"Could I not walk, Grandmamma? It is very near."

"Walk!" cried Grandmamma, and looked at me much as if I had asked if I might not lie or steal. "My dear, you must not bring country ways to Town like that. Walk, indeed!—and you a Courtenay of Powderham! Why, people would take you for a mantua-maker."

"But, Grandmamma, please,—if I am a Courtenay, does it signify what people take me for?"

"I should like to know, Caroline," said Grandmamma, with severity, "where you picked up such levelling ideas? Why, they are Whiggery, and worse. I cannot bear these dreadful mob notions that creep about now o' days. We shall soon be told that a king may as well sell his crown and sceptre, because he would be a king without them."

"He would not, Madam?" I am afraid I spoke mischievously.

"My dear, of course he would. Once a king, always a king. But the common people need to have symbols before their eyes. They cannot take in any but common notions of what they see. A monarch without a crown, or a judge without robes, or a bishop without lawn sleeves, would never do for them. Why, they would begin to think they were just men like themselves! They do think so, a great deal too much."

And Grandmamma took two pinches in rapid succession, which proceeding with her always betrays uneasiness of mind.

"Dear, dear!" she muttered, as she snapped her box again, and dropped it into her pocket. "It must be that lamentable mixture in your blood. Whatever a Courtenay could be thinking of, to marry a Dissenter,—a Puritan minister's daughter, too,—he must have been mad! Yet she was of good blood on the mother's side."

I believe Grandmamma knows the pedigree of every creature in this mortal world, up to the seventh generation.

"Was that Deborah Hunter, Grandmamma?"

"What do you know about Deborah Hunter?" returned Grandmamma pulling out her snuff-box, and taking a third pinch in a hurry, as if the mere mention of a Dissenter made her feel faint. "Who has been talking to you about such a creature? The less you hear of her the better."

"Oh, we always knew her name, Madam," said Hatty, "and that she was a presbyter's daughter."

"Well, that is as much as you will know of her with my leave!" said Grandmamma.

I do not know what more she might have said, if my Uncle Charles had not come in: but he brought news that the Prince's army had been victorious at Falkirk, and the Cause is looking up again.

"They say the folks at Saint James's are very uneasy," said my Uncle Charles, "and the Elector's son is to be sent against the Prince with a larger army. I hear he set forth for Edinburgh last night."

"What, Fred?" said Grandmamma.

"Fred? No,—Will," [Note 1.] answered my Uncle Charles.

"That is the lad who was wounded at Dettingen?" replied she.

"The same," he made answer. "Oh, they are not without pluck, this family, foreigners though they be. The old blood is in them, though there's not much of it."

"They are a pack of rascals!" said Grandmamma, with another pinch. I thought the box would soon be empty if she were much more provoked.

"Nay, Madam, under your pleasure: the lad is great-grandson to the Queen of Bohemia, and she was without reproach. I would rather have Fred or Will than Oliver."

Grandmamma sat extreme upright, and spoke in those measured tones, and with that nice politeness, which showed that she was excessively put out.

"May I trouble you, Charles, if you please, never to name that—person— in my hearing again!"

"Certainly, Madam," said my Uncle Charles, with a naughty look at me which nearly upset my gravity. If I had dared to laugh, I do not know what would have happened to me.

"The age is quite levelling enough, and the scoundrels quite numerous enough, without your joining them, Mr Charles Carlingford Desborough!"

Saying which, Grandmamma arose, and as Hatty said afterwards, "swept from the room"—my Uncle Charles offering her his arm, and assuring her, with a most disconcerting look over his shoulder at us, that he would do his very best to mend his manners.

"Your manners are good enough, Sir," said Grandmamma severely: "'tis your morals I wish to mend."

When we thought Grandmamma out of hearing, we did laugh: and my Uncle Charles, coming down, joined us,—which I am afraid neither he nor we ought to have done.

"My mother's infinitely put out," said he. "Her snuff-box is empty: and she never gave me my full name but twice before, that I remember. When I am Charles Desborough, she is not pleased; when I am Mr Charles Desborough, she is gravely annoyed; but when I become Mr Charles Carlingford Desborough, matters are desperate indeed. I shall have to go to the cost of a new snuff-box, I expect, before I get forgiven. Yet I have no doubt Oliver was a pretty decent fellow—putting his politics on one side."

"I am afraid, Uncle Charles," said Hatty, "a snuff-box would hardly make your peace for that."

"Oh, that's for you maids, not for her. She is not a good forgiver," said my Uncle Charles, more gravely. "She takes after her mother, my Lady Sophia. Don't I remember my Lady Sophia!"

And I should say, from the expression of my Uncle Charles's face, that his recollections of my Lady Sophia Carlingford were not among the pleasantest he had.

Hatty is growing much more like herself, with the pertness left out. She looks a great deal better, and can smile and laugh now; but her old sharp, bright ways are gone, and only show now and then, in a little flash, what she was once.

The Crosslands have disappeared—nobody knows where. But I do not think Miss Marianne Newton has broken her heart; indeed, I am not quite sure that she has one.

In the afternoon, Ephraim came, and I went in a chair under his escort to Mr Raymond's house. Hatty declined to come; she seemed to have a dislike to go out of doors, further than just to take the air in the square, with Dobson behind her. I should not like that at all. It would make me feel as if the constable had me in custody. But Grandmamma insists on it; and Hatty does not seem to feel safe without somebody.

In Mr Raymond's parlour, I found Annas and Flora, alone. I do not know what to say they looked like. Both are white and worn, as if a great strain had been on their hearts: but Flora is much the more broken-down of the two. Annas is more queenly than ever, with a strange, far-away look in the dear grey eyes, that I can hardly bear to see. I ran up to her first thing.

"O Annas, tell me!" I cried, amidst my kisses, "tell me, did I do right or wrong?"

I felt sure she would need no explanation.

"You did right, Cary,"—and the dark grey eyes looked full into mine. "Who are we, to refuse our best to the Master when He calls? But it is hard, hard to bear it!"

"Is there any hope of escape?" I asked.

"There is always hope where God is," said Annas. "But it is not always hope for earth."

Flora kissed me, and whispered, "Thank you for Angus!" but then she broke down, and cried like a child.

"Have you heard anything of Angus?" I asked.

"Yes," said Annas, who shed no tears. "He is safe in France, with friends of the Cause."

"In France!" cried I.

"Yes. Did you think he could stay in England? Impossible, except now and then in disguise, for a stolen visit, perhaps, when some years are gone."

"Then if Colonel Keith could escape—"

"That would be his lot. Of course, unless the Prince were entirely successful."

I felt quite dismayed. I had never thought of this.

"And how long do you stay here?" said I.

"Only till I can obtain a hearing of the Princess Caroline. That is arranged by Mr Raymond, through some friends of his. He and Mr Hebblethwaite have been very, very good to us."

"I do not know what we should have done without them," said Flora, wiping her eyes.

"And is the day fixed for you to see the Princess?"

"Not quite, but I expect it will be Thursday next. Pray for us, Cary, for that seems the last hope."

"And you have heard nothing, I suppose, from the Colonel?"

"Yes, I have." Annas put her hand into her bosom, and drew forth a scrap of paper. "You may read it, Cary. It will very likely be the last."

My own eyes were dim as I carried the paper to the window. I could have read it where I was, but I wanted an excuse to turn my back on every one.

"My own dear Sister,—If it make you feel happier, do what you will for my release: but beyond that do nothing. I have ceased even to wish it. I am so near the gates of pearl, that I do not want to turn back unless I hear my Master call me. And I think He is calling from the other side.

"That does not mean that I love you less: rather, if it be possible, the more. Tell our father and mother that we shall soon meet again, and in the meantime they know how safe their boy must be. Say to Angus, if you have the opportunity, that so far as in him lies, I charge him to be to God and man all that I hoped to have been. Thank Miss C. Courtenay and Mr Hebblethwaite for their brave help: they both played their part well. And tell Flora that I kept my vow, and that she shall hear the rest when we meet again.

"God bless you, every one. Farewell, darling Annas.

"Your loving brother, not till, but beyond, death, Duncan Keith."

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cumberland. The former distinguished himself by little beyond opposition to his father, and an extremely profligate life. The Jacobite epitaph written on his death, five years later, will show the light in which he and his relatives were regarded by that half of the nation:

"Here lies Fred, Who was alive and is dead. Had it been his father, I had much rather; Had it been his sister, No one would have missed her; Had it been his brother, Still better than another: But since 'tis only Fred, Who was alive and is dead, Why, there's no more to be said."

Note 2. Ephraim does the Princess Caroline an injustice. She was a lily among the thorns.

Note 3. How far such a personation is consistent with truth and righteousness may be reasonably questioned. But very few persons would have thought of raising the question in 1745.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

STEPPING NORTHWARDS.

"It were to be wished the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessels holding treasure Which lies as safe in a golden ewer: But the main thing is, does it hold good measure?"

BROWNING.

I turned back to the table, and dropping the letter on it, I laid my head down upon my arms and wept bitterly. He who wrote it had done with the world and the world's things for ever. Words such as these were not of earth. They had come from the other side of the world-storm and the life's fever. And he was nearly there.

I wondered how much Flora understood. Did she guess anything of that unwhispered secret which he promised to tell her in the courts of Heaven? Had she ever given to Duncan Keith what he had given her?

I rose at last, and returned the letter to Annas.

"Thank you," I said. "You will be glad some day to have had that letter."

"I am glad now," said Annas, quietly, as she restored it to its place. "And ere long we shall be glad together. The tears help the journey, not hinder it."

"How calm you are, Annas!" I said, wondering at her.

"The time for Miss Keith to be otherwise has not come yet," said Mr Raymond's voice behind me. "I think, Miss Courtenay, you have not seen much sorrow."

"I have not, Sir," said I, turning to him. "I think I have seen—and felt—more in the last six months than ever before."

"And I dare say you have grown more in that period," he made answer, "than in all the years before. You know in what sort of stature I mean."

He left us, and went up-stairs, and Ephraim came in soon after. I had no words with Flora alone, and only a moment with Annas. She came with us to the door.

"Does Flora understand?" I whispered, as I kissed Annas for good-bye.

"I think not, Cary. I hope not. It would be far better."

"You do?" said I.

"I knew it long ago," she answered. "It is no new thing."

We went back to Bloomsbury Square, where I found in the drawing-room a whole parcel of visitors—Mrs Newton and her daughters, and a lot of the Pages (there are twelve of them), Sir Anthony Parmenter, and a young gentleman and gentlewoman who were strangers to me. Grandmamma called me up at once.

"Here, child," said she, "come and speak to your cousins. These are my brother's grandchildren—your second cousins, my dear." And she introduced them—Mr Roland and Miss Hilary Carlingford.

What contrasts there are in this world, to be sure! As my Cousin Hilary sat by me, and asked me if I went often to the play, and if I had seen Mrs Bellamy, [A noted actress of that day] and whether I loved music, and all those endless questions that people seem as if they must ask you when they first make acquaintance with you,—all at once there came up before me the white, calm face of Annas Keith, and the inner vision of Colonel Keith in his prison, waiting so patiently and heroically for death. And oh, how small did the one seem, and how grand the other! Could there be a doubt which was nearer God?

A lump came up in my throat, which I had to swallow before I could tell Hilary that I loved old ballads and such things better than what they call classical music, much of which seems to me like running up and down without any aim or tune to it—and she was giving me a tap with her fan, and saying,—

"Oh, fie, Cousin Caroline! Don't tell the world your taste is so bad as that!"

Suddenly a sound broke across it all, that sent everything vanishing away, present and future, good and ill, and carried me off to the old winter parlour at Brocklebank.

"Bless me, man! don't you know how to carry a basket?" said a voice, which I felt as ready and as glad to welcome as if it had been that of an angel. "Well, you Londoners have not much pith. We Cumberland folks don't carry our baskets with the tips of our fingers—can't, very often; they are a good heft."

"Madam," said Dobson at the door, looking more uncomfortable than I had ever seen him, "here is a—a person—who—"

"Woman, man! I'm a woman, and not ashamed of it! Mrs Desborough, Madam, I hope you are well."

What Grandmamma was going to do or say, I cannot tell. She sat looking at her visitor from head to foot, as if she were some kind of curiosity. I am afraid I spoilt the effect completely, for with a cry of "Aunt Kezia!" I rushed to her and threw my arms round her neck, and got a warmer hug than I expected my Aunt Kezia to have given me. Oh dear, what a comfort it was to see her! She was what nobody else was in Bloomsbury Square—something to lean on and cling to. And I did cling to her: and if I went down in the esteem of all the big people round me, I felt as if I did not care a straw about it, now that I had got my own dear Aunt Kezia again.

"Here's one glad to see me, at any rate!" said my Aunt Kezia; and I fancy her eyes were not quite dry.

"Here are two, Aunt Kezia," said Hatty, coming up.

"Mrs Kezia Courtenay, is it not?" said Grandmamma, so extra graciously that I felt sure she was vexed. "I am extreme glad to see you, Madam. Have you come from the North to-day? Hester, my dear, you will like to take your aunt to your chamber. Caroline, you may go also, if you desire it."

Thus benignantly dismissed, we carried off my Aunt Kezia as if she had been a casket of jewels. And as to what the fine folks said behind our backs, either of her or of us, I do not believe either Hatty or I cared a bit. I can answer for one of us, anyhow.

"Now sit down and rest yourself, Aunt Kezia," said I, when we reached our chamber. "Oh, how delightful it is to have you! Is Father well? Are we to go home?"

And then it flashed upon me—to go home, leaving Colonel Keith in prison, and Annas and Flora in such a position! Must we do that? I listened somewhat anxiously for my Aunt Kezia's answer.

"It is pleasant to see you, girls, I can tell you. And it is double pleasant to have such a hearty welcome to anybody. Your Father and Sophy are quite well, and everybody else. You are to go home?—ay: but when, we'll see by-and-by. But now I want my questions answered, if you please. I shall be glad to know what has come to you both? I sent off two throddy, rosy-cheeked maids to London, that did a bit of credit to Cumberland air and country milk, and here are two poor, thin, limp, white creatures, that look as if they had lost all the sunshine out of them. What have you been doing to yourselves?—or what has somebody else been doing to you? Which is it?"

"Cary must speak for herself," said Hatty, "Hatty must speak for herself," said I.

Hatty laughed.

"It is somebody else, with Hatty," I went on, "and I don't quite know how it is with me, Aunt Kezia. I have been feeling for some weeks past as if I had the world on my shoulders."

"Your shoulders are not strong enough for that, child," replied my Aunt Kezia. "There is but one shoulder which can carry the world. 'The government shall be upon His shoulder.' You may well look poor if you have been at that work. Where are Flora and Miss Keith?—and what has become of their brothers, both?"

"Annas and Flora have just come back to London," said Hatty. "But Angus is in dreadful trouble, Aunt; and I do not know where Colonel Keith is— with the Prince, I suppose."

"No, Hatty," said I. "Aunt Kezia, Angus is safe, but an exile in France; and Colonel Keith lies in Newgate Prison, waiting for death."

"What do you know about it?" asked Hatty, in an astonished tone.

My Aunt Kezia looked from one of us to the other.

"You cannot both be right," said she. "I hope you are mistaken, Cary."

"I have no chance to be so," I answered; and I heard my voice tremble. "Colonel Keith bought Angus's freedom with his own life. At least, there is every reason to fear that result, and none to hope."

"Then that man who escaped was Angus?" asked Hatty.

I bowed my head. I felt inclined to burst out crying if I spoke.

"But who told you? and how come you to be so sure it is true?"

"I was the girl who carried the basket into the prison." I just managed to say so much without breaking down, though that tiresome lump in my throat kept teasing me.

"You!" cried Hatty, in more tones than the word has letters. "Cary, you must be dreaming! When could you have done it?"

"In the evening, on one of Grandmamma's Tuesdays, and I was back before any one missed me, except you."

"Who went with you?—who was in the plot? Do tell us, Cary!"

"Yes, I suppose you may know now," I said, for I could now speak more calmly. "Ephraim took me to the place where I put on the disguise, and forward to the prison. Then Colonel Keith and I carried in the basket, and Angus brought it out. Ephraim came to us after we left the prison, and brought me back here."

"Ephraim Hebblethwaite helped you to do that?"

I did not understand Hatty's tone. She was astonished, undoubtedly so, but she was something else too, and what that was I could not tell.

My Aunt Kezia listened silently.

"Why, Cary, you are a heroine! I could not have believed that a timid little thing like you—" Hatty stopped.

"There was nobody else," said I. "You were not well enough, you know. I had to do it; but I can assure you, Hatty, I felt like anything but a hero."

"They are the heroes," said my Aunt Kezia, softly, "who feel unlike heroes, but have to do it, and go and do it therefore. Colonel Keith and Cary seem to be of that sort. And there is only one other kind of heroes—those who stand by and see their best beloved do such things, and, knowing it to be God's will, bid them God-speed with cheerful countenance, and cry their own hearts out afterwards, when no one sees them but Himself."

"That is Annas' sort," said I.

"Yes, and one other," replied my Aunt Kezia.

"But Hatty did not know till afterwards," said I.

"Child, I did not mean Hatty. Do Flora and Miss Keith look as white as you poor thin things?"

"Much worse, I think," said I. "Annas keeps up, and does not shed a tear, and Flora cries her eyes out. But they are both white and sadly worn."

"Poor souls!" said my Aunt Kezia. "Maybe they would like to go home with us. Do you know when they wish to go?"

"Annas has been promised a hearing of Princess Caroline, to intercede for her brother," I made answer. "I think she will be ready to go as soon as that is over. There would be no good in waiting." And my voice choked a little as I remembered for what our poor Annas would otherwise wait.

"Cary Courtenay, do you know you have got ten years on your head in six months?"

"I feel as if I were a good deal older," I said, smiling.

"You are the elder of the two now," said my Aunt Kezia, drily. "Not but what Hatty has been through the kiln too; but it has softened her, and hardened you."

"Then Hatty is gold, and I am only clay," I said, and I could not help laughing a little, though I have not laughed much lately.

"There is some porcelain sells for its weight in gold," said my Aunt Kezia.

"Thank you for the compliment, Aunt Kezia."

"Nay, lass, I'm a poor hand at compliments; but I know gold when I see it—and brass, too. You'll be home in good time for Sophy's wedding."

"Aunt Kezia, who does Sophy marry?"

"Mr Liversedge, the Rector."

"Is not he rather rough?"

"Rough? Not a bit of it. He is a rough diamond, if he be."

"I fancied from what Sam said when he came back to Carlisle—"

"Oh, we had seen nought of him then. He has done more good at Brocklebank than Mr Digby did all the years he was there. You'll see fast enough when you get back. 'Tis the nature of the sun to shine."

"What do you mean by that, Aunt Kezia?"

"Keep your eyes open—that's what I mean. Girls, your father bade me please myself about tarrying a bit before I turned homeward. I doubt I'm not just as welcome to your grandmother as to you; but I think we shall do best to bide till we see if the others can come with us. Maybe Ephraim may be ready to go home by then, too. 'Tis a bad thing for a young man to get into idle habits."

"O Aunt Kezia, Ephraim is not idle!" I cried.

"Pray, who asked you to stand up for him, Miss?" replied my Aunt Kezia. "'A still tongue makes a wise head,' lass. I'll tell you what, I rather fancy Mrs Desborough thinks me rough above a bit. If I'm to be stroked alongside of these fine folks here, I shall feel rough, I've no doubt. That smart, plush fellow, with his silver clocks to his silk stockings, took up my basket as if he expected it to bite his fingers. We don't take hold of baskets that road in our parts. I haven't seen a pair of decent clogs since I passed Derby. They are all slim French finnicking pattens down here. How many of those fine lords-in-waiting have you in the house?"

"Three, and a black boy, Aunt."

"And how many maids?"

"I must count. Lucette and Perkins, and the cook-maid, and the kitchen girl, four; and two chambermaids, six, and a seamstress, seven."

"What, have you a mantua-maker all to yourselves?"

"Oh, she does not make gowns; she only does plain sewing."

"And two cook-maids, and two chambermaids, and two beside! Why, whatever in all the world can they find to do?"

"Lucette is Grandmamma's woman, and Perkins is my Aunt Dorothea's," said I.

"But what have they got to do? That's what I want to know," said my Aunt Kezia.

"Well, Lucette gets up Grandmamma's laces and fine things," said I, "and quills the nett for her ruffles, and dresses her hair, and alters her gowns—"

"What's that for?" said my Aunt Kezia.

"When a gown has been worn two or three times," said Hatty, "they turn it upside down, Aunt, and put some fresh trimming on it, so that it looks like a new one."

"But what for?" repeated my Aunt Kezia.

"Why, then, you see, people don't remember that you had it on last week."

"I'll be bound I should!"

"We have very short memories in London," said Hatty, laughing.

"Seems so! But why should not folks remember? I am fairly dumfoozled with it all. How any mortal woman can get along with four men and seven maids to look after, passes me. I find Maria and Bessy and Sam enough, I can tell you: too many sometimes. Mrs Desborough must be up early and down late; or does Mrs Charles see to things?"

I began to laugh. The idea of Grandmamma "seeing to" anything, except fancy work and whist, was so extreme diverting.

"Why, Aunt Kezia, nobody ever sees to anything here," said Hatty.

"And do things get done?" asked my Aunt Kezia with uplifted eyebrows.

"Sometimes," said Hatty, again laughing. "They don't do much dusting, I fancy. I could write my name on the dust on the tables, now and then, and generally on the windows."

My Aunt Kezia glanced at the window, and set her lips grimly.

"If I were mistress in this house for a week," said she, "I reckon those four men and seven maids would scarce send up a round robin begging me to stop another!"

"Lucette does her work thoroughly," said I, "and so does Cicely, the under chambermaid; and Caesar, the black boy, is an honest lad. I am afraid I cannot say much for the rest. But really, Aunt, it seemed to me when I came that people hadn't a notion what work was in the South."

"I guess it'll seem so to me, coming and going too," said my Aunt Kezia, in the same tone as before. "No wonder. I couldn't work in silk stockings with silver clocks, and sleeves with lace ruffles, and ever so many yards of silk bundled up of a heap behind me. I like gowns I can live in. I've had this on a bit over three times, Hatty."

"I should think so, Aunt!" said Hatty, laughing something like her old self. "Why, I remember your making it the winter before last. Did not I run the seams?"

"I dare say you did, child. When you see me bedecked in the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, you may expect to catch larks by the sky falling. At least, I hope so."

"Mademoiselle!" said Lucette's voice at the door, "Madame bids me say the company comes from going, and if Madame and Mesdemoiselles will descend, she will be well at ease."

"That's French lingo is it?" said my Aunt Kezia. "Poor lass!"

So down we went to the drawing-room, where we found Grandmamma, my Aunt Dorothea, and my Uncle Charles, who came forward and led my Aunt Kezia to a chair. (Miss Newton told me that ceremony was growing out of date, and was only practised now by nice old-fashioned people; but Grandmamma likes it, and I fancy my Uncle Charles will keep it up while she lives.)

"Madam," said Grandmamma, "I trust Mr Courtenay is well, and that you had a prosperous journey."

"He is better than ever he was, I thank you, Madam," answered my Aunt Kezia. "As for my journey, I did not much enjoy it, but here I am, and that is well."

"Your other niece, Miss Drummond, is in Town, as I hear," said Grandmamma. "Dorothea, my dear, it would doubtless be agreeable to Mrs Kezia if that young gentlewoman came here. Write a line and ask her to tarry with us while Mrs Kezia stays."

"I thank you, Madam," said my Aunt Kezia.

"If Miss Keith be with her, she may as well be asked too," observed Grandmamma, after she had refreshed her faculties with a pinch of snuff.

My Aunt Dorothea sat down and writ the note, and then, bidding me ring the bell, sent Caesar with it. He returned with a few lines from Flora, accepting the invitation for herself, but declining it for Annas. I was less surprised than sorry. Certainly, were I Annas, I should not care to come back to Bloomsbury Square.

"Poor white thing!" said my Aunt Kezia, when she saw Flora in the evening. "Why, you are worse to look at than these girls, and they are ill enough."

Flora brings news that Annas is to see the Princess next Thursday, but she has made up her mind to tarry longer in London, and will not go back with us. I asked where she was going to be, and Flora said at Mr Raymond's.

"What, all alone?" said Hatty.

"Oh, no!" answered Flora; "Mr Raymond's mother is there."

I did not know that Mr Raymond had a mother.

Annas had a letter this morning from Lady Monksburn: the loveliest letter, says Flora, that ever woman penned. Mr Raymond said, when he had read it (which she let him do) that it was worthy of a martyr's mother.

"Is Mr Raymond coming round?" said I.

"What, in politics?" replied Flora, with a smile. "I don't quite know, Cary. I doubt if he will turn as quickly as you did."

"As I did? What can you mean, Flora?"

"Did you not know you had become of a very cool politician a very warm one?" she said. "I remember, when you first went with me to Abbotscliff, Angus used to tease you about being a Whig: and you once told me you knew little about such matters, and cared less."

I looked back at myself, as it were, and I think Flora must be right. I certainly thought much less of such things six months ago. I suppose hearing them always talked of has made a change in me.

There is another thing that I have been thinking about to-night. What is it in my Aunt Kezia that makes her feel so strong and safe to lean upon—so different from other people? I should never dream of feeling in that way to Grandmamma: and even Father,—though it is pleasant to rely on his strength and kindness, when one wants something done beyond one's own strength,—yet he is not restful to lean on in the same way that she is. Is she so safe to hold by, because she holds by God?

This is Grandmamma's last Tuesday, as Lent begins to-morrow, and I believe she would as soon steal a diamond necklace as have an assembly in Lent. I had been walking a great deal, as I have carried my Aunt Kezia these last few days to see all manner of sights, and I was very tired; so I crept into a little corner, and there Ephraim found me.

By the way, it is most diverting to carry my Aunt Kezia to see things. My Uncle Charles has gone with us sometimes, and Ephraim some other times: but it is so curious to watch her. She is the sight, to me. In the first place, she does not care a bit about going to see a thing just because everybody goes to see it. Then she has very determined ideas of her own about everything she does see. I believe she quite horrified my Uncle Charles, one day, when he carried us to see a collection of beautiful paintings. We stopped before one, which my Uncle Charles told us was thought a great deal of, and had cost a mint of money.

"What's it all about?" said my Aunt Kezia.

"'Tis a picture of the Holy Family," he answered, "by the great painter Rubens."

"Now, stop a bit: who's what?" said my Aunt Kezia, and set herself to study it. "Who is that old man that hasn't shaved himself?"

"That, Madam, is Saint Joseph."

"Never heard of him before. Oh, do you mean Joseph the carpenter? I see. Well, and who is that woman with the child on her knee? Why ever does not she put him some more clothes on? He'll get his death of cold."

"My dear Madam, that is the Blessed Virgin!"

"I hope it isn't," said my Aunt Kezia, bluntly. "I'll go bail she kept her linen better washed than that. But what's that queer thing sprawling all over the sky?"

"The Angel Gabriel, Madam."

"I hope he hasn't flown in here and seen this," said my Aunt Kezia. "I should say, if he have, he didn't feel flattered by his portrait."

My Aunt Kezia did not seem to care for fine things—smart clothes, jewels, and splendid coaches, or anything like that. She was interested in the lions at the Tower, and she liked to see any famous person of whom my Uncle Charles could tell her; but for Ranelagh she said she did not care twopence. There were men and women plenty wherever you went, and as to silks and laces, she could see them any day over a mercer's counter. Vauxhall was still worse, and Spring Gardens did not please her any better.

But when, in going through the Tower, we came to the axe which beheaded my Lady Jane Grey, she showed no lack of interest in that. And the next day, when my Uncle Charles said he would show us some of the fine things in the City, and we were driving in Grandmamma's coach towards Newgate, my Aunt Kezia wanted to know what the open space was; and my Uncle Charles told her,—"Smithfield."

"Smithfield!" cried she. "Pray you, Mr Desborough, bid your coachman stop. I would liever see this than a Lord Mayor's Show."

"My dear Madam, there is nothing to see," answered my Uncle Charles, who seemed rather perplexed. "This is not a market-day."

"There'll be plenty I can see!" was my Aunt Kezia's reply; and, my Uncle Charles pulling the check-string, we alighted. My Aunt Kezia stood a moment, looking round.

"You see, there is nothing to see," he observed.

"Nothing to see!" she made answer. "There are the fires to see, and the martyrs, and the angels around, and the devils, and the men well-nigh as ill as devils. There is the land to see that they saved, and the Church that their blood watered, and the greatness of England that they preserved. Ay, and there is the Day of Judgment, when martyrs and persecutors will have their reward—and you and I, Mr Desborough, shall meet with ours. My word, but there is enough to see for them that have eyes to see it!"

"Oh!—ah!" said my Uncle Charles.

My Aunt Kezia said no more, except a few words which I heard her whisper softly to herself,—"'They shall reign for ever and ever.' 'The noble army of martyrs praise Thee.'" Then, as she turned back to the coach, she added, "I thank you, Sir. It was worth coming to London to look at that. It makes one feel as if one got nearer to them."

And I thought, but did not say, that I should never be nearer to them than I had been that winter night, when Colonel Keith helped me to carry the basket into the gates of that grim, black pile beyond. He was there yet. If I had been a bird, to have flown in and sung to him!—or, better, a giant, to tear away locks and bars, and let him out! And I could do nothing.

But here I am running ever so far from Grandmamma's Tuesday, and the news Ephraim brought.

Annas has seen the Princess Caroline. She liked her, and thought her very gentle and good. But she held out no hope at all, and did not seem to think that anything which she could say would influence her father. She would lay the matter before him, but she could promise no more. However, she appointed another day, about a month hence, when Annas may go to her again, and hear the final answer. So Annas must wait for that.

Ephraim and Annas seem to be great friends. Is it not shockingly selfish of me to wish it otherwise? I do not quite know why I wish it. But sometimes I wonder—no, I won't wonder. It will be all right, of course, however it be arranged. Why should I always want people to care for me, and think of me, and put me first? Cary Courtenay, you are growing horribly vain and selfish! I wonder at you!

It is settled now that we go home the week after Easter Day. We, means my Aunt Kezia, and Flora, and Hatty, and me. I do not know how four women are to travel without a gentleman, or even a serving-man: but I suppose we shall find out when the time comes. I said to my Aunt Kezia that perhaps Grandmamma would lend us Dobson.

"Him!" cried she. "Dear heart, but I'd a vast deal liever be without him! He would want all the coach-pockets for his silk stockings, and would take more waiting on than Prince Charlie himself. I make no account of your grand gentlemen in plush, that pick up baskets with the tips of their fingers! (My Aunt Kezia cannot get over that.) Give me a man, or a woman either, with some brains in his head, and some use in his hands. These southern folks seem to have forgotten how to use theirs. I watched that girl Martha dusting the other day, and if I did not long to snatch the duster out of her hands and whip her with it! She just drew it lazily across the top of the table,—never troubled herself about the sides,—and gave it one whisk across the legs, and then she had done. I'd rather do my work myself, every bit of it, than have such a pack of idle folks about me—ay, ten times over, I would! They don't seem to have a bit of gumption. They say lawyers go to Heaven an inch every Good Friday; but if those lazy creatures get there or anywhere else in double the time, I wonder! And just look at the way they dress! A good linsey petticoat and a quilted linen bed-gown was good enough for a woman that had her work to do, when I was young; but now, dear me! my ladies must have their gowns, and their muslin aprons of an afternoon, and knots of ribbon in their hair. I do believe they will take to wearing white stockings, next thing! and gloves when they go to church! Eh dear, girls! I tell you what, this world is coming to something!"

Later in the evening, Miss Newton came up to me, with her fan held before her laughing face.

"My dear Miss Courtenay, what curious things your worthy Aunt does say! She asked me just now why I came into the world. I told her I did not know, and the idea had never before occurred to me: and she said, 'Well, then, it is high time it did, and some to spare!' Do all the people in Cumberland ask you such droll questions?"

I said I thought not, but my Aunt Kezia did, often enough.

"Well, she is a real curiosity!" said Miss Newton, and went away laughing.

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Brocklebank Fells, April the 10th, 1746. At least I begin on the 10th, but when I shall finish is more than I can tell. Things went on happening so fast after the last page I writ, that I neither had time to set them down, nor heart for doing it. Prince William of Hanover (whom the Whigs call Duke of Cumberland) left Edinburgh with a great army, not long after I writ; but no news has yet reached us of any hostile meeting betwixt him and the Prince. Mr Raymond saith Colonel Keith's chances may depend somewhat upon the results of the battle, which is daily expected. Nevertheless, he adds, there is no chance, for the Lord orders all things.

My Aunt Kezia and Mr Raymond have taken wonderfully to one another. Hatty said to her that she could not think how they got on when they chanced on politics.

"Bless you, child, we never do!" said my Aunt Kezia. "We have got something better to talk about. And why should two brothers quarrel because one likes red heels to his shoes and the other admires black ones?"

"Ah, if that were all, Aunt!" said I. "But how can you leave it there? It seems to me not a matter for opinion, but a question of right. We have to take sides; and we may choose the wrong one."

"I don't see that a woman need take any side unless she likes," quoth my Aunt Kezia. "I can bake as tasty a pie, and put on as neat a patch, whether I talk of Prince Charles or the Young Pretender. And patches and pies are my business: the Prince isn't. I reckon the Lord will manage to see that every one gets his rights, without Kezia Courtenay running up to help Him."

"But somebody has it to do, Aunt."

"Let them do it, then. I'm glad I'm not somebody."

"But, Aunt Kezia, don't you want people to have their rights?"

"Depends on what their rights are, child. Some of us would be very sadly off if we got them. I should not like my rights, I know."

"Ah, you mean your deserts, Aunt," said Hatty. "But rights are not just the same thing, are they?"

"Let us look it in the face, girls, if you wish," saith my Aunt Kezia. "I hate seeing folks by side-face. If you want to see anybody, or understand anything, look right in its face. What are rights? They are not always deserts,—you are right there, Hatty,—for none of us hath any rights as regards God. Rights concern ourselves and our fellow-men. I take it, every man hath a right to what he earns, and to what is given him,—whether God or man gave it to him,—so long as he that gave had the right over what he gave. Now, as to this question, it seems to me all lies in a nut-shell. If King James be truly the son of the old King (which I cannot doubt), then God gave him the crown of England, of which no man can possibly have any right to deprive him. Only God can do that. Then comes the next question, Has God done that? Time must answer. Without a revelation from Heaven, we cannot find it out any other way."

"But until we do find it out, where are we to stand?"

"Keep to your last orders till you get fresh ones. A servant will make sad blunders who goes contrary to orders, just because he fancies that his master may have changed his mind."

I see that for all practical purposes my Aunt Kezia agrees with Annas. And indeed what they say sounds but reasonable.

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It was the second of April when we left London. It had been arranged that we should travel by the flying machine [Note. Stage-coaches originally bore this hyperbolical name.] which runs from London to Gloucester, setting forth from the Saracen's Head on Snow Hill. The last evening before we set out, my Aunt Kezia, Hatty, and I, spent at Mr Raymond's with Annas. His mother is a very pleasant old silver-haired gentlewoman, with a soft, low voice and gentle manner that reminded me of Lady Monksburn.

I felt it very hard work to say farewell to Annas. What might not have happened before we met again? Ephraim was there for the last hour or so, and was very attentive to her. I do think—And I am rather afraid the Laird, her father, will not like it. But Ephraim is good enough for anybody. And I hope, when he marry Annas, which I think is coming, that he will not quite give over being my friend. He has been more like our brother than anybody else. I should not like to lose him. I have always wished we had a brother.

"No, not good-bye just yet, Cary," said Ephraim, in answer to my farewell. "You will see me again in the morning."

"Oh, are you coming to see us off?"

He nodded; and we only said good-night.

Grandmamma was very kind when we took leave of her. She gave each of us a keepsake—a beautiful garnet necklace to Hatty, and a handsome pearl pin to me.

"And, my dear," said she to Hatty, "I do hope you will try to keep as genteel as you are now. Don't, for mercy's sake, go and get those blowzed red cheeks again. They are so unbecoming a gentlewoman. And garnets, though they are the finest things in the world for a pale, clear complexion, look horrid worn with great red cheeks. Cary, your manners had rather gone back when you came, from what they used to be; but you have improved again now. Mind you keep it up. Don't get warm and enthusiastic over things,—that is your danger, my dear,—especially things of no consequence, and which don't concern you. A young gentlewoman should not be a politician; and to be warm over anything which has to do with religion, as I have many times told you, is exceeding bad taste. You should leave those matters to public men and the clergy. It is their business—not yours. My dears," and out came Grandmamma's snuff-box, "I wish you to understand, once for all, that if one of you ever joins those insufferable creatures, the Methodists, I will cut her off with a shilling! I shall wash my hands of her completely. I would not even call her my grand-daughter again! But I am sure, my dears, you have too much sense. I shall not insult you by supposing such a thing. Make my compliments to your father, and tell him I think you both much improved by your winter in Town. Good-bye, my dears. Mrs Kezia, I wish you a safe and pleasant journey."

"I thank you, Madam, and wish you every blessing," said my Aunt Kezia, with a warm clasp of Grandmamma's hand, which I am sure she would think sadly countrified. "But might I ask you, Madam, to explain something which puzzled me above a bit in what you have just said?"

"Certainly, Mrs Kezia," said Grandmamma, in her most gracious manner.

"Then, Madam, as I suppose the clergy are going to Heaven (and I am sure you would be as sorry to think otherwise as I should), if the way to get there is their business and not yours, where are you going, if you please?"

Grandmamma looked at my Aunt Kezia as if she thought that she must have taken leave of her wits.

"Madam! I—I do not understand—"

My Aunt Kezia did not flinch in the least. She stood quietly looking into Grandmamma's face, with an air of perfect simplicity, and waited for the answer.

"Of course, we—we are all going to Heaven," said Grandmamma, in a hesitating way. "But it is the business of the clergy to see that we do. Excuse me, Madam; I am not accustomed to—to talk about such subjects."

And Grandmamma took two pinches, one after the other.

"Well, you see, I am," coolly said my Aunt Kezia. "Seems to me, Madam, that going to Heaven is every bit as much my business as going to Gloucester; and I have not left that for the clergy to see to, nor do I see why I should the other. Folks don't always remember what you trust them with, and sometimes they can't manage the affair. And I take the liberty to think they'll find that matter rather hard to do, without I see to it as well, and without the Lord sees to it beside. Farewell, Madam; I shall be glad to meet you up there, and I do hope you'll make sure you've got on the right road, for it would be uncommon awkward to find out at last that it was the wrong one. Good-morrow, and God bless you!"

Not a word came in answer, but I just glanced back through the crack of the door, and saw Grandmamma sitting with the reddest face I ever did see to her, and two big wrinkles in her forehead, taking pinch after pinch in the most reckless manner.

My Aunt Dorothea, who stood in the door, said acidly,—"I think, Madam, it would have been as well to keep such remarks till you were alone with my mother. I do not know how it may be in Cumberland, but they are not thought becoming to a gentlewoman here. Believe me, I am indeed sorry to be forced to the discourtesy of saying so; but you were the first offender."

"Ay," said my Aunt Kezia. "Folks that tell the naked truth generally meet with more kicks than halfpence. But I would have spoken out of these girls' hearing, only I got never a chance. And you see I shall have to give in my account some day, and I want it to be as free from blots as I can."

"I suppose you thought you were doing a good work for your own soul!" said my Aunt Dorothea, sneeringly.

"Eh, no, poor soul!" was my Aunt Kezia's sorrowful reply. "My soul's beyond my saving, but Christ has it safe. And knowing that, Madam, makes one very pitiful to unsaved souls."

"Upon my word, Madam!" cried my Aunt Dorothea. "You take enough upon you! 'Unsaved souls,' indeed! Well, I am thankful I never had the presumption to say that my soul was safe. I have a little more humility than that."

"It would indeed be presumption in some cases," said my Aunt Kezia, solemnly. "But, Madam, if you ask a princess whose daughter she is, it is scarce presuming that she should answer you, 'The King's.' What else can she answer? 'We know that we have eternal life.'"

"An apostle writ that, I suppose," said my Aunt Dorothea, in a hard tone.

"They were not apostles he writ to," said my Aunt Kezia. "And he says he writ on purpose that they might know it."

"Now, ladies, 'tis high time to set forth," called my Uncle Charles's voice from the hall; and I was glad to hear it. I and Hatty ran off at once, but I could not but catch my Aunt Kezia's parting words,—

"God bless you, Madam, and I thank you for all your kindness. And when I next see you, I hope you will know it."

We drove to Snow Hill in Grandmamma's coach, and took our seats (bespoken some days back) in the flying machine, where our company was two countrywomen with baskets, a youth that looked very pale and cadaverous, and wore his hair uncommon long, a lady in very smart clothes, and a clergyman in his cassock. My Uncle Charles bade us farewell very kindly, and wished us a safe journey. Mr Raymond was there also, and he bade God bless us. Somehow, in all the bustle, I had not a right chance to take leave of Ephraim. The coach set forth rather sooner than I expected, while Flora and I were charging Mr Raymond with messages to Annas; and he had only time to step back with a bow and a smile. I looked for Ephraim, but could not even see him. I was so sorry, and I thought of little else until we got to Uxbridge.

At Uxbridge we got out, and went into the inn to dine at the ordinary, which is always spread ready for the coming of the flying machine on a Wednesday. As I sat down beside my Aunt Kezia, a man came and took the chair on the other side of me.

"Tired, Cary?" he said, to my amazement.

"Ephraim!" I cried. "Wherever have you come from?"

"Did you think I had taken up my abode in London?" said he, looking diverted.

"But I thought you went after some business," I said, feeling very much puzzled that he should be going home just now, and leaving poor Annas in all her trouble.

"I did," he answered. "Business gets done some time. It would be a sad thing if it did not. Will you have some of this rabbit pie?"

I accepted the pie, for I did not care what I had.

"Then your business is done?" I said, in some surprise.

His business could hardly have any connection with Annas, in that case. It must be real business—something that concerned his father.

"Yes, Cary; my business was finished last night, so I was just in time to come with you." And the look of fun came into his eyes again.

"Oh, I am glad!" said I. "I wondered how my Aunt Kezia would manage all by herself."

"Had you three made up your minds to be particularly naughty?" asked he, laughing.

"Now, Ephraim!" said I.

"Sounded like it," he replied. "Well, Cary, are you glad to go home?"

"Well, yes—I think—I am," answered I.

"Then certainly I think you are not."

"Well. I am glad for some reasons."

"And not for others. Yes, I understand that. And I guess one of the reasons—you are sorry to leave Miss Keith."

I wondered if he guessed that because he was sorry.

"Yes, I am very sorry to leave her in this trouble. Do you think it likely that Colonel Keith can escape?"

Ephraim shook his head.

"Is it possible?"

"'Possible' is a Divine word, not fit for the lips of men. What God wills is possible. And it is not often that He lets us see long beforehand what He means to do."

"Then you think all lies with God?" I said—I am afraid, in a rather hopeless tone.

"Does not everything, at all times, lie with God? That means hope, Cary, not despair. 'Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He.'"

"Oh dear! that sounds as if—Ephraim, I don't mean to say anything wicked—as if He did not care."

"He cares for our sanctification: that is, in the long run, for our happiness. Would you rather that He cared just to rid you of the pain of the moment, and not for your eternal happiness?"

"Oh no! But could I not have both?"

"No, Cary, I don't suppose you could."

"But if God can do everything, why can He not do that? Do you never want to know the answers to such questions? Or do they not trouble you? They are always coming up with me."

"Far too often. Satan takes care of that."

"You think it is wicked to want the answers?"

"It is rebellion, Cary. The King is the best judge of what concerns His subjects' welfare."

I felt in a corner, so I ate my pie and was silent.

We slept at Reading, and the next day we dined at Wallingford, and slept at the Angel at Oxford. Next morning, which was Saturday, we were up before the sun, to see as much as we could of the city before the machine should set forth. I cannot say that I got a very clear idea of the place, for when I try to remember it, my head seems a confused jumble of towers and gateways, colleges and churches, stained windows and comical gargoyles—at least that is what Ephraim called the funny faces which stuck out from some of the walls. I don't know where he got the word.

This day's stage was the longest. We dined at Lechlade; and it had long been dark when we rattled into the courtyard of the Bell Inn at Gloucester, where we were to pass the Sunday. Oh, how tired I was! almost too tired to sleep.

On Sunday, we went to church at the Cathedral, where we had a very dull sermon from a Minor Canon. In the afternoon, as we sat in the host's parlour, Ephraim said to me,—

"Cary, did you ever hear of George Whitefield?"

"Oh yes, Ephraim!" I cried, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and my eyes light up. "I heard him preach in Scotland, when I was there with Flora. Have you heard him?"

"Yes, many times, and Mr Wesley also."

I was pleased to hear that. "And what were you going to say about him?"

"That if you knew his name, it would interest you to hear that he was born in this inn. His parents kept it."

"And he chose to be a field-preacher!" cried I. "Why, that was coming down in the world, was it not?" [Note 1.]

"It was coming down, in this world," said he. "But there is another world, Cary, and I fancy it was going up in that. You must remember, however, that he did not choose to be a field-preacher nor a Dissenter: he was turned out of the Church."

"But why should he have been turned out?"

"I expect, because he would not hold his tongue."

"But why did anybody want him to hold his tongue?"

"Well, you see, he let it run to awkward subjects. Ladies and gentlemen did not like him because he set his face against fashionable diversions, and told them that they were miserable sinners, and that there was only one way into Heaven, which they would have to take as well as the poor in the almshouses. The neighbouring clergy did not like him because he was better than themselves. And the bishops did not like him because he said they ought to do their duty better, and look after their dioceses, instead of setting bad examples to their clergy by hunting and card-playing and so forth; or, at the best, sitting quiet in their closets to write learned books, which was not the duty they promised when they were ordained. But, as was the case with another Preacher, 'the common people heard him gladly.'"

"And he was really turned out?"

"Seven years ago."

"I wonder if it were a wise thing," said I, thinking.

"Mr Raymond says it was the most unwise thing they could have done. And he says so of the turning forth under the Act of Uniformity, eighty years ago. He thinks the men who were the very salt of the Church left her then: and that now she is a saltless, soulless thing, that will die unless God's mercy put more salt in her."

"But suppose it do, and the bishops get them turned out again?"

"Then, says Raymond, let the bishops look to themselves. There is such a thing as judicial blindness: and there is such a thing as salt that has lost its savour, and is trodden under foot of men. If the Church cast out the children of God, God may cast out the Church of England. There are precedents for it in the Books of Heaven. And in all those cases, God let them go on for a while: over and over again they grieved His Spirit and persecuted His servants; but at last there always came one time which was the last time, and after that the Spirit withdrew, and that Church, or that nation, was left to the lot which it had chosen."

"Oh, Ephraim, that sounds dreadful."

"It will be dreadful," he answered, "if we provoke it at the Lord's hand."

"One feels as if one would like to save such men," I said.

"Do you? I feel as if I should like to save such Churches. It is like a son's feeling who sees his own mother going down to the pit of destruction, and is utterly powerless to hold out a hand to save her. She will not be saved. And I wonder, sometimes, whether any much sorer anguish can be on this side Heaven!"

I was silent.

"It makes it all the harder," he said, in a troubled voice, "when the Father's other sons, whose mother she is not, jeer at the poor falling creature, and at her own children for their very anguish in seeing it. I do not think the Father can like them to do that. It is hard enough for the children without it. And surely He loves her yet, and would fain save her and bring her home."

And I felt he spoke in parables.

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Note 1. At this date, an innkeeper stood higher in the estimation of society than at present, and a clergyman considerably lower, unless the latter were a dignitary, or a man whose birth and fortune were regarded as entitling him to respect apart from his profession.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

HOW THINGS CAME ROUND.

"They say, when cities grow too big, Their smoke may make the skies look dim; And so may life hide God from us, But still it cannot alter Him. And age and sorrow clear the soul, As night and silence clear the sky, And hopes steal out like silver stars, And next day brightens by and by."

ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.

On the Monday morning, we left Gloucester on horseback, with two baggage-horses beside those we rode. We dined at Worcester, and lay that night at Bridgenorth. On the Tuesday, we slept at Macclesfield; on the Wednesday, at Colne; on the Thursday, at Appleby; and on Friday, about four o'clock in the afternoon, we reached home.

On the steps, waiting for us, stood Father and Sophy.

I had not been many minutes in the house before I felt, in some inward, indescribable way, that things were changed. I wonder what that is by which we feel things that we cannot know? It was not the house which was altered. The old things, which I had known from a child, all seemed to bid me welcome home. It was Father and Sophy in whom the change was. It was not like Sophy to kiss me so warmly, and call me "darling." And I was not one bit like Father to stroke my hair, and say so solemnly, "God bless my lassie!" I have had many a kiss and a loving word from him, but I never heard him speak of God except when he repeated the responses in church, or when—

I wondered what had come to Father. And how I did wonder when after supper Sam brought, not a pack of cards, but the big Bible which used to lie in the hall window with such heaps of dust on it, and he and Maria and Bessy sat down on the settle at the end of the hall, and Father, in a voice which trembled a little, read a Psalm, and then we knelt down, and said the Confession, and the General Thanksgiving, and the Lord's Prayer. I looked at my Aunt Kezia, and saw that this was nothing new to her. And then I remembered all at once that she had hinted at something which we should see when we came home, and had bidden us keep our eyes open.

The pack of cards did not come out at all.

The next morning I was the first to come down. I found Sam setting the table in the parlour. We exchanged good-morrows, and Sam hoped I was not very tired with the journey. Then he said, without looking up, as he went on with his work—

"Ye'll ha'e found some changes here, I'm thinking, Miss."

"I saw one last night, Sam," said I, smiling.

"There's mair nor ane," he replied. "There's three things i' this warld that can ne'er lie hidden: ye may try to cover them up, but they'll ay out, sooner or later. And that's blood, and truth, and the grace o' God."

"I am not so sure the truth of things always comes out, Sam," said I.

"Ye've no been sae lang i' this warld as me, Miss Cary," said Sam. "And 'deed, sometimes 'tis a lang while first. But the grace o' God shows up quick, mostly. 'Tis its nature to be hard at wark. Ye'll no put barm into a batch o' flour, and ha'e it lying idle. And the kingdom o' Heaven is like unto leaven: it maun wark. Ay, who shall let it?"

"Is Mr Liversedge well liked, Sam?" I asked, when I had thought a little.

"He's weel eneuch liked o' them as is weel liking," said Sam, setting his forks in their places. "The angels like him, I've nae doubt; and the lost sheep like him: but he does nae gang doun sae weel wi' the ninety and nine. They'd hae him a bit harder on the sinners, and a bit safter wi' the saints—specially wi' theirsels, wha are the vara crown and flower o' a' the saints, and ne'er were sinners—no to speak o', ye ken, and outside the responses. And he disna gang saft and slippy doun their throats, as they'd ha'e him, but he is just main hard on 'em. He tells 'em gin they're saints they suld live like saints, and they'd like the repute o' being saints without the fash o' living. He did himsel a main deal o' harm wi' sic-like by a discourse some time gane—ye'll judge what like it was when I tell ye the Scripture it was on: 'He that saith he abideth in Him ought himself also so to walk even as He walked.' And there's a gey lot of folks i' this warld 'd like vara weel to abide, but they're a hantle too lazy to walk. And the minister, he comes and stirs 'em up wi' the staff o' the Word, and bids 'em get up and gang their ways, and no keep sat down o' the promises, divertin' theirsels wi' watching ither folk trip. He's vara legal, Miss Cary, is the minister; he reckons folk suld be washed all o'er, and no just dip their tongues in the fountain, and keep their hearts out. He disna make much count o' giving the Lord your tongue, and ay hauding the De'il by the hand ahint your back. And the o'er gude folks disna like that. They'd liever keep friendly wi' baith."

"Then you think the promises were not made to be sat on, Sam?" said I, feeling much diverted with Sam's quaint way of putting things.

Sam settled the cream-jug and sugar-bowl before he answered.

"I'll tell ye how it is, Miss. The promises was made to be lain on by weary, heavy-laden sinners that come for rest, and want to lay down both theirsels and their burden o' sins on the Lord's heart o' love: but they were ne'er made for auld Jeshurun to sit on and wax fat, and kick the puir burdened creatures as they come toiling up the hill. Last time I was in Carlisle, I went to see a kinsman o' mine there as has set up i' the cabinet-making trade, and he showed me a balk o' yon bonnie new wood as they ha'e getten o'er o' late—the auld Vicar used to ha'e his dining-table on't; it comes frae some outlandish pairts, and they call it a queer name; I canna just mind it the noo—I reckon I'm getting too auld to tak' in new notions."

"Mahogany?"

"Ay, maybe that's it: I ken it minded me o' mud and muggins. Atweel, my cousin tauld me they'd a rare call for siccan wood, and being vara costly, they'd hit o' late in the trade on a new way o' making furniture, as did nae come to sae mickle—they ca' it veneer."

"Oh yes, I know," said I.

"Ay, ye'll hae seen it i' London toun, I daur say? all that's bad's safe to gang there." I believe Sam thinks all Londoners a pack of thieves. "Atweel, Miss Cary, there's a gran' sicht o' veneered Christians i' this country. They look as spic-span, and as glossy, and just the richt shade o' colour, and bonnily grained, and a' that—till ye get ahint 'em, and then ye see that, saving a thin bit o' facing, they're just common deal, like ither folk. Ay, and it's maistly the warst bits o' the deal as is used up ahint the veneer. It is, sae! Ye see, 'tis no meant to last, but only to sell. And there's a monie folks 'll gi'e the best price for sic-like, and fancy they ha'e getten the true thing. But I'm thinkin' the King 'll no gi'e the price. His eyes are as a flame o' fire, and they'll see richt through siccan rubbish, and burn it up."

"And Mr Liversedge, I suppose, is the real mahogany?"

"He is sae: and he's a gey awkward way of seeing ahint thae bits o' veneered stuff, and finding out they're no worth the money. And they dinna like him onie better for 't."

"But I hope he does not make a mistake the other way, Sam, and take the real thing for the veneer?"

"You trust him for that. He was no born yestre'en. There's a hantle o' folk makes that blunder, though."

Away went Sam for the kettle. When he brought it back, he said,—"Miss Cary, ye'll mind Annie Crosthwaite, as lives wi' auld Mally?"

Ah, did I not remember Annie Crosthwaite?—poor, fragile, pretty spring flower, that some cruel hand plucked and threw away, and men trod on the bemired blossom as it lay in the mire, and women drew their skirts aside to keep from touching the torn, soiled petals? "Yes, Sam," I said, in a low voice.

"Ay, the minister brought yon puir lassie a message frae the gude Lord—'Yet return again to Me'—and she just took it as heartily as it was gi'en, and went and fand rest—puir, straying, lost sheep!—but when she came to the table o' the Lord, the ninety and nine wad ha'e nane o' her—she was gude eneuch for Him in the white robe o' His richteousness, but she was no near gude eneuch for them, sin she had lost her ain—and not ane soul i' a' the parish wad kneel down aside o' her. Miss Cary, I ne'er saw the minister's e'en flash out sparks o' fire as they did when he heard that! And what, think ye, said he?"

"I should like to hear, Sam."

"'Vara gude,' says he. 'I beg,' he says, 'that none o' ye all will come to the Table to-morrow. Annie Crosthwaite and I will gang thither our lane: but there'll be three,' says he, 'for the blessed Lord Himsel' will come and eat wi' us, and we wi' Him, for He receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.' And he did it, for a' they tald him the Bishop wad be doun on him. 'Let him,' says he, 'and he shall hear the haill story': and not ane o' them a' wad he let come that morn. They were no worthy, he said."

"And did the Bishop hear of it?"

"Ay, did he, and sent doun a big chiel, like an auld eagle, wi' a' his feathers ruffled the wrang way. But the minister, he stood his ground: 'There were three, Mr Archdeacon,' says he, as quiet as a mill-tarn, 'and the Lord Himsel' made the third.' 'And how am I to ken that?' says the big chiel, ruffling up his feathers belike. 'Will ye be sae gude as to ask Him?' says the minister. I dinna ken what the big chiel made o' the tale to the Bishop, but we heard nae mair on't. Maybe he did ask Him, and gat the auld answer,—'Touch not Mine anointed, and do My prophet no harm.'"

"Still, rules ought to be kept, Sam."

"Rules ought to be kept in ordinar'. But this was bye-ordinar', ye see. If a big lad has been tauld no to gang frae the parlour till his faither comes back, and he sees his little brither drooning in the pond just afore the window, I reckon his faither 'll no be mickle angered if he jumps out of the window and saves him. Any way, I wad nae like to ha'e what he'd get, gin he said,—'Faither, ye bade me tarry in this chalmer, and sae I could nae do a hand's turn for Willie.' Rules are man's, Miss Cary, but truth and souls belang to God."

My Aunt Kezia and Sophy had come in while Sam was talking, and Father and Hatty followed now, so we sat down to breakfast.

"Sam has told you one story, girls," said my Aunt Kezia, "and I will tell you another. You will find the singers changed when you go to church. Dan Oldfield and Susan Nixon are gone."

"Dan and Susan!" cried Hatty. "The two best voices in the gallery!"

"Well, you know, under old Mr Digby, there always used to be an anthem before the service began, in which Dan and Susan did their best to show off. The second week that Mr Liversedge was here, he stopped the anthem. Up started the singers, and told him they would not stand it. It wasn't worth their while coming just for the psalms. Mr Liversedge heard them out quietly, and then said,—'Do you mean what you have just said?' Yes, to be sure they meant it. 'Then consider yourselves dismissed from the gallery without more words,' says he. 'You are not worthy to sing the praises of Him before whom multitudes of angels veil their faces. Not worth your while to praise God!—but worth your while to show man what fine voices He gave you whom you think scorn to thank for it!' And he turned them off there and then."

The next time I was alone with Sophy, she said to me, with tears in her eyes,—"Cary, I don't want you to reckon me worse than I am. That is bad enough, in all conscience. I would have knelt down with Annie Crosthwaite, and so, I am sure, would my Aunt Kezia; but it was while she was up in London with you, and Father was so poorly with the gout, I could not leave him. You see there was nobody to take my place, with all of you away. Please don't fancy I was one of those that refused, for indeed it was not so."

"I fancy you are a dear, good Sophy," said I, kissing her; "and I suppose, if Mr Liversedge asked you to shake hands with a chimney-sweep just come down the chimney, you would be delighted to do it."

"Well, perhaps I might," said Sophy, laughing. "But that, Cary, I should have done, not for him, but for our Master."

I found that I liked Mr Liversedge very much, as one would wish to like a brother-in-law that was to be. His whole heart seems to be in his Lord's work: and if, perhaps, he is a little sharp and abrupt at times, I think it is simply because he sees everything quickly and distinctly, and speaks as he sees. I was afraid he would have something of the pope about him, but I find he is not like that at all. He lets you alone for all mere differences of opinion, though he will talk them over with you readily if he sees that you wish it. But let those keen, black eyes perceive something which he thinks sin, and down he comes on you in the very manner of the old prophets. Yet show him that he has made a mistake, and that your action was justified, and he begs your forgiveness in a moment. And I never saw a man who seemed more fitted to deal with broken-hearted sinners. To them he is tenderness and comfort itself.

"He just takes pattern frae his Maister; that's whaur it is," said old Elspie. "Mind ye, He was unco gentle wi' the puir despised publicans, and vara tender to the wife that had been a sinner. It was the Pharisees He was hard on. And that's just what the minister is. Miss Cary, he's just the best blessing the Lord ever sent till Brocklebank!"

"I hardly thought, Elspie," said I, a little mischievously, "to hear you speak so well of a Prelatist clergyman."

"Hoot awa', we a' ha'e our bees in our bonnets, Miss Cary," said the old woman, a trifle testily. "The minister's no pairfect, I daur say. But he's as gran' at praying as John Knox himself and he gars ye feel the loue and loueliness o' Christ like Maister Rutherford did. And sae lang 's he'll do that, I'm no like to quarrel wi' him, if he do ha'e a fancy for lawn sleeves and siccan rubbish, I wish him better sense, that's a'. Maybe he'll ha'e it ane o' thae days."

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I cannot understand Hatty as she is now. For a while after that affair with the Crosslands she was just like a drooping, broken-down flower; all her pertness, and even her brightness, completely gone. Now that is changed, and she has become, not pert again, but hard—hard and bitter. Nobody can do anything to suit her, and she says things now and then which make me jump. Things, I mean, as if she believed nothing and cared for nobody. When Hatty speaks in that way, I often see my Aunt Kezia looking at her with a strange light in her eyes, which seems to be half pain and half hopefulness. Mr Liversedge, I fancy, is studying her; and I am not sure that he knows what to make of her.

Yesterday evening, Fanny and Ambrose came in and sat a while. Fanny is ever so much improved. She has brightened up, and lost much of that languid, limp, fanciful way she used to have; and, instead of writing odes to the stars, she seems to take an interest in her poultry-yard and dairy. My Aunt Kezia says Fanny wanted an object in life, and I suppose she has it now.

When they had been there about an hour, Mr Liversedge came in. He does not visit Sophy often; I fancy he is too busy; but Tuesday evening is usually his leisure time, so far as he can be said to have one, and he generally spends it here when he can. He and Ambrose presently fell into discourse upon the parish, and somehow they got to talking of what a clergyman's duties were. Ambrose thought if he baptised and married and buried people, and administered the sacrament four times a year, and preached every month or so, and went to see sick people when they sent for him, he had done all that could be required, and might quite reasonably spend the rest of his time in hunting either foxes or Latin and Greek, according as his liking led him.

"You think Christ spent His life so?" asked Mr Liversedge, in that very quiet tone in which he says his sharpest things, and which reminds me so often of Colonel Keith.

Ambrose looked as if he did not know what to say; and before he had found out, Mr Liversedge went on,—

"Because, you see, He left me an example, that I should follow His steps."

"Mr Liversedge, I thought you were orthodox."

"I certainly should have thought so, as long as I quoted Scripture," said the Vicar.

"But, you know, nobody does such a thing," said Ambrose.

"Then is it not high time somebody should?"

"Mr Liversedge, you will never get promotion, if that be the way you are going on."

"In which world?"

"'Which world'! There is only one."

"I thought there were two."

Ambrose fidgetted uneasily on his chair.

"I tell you what, my good Sir, you are on the way to preach your church empty. The pews have no souls to be saved, I believe,"—and Ambrose chuckled over his little joke.

"What of the souls of the absent congregation?" asked Mr Liversedge.

"Oh, they'll have to get saved elsewhere," answered Ambrose.

"Then, if they do get saved, what reason shall I have to regret their absence? But suppose they do not, Mr Catterall,—is that my loss or theirs?"

"Why couldn't you keep them?" said Ambrose.

"At what cost?" was the Vicar's answer.

"A little more music and rather less thunder," said Ambrose, laughing. "Give us back the anthem—you have no idea how many have taken seats at All Saints' because of that. And do you know your discarded singers are there?"

"All Saints' is heartily welcome to everybody that has gone there," replied Mr Liversedge. "If I drive them away by preaching error, I shall answer to God for their souls. But if men choose to go because they find truth unpalatable, I have no responsibility for them. The Lord has not given me those souls; that is plain. If He have given them to another sower of seed, by all means let them go to him as fast as they can."

"Mr Liversedge, I do believe,"—Ambrose drew his chair back an inch—"I do almost think—you must be—a—a Calvinist."

"It is not catching, I assure you, Mr Catterall."

"But are you?"

"That depends on what you mean. I certainly do not go blindly over hedge and ditch after the opinions of John Calvin. I am not sure that any one does."

"No, but—you believe that people are—a—are elect or non-elect; and if they be elect, they will be saved, however they live, and if they be not, they must needs be lost, however good they are. Excuse my speaking so freely."

"I am very much obliged to you for it. No, Mr Catterall, I do not believe anything of the sort. If that be what you mean by Calvinism, I abhor it as heartily as you do."

"Why, I thought all Calvinists believed that!"

"I answer most emphatically, No. I believe that men are elect, but that they are elected 'unto sanctification': and a man who has not the sanctification shows plainly—unless he repent and amend—that he is not one of the elect."

"Now I know a man who says, rolling the whites of his eyes and clasping his palms together as if he were always saying his prayers, like the figures on that old fellow's tomb in the chancel—he says he was elected to salvation from all eternity, and cannot possibly be lost: and he is the biggest swearer and drinker in the parish. What say you to that? Am I to believe him?"

"Can you manage it?"

"I can't: that is exactly the thing."

"Don't, then. I could not."

"But now, do you believe, Mr Liversedge,—I have picked up the words from this fellow—that God elected men because He foreknew them, or that He foreknew because He had elected them?"

Ambrose gave a little wink at Fanny and me, sitting partly behind him, as if he thought that he had driven the Vicar completely into a corner.

"When the Angel Gabriel is sent to tell me, Mr Catterall, I shall be most happy to let you know. Until then, you must excuse my deciding a question on which I am entirely ignorant."

Ambrose looked rather blank.

"Well, then, Mr Liversedge, as to free-will. Do you think that every man can be saved, if he likes, or not?"

"Let Christ answer you—not me. 'No man can come to Me, except the Father which hath sent Me draw him.'"

"Ah! then man has no responsibility?" And Ambrose gave another wink at us.

"Let Christ answer you again. 'Ye will not come unto Me, that ye might have life.' If they had come, you see, they might have had it."

"But how do you reconcile the two?" said Ambrose, knitting his brows.

"When the Lord commands me to reconcile them, He will show me how. But I do not expect Him to do either, in this world. To what extent our knowledge on such subjects may be enlarged in Heaven, I cannot venture to say."

"But surely you must reconcile them?"

"Pardon me. I must act on them."

"Can you act on principles you cannot reconcile?"

"Certainly—if you can put full trust in their proposer. Every child does it, every day. You will be a long while in the dark, Mr Catterall, if you must know why a candle burns before you light it. Better be content to have the light, and work by it."

"There are more sorts of light than one," said my Aunt Kezia.

"That is the best light by which you see clearest," was the Vicar's answer.

"What have you got to see?" asked Ambrose.

"Your sins and your Saviour," was the reply. "And till you have looked well at both those, Mr Catterall, and are sure that you have laid the sins upon the Sacrifice, it is as well not to look much at anything else."

I think Ambrose found that he was in the corner this time, and just the kind of corner that he did not care to get in. At any rate, he said no more.

Sophy's wedding, which took place this evening, was the quietest I ever saw. She let Mr Liversedge say how everything should be, and he seemed to like it as plain and simple as possible. No bridesmaids, no favours, no dancing, no throwing the stocking, no fuss of any sort! I asked him if he had any objection to a cake.

"None at all," said he, "so long as you don't want me to eat it. And pray don't let us have any sugary Cupids on the top, nor any rubbish of that sort."

So the cake was quite plain, but I took care it should be particularly good, and Hatty made a wreath of spring flowers to put round it.

The house feels so quiet and empty now, when all is over, and Sophy gone. Of course she is not really gone, because the Vicarage is only across a couple of fields, and ten minutes will take us there at any time. But she is not one of us any longer, and that always feels sad.

I do feel, somehow, very sorrowful to-night—more, I think, than I have any reason. I cannot tell why sometimes a sort of tired, sad feeling comes over one, when there seems to be no cause for it. I feel as if I had not something I wanted: and yet, if anybody asked me what I wanted, I am not sure that I could tell. Or rather, I am afraid I could tell, but I don't want to say so. There is something gone out of my life which I wanted more of, and since we came home I have had none of it, or next to none. No, little book, I am not going to tell you what it is. Only there is a reason for my feeling sad, and I must keep it to myself, and never let anybody know it. I suppose other women have had to do the same thing many a time. And some of them, perhaps, grow hard and cold, and say bitter things, and people dislike and avoid them, not knowing that if they lifted up the curtain of their hearts they would see a grave there, in which all their hopes were buried long ago. Well, God knows best, and will do His best for us all. How can I wish for anything more?

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22nd. When we went up to bed last night, to my surprise Hatty came to me, and put her arms round me.

"There are only us two left now, Cary," she said. "And I know I have been very bitter and unloving of late. But I mean to try and do better, dear. Will you love me as much as you can, and help me? I have been very unhappy."

"I was afraid so, and I was very sorry for you," I answered, kissing her. "Must I not ask anything, Hatty?"

"You can ask what you like," she replied. "I think, Cary, that Christ was knocking at my door, and I did not want to open it; and I could not be happy while I knew that I was keeping Him outside. And at last—it was last night, in the sermon—He spoke to me, as it were, through that closed door; and I could not bear it any longer—I had to rise and open it, and let Him in. And before that, with Him, I kept everybody out; and now I feel as if, with Him, I wanted to take everybody in."

Dear Hatty! She seems so changed, and so happy, and I am so thankful. But my prospect looks very dark. It ought not to do so, for I let Him in before Hatty did; and I suppose some day it will be clearer, and I shall have nobody but Him, and shall be satisfied with it.

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25th. You thought you knew a great deal of what was going to happen, did you not, Cary Courtenay? Such a wise girl you were! And how little you did know!

This evening, Esther Langridge came in, and stayed to supper. She said Ephraim had gone to the Parsonage on business, and had promised to call for her on his way home. He came rather later than Esther expected. (We have only seen him twice since we returned from London, except just meeting at church and so forth: he seemed to be always busy.) He said he had had to see Mr Liversedge, and had been detained later than he thought. He sat and talked to all of us for a while, but I thought his mind seemed somewhere else. I guessed where, and thought I found myself right whet after a time, when Father had come in, and Ambrose with him, and they were all talking over the fire, Ephraim left them, and coming across to my corner, asked me first thing if I had heard anything from Annas.

I have not had a line from her, nor heard anything of her, and he looked disappointed when I said so. He was silent for a minute, and then he said,—

"Cary, what do you think I have been making up my mind to do?"

"I do not know, Ephraim," said I. I did not see how that could have to do with Annas, for I believed he had made up his mind on that subject long ago.

"Would you be very much surprised if I told you that I mean to take holy orders?"

"Ephraim!" I was very, very much surprised. How would Annas like it?

"Yes, I thought you would be," said he. "It is no new idea to me. But I had to get my father's consent, and smooth away two or three difficulties, before I thought it well to mention it to any one but the Vicar. He will give me a title. I am to be ordained, Cary, next Trinity Sunday."

"Why, that is almost here!" cried I.

"Yes, it is almost here," he replied, with that far-away look in his eyes which I had seen now and then.

Then Annas had been satisfied, for of course she was one of the difficulties which had to be smoothed away.

"I shall hope to see more of my friends now," he went on, with a smile. "I know I have seemed rather a hermit of late, while this matter has been trembling in the balance. I hope the old friend will not be further off because he is the curate. I should not like that."

"I do not think you need fear," said I, trying to speak lightly. But how far my heart went down! The future master of the Fells Farm was a fixture at Brocklebank: but the future parson of some parish might be carried a hundred miles away from us. A few months, and we might see him no more. Just then, Father set his foot on one of the great logs, and it blazed and crackled, sending a shower of sparkles up the chimney, and a ruddy glow all over the room. But my fire was dying out, and the sparkles were gone already.

Perhaps it was as well that just at that moment a rather startling diversion occurred, by the entrance of Sam with a letter, which he gave to Flora.

"Here's ill tidings, Sir!" said Sam to Father. "Miss Flora's letter was brought by ane horseman, that's ridden fast and far; the puir beastie's a' o'er foam, and himsel's just worn-out. He brings news o' a gran' battle betwixt the Prince and yon loon they ca' Cumberland,—ma certie, but Cumberland's no mickle beholden to 'em!—and the Prince's army's just smashed to bits, and himsel' a puir fugitive in the Highlands. Ill luck tak' 'em!—though that's no just becoming to a Christian man, but there's times as a chiel disna stop to measure his words and cut 'em off even wi' scissors. 'Twas at a place they ca' Culloden, this last week gane: and they say there's na mair chance for the Prince the now than for last year's Christmas to come again."

Father, of course, was extreme troubled by this news, and went forth into the hall to speak with the horseman, whom Sam had served with a good supper. Ambrose followed, and so did my Aunt Kezia, for she said men knew nought about airing beds, and it was as like as not Bessy would take the blankets from the wrong chest if she were not after her. Hatty was not in the room, and Flora had carried off her letter, which was from my Uncle Drummond. So Ephraim and I were left alone, for, somewhat to my surprise, he made no motion to follow the rest.

"Cary," he said, in a low tone, as he took the next chair, "I have had news, also."

It was bad news—in a moment I knew that. His tone said so. I looked up fearfully. I felt, before I heard, the terrible words that were coming.

"Duncan Keith rests with God!"

Oh, it was no wonder if I let my work drop, and hid my face in my hands, and wept as if my heart were breaking. Not for Colonel Keith. He should never see evil any more. For Annas, and for Flora, and for the stricken friends at Monksburn, and for my Uncle Drummond, who loved him like another son,—and—yes, let me confess it, for Cary Courtenay, who had just then so much to mourn over, and must not mourn for it except with the outside pretence of something else.

"Did you care so much for him, Cary?"

What meant that intense pain in Ephraim's voice? Did he fancy—And what did it matter to him, if he did? I tried to wipe away my tears and speak.

"Did you care so little?" I said, as well as I could utter. "Think of Annas, and his parents, and—And, Ephraim, we led him to his death—you and I!"

"Nay, not so," he answered. "You must not look at it in that light, Cary. We did but our duty. It is never well to measure duties by consequences. Yes, of course I think of his parents and sister, poor souls! It will be hard for them to bear. Yet I almost think I would change with them rather than with Angus, when he comes to know. Cary, somebody must write to Miss Keith: and it ought to be either Miss Drummond or you."

I felt puzzled. Would he not break it best to her himself? If all were settled betwixt them, and it looked as if it were, was he not the proper person to write?