'Well, Sunday is a good day for turning over a new leaf,' said Mr. Yorke, with a smile in his eyes that seemed to make no doubt at all of Cecil's willingness to do it.

'It seemed so hard at first,' he answered, feeling as if he must excuse himself a little.

'Yes, it is a struggle sometimes to accept one's position; but when once one has, all the bitterness goes, and one finds oneself not half so miserable as one expected.'

How true this was, Cecil soon began to find out from his own experience. It was a struggle to take his place beside the schoolboys, instead of with the choir, at the catechizing; it cost him something to open his lips when first his father seemed to address a question to him, but after the first effort it was not half so hard as he had thought it would be. He answered thoughtfully and well, and, without putting himself unduly forward, showed that he was paying attention, and was really anxious to understand and to learn.

Jessie ran up to him in the churchyard after service.

'Oh, Cecil, I am so glad you came! I thought you would have gone to Bar-end with Mr. Yorke. Are you coming home now?'

'No, I am going back to his place; he said I might amuse myself with his books till he came in. I haven't had dinner yet,' and Cecil felt a momentary importance in saying it.

'How hungry you must be!' rejoined Jessie innocently. 'Are you going, Cecil? I shall wait for father.'

'Here he is!' said Frances, who was waiting also.

Cecil felt an impulse to rush away instantly, but was glad he had not, when his father said in a kind voice, 'Are you coming with us, Cecil?' Though he answered, of course, in the negative, his heart felt lighter for that kind tone and those few casual words. It was his own sulkiness which had made great part of his misery before, and he could see that plainly now that he was beginning to get the better of it.

The rest of the day passed very pleasantly, and Cecil enjoyed his talk with his good-natured friend very much, though nothing more was said on the one subject which absorbed him the most. It was quite bed-time when he went home, so he had no opportunity of putting in practice that night the good resolutions which were springing up within him; but the next day all the brothers and sisters remarked how much more amiable he was, and little Jessie's intense belief in his goodness revived in full force. He was not so merry as usual: it was impossible he should be after his deep disappointment, and with the sense of his father's displeasure resting on him, and the prospect of the day school before him. Both father and mother were touched sometimes when they caught the sad expression of his face; but he was no longer sullen; and if a pettish word escaped him, he seemed to catch himself up quickly before it could be followed by another.

'I can't see the rights of it yet,' he said to Jessie privately, 'nor why I should be so served out for not working, when I did work; but I think there were things—feeling set up, you know, and crowing over other fellows, and all that—which may have brought me in for this in a kind of way.'

Jessie could hardly bring herself to believe that he could have deserved it in any way, but his submission was much less grievous and perplexing to her than his rebellion had been; and she received these few words—spoken rather gruffly, with his back turned to her—as a great proof of confidence, which indeed they were.

'If being very good makes people ready to be clergymen, I'm sure Cecil's getting ready as fast as he can,' she remarked to Frances.

And though Frances was not so firmly convinced as her sister that Cecil's troubles had not been brought on him by his own fault, she answered readily, 'Yes, he has been so nice and pleasant since Sunday, and hasn't grumbled once about having to go to Mr. Bardsley's.'



CHAPTER III.

GOOD NEWS.

MR. BARDSLEY'S was rather a large day school, in a town about two miles distant from Wilbourne. His terms were low, and he was not particular who the boys might be that came to him, so that they behaved themselves when they did come; but he taught really well, and was very conscientious, and therefore even very careful parents allowed their sons to go to him, convinced that there they would be at least well grounded in classics and mathematics, and would learn nothing amiss from the general tone of the school, though individual pupils in it might not be all that could be wished.



Cecil was to start from home each day about half-past eight, and not to return till after the school broke up at five o'clock, except on the two half-holidays—Wednesday and Saturday. Eight miles' walking would have been too much for him; and it had been arranged that on the four other days he should dine with Mr. and Mrs. Bardsley, and his hours of work would be from nine to twelve and from two to five, with tasks to prepare at home in the evening.

It seemed rather hard to begin this routine just in the first days of August, when the weather was so lovely, and the woods so enticing, and holiday cricket-matches going on in Wilbourne Park. Cecil's face was a little dismal at breakfast the first morning, and it was real self-government which kept him from grumbling when Jessie was helping him to put his schoolbooks together. Just as they were firmly strapped, his mother came to bid him 'good-bye for a few hours,' with a tender kiss and a few cheerful words, and after that his heart felt lighter, and he set out bravely; but he was just beginning to think what a long dull walk it was, and what a dusty road, and how delightful it would be if he might shy his books over the hedge and strike off across the meadows to join Percy, who had gone out fishing, when he heard steps behind him, and turning, saw the tall curate running along with rapid strides. His first impression was that something had happened at the Rectory since he started, and that Mr. Yorke was come to take him back; but he was soon undeceived.

'I've got business in Fairview,' the young clergyman explained, 'and I meant to go in early; and when I saw you pass by, I thought I might as well get ready and try to overtake you. I like company myself; don't you?'

'Yes, very much,' said Cecil, swinging his books over his shoulder cheerfully again, instead of dangling them drearily from the end of the strap, as he had been doing before. 'Lewis wanted to come with me, but mother wouldn't have liked his walking back alone; and besides, one doesn't always want a little chap like that after one.'

'I thought Percy might want to get his watch-chain mended,' said Mr. Yorke, with rather a droll expression in his eyes. 'Doesn't it require mending periodically? That was what he always used to tell me last vacation, when I met him going into Fairview.'

'He hadn't had his watch long then, and was always taking it out to look at it,' said Cecil, laughing. 'I think that was how the chain got broken. He's used to it now. I wonder if Uncle Percy will give me a watch when I'm sixteen. Of course Percy wanted one particularly, because of his going to Sandhurst. He's gone out fishing this morning: mustn't it be jolly in the water-meadows?'

'Very; but how well this part of the road is watered!—it's quite pleasant walking here. I suppose the Fairview water-carts come out as far as this.'

'I wish they'd come all the way,' said Cecil; 'I was just thinking how dusty it was before I met you.'

'And I was wondering whether you chose the road instead of the path on purpose, because you liked the dust: there's no accounting for tastes.'

'I'll try the path next time,' said Cecil with a smile. 'Do you know old Bardsley, Mr. Yorke?'

'Yes, I met him at the Institute one day, and we had a lively discussion about Greek roots. He's a clever man, I think, and has a real taste for teaching. When he gets hold of a fellow that cares to learn, I'm told there's no limit to the pains he'll take with him.'

'Jim Payne didn't like him at all,' said Cecil, alluding to the son of a small farmer in the neighbourhood; 'he said he was an awful brute.'

'Jim Payne likes nothing but idleness, and his father is mistaken enough to let him have his way.'

Cecil wisely suppressed some further quotations which he had meant to make from Jim Payne's account of Mr. Bardsley; and they walked on sociably together, talking of other things. It really seemed quite a short walk, after all, though Cecil had fancied it very long when he first set out.

He was in tolerably good spirits when he trod that road again in the evening, though this time he was alone the whole way. He did not dislike either the school or the schoolmaster as much as he had expected; and he felt that if he worked hard, and conformed to rules, there was no danger of his ever finding Mr. Bardsley the terrible monster that Jim Payne had described him to be.

It would, and did, seem a drudgery to prepare school tasks that evening, while Percy was enjoying 'elegant leisure;' but there was the Saturday half-holiday to look forward to, and Cecil's health was good, and not likely to suffer from his speedy return to work. Seeing him so patient and industrious, his father wondered how it was that he still expressed no sorrow for his past idleness, but did not press him for any such acknowledgment. He believed that it would come in time, and was quite content to take his present good conduct as a sign of penitence. 'He would not bear his punishment so well if he were not really sorry for his fault,' he said to himself.

'You are not angry with Cecil now, father, are you?' said Jessie softly the next morning, as they stood watching him trudge down the gravel path towards the gate on his way to school.

'No; very much pleased in some ways,' he answered. 'How late the post is this morning! I'm afraid old Hawkins is stopping for a long chat with Mrs. Giles. Just run down the lane and see; and if there is any letter for me, bring it at once to my study. I have to go out in five minutes.'

Jessie was running off directly, with her long hair streaming in the wind, when her mother called to her to put something on; and she came back, snatched her garden-hat and holland cape from their peg, and flew away again. Yes, the old postman was standing gossiping with Mrs. Giles at her garden gate, just as Mr. Cunningham had foreseen. When Jessie breathlessly inquired if there were any letters for the Rectory, the old man answered composedly, 'Yes, Missy, three letters for your house—two for your reverend father, and one for Miss Mary. Shall I take 'em round, or shall I give 'em to you?'

'Oh, I'll take them, please,' said Jessie; and back she flew with them, and straight into the study she went, holding out the two that belonged to Mr. Cunningham.

'Thanks. This is the one I wanted, from your Uncle Percy,' he said as he took them from her; 'and this is from Dr. Lomax. What makes him write again, I wonder?'

'Oh, father, do open it, please!' said Jessie excitedly, a sudden hope springing up in her breast.

'My child, what can there be in it to signify? It is an account for some schoolbooks, perhaps,' said Mr. Cunningham, rather as if he thought her a very silly little girl. But when he looked up and saw her eager, quivering face, he added, with a smile, 'Well, to set your mind at rest, I will just take a glance.'

He opened the letter as he spoke, but it was much more than a glance which he gave it. A minute passed, two minutes, three, and still he read on and did not speak. Jessie never took her eyes off his face; hope and fear struggled together in her heart, and hope was uppermost. But for the gravity of her father's silence, she would have felt sure that all was coming right.

At last he spoke. 'There was a mistake, Jessie: the marks were counted up wrong, it seems, and your brother has not been to blame, after all.'

'And not lost the "exhibition?"'

'No; his marks more than entitle him to keep it.'

'And you will let him go back next month, father?'

'Certainly. Why, my dear——' For Jessie was off like an arrow from a bow, and did not even hear his exclamation.

He supposed she had gone to tell the others, and paused to read over the letter once more, with deep thankfulness, and much sympathy for Cecil. It was from young Mr. Lomax, not from the Doctor: the similarity in the handwriting had misled Mr. Cunningham. He said the mistake had been discovered by his father, but that, as it had been made by him, he could not rest without personally acknowledging it, and expressing his regret. He had been himself surprised, in the first instance, at the result of his addition; but as he had only to do with Cecil in mathematics, in which he was not remarkably proficient, it did not seem so astonishing to him as it did to his father, who had watched the boy's progress in classics. Dr. Lomax had not gone over the books himself at the time, but having occasion to refer to them for something the morning of the day on which Mr. Lomax wrote, he had counted up Cecil's marks throughout the year, just for his own satisfaction, and in doing so had discovered the mistake that had been made. 'We have since been over it all together,' continued the son; 'and being now fully convinced of my mistake, I hasten to apprise you of it, and to express my deep regret.' If Cecil had seen this sentence, and some which followed, he would certainly have abandoned his idea that 'young Lomax might have done it to spite him.'

'Mother!' called Mr. Cunningham, suddenly remembering the appointment which this letter had made him forget for a few minutes; and as his wife came running down in answer to his call, he went on: 'Has Jessie told you, love? I mustn't stay—but take the letter; I shall try to get down in time to meet that poor boy as he comes out from morning school.'

'I haven't seen Jessie,' Mrs. Cunningham answered; but she seemed to guess instinctively what the letter contained, and one glance at it confirmed her impression.

'My darling boy! oh, thank God!' she exclaimed. 'Lewis, you will bring him straight home with you, won't you?'

'If I don't, I shall have you following me and hugging him before the whole school,' said her husband, laughing, but almost with tears in his eyes; and he hurried away, while she went joyfully back to the drawing-room to tell Mary and Frances the good news.

They literally 'jumped for joy;' and there was a kind of triple hug between the mother and her daughters, from which Frances was the first to break away, crying, 'Oh, where's Jessie? do let me tell her! how glad she will be!'

'She knows, I think,' said Mrs. Cunningham; 'it was she who brought father the letter. But find her by all means, and Lewis too, that we may all be happy together.'

Lewis was easily found, but nothing could be seen of Jessie; and presently her little brother was sent to the meadows where Percy was fishing, to see if she had run there with the tidings; but there she was not, and there was some consternation at the Rectory when the fact was announced.

'I really think she must have gone to Fairview,' said Mary anxiously.

'Perhaps she thought she could overtake Cecil,' suggested Frances. And though they did not know it, this guess hit the exact truth.

When Jessie left the study, she firmly believed that if she were only quick enough she could catch Cecil, who was very likely to linger on his way; and she had a vision of finding him leaning over a certain gate which opened into a harvest-field, and which was a favourite halting-place with all the young people.

No, he was not at the gate; but Jessie, full of her one idea of overtaking him, flew on and on till she had reached the outskirts of the town, and still she saw nothing of him—the truth being, that not having allowed himself more than enough time for his walk that morning, he had hurried on instead of stopping anywhere, and was in school by this time. She was dismayed when the country road began to turn into a street, and realized for the first time how far she had come. She had not had a thought of doing wrong when she began to run after Cecil, but now she was struck with a sudden sense of misdemeanour, and a fear that 'mother' would be angry.

'I wonder if I ought to go back,' she said to herself, 'or whether I may just go on to Mr. Bardsley's! It isn't far now, and then Cecil could come back with me, I daresay. Perhaps I could still catch him just as he's going in.'

Inspirited by this thought, she began to run again, and in a little while she was standing opposite the square brick house which she knew to be Mr. Bardsley's. There was not a sign of a boy on the steps, nor was there any sound of voices from the playground; evidently Cecil and his companions were already at study. She stood there, panting and weary, not very well knowing what to do next.



CHAPTER IV.

'IT'S ALL RIGHT!'

JESSIE fancied that if she rang the bell and asked for Cecil, she should be either sent away or shown into the great schoolroom; and the idea of facing Mr. Bardsley and all the boys seemed to her very terrible—almost too terrible to be entertained for a moment. But then, to leave Cecil in ignorance of the good tidings that she had run all this way to bring to him!—to let him go on through the day still feeling himself in disgrace, and not knowing that all was explained! No, she could not bear that either. She put up a trembling hand, and not daring to meddle with the big knocker, which looked prepared to make any amount of noise, took hold of the bell at the side of it, and gave a feeble tinkle, which would scarcely have been audible to the housemaid had she not happened to be close at hand cleaning the hall lamp. She opened the door so suddenly, that Jessie, who was prepared to wait some time, was quite startled, and so confused that she could not say anything.

'Did you ring?' asked the maid sharply, looking down in amazement at the dusty little figure and flushed frightened face.

'Yes; oh, please,' said Jessie, recovering herself, 'is Master Cunningham here? and would you tell him that I want to speak to him a minute?'

'The young gentlemen are in school—they can't be disturbed now,' replied the servant, preparing to shut the door.

'But oh, please, if you would tell him I've come with news from home, and I want to see him so much,' said Jessie desperately; 'I'm his sister.'

The maid looked hard at her, and Jessie felt sure she spied out the gloveless hands under the holland cape; but with as much dignity as she could muster, the child added, 'I'm Miss Jessie Cunningham;' and something in her tone and manner must have borne out the assertion, for with a quick 'Step in here, please, and I'll speak to Mrs. Bardsley,' the maid opened the door wider instead of shutting it, and allowed her to enter the hall.

She then gave her a chair, and went into a room close by, from which she soon reappeared, followed by a quiet-looking lady, not very old, but with a cap and spectacles, and something about her which made Jessie feel quite ashamed of her own heated, untidy condition.

'You have come with a message for Master Cunningham, I understand; I trust no accident has occurred at his home,' said Mrs. Bardsley in a voice as quiet as her face.

'Oh no! it's all good news, and I thought I should have overtaken him, but I didn't; and oh! if you would please let me see him, and then perhaps he would come back with me.'

'I don't think he can return till after school, unless you have brought an order from his father to that effect,' said the schoolmaster's wife; 'but come and sit down, and then perhaps you will be able to explain yourself more fully.'

She took Jessie into a prim-looking sitting-room; and in rather a confused way the little girl did contrive to explain what had brought her, and how important her news would be to Cecil. 'And if Mr. Bardsley would let him come back with me I don't think father would mind, and mother would like it so much better than my going back alone. I oughtn't to have come, I'm afraid,' she wound up, feeling every minute more and more dismayed at herself.

'I fear you must be causing anxiety at home,' said Mrs. Bardsley, still rather stiffly. 'I will send and ask Mr. Bardsley to allow your brother to speak to you for a minute;' and she went out of the room, leaving Jessie alone.

Some minutes passed, and Jessie grew more and more nervous; but at length appeared Cecil, looking very schoolboyish, with a great dab of ink on his collar.

She jumped off her chair and ran to him, and got out one great 'Oh, Cecil!' and then, instead of saying anything more, she began to sob.

'What is it? what's up?' said he in utter amazement. 'Don't cry, don't cry; is anything wrong at home?'

'Oh no! it's all right! and you've got enough marks, and you're to go back after the holidays. And oh, Cecil! I'm so glad! and I'm so hot, and I've run all the way!'

'And you're obliged to cry about it,' said Cecil, laughing, and kissing her. 'I say, sit down here in this arm-chair; there, I'll fan you with my pocket-handkerchief. How's it all come out? has the Doctor written—or what?'

'Yes, I think it was he; and father's so glad, and he said himself you should go back. He counted up the marks wrong—not father, but somebody, you know—and you've got plenty, and you're not a bit to blame; father says you're not.'

A sort of dancing light came into the boy's black eyes, but he didn't say a word. Jessie was quite astonished, and a good deal disappointed, at his taking the matter so quietly.

'Aren't you glad?' she said; 'I thought you would have been ready to jump out of your skin for joy. I was; but I came straight off, thinking I should overtake you. How fast you must have walked to get here first! Oh, Cecil, do you think I could have a little water?'

'You're too hot to drink cold water,' said Cecil in a wise, elder-brotherly way. 'I've got an apple in my pocket; you shall have a bit of that.'

It was rather a greenish specimen, and one bite of it more than satisfied Jessie, without refreshing her in the least; but she sat holding it in her hand, and looking at Cecil with loving eyes, too happy to mind much about her thirst and fatigue.

'Do you think Mr. Bardsley will let you come back with me?' she said presently.

'Not till twelve o'clock, I'm sure; perhaps he would then. Father didn't say I was to come, did he?'

'No, I was so silly I didn't wait to ask him; he didn't know I was coming. Cecil, do you think they will be very angry with me? I have never been so far alone before.'

'I'm afraid mother won't like it,' said Cecil; but he thought to himself that he should always love her for it; and if he had been a girl instead of a boy, he would have told her so. 'I must go back to study now; but I think you had better wait here, if Mrs. Bardsley will let you,' he continued, after a minute's reflection.

'But what will they think at home? They must have missed me. Cecil, I'd better go;' and she stood up, feeling how dreary the lonely walk back would be, with those tired feet of hers that had run along so merrily when the thought of telling the joyful news had been the only one present to her mind.

'There's father, I do declare, in old Mr. Rawson's gig!' exclaimed Cecil, who was looking out of the window; and sure enough, at this moment, a funny old-fashioned carriage drew up at the door, and Mr. Cunningham got down from it and shook hands with the owner.

He was not afraid of the big knocker, but the maid was much longer in answering his rat-tat-tat than Jessie's feeble ring; and only a sense that they were not in their own house, and must not take liberties, restrained the children from opening the door themselves. They could not resist running out into the hall to meet him, thus forestalling any inquiry for them by their immediate appearance.

'Well, Cecil!'—oh, such a different 'well' from the one that had greeted him on his return for the holidays!—then to Jessie: 'And so you are here, little madam! Mother is making herself quite unhappy about you.'

Before Jessie could answer, he turned to the maid, asking her to request Mr. Bardsley to see him for a minute; and she ushered him into the sitting-room where the children had been, and went off with the message.

Then his little daughter got hold of his hand and whispered, 'I didn't mean to vex mother; I thought I could have overtaken Cecil. I am very sorry.'

'Well, I don't think I need tell you not to do such a thing again,' said Mr. Cunningham with a smile, 'for the temptation is not likely to recur. These things don't happen every day; do they, Cecil? My boy, I am sorry for this week of disgrace, and more glad than I can tell you to find it was not deserved.'

Cecil looked down, coloured, put his hands in his pockets and took them out again, twisted his eyes in a vain attempt to see the whole extent of the ink spot on his collar, and finally, standing quite upright, and looking straight before him, said in a very modest and yet manly way, 'I am glad you know that I was not really idle, father; but I didn't work so hard as I ought the last week, and I was stuck-up and made too sure of success. I would rather you knew that.'

Jessie, looking to see how her father took this, was struck by the shining of his eyes as they rested on his son; but before he had time to make any reply, Mr. Bardsley came in; only, Cecil was sure, by the way his father's hand remained upon his shoulder while he was speaking to the master, that he understood and appreciated the frank confession, and that they should be closer friends henceforth than ever before.

Mr. Bardsley gave leave for Cecil to return home at once; and Mr. Cunningham said he would call again the next day, out of school hours, to explain more fully how Cecil's prospects were altered, and 'make some arrangement.' Jessie was rather alarmed at the sound of this, but Cecil guessed that his father meant to withdraw him from the day school, and wished to offer some compensation for taking him away in this sudden fashion, just at the beginning of the half-year.

Spite of Jessie's tired feet, the walk back was very pleasant; and neither she nor Cecil were insensible to the honour of having their father all to themselves, and at this unusual time of day too. He explained that he had met their mother in the village, so anxious about Jessie, that instead of waiting till towards twelve o'clock to go into Fairview, he had got Mr. Yorke to finish his parish business for him, and had started off at once, accepting a lift from Mr. Rawson by the way. And when he added quietly, 'You will take care that she is never made uneasy again by any thoughtlessness on your part, Jessie!' the little girl answered, 'Yes, father,' in a very subdued and humble tone, and felt quite as sorry as if he had lectured her for an hour.

'Do you think Mr. Yorke will be at home again now? Might I run in for a minute, father?' said Cecil as they passed the curate's lodging.

'I am not sure; you can see if you like.' And Cecil did see; and finding his friend busily engaged sermon-writing in the queer little dining-room, tarried only for a few words.

'I suppose father has told you,' he said as he burst in.

'Yes, I am so glad;' and Cecil's inky little paw was enfolded in the curate's heartiest grasp.

'I shan't forget this week in a hurry,' the boy continued; 'but I'm not so very sorry now that it all happened. Thank you for that nice Sunday.'

He did not say, but he implied how much it had helped him through; and Mr. Yorke answered cheerily, 'I could have sympathized more if I had known all that I know now; but I don't think you wanted pity. I believe your father's sermon showed you the way to bear your trouble.'

Cecil's cheeks were burning, and he only said shyly, 'You showed me too;' and then hastily adding, 'I want to catch up with father before he gets home,' ran off again, after one more hearty shake of the hand had been exchanged between them.

If the memory of pain could be effaced by after-happiness, the remainder of this day would have amply sufficed to blot out the past week. Never did Cecil feel more glad than when his mother kissed him, called him her own darling boy, and at his request forgave Jessie's escapade, and gave her and Frances a week's holiday, that he might have as much of their company as he chose. And on the following Sunday, when he took his place in the choir again, and Mr. Yorke came to dinner at the Rectory, and all was thankful rejoicing, that sorrowful Sunday on which he had felt as if the whole world were against him seemed already far away.

The trial was gone by, and some of the effects it had left behind it were very pleasant. But for it, Cecil felt he never could have known Mr. Yorke so well, nor his own little sister Jessie. They were his especial friends from henceforth, in a way which they had never been before, even though Jessie had always been regarded by Percy and others as 'Cecil's particular chum.' Percy himself had seemed hitherto at an immeasurable distance from Cecil, and had generally appeared to expect to be treated with the same sort of respect as would have been shown to a school 'senior;' but now, wonderful to relate, a change came over him, and he condescended to unbend not only a little, but a very great deal. It actually seemed as if he had begun to respect Cecil! No one but a schoolboy, with an admired and venerated elder brother rather given to snubbing, can quite realize how astonishing this change appeared to the person most concerned. For Percy to invite Cecil to come out fishing with him, in the genial tone of an equal who really cared for his companionship, instead of ordering him in a lordly way to take his tackle down to the river for him, was something so unexpected and flattering, that it went nearer to turning Cecil's head than anything that had happened yet. Perhaps it really might have done so, but for the wholesome lessons the boy had learned during his time of humiliation.

These fishings with Percy became a sort of institution during that week, which Jessie had rather counted on for having Cecil all to herself. 'Francie doesn't care, because she wants to do her gardening; but what made me like so to have holidays, was only that I might go about with Cecil, and now he goes off with Percy and doesn't want me!' thought the poor little maiden, in rather an injured way, as she sat forlornly in the wide window-seat on Wednesday morning, watching the retreating figures of her brothers. Spite of all her unselfishness, that sense of injury would come, and was very disagreeable.

'Who will take the boys' dinner down to the meadows for them by and by?' said her father, coming suddenly into the room. 'I have promised them a long, uninterrupted time for their sport to-day, because to-morrow we are all going for a picnic to the Beacon, and there will be no fishing then. You and Francie are the two idlest folk in the house just now, aren't you, Jessie? so suppose you turn errand-women?'

'Oh, father, are they going to fish all day?' exclaimed Jessie, jumping up when she was spoken to, but showing no great alacrity in offering her services.

'Till tea-time, I believe, if they don't get tired of it. Do you know I am so glad of these fishings, Jessie?'

'Are you, father?' she said, rather drearily, conscious that there was no gladness in her own face or voice.

'Yes, because I know what a brother's friendship is worth. I believe Percy's good-natured patronage seems to Cecil the greatest reward he has had yet for his bravery in bearing his misfortunes.'

Jessie did not like the idea much; it seemed to her that if it were true, her father and she had both reason to feel slighted.

'Use your imagination, Jessie,' said Mr. Cunningham, smiling; 'you have plenty, I know, and the great use of it is to help us to see things from other people's point of view. Shall I tell you something else? I am so glad of this companionship because I believe Cecil, though the younger, will do Percy good.'

Jessie quite understood this; her face brightened, as it always did at anything like praise of Cecil, and she felt it very delightful to be taken into her father's confidence in such a 'grown-up' kind of way.

'I can carry the dinner, if you like, father,' she said briskly.

'Suppose Francie and you both go, and take your own dinners as well? That will be a kind of picnic on a small scale, almost as pleasant, perhaps, as the grand one of to-morrow. You can come away afterwards, and leave the boys to their sport.'

Jessie looked rather cloudy again for a minute; it was so like being offered a little slice when she had wanted the whole loaf!

Her father was standing quite near her now, and he smoothed down her hair softly with his hand, as he said, 'Jessie, have you ever thought what a sweet and happy thing love is when it has overcome jealousy? It is not worth very much till then.'

For one moment there was a sharp struggle within her, and then she pressed her cheek against his arm, with a loving, grateful gesture. He had no fear that his little maiden would give way to jealousy any longer. Now that he had given the sore feeling a name, he knew that she would be as anxious to drive it away as he was.

That dinner in the meadows was very pleasant—'Quite enchanting,' Frances declared. 'Awfully jolly,' said Cecil, who was not so choice in his vocabulary. Percy looked on it as rather a childish entertainment, and said more than once that he wished 'they' hadn't forgotten that he always took pepper with everything; but he never blamed either of his sisters, only this mysterious 'they,' and made an excellent dinner, spite of the absence of the pepper-box. He was very kind to Jessie too,—so kind that she quite forgave Cecil from henceforth for thinking Percy's notice a very grand sort of thing; it seemed as if he almost included her in the new respect he had begun to have for his younger brother. And then, Cecil! Cecil was so entirely delightful on this occasion, that she wondered how, even for a moment, she could have thought him anything but the most perfect of all possible brothers. From the noble way in which he dispensed the tart, only leaving himself a very small piece, though she knew he liked it better than anything, down to the good-nature with which he gave his last bit of cheese to the lame old setter, that had limped down to see after them, everything in his behaviour was just according to her own heart, and totally unlike the selfish greediness of what she called 'common schoolboys.' And then, when, instead of going back to his fishing directly after dinner, he asked her to walk with him as far as the bridge and watch the trout leap, she was the very happiest and proudest of little sisters. If it had not been for what her father had said, she would have lingered near him the whole afternoon; but as it was, she came away quite contentedly after she had watched his angling for a minute or two, and really felt how nice it was that Percy and he should have become such allies,—how much pleasanter for him than having only her for a companion. Percy's vacation would be over before his, and then her time would come perhaps; anyhow, she was much too sure of Cecil's love to have any excuse for jealousy in seeing him taken up with others. He had opened his heart to her when he was in trouble, she should never forget that. Oh! how dear this had made him to her, both 'for then and for always!'

No after-trial worth recording shadowed Cecil's boyhood; and now he is a man—just such a man as Jessie longed to see him. He very seldom thinks of the incidents here related, but yet the lesson he learnt in that memorable week is still bearing fruit in his life; and when any trial comes to him, he does not say it is 'very hard,' but takes it as a new proof of the fatherly love that watches over him, and, in dark seasons as well as bright ones, is ready to sing with the psalmist, 'Every day will I give thanks unto Thee, and praise Thy name for ever and ever.'

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

The original text had no table of contents. One was added as an aid to the reader.

Page 31, "emained" changed to "remained" (have remained bitterly)

Page 51, "See page 52." was added to the text to conform to remaining illustrations.

Page 52, "tel" changed to "tell" (you'll not tell)

THE END