered the elder sister; "you must not become fanciful. In a short time I hope to see you quite better."

"You don't say you are perfectly certain, Edith," cried Winnie, still suspicious, "and you look at anything rather than me. I believe my fear is too true; and if so, how shall I live through the long, long years?"

Edith hardly knew how to reply. "Hush, Winnie, hush!" she began pleadingly; "you are rushing to rash conclusions. And only think, dear, we have you, though weak and helpless, spared to us still. What if you had died?"

"I wish I had," replied the girl wildly; "I would far rather lie quietly under the daisies than live a long, long crippled life. Oh, to think I shall never again run races on the sandy shore, and laugh when the little waves splash my feet; never pluck the wild flowers and make sweet, fragrant posies; never climb the forest trees or sit under the great pines I love so well! I can't bear it, Edith; indeed I can't. I wish I were dead."

Her sister was about to speak, but she pushed her aside, saying feebly, "Oh, if I could only get my strength back again! I never knew what a blessing health was till I lost it." There was such a depth of pathos in the weak voice, such an undertone of sadness, that Edith almost broke down again.

"Winnie," she said softly, "I wonder how Aunt Judith would answer you just now?"

Winnie looked up through her tears. "I don't know," she replied wistfully; "but she can't understand how awful it is to lose health for life in one day."

"No," responded Edith; "but I think, Winnie, Miss Latimer must have had some exceeding bitter sorrow—some terrible trial to bear in her own time."

"How?" with a gesture of surprise.

"Because, dear, those books of hers which I have been reading to you lately are full of grand, loving thoughts, and strong, helpful words, such as could only come from a heart torn and bleeding through suffering. I never saw Miss Latimer, as you know, Winnie, but I am ready to say with you she must be a good, noble woman."

The little girl's eyes were brimming over again. "Don't speak of her, Edith; it makes me wish so much to see her, and mamma has forbidden that."

"Not now, Winnie, not now!" said Edith eagerly; "she would be only too pleased to see your friend. At first, when you were so ill, you called continually for Aunt Judith, and Algy was sent to Dingle Cottage in search of her. He found, however, only a fast-closed door, and could gain no information as to where she had gone from any of the neighbours. It seems the whole family left town for the summer on the afternoon of the examination day, so that I am sure Miss Latimer does not even know you are ill. She and Nellie were not in the school at the time of your accident." Edith's voice faltered at this point: but rapidly recovering herself, she continued: "Then we bought all Aunt Judith's books, dear, to try to cheer you a little. It was the only thing we could do. Some day, when we return to town, you will see Miss Latimer again."

Winnie lay weeping quietly. At last she said, "Please leave me alone for a short time, Edith; I wish to think it all out myself," and the elder sister obeyed.

Slipping on her hat, she passed out of the house into the sunshine and wended her way slowly towards the shore, the words ringing in her ears with that low wail of intense pain—"How shall I live through the long, long years?"

Poor Winnie! her fears were but too well grounded. No hope was entertained of her ever being able to leave her couch again.

When the kind-hearted doctor had broken the news to the sorrowing family, almost the first thought of each was, How would she bear it? How would she, the little restless sprite, always flitting about here and there, endure perhaps a long life of crippled helplessness? And oh! how were they to tell her of the sad future, stretching far into the coming years? It was all very well to waive her questions in the meantime, but that could not be done much longer. Already the child seemed listening to each word with a haunting sense of fear; and now that they had taken her from the busy town to their quiet sea-side home, where summer after summer she had danced about in innocent glee, the dread deepened as the days went by and she felt no sign of returning strength to her feeble frame. There was no need to tell the sad tidings after all, however—she had found out for herself; and the necessary part now was to teach her how to live bravely and cheerfully through the long, long years.

Edith's thoughts were very dreary as she walked quietly through the little sea-side village, and saw the happy, sun-kissed children, full of health and strength, playing on the sandy shore, and shouting their lusty laughter to each other, while one who would have joined so heartily in their merriment was lying pale and weary on a lonely couch of pain. The little wistful face and tired eyes kept ever rising up before her, while the words rang continually in her ears,—"How shall I live through the long, long years?"

With a quick impatient movement she drew out her watch, and noting the hour, saw that the mail had been due some little time ago, and letters would be lying at the small post-office. Entering the little shop, she found another occupant besides herself preparing to receive a small budget of papers from the shopwoman's hands.

"No letters to-day, Miss Latimer; only these papers," the girl was saying as Edith stepped towards the counter.—"Good-morning, Miss Blake; we are glad to see you amongst us again."

The lady started at Edith's name, and turning, looked earnestly at the graceful figure from under the brim of a shady hat—a gaze which Edith, busy with her own thoughts, failed to observe.

"Three letters for you to-day, miss," the shopwoman continued, "and one with a foreign post-mark on it. I'm thinking it'll be from Master Dick."

Edith lifted the letters. "Yes," she said with a bright smile, "you are quite right, Janet. It is addressed to my little sister; how pleased she will be!"

The girl's eyes saddened. "Is Miss Winnie keeping stronger?" she inquired in a subdued voice; "we were all so sorry to hear about her illness, dear lamb."

The young lady shook her head. "Not much, Janet; but of course we have only been here a week as yet. We are hoping she will reap the benefit of the sea-air by-and-by. Good-morning." And Edith, gathering her letters together, left the shop and turned slowly in the direction of home. In a few minutes she heard rapid footsteps behind her, and a low, sweet voice said gently, "May I be pardoned for addressing Miss Blake?"

Raising her eyes in surprise, Edith saw the stranger lady close at her side, looking very much agitated.

"Certainly!" she replied courteously. "Can I assist you in any way?" And the stranger replied—

"I do not know whether you will ever have heard Winnie speak of me or not. My name is Latimer, and your little sister was a great friend of my niece. They were always together at school, and Winnie spent two afternoons with us when we were in town, I—"

But she was allowed to proceed no further, for Edith stood holding out her hands, and saying with shining countenance, "You are Aunt Judith, are you not? I am so pleased to have met you, Miss Latimer. My little sister is very ill. Will you come and see her now?"

Miss Latimer looked perplexed. "I am staying here at present," she said simply, "and intend remaining till the end of August; this air seems so beneficial to my invalid sister. I hardly know how to reply to your invitation, Miss Blake. I never knew till the other day about Winnie's accident, and I should dearly like to see the child; but still—"

"Please do not finish your sentence, Miss Latimer," replied Edith, blushing with confusion. "We owe you an ample apology for our rudeness, and both my father and mother will be only too delighted to see you. Winnie has been calling for you continually, and my brother went to Dingle Cottage, but found you out of town."

"Yes," said Miss Latimer; "the doctor advised us to come here on account of my youngest sister. Nellie was with us during the month of June, but has gone home till we return to town. I thank you for your kindness, Miss Blake, and will call at your house to-morrow. I am sorry I cannot accompany you this afternoon."

Edith looked up at the true, noble face, shaded by the simple summer hat; and as she did so, a slow, sweet smile broke over Aunt Judith's lips and lighted up her whole countenance.

"No wonder Winnie loved her!" thought the gay, fashionable girl. "I feel as if I could kneel in all reverence at her feet, she looks so good and pure." But she only said aloud,—"Then I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, Miss Latimer. Our house is easily found. You will see the name, Maple Bank, on the gate. Please do not disappoint us; and oh! I am so glad I have met you at last."

So they parted, and Edith stepped homewards with a lightened heart.

Mr. and Mrs. Blake received her news quietly. They would rather the intimacy had not been renewed, but for Winnie's sake no opposition would be made now. They would find out Miss Latimer's present home, and call on her that evening. As for telling Winnie, it might be better, perhaps, to keep her still in ignorance till the following day.

Clare alone turned up her haughty nose when Edith related the morning's adventure, and inquired if she too were becoming infected with the Latimer mania. "For my part," concluded the proud girl, "I think our parents very foolish—encouraging Winnie in all her whims and fancies. There will be no end to them soon. I am very sorry for the child, but I still decidedly disapprove of giving in to her continually. I should not be surprised if this wonderful Aunt Judith becomes a daily visitor before long. However, I wash my hands of the whole affair." And lifting a book, Clare passed out through the window into the garden; while Edith, disgusted at the cruel words, went slowly upstairs, and placed Dick's precious letter in Winnie's hands.

It was a wonderful epistle, spiced with grand nautical phrases, and brimful of the truly marvellous and incredible in nature. Winnie laughed heartily over the absurd yarns, described with sailor-like veracity, and then gave a little cry of joy when Edith, who was reading the letter aloud, ended with the following words:—"And now, my dear little Win, if we have favourable weather you may expect to see your dear old Dick home about the end of September; and won't we have a jolly time of it then! No end of larks and mischief. I suppose you will still be at Maple Bank when my ship comes in, so" (here Edith stopped, but the child bade her read every single word) "see and keep well and strong, that you may be able to enjoy all sorts of capers with—Your loving sailor brother, DICK."

"Don't look at me like that, Edith," said Winnie, when the long letter was carefully folded up and returned to its envelope. "I am not going to cry or even think; my heart is too sore. No one must tell Dick till he comes home. Let him remain in ignorance as long as possible." Then she closed her eyes wearily and remained silent. But Edith was not to be deceived by any apparent calmness or resignation, and knew only too well that the child's whole soul was crying out in rebellion at the sad trial which had befallen her.

Daylight stole softly, silently away; the summer breeze sighing a dreamy even-song through the forest trees, lulled the singing birds to rest; the little flowers drooped their pretty heads, and closed their dewy petals in slumber; the busy whirr and hum of insects ceased,—and the nature-world was hushed in sleep. Only the restless sea broke on the peaceful calm with its ceaseless swish-swish of waves. And far, far out on the ocean breast, leaning over the bulwark of a gallant ship, homeward bound, was a young sailor, gazing across the moonlit waters, and thinking of the bright fairy sister waiting to give him a joyous welcome back.



CHAPTER XVI.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

"How pretty my room is to-day, Edith! You have made it all bright and fairy-like with flowers. Yes, open the blinds, please, and let the sunshine in; my head is really better this morning, and I wish all the light I can possibly get." So spoke Winnie, as she watched her sister scattering sweet posies of flowers throughout the entire room, and felt the sweet, subtle perfume of "the flowers that in earth's firmament do shine."

"Why are you so particular to-day, Edith?" she continued, as that young lady flitted about, looping and relooping the soft lace curtains, pouncing on every stray speck of dust, and sweeping every medicine-bottle out of sight. "Jane tidied the room as usual this morning, and yet here you are, poking into every corner, and arranging and rearranging everything. One would think the Queen was coming to see me. What is the reason of it all?" and Winnie looked decidedly curious.

"So you are going to have a visitor, dear," replied Edith, bringing a fragrant nosegay over to the bedside and laying it on the snowy pillow. "Now don't ask me any questions, for I dare not tell. Only wait patiently and you will see for yourself."

The child did not seem particularly charmed. "I hate visitors, Edith," she said, the sunshine dying out of her face, and the restless, weary look stealing into her eyes; "they make my heart full of wicked, rebellious thoughts when I see them coming into the room so well and strong. I detest their long faces and sympathetic remarks. Ugh! I suppose they mean to be kind, but when they speak I feel as if I hated everything and everybody."

"I don't think you will tell me all that this afternoon," replied Edith with a knowing smile. "It is always the unexpected that happens, and I shall be very much surprised if you do not count this day as one of the bright spots in your life.—Ah, there is the bell. Give me a kiss, Win, and keep a pretty smile for the unwelcome visitor." So saying Edith tripped away, and Winnie waited in gloomy silence the advent of the hated guest. Why could people not leave her alone? Why did they require to come and flaunt all their bright, strong health before her? She wished none of their sympathy and condolences—only leave her alone to her grief and misery.

These being her thoughts, it was a very cross, peevish face which met Miss Latimer's gaze as she entered the sick chamber in company with Mrs. Blake and confronted the little invalid.

"I have brought a friend to see you, dear," said the step-mother, smiling down on the quiet figure with its weary, pain-stricken face. "You will be pleased to welcome her, I know, and have so much to talk about that my presence can be easily dispensed with for a little time." As she spoke, Mrs. Blake smoothed the sick girl's brow lovingly, and then withdrew, leaving the two friends together once more.

There was no need to ask, "Are you glad to see me, Winnie?" for the great eyes, shining with a wonderfully joyous light, told the tale the lips refused to utter. Forgetting her helplessness, the child stretched out her arms and tried to rise, but sank back with a low cry of pain, and those piteous words, "O Aunt Judith, come to me quickly, for I cannot go to you."

Miss Latimer was greatly moved, and could do nothing at first but kiss the little face once so fresh and sweet, now pinched and wan with suffering.

"Dear child," she said at length, "my heart is bleeding for you. Tell me, Winnie, how did all this happen?" and with Aunt Judith's arms round her, and a sense of peaceful rest stealing over her weary frame, the sick girl told all that there was to tell, simply, truthfully, with no attempt to screen herself from blame.

"I was wrong to speak as I did," she finished sadly, "but I had provocation. O Aunt Judith, I cannot express the awful feeling of hatred I bear towards Ada, when I think that if it had not been for her I should be running about in the sunshine now."

"Hush, Winnie! do not say that," replied Miss Latimer softly; "her heart will be heavy enough now, I fancy, and—" But here Winnie broke in:—

"No, Aunt Judith. I don't believe she feels the least little particle of sorrow. She ran away when I fell, and never even came to ask for me after the accident. No one knows she had anything to do with my fall except my own family, and they decided to leave her alone and make no remark. Mamma was awfully good. She said she had formed a wrong estimate of Ada's character, and told me I had been right."

There was a few minutes' pause, then Winnie continued: "I know, Aunt Judith, you think I am very wicked for hating Ada so bitterly; but, oh! look what she has done to me. My life is spoilt" (with the old wail of an infinite pain); "I shall never be able to walk again."

Miss Latimer's eyes grew misty, and Winnie continued:—-

"You are good and true, Aunt Judith. You sit there looking at me with such a kind, loving face, and don't say like the others, 'Wait a little longer, Winnie; some day you will be all right again.'" Then repeating the words, with a weary depth of woe in her voice—"I shall never be able to walk again; and, O Aunt Judith, can you guess what that means to me?"

"Yea, my darling, I can," whispered the patient listener, "and your cross is a heavy one to carry."

"Heavy!" muttered the sick girl; "so heavy that I shall not be able to carry it patiently. It is bad enough just now, Aunt Judith, but think what it will be when the months go rolling by and find me still weak and helpless. How shall I bear my life, such a weary, weary life, week after week, and year after year? I loved the world so much—the bright, beautiful world with all its sunshine and flowers; and now I feel as if I were withdrawn from it altogether. What will Dick say when he comes home, and I cannot go with him here and there as in the dear old days? Aunt Judith, I can see no light anywhere. Teach me, you who are so brave and strong, how to bear my life now."

Miss Latimer kissed the little quivering face with its sad, mournful eyes; then drawing her chair closer to the bedside, she kept her loving arms round the sobbing child and tried to comfort her.

"My darling," said the kind, gentle voice, the voice Winnie had so longed and thirsted for, "I do not think you know how deep the pain is, how warm the sympathy, I feel for you. You say the broad, flowery way along which you have hitherto travelled has ended now, and nothing lies stretched before save an interminable waste of blackness through which you imagine it impossible to journey. Yet, will you believe me, dear child, when I tell you that in the blackened tract of moorland you will find a joy, a peace passing all understanding, and learn that the life you now deem too hard to live is a grand, beautiful life, and your weary couch of pain but the school where the Master teaches some of his purest, holiest lessons! The darkness may be very thick and dense for a time, Winnie, but by-and-by light will begin to break through, and night give place to day; and if the flowery way should never again open up before you, you will find in the rugged upland path the sunshine of God's favour, while his presence shall go with you, and he will give you rest. My child, my little Winnie, this grievous stroke may yet prove the greatest blessing to yourself and others. Do not say your life is spoilt; perhaps the true life is only now beginning."

The young girl looked up earnestly into the gentle face. "Speak on, Aunt Judith," she pleaded. "It makes me feel good to hear you talk like that; but then" (with sad despair) "when you go away I know I shall be as wicked and rebellious as ever. Your words lull all the evil passions to sleep; but in the long, dark night they will waken up, and I shall be wishing I were dead again. Say something more, Aunt Judith. Tell me how I am to keep the good feelings always in my heart, and be willing to live through the long, long years."

Then Miss Latimer's soft voice spoke again; and, cradled lovingly in those tender arms, the sick girl learned where to find the daily strength and grace for every need; and how to gather up the scattered threads of her life together, and weave them into a golden web shining with the lustre of simple faith and holy resignation.

Some time afterwards Mrs. Blake entered, and Miss Latimer rose to depart; but Winnie would not let her go just yet. She had so many questions to ask, and there was so much she wished to know. How were Miss Deborah, Aunt Margaret, and Nellie? When would they all return to town? Had Aunt Judith written a new book lately? and if so, what was it called? Miss Latimer had a busy time answering all those queries, but at last the young invalid was satisfied; and promising to come again soon, Aunt Judith said good-bye, and left the room with a heavy heart.

Mrs. Blake following, thanked her for her visit, and hoped she would repeat it at an early date. The young step-mother saw the error she had made in the past, and with graceful tact tried to atone for her open rudeness to this grave, noble woman, who seemed like a queen in spite of the simplicity of her garments.

Miss Latimer's sweet, true nature harboured no feeling of umbrage or malice, and her smile was frank and friendly as she willingly accepted the invitation. Then Edith, appearing at that moment, offered to accompany her part of the way home, and Mrs. Blake returned to the sick-room and Winnie.

The child's face looked flushed and animated. "Mamma dear," she said sweetly, "thank you for allowing me to see Aunt Judith again. I shall not be so cross and troublesome now. She has been telling me what a beautiful life I may yet lead in spite of my pain and helplessness, and her words have hushed the bad thoughts to rest."

The fair, frivolous lady seemed bewildered, but replied, "I am willing to confess my error, Winnie: Miss Latimer is no longer an unwelcome visitor here," then she changed the subject.

Meanwhile the days passed on, and Miss Latimer became a frequent guest at Maple Bank, winning all due respect and honour by the true dignity of her nature and sweet womanly heart. Edith hailed those visits with pleasure; and Winnie—ah! they were like great spots of sunshine to the sick girl fretting sorely under her load of pain.

She was by no means a patient invalid this restless child, and the constant lying day after day and the monotony of sick-room life tried her exceedingly. It was only natural that such should be the case; that the wild tomboy nature, with its bright flow of animal spirits, should chafe and rebel at this heavy discipline. But one becomes wearied of constant murmuring, and sometimes those around her waxed impatient. Then it was that Miss Latimer's soothing words came into use, and the strong hand was stretched out to help the failing feet; and by-and-by, slowly yet surely, the discipline began to show its fruit, and Winnie to learn the first lesson in the school of pain.

August at length drew near to a close. Miss Latimer and her little household returned to town. The days began rapidly to creep in, and the beautiful harvest moon "grew like a white flower in the sky."

"Let us go home, mamma," pleaded Winnie. "I should like to be back in town when Dick's ship comes in; and it is so lonely here. I shall not feel so much at meeting him where we have not the same opportunity to romp about; and oh! although it is very wrong and selfish of me to trouble you, I cannot bear to meet him here."

The child's words were very pathetic, and so, yielding to her wish, the Blakes returned to town.

Winnie sighed her satisfaction when safely deposited in the oak parlour once more. Then the old life began again—the same, yet not the same; for although everything around was as it had been in the bygone days, Winnie herself was changed, and the busy, active life over for ever. But she had her happy times too; for the oak parlour was rapidly becoming the room of the household, and Winnie seldom knew what it was to be left alone. Thither came Aunt Judith with her soft, gentle words; Nellie, fresh from the dear home circle, her troubles all blown away by the happy home atmosphere; Edith and Clare, with their gay young voices and dainty ways; and all the members of the family, slipping in every now and then to see how the little invalid was progressing. Her quiet submission was daily becoming more patent; and as those around noted the efforts at cheerfulness and patience, their love gradually increased, and Winnie the invalid was tenfold dearer to the hearts of her family than Winnie the little tomboy had been. Her days were not idle ones by any means; for as her health in some respects improved, a daily governess was engaged to come and instruct her, and under Miss Montgomery's mild tuition Winnie laid aside her former indolence and began to show an interest in her studies.

The papers were eagerly scanned now for news of the expected ship, but the days sped on and still nothing was heard of the longed-for vessel. At length, however, one evening in the beginning of October, when the gray twilight was creeping silently over the busy town, Edith and Winnie were together in the oak parlour—the one sitting toasting herself cosily at the fire, the other lying on her invalid couch half-asleep. Downstairs in the large drawing-room a few guests were assembled, and the sound of voices singing floated sweetly upwards and fell soothingly on the sick girl's ear.

"Edith!" she said, opening her sleepy eyes for a moment, "I wish you would go down beside the others and enjoy yourself. I feel in a deliciously comfortable mood just now, and will not miss you at all. Do obey me!" and she looked fondly over at the pretty figure basking lazily in the firelight glow.

Edith roused herself. "I should like to join them for a short time, Win; but it seems selfish leaving you all alone, and nurse is too busy to come and sit beside you just now."

"Oh, I shall not weary," was the bright reply; "besides, the music will lull me to sleep in a few minutes. Run away, and think of me as enjoying my forty winks."

The elder sister rose, and kissing Winnie's little face, went slowly from the room, along the passage, and down the broad carpeted stair. She had hardly entered the drawing-room and returned the greetings of the merry guests, when a loud ringing at the door bell was followed by the heavy tread of a man's foot in the hall, and the next minute Richard Blake strode into the gaily-lighted room and confronted the assembled company.

"Just like the old Dick," thought his brothers and sisters, rising to welcome the young sailor, whose sun-tanned face was shining with honest delight. "Fancy stalking into a drawing-room in rough sea-faring clothes, and startling every one with his sudden appearance." But in spite of such condemnation their welcome was hearty and genuine; for the boy looked so happy and overjoyed himself, it was impossible not to be infected with his gladness of heart.

"Straight from the ship," he explained to his step-mother, standing like a young hero in the midst of the gay company, with a great joy rippling over his kindly face. "Got into dock only this afternoon; and here I am, turned up again like the old sixpence.—Any yarns to spin? you ask. Why, any amount. But in the meantime I am desperately hungry, and could relish a hearty meal." Then turning to Edith: "Where is Winnie? Up in the oak parlour, I suppose. Well, I'm off to her at once. She ought to have been the very first to bid me welcome."

A silence fell on all, and looks were exchanged of mingled sorrow and perplexity.

"What is to be done?" questioned Mrs. Blake inwardly. "Some one must break the news to him before he enters the oak parlour."

Dick, in complete ignorance of the effect his words were causing, wheeled round towards the door and prepared to leave the room, when Edith stepped forward saying, "Yes; Winnie is in her own sanctum as usual. Come; I will accompany you there."

The boy stopped in amazement. "What for?" he inquired bluntly; "I would much rather go alone first."

"Yes, I know," was the confused reply; "but please humour me this once;" and Edith slipped past him as she spoke.

Dick followed, a little mystified and annoyed; but his amazement increased when Edith, opening the library door, drew him into that room and closed the door swiftly behind him.

"Bless my boots! is the girl mad?" ejaculated the boy, turning to the tables and chairs for sympathy. "I am beginning to wonder if I have fallen into the clutches of some escaped lunatic. I say, Edith, old girl, do you take those fits often?"

His sister, however, had no answering smile on her lips, and her voice shook slightly as she replied, "Dick, please prepare yourself to hear bad news. You ought to have been told before, but we kept the evil day as far off as possible. Dear little—" Then she stopped short, terrified at the expression on her brother's face.

"Don't beat about the bush, Edith," he cried in a voice hoarse with emotion; "I can bear anything better than suspense. Tell me, is Winnie dead? But no,"—glancing at his sister's shining garments—"it cannot be that, thank God;" and he drew a long sigh of relief at this point.

"No, Dick," responded Edith, giving him a glance of warm sympathy, "but—" and very simply and tenderly she broke the sad tidings to the agitated boy.

Then there tell on the silence and stillness of the room the sound of a strong heart's sobs, as Dick, in spite of all his manliness, laid his head on the table and wept like a little child.

Oh, how often, often in his lonely night-watches had he pictured this home-coming—dwelling on and gloating over each little detail as a miser does over his gold, till the whole dream-picture became beautiful with a golden glory. He saw the tiny, fairy figure flying to meet him, the quaint gipsy face glowing its joyous welcome, and the great dark eyes shining their wondrous gladness. He felt the clasp of two soft arms round his neck, the touch of warm kisses on his lips, and heard the bright, merry voice melting into sweetest tones, as words of love and tenderness were poured into his hungering ear. And this was the end of it all—his dream-picture shattered, and a young life blasted through a haughty girl's thirst for revenge.

Dick's heart was full of rage and hatred. "If Ada Irvine were within my reach just now," he muttered, "she would live to regret this day." Then raising his head, he looked, and found Edith had slipped away and left him alone with his grief.

The boy rose, sighing heavily. "I am hardly myself yet," he said, dashing his rough, sun-burnt hand across his eyes, and moving slowly towards the door. "What a fool I am, giving way like this! But these things unman a fellow, and I need not be ashamed of my tears. Where did they say she was? In the oak parlour. Well, here goes;" and off strode Dick, swinging along the lighted hall and up the broad stairs at what he afterwards described as the rate of knots.



CHAPTER XVII.

"I SHALL LEARN TO BE GOOD NOW."

"Dick, Dick! is it really you? O my dear boy, I can hardly believe it!" and Winnie clasped her feeble arms tighter round the young sailor's neck, as if fearful of waking and finding it all a dream.

"Yes, it's the same old fellow turned up again, Win," was the reply, given half chokingly. "Nip me, and you will find I am neither ghost nor spirit, but real flesh and blood." And the boy, kneeling by the invalid's couch, felt his eyes growing dim and misty again at the sound of the weak young voice lingering so lovingly over his name.

"I am so glad," said the child, lying back amongst her soft cushions, and looking at the big stalwart form before her. "I have been longing and longing to see you, Dick, through each weary day and night; yearning for the touch of your hand and sound of your voice: and now, to think you are really, truly here, alive and well! God is very good, dear," and the low voice uttered the last words solemnly and reverently.

The boy looked at his little sister wonderingly. "Have you learned to say that from the heart, Win?" he asked with greater earnestness in his tones. "Looking at your life as it is now, as it is likely to be all through the future years, can you still repeat the words, 'God is very good'!"

The child's lips drooped, and a sad look brooded over the pale white face; but the meek voice continued, perhaps somewhat tremulously, "Not always, Dick; but that is in the wicked hours, when I am full of sinful, rebellious thoughts. Some days like just now, however, his goodness seems to stand out in a bright, clear light, and a great hush of peace falling on me, I find myself whispering over and over again, 'God is very good.' Aunt Judith says it may be a long time, but sooner or later I shall be able to repeat those words, not only now and then, but every day of my life, even in the darkest hours; and that will be splendid. You must not be too sorry for me, dear old boy. Do you remember asking me before you went away to try to live as I ought to live, and do my duty nobly and well? I could not keep my promise, Dick. When I was able to go about in the bright, beautiful world, I did wicked, wrong things whenever I felt inclined. I enjoyed every pleasure to the very full, no matter who suffered; but now—I shall learn to be good now."

Dick was almost overcome again. "Win," he said huskily, "you're an angel! When you speak like that you cause all my sins and shortcomings to rise up before me, and I feel as if I were not worthy of your love and tenderness. Ah, little sister, it is little pure souls like yours that help to keep men right in this world, and guard them in the hours of temptation and danger. God bless you, Winnie darling. I thank him for giving me such a precious sister."

And this was the boy laughed at and mocked by the other members of the family; spoken of as a dunce and scapegrace, and who would never make his mark in the world. Ah, well! what did it matter? The true, honest life now beginning to declare itself would soon tell its own tale, and prove that there are more Sir Galahads walking on the earth than people dream of, whose "strength is the strength of ten, because their hearts are pure."

For a long time the two, brother and sister, sat talking together—talking over past, present, and future, and feeling that the long separation had only served to deepen and intensify the love they bore each other. And now a new link was knitting the twain more firmly together,—the link of pain and helplessness on the one side, and strong protecting strength on the other.

After that the days fled all too rapidly. Sailor Dick made a great difference in the house. It was something new to hear the fresh, hearty voice trolling out wild sea-songs, and to listen to yarn after yarn told with infinite gravity, and yet brimful of the ridiculous and impossible. The rough, hardy sea-faring life had improved the boy wondrously, bringing out the noblest traits in his character, making him less sensitive and more self-reliant. Captain Inglis, who had called on Mr. Blake, and was now a welcome visitor at the house in Victoria Square, stated his thorough satisfaction at Dick's conduct during the whole voyage, and spoke of him in the most praise-worthy terms. Altogether there was great cause for commendation; and the boy awoke to the delightful knowledge that he was no longer being down-trodden and treated with disrespect, and that some day Winnie's prophecy might be verified of his father being proud of him yet.

"Blessings on the skipper's head," he said one afternoon to Winnie, when she told of Captain Inglis's genuine satisfaction. "He's a thoroughly good old chap, and not one of the crew could say a word against him. But I say, Win, what makes him come poking about here so often? Why should he not give his old mother the benefit of his spare time? Poor body! it's rather hard lines being left so much alone."

"She's coming to see me," put in Winnie laughingly. "Captain Inglis had been telling her about the cross invalid sister you possessed, and she asked if she might be allowed to call some day."

Dick whistled.

"So that's the way the wind is blowing?" he muttered under his breath. "Well, this is a truly wonderful world in which we live." Then aloud to Winnie: "You'll like her, Win; she's a first-rate old lady, brimming over with kindness. Shouldn't wonder if she invites you to stay with her later on; and, my eye! if she does, just you go. She'll pet and molly-coddle you till you won't know whether you're standing on your head or feet; and I'll bet you'll be as snug as a bird in its nest."

Winnie looked interested. "Has she a nice house?"

"Tip-top, and nobody in it save herself and the servants. The skipper has plenty of money, and goes to sea from choice, not necessity.—Why, I declare, Win, here he is again, coming along the street. He gave me a half-holiday, but I did not think he was going to take one himself as well. If this kind of thing continues much longer, you may congratulate yourself on having another brother soon;" and Dick winked knowingly.

"What do you mean?" asked Winnie, staring open-eyed; but the mischievous boy had vanished and left her alone in her bewilderment.

All good things come to an end, and every day has its close. The Maid of Astolat was ready to set sail again, and once more the time drew near to say good-bye.

"Farewell, Win, my little angel sister," whispered Dick, kissing the sweet face with dimmed, misty eyes. "God keep you for ever and ever, and bring me safe home to you again." Then followed a long, lingering embrace; and Winnie was left to wait and hope till the long months and days would pass and her sailor boy return once more.

"Yes, I miss him sorely, Aunt Judith," she said one evening to Miss Latimer about a fortnight after the ship had sailed; "but I have so much to be thankful for, that I feel as it I dared not grumble. You have no idea how greatly he is improved, and how much more highly he is thought of now by every one in the house. I wish you had been able to see him, Aunt Judith."

"So do I, Winnie; but I was too ill the day he called, and this is only my second walk out of doors."

"Were you very unwell?" questioned Winnie, again scrutinizing her friend's face anxiously. "Aunt Judith, I don't believe you are nearly better. There are great hollows round your eyes, and your face looks haggard and worn."

"Nonsense, dear," answered the kind voice, and Miss Latimer's smile was very bright. "Remember I am an old woman, and pain leaves traces on an aged face.—What about yourself, Winnie? is the darkness brightening yet?"

"I think so, Aunt Judith; and Dick helped me so much. Perhaps the beautiful life is within my reach after all."

"There's no 'perhaps' in the matter, dear," said Miss Latimer softly; "but my little Winnie must be patient, for the grand, sweet song of life has its beginning, and the opening chords may be tremulous and low. Child," she continued passionately, "the grandest songs—the songs that echo and re-echo through eternity's limitless bounds—are wrung from hearts crushed and bleeding with anguish, and the infinite peace and calm come only after long strife and pain. Darling, my earnest prayer for you is that God would perfect in you his own image, and that you may come forth from the furnace of affliction with Christ's own brightness shining in your face."

That was the last talk Miss Latimer ever had with Winnie. She had been far from well lately, and after reaching home that night complained of feeling very tired.

"Go to bed, auntie," pleaded Nellie; "I am sure you are fit for no work to-night;" and Aunt Debby seconded the words. But Miss Latimer shook her head with a slow, sweet smile.

"My last chapter must be finished this evening, child," she said, gently yet firmly; "after that I shall please you all by taking a long, long rest."

Persuasion seemed useless; and the midnight hour found Aunt Judith busy at her desk, filling up page after page with those wonderful thoughts of hers.

Aunt Debby could not rest that night. Something in Miss Latimer's manner and appearance had awed and frightened her, driving the sleep from her little bright eyes and chilling her heart with a vague, undefined sense of fear. At length, in the middle of the night, she rose, unable to quell the uneasy thoughts which haunted her, and stealing softly downstairs, opened the door of her sister's sanctum and looked in. The lamp had burned low in the socket, and was casting a sickly gleam over all; the fire had died out, and the gray-white ashes gave a dreary, deserted appearance to the room. A great hush brooded around; and yet not so awful was that intense stillness as the solemn calm which seemed to infold the quiet figure sitting so silently in the midst.

Aunt Judith sat before her desk, her head bent slightly forward on her hands. There was nothing unnatural or alarming in the position, but an awful dread stole into Miss Deborah's heart and caused it to beat with a wild fear.

"Judith!" she called tremblingly; but the quiet figure never stirred, and no response came from the pallid lips. Aunt Debby flashed the light of her candle full on Miss Latimer, and then started back with an exceeding bitter cry, for the face on which the light shone so clearly was white and rigid in death. The eyes, wide-open, were fixed on the sheets of manuscript before her, as if she had been earnestly studying the closing words; and the face, though white with the pallor of the dead, still retained its own sweet expression. Looking down at the written sheets, Aunt Debby noticed the last chapter was finished, and knew Aunt Judith's life-work had ended with it.



"My last chapter must be written to-night, child; after that I shall please you all by taking a long, long rest." How those words rung in Miss Deborah's ears as she stood gazing on that silent figure, sitting so quietly in that awful death-hush! Not the quiver of an eyelid; not a tremble of the lip; only that great, solemn calm. It was all over now. The pain and weariness; the constant striving after the true and beautiful; the daily self-renunciation; the life so completely devoted to the service of others; and the last lingering notes of the grand, sweet song had been sung in silence and alone. "Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life," she had remarked to Aunt Debby not so long ago, "and, thank God, even in the darkest night I have never failed to find a star brightening through the gloom." Now the earthly shadows were done with for ever; the bleeding feet had trod the last steps of the thorny way, and entered by the gate into the holy Jerusalem, where "eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him."



CHAPTER XVIII.

CONCLUSION.

Six summers has the green grass waved and sweet flowers bloomed over Aunt Judith's grave; six long, long years have come and gone since Miss Deborah entered that silent room and found the death-angel casting his dread shadow there. And what have the seasons brought? Ease to the sorrowing heart and laughter to the weeping eyes. "Time heals all wounds; one cannot mourn for ever," say the wise people, and in nine cases out of ten their words hold good, though I think there are some sorrows which no lapse of time can cure—sorrows which deepen and intensify as the years roll on; only the wound, bleeding inwardly, is hid with a sacred reverence from the gaze of the outside world, and is known to the sore-stricken heart alone.

Be that as it may, however, Miss Latimer's friends could afford to laugh and smile now, and joy as she had done in God's beautiful sunshine. The earth is still as fair, the skies as blue as they were in the bygone days when her quiet voice drew the thoughts of those around her to the nature-world with all its wondrous beauty, and each can say with glad accord,—

"Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give; The world is very lovely. Oh, my God, I thank thee that I live."

Let us take one more look at them ere we close the book and lay it aside reverently and tenderly as we would the folded page in a closing life.

It is a cold, wintry evening. Outside the wind is sweeping up and down the streets, wailing like a soul in pain. The rain is dashing against the windowpanes, and beating with wild, ungovernable fury on those exposed to the disturbing elements. But inside warmth and comfort reign supreme. The oak parlour is all ablaze with light, and the laughter and merriment filling the whole room betoken the happy, genial spirits of the occupants. Let us see if we still recognize one and all—if six years have wrought no ravages or particular change on those we knew in their happy childhood days.

Close by the fire, lying on a luxuriously-cushioned couch, is a young lady, whose pale, thin face bears traces of weary pain. Yet the dark eyes are bright and smiling, and the voice has still its own merry ring, which plainly betrays the old Winnie of bygone days. Surely Aunt Judith's words are coming true, and she is learning beautiful lessons in the school of pain; for the pale face shines with a peaceful calm, and the words which fall from her lips are the words of one who has been in the furnace of affliction and come forth tried as silver.

Seated near on a low stool, with legs stretched forth in lazy comfort, is Dick, newly home from a long, perilous voyage. He is very much improved and changed, but in the gallant young officer one can still discover traces of the bluff sailor boy whose kind, honest heart won for him the love and friendship of all with whom he associated. He has continued to rise steadily in his profession, and Mr. Blake is proud of his scapegrace son at last.

A little further away, at the other side of the fire, sits Edith, smiling and light-hearted as ever, and with the same fair, sweet face; but a plain golden band, circling one white finger, proclaims that the gay, laughing girl has found a woman's true place in the world, and that the grave, gentlemanly captain has won his suit in the end.

And now we have come to the last occupant of the room—a young lady, seated in very unladylike fashion on the rug, and so little changed that in the fresh bright countenance we have no difficulty in recognizing our old friend Nellie Latimer. She is spending a few weeks in town with Winnie, and if report speaks true, there is a possibility that in the dim future Winnie may find a sister in her old school-mate of past years.

"How nice and cosy we all look!" she is saying in her blithe young voice; "one values light and warmth on a night like this. Hush! do you hear the wind? I pity those on the sea to-night."

Dick looks grave. "Ah, Nellie," he replies quietly, "pity hearts that are watching and praying in their lonely homes."

"The wind," says Winnie in a low whisper, "always makes me think of Aunt Judith in her quiet grave. I suppose it is a stupid feeling, but I hate the thought of the rain dripping and making a wet, wet sod above her. I should like the sunshine to be always lingering on her quiet resting-place."

The laughter has died out of each face, and eyes become a little misty, showing the dead friend is still near and dear to the hearts of those who loved her.

"Dear Aunt Judith," murmurs Nellie sadly, "we never realized how good she was till we lost her. Every one with whom she came in contact seems to have felt the benefit of her influence; and I—why, I owe her more than I can ever tell."

"I think we may all say that, Nell," adds Dick. "It was she who first inspired me with a reverence for all women, and helped to make me what I am now."

"As for me," says Winnie with a sad, sweet smile, "she showed me the way wherein I should walk, and taught me the great beauty of the Christ-life."

Then Edith's clear voice broke in: "And I—I have learned from Miss Latimer lessons that will help me throughout all my life. She has been, I think, as an angel of light to us all, and I shall never forget what we owe to her goodness and love."

"I have always been going to ask some of you girls," says Dick, "if Aunt Judith knew she was likely to die in such a sudden manner. Every time I came home I had that question on my mind, and yet never managed to ask it."

Nellie replied: "Oh yes! and Aunt Debby knew also. That was why Aunt Judith lived so humbly and simply. She felt she was the mainstay of the family,—that both Aunt Debby and Aunt Meg looked to her for their livelihood; and so she strove hard to win and lay aside money, with the hope that if she were called away suddenly there would be sufficient to keep them snugly and comfortably after her death. She suffered from severe paroxysms of pain at intervals, and each attack left her weaker and feebler. Then, besides, she seemed to have had some great sorrow, though Aunt Debby never told me what it was. Oh! they missed her dreadfully at first; but since they left Dingle Cottage and came to settle down beside my father, they have been more cheerful."

"Do you like having them so near you?" inquires Edith; and Nellie answers truthfully,—

"I like being beside Aunt Debby, she helps us so much; but Aunt Meg is very trying at times."

At that moment Captain Inglis, who has been closeted with Mr. Blake in the library, enters, and then the conversation changes. The old school-days are talked over, pranks and punishments described amidst shouts of laughter; and by-and-by the talk drifts on to Ada Irvine and the prize essay.

"Have you ever heard of or seen Ada lately?" asks Dick curiously. "I suppose she is quite a young lady and a great beauty now."

"Agnes Drummond called the other day," replies Winnie quietly, "and said she had met Ada last week at a friend's house. It seems she is just as haughty and proud as ever; but, O Dick, I am sure you will be sorry when I tell you that all her beauty is gone. The whole face is completely marred by small-pox, which she caught when abroad with her father."

"Serves her jolly well right," cries Dick, the old man in his nature coming to the front. "A girl who can act as she acted deserves a righteous punishment. I don't suppose she has ever eaten humble pie to you girls yet?"

"No, and never will," puts in Nellie. "She persists to this day in saying Win gained Mr. Corbett's medal through Aunt Judith's help, and that I never learned a single lesson without assistance."

"Hark!" says Captain Inglis, "there is the carriage.—Edith, my dear, it is time we were going home." So the merry party breaks up, and soon the silence of midnight settles over the city.

Slowly the wind lulls itself to rest; the storm is over; the rain-clouds sweep back from the sky, and the stars gleam forth with softened brilliancy over the sleeping world; while the fair, placid moon, rising from a mist of vapours, shines down on the sodden earth, and lingering near a quiet churchyard lays her tearful beams, fondly, tenderly, on a peaceful grave marked only by a marble cross and the simple words,—"Aunt Judith."



THE END.