"Tell him he has my best wishes for his recovery, Arthur," said Mr. Channing.

"I will tell him," replied Arthur. "But I fear all hope of recovery for Jenkins is past."

It was more decidedly past than even Arthur suspected when he spoke. A young woman was attending to Mrs. Jenkins's shop when Arthur passed through it. Her face was strange to him; but from a certain peculiarity in the eyes and mouth, he inferred it to be Mrs. Jenkins's sister. In point of fact, that lady, finding that her care of Jenkins and her care of the shop rather interfered with each other, had sent for her sister from the country to attend temporarily on the latter. Lydia went up to Jenkins's sick-room, and said a gentleman was waiting: and Mrs. Jenkins came down.

"Oh, it's you!" quoth she. "I hope he'll be at rest now. He has been bothering his mind over you all day. My opinion is, he'd never have come to this state if he had taken things easy, like sensible people."

"Is he in his room?" inquired Arthur.

"He is in his room, and in his bed. And what's more, young Mr. Channing, hell never get out of it alive."

"Then he is worse?"

"He has been worse this four days. And I only get him up now to have his bed made. I said to him yesterday, 'Jenkins, you may put on your things, and go down to the office if you like.' 'My dear,' said he, 'I couldn't get up, much less get down to the office;' which I knew was the case, before I spoke. I wish I had had my wits about me!" somewhat irascibly went on Mrs. Jenkins: "I should have had his bed brought down to the parlour here, before he was so ill. I don't speak for the shop, I have somebody to attend to that; but it's such a toil and a trapes up them two pair of stairs for every little thing that's wanted."

"I suppose I can go up, Mrs. Jenkins?"

"You can go up," returned she; "but mind you don't get worrying him. I won't have him worried. He worries himself, without any one else doing it gratis. If it's not about one thing, it's about another. Sometimes it's his master and the office, how they'll get along; sometimes it's me, what I shall do without him; sometimes it's his old father. He don't need any outside things to put him up."

"I am sorry he is so much worse," remarked Arthur.

"So am I," said Mrs. Jenkins, tartly. "I have been doing all I could for him from the first, and it has been like working against hope. If care could have cured him, or money could have cured him, he'd be well now. I have a trifle of savings in the bank, young Mr. Channing, and I have not spared them. If they had ordered him medicine at a guinea a bottle, I'd have had it for him. If they said he must have wine, or delicacies brought from the other ends of the earth, they should have been brought. Jenkins isn't good for much, in point of spirit, as all the world knows; but he's my husband, and I have strove to do my duty by him. Now, if you want to go up, you can go," added she, after an imperceptible pause. "There's a light on the stairs, and you know his room. I'll take the opportunity to give an eye to the kitchen; I don't care to leave him by himself now. Finely it's going on, I know!"

Mrs. Jenkins whisked down the kitchen stairs, and Arthur proceeded up. Jenkins was lying in bed, his head raised by pillows. Whatever may have been Mrs. Jenkins's faults of manner, her efficiency as a nurse and manager could not be called into question. A bright fire burnt in the well-ventilated though small room, the bed was snowy white, the apartment altogether thoroughly comfortable. But—Jenkins!

Fully occupied with his work for Mr. Galloway, it was several days since Arthur had called on Jenkins, and the change he now saw in his face struck him sharply. The skin was drawn, the eyes were unnaturally bright, the cheeks had fallen in; certainly there could not be very many hours of life left to Jenkins. A smile sat on his parched lips, and his eyelashes became moist as he looked up to Arthur, and held out his feeble hand.

"I knew you would be cleared, sir! I knew that God would surely bring the right to light! I have been humbly thanking Him for you, sir, all day."

Arthur's eyes glistened also as he bent over him. "You have heard it, then, Jenkins? I thought you would."

"Yes, sir, I heard it this morning, when it was getting towards mid-day. I had a visit, sir, from his lordship the bishop. I had, indeed! He came up as he has done before—as kindly, and with as little ceremony, as if he had been a poor body like myself. It was he who first told me, Mr. Arthur."

"I am glad he came to see you, Jenkins."

"He talked so pleasantly, sir. 'It is a journey that we must all take, Jenkins,' he said; 'and for my part, I think it matters little whether we take it sooner or later, so that God vouchsafes to us the grace to prepare for it.' For affability, sir, it was just as if it had been a brother talking to me; but he said things different from what any poor brother of mine could have said, and they gave me comfort. Then he asked me if I had taken the Sacrament lately; and I thanked him, and said I had taken it on Sunday last; our clergyman came round to me after service. Mr. Arthur"—and poor Jenkins's eyes wore an eager look of gratitude—"I feel sure that his lordship would have administered it to me with his own hands. I wonder whether all bishops are like him!"

Arthur did not answer. Jenkins resumed, quitting the immediate topic for another.

"And I hear, sir, that Mr. Channing has come home restored, and that the little boy is found. His lordship was so good as to tell me both. Oh, Mr. Arthur, how merciful God has been!"

"We are finding Him so, just now," fervently spoke Arthur.

"And it is all right again, sir, with you and Mr. Galloway?"

"Quite right. I am to remain in the office. I am to be in your place, Jenkins."

"You'll occupy a better position in it, sir, than I ever did. But you will not be all alone, surely?"

"Young Bartlett is coming to be under me. Mr. Galloway has made final arrangements to-day. We shall go on all right now."

"Ay," said Jenkins, folding his thin hands upon the counterpane, and speaking as in self-commune; "we must live near to God to know His mercy. It does seem almost as if I had asked a favour of any earthly person, so exactly has it been granted me! Mr. Arthur, I prayed that I might live to see you put right with Mr. Galloway and the town, and I felt as sure as I could feel, by some inward evidence which I cannot describe, but which was plain to me, that God heard me, and would grant me my wish. It seems, sir, as if I had been let live for that. I shan't be long now."

"While there is life there is hope, you know, Jenkins," replied Arthur, unable to say anything more cheering in the face of circumstances.

"Mr. Arthur, the hope for me now is, to go," said Jenkins. "I would not be restored if I could. How can I tell, sir, but I might fall away from God? If the call comes to-night, sir, it will find me ready. Oh, Mr. Arthur, if people only knew the peace of living close to God—of feeling that they are READY! Ready for the summons, let it come in the second or third watch!"

"Jenkins!" exclaimed Arthur, as the thought struck him: "I have not heard you cough once since I came in! Is your cough better!"

"Oh, sir, there's another blessing! Now that I have grown so weak that the cough would shatter me—tear my frame to pieces—it is gone! It is nearly a week, sir, since I coughed at all. My death-bed has been made quite pleasant for me. Except for weakness, I am free from pain, and I have all things comfortable. I am rich in abundance: my wife waits upon me night and day—she lets me want for nothing; before I can express a wish, it is done. When I think of all the favours showered down upon me, and how little I can do, or have ever done, for God, in return, I am overwhelmed with shame."

"Jenkins, one would almost change places with you, to be in your frame of mind," cried Arthur, his tone impassioned.

"God will send the same frame of mind to all who care to go to Him," was the reply. "Sir," and now Jenkins dropped his voice, "I was grieved to hear about Mr. Roland. I could not have thought it."

"Ay; it was unwelcome news, for his own sake."

"I never supposed but that the post-office must have been to blame. I think, Mr. Arthur, he must have done it in a dream; as one, I mean, who has not his full faculties about him. I hope the Earl of Carrick will take care of him. I hope he will live to come back a good, brave man! If he would only act less on impulse and more on principle, it would be better for him. Little Master Charles has been ill, I hear, sir? I should like to see him."

"I will bring him to see you," replied Arthur.

"Will you, sir?" and Jenkins's face lighted up. "I should like just to set eyes on him once again. But—it must be very soon, Mr. Arthur."

"You think so?" murmured Arthur.

"I know it, sir—I feel it. I do not say it before my wife, sir, for I don't think she sees herself that I am so near the end, and it would only grieve her. It will grieve her, sir, whenever it comes, though she may not care to show people that it does. I shall see you again, I hope, Mr. Arthur?"

"That you shall be sure to do. I will not miss a day now, without coming in. It will do me good to see you, Jenkins; to hear you tell me, again, of your happy state of resignation."

"It is better than resignation, Mr. Arthur, it is a state of hope. Not but that I shall leave some regrets behind me. My wife will be lone and comfortless, and must trust to her own exertions only. And my poor old father—"

"If I didn't know it! If I didn't know that, on some subject or other, he'd be safe to be worrying himself, or it would not be him! I'd put myself into my grave at once, if I were you, Jenkins. As good do it that way, as by slow degrees."

Of course you cannot fail to recognize the voice. She entered at that unlucky moment when Jenkins was alluding to his father. He attempted a defence—an explanation.

"My dear, I was not worrying. I was only telling Mr. Arthur Channing that there were some things I should regret to leave. My poor old father for one; he has looked to me, naturally, to help him a little bit in his old age, and I would rather, so far as that goes, have been spared to do it. But, neither that nor anything else can worry me now. I am content to leave all to God."

"Was ever the like heard?" retorted Mrs. Jenkins, "Not worrying! I know. If you were not worrying, you wouldn't be talking. Isn't old Jenkins your father, and shan't I take upon myself to see that he does not want? You know I shall, Jenkins. When do I ever go from my word?"

"My dear, I know you will do what's right," returned Jenkins, in his patient meekness: "but the old man will feel it hard, my departing before him. Are you going, sir?"

"I must go," replied Arthur, taking one of the thin hands. "I will bring Charley in to-morrow."

Jenkins pressed Arthur's hand between his. "God bless you, Mr. Arthur," he fervently said. "May He be your friend for ever! May He render your dying bed happy, as He has rendered mine!" And Arthur turned away—never again to see Jenkins in life.

"Blessed are those servants, whom the Lord when He cometh shall find watching."

As Jenkins was, that night, when the message came for him.



CHAPTER LX.

IN WHAT DOES IT LIE?

Had the clerk of the weather been favoured with an express letter containing a heavy bribe, a more lovely day could not have been secured than that one in January which witnessed the marriage of Constance Channing to the Rev. William Yorke.

The ceremony was over, and they were home again; seated at breakfast with their guests. But only a few guests were present, and they for the most part close friends: the Huntleys; Lady Augusta Yorke, and Gerald; Mr. Galloway; and the Rev. Mr. Pye, who married them. It has since become the fashion to have a superfluity of bridesmaids: I am not sure that a young lady would consider herself legally married unless she enjoyed the privilege. Constance, though not altogether a slave to fashion, followed it, not in a very extensive degree. Annabel Channing, Ellen Huntley, and Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had been the demoiselles d'honneur. Charley's auburn curls had grown again, and Charley himself was in better condition than when he arrived from his impromptu excursion. For grandeur, no one could approach Miss Huntley; her brocade silk stood on end, stiff, prim, and stately as herself. Judy, in her way, was stately too; a curiously-fine lace cap on her head, which had not been allowed to see the light since Charley's christening, with a large white satin bow in front, almost as large as the cap itself. And that was no despicable size.

The only one who did not behave with a due regard to what might be expected of him, was Hamish—grievous as it is to have to record it. It had been duly impressed upon Hamish that he was to conduct Miss Huntley in to breakfast, etiquette and society consigning that lady to his share. Mr. Hamish, however, chose to misconstrue instructions in the most deplorable manner. He left Miss Huntley, a prey to whomsoever might pick her up, and took in Miss Ellen. It might have passed, possibly, but for Annabel, who appeared as free and unconcerned that important morning as at other times.

"Hamish, that's wrong! It is Miss Huntley you are to take in; not Ellen."

Hamish had grown suddenly deaf. He walked on with Ellen, leaving confusion to right itself. Arthur stepped up in the dilemma, and the tips of Miss Huntley's white-gloved fingers were laid upon his arm. It would take her some time to forgive Hamish, favourite though he was. Later on, Hamish took the opportunity of reading Miss Annabel a private lecture on the expediency of minding her own business.

Hamish was in his new post now, at the bank: thoroughly well-established. He had not yet taken up his abode in the house. It was too large, he laughingly said, for a single man.

The breakfast came to an end, as other breakfasts do; and next, Constance came down in her travelling dress. Now that the moment of parting was come, Constance in her agitation longed for it to be over. She hurriedly wished them adieu, and lifted her tearful face last to her father.

Mr. Channing laid his hands upon her. "May God bless my dear child, and be her guide and refuge for ever! William Yorke, it is a treasure of great price that I have given you this day. May she be as good a wife as she has been a daughter!"

Mr. Yorke, murmuring a few heartfelt words, put Constance into the carriage, and they drove away.

"It will be your turn next," whispered Hamish to Ellen Huntley, who stood watching the departure from one of the windows.

What Ellen would have said—whether she would have given any other answer than that accorded by her blushing cheeks, cannot be told. The whisper had not been quite so low as Hamish thought it, and it was overheard by Mr. Huntley.

"There may be two words to that bargain, Mr. Hamish."

"Twenty, if you like, sir," responded Hamish, promptly, "so that they be affirmative ones."

"Ellen," whispered Mr. Huntley, "would you have him, with all his gracelessness?"

Ellen seemed ready to fall, and her eyes filled. "Do not joke now, papa," was all she said.

Hamish caught her hand, and took upon himself the task of soothing her. And Mr. Huntley relapsed into a smile, and did not hinder him.

But some one else was bursting into tears: as the sounds testified. It proved to be Lady Augusta Yorke. A few tears might well be excused to Mrs. Channing, on the occasion of parting with her ever-loving, ever-dutiful child, but what could Lady Augusta have to cry about?

Lady Augusta was excessively impulsive: as you have long ago learned. The happiness of the Channing family, in their social relations to each other; the loving gentleness of Mr. and Mrs. Channing with their children; the thorough respect, affection, duty, rendered to them by the children in return—had struck her more than ever on this morning. She was contrasting the young Channings with her own boys and girls, and the contrast made her feel very depressed. Thus she was just in a condition to go off, when the parting came with Constance, and the burst took place as she watched the carriage from the door. Had any one asked Lady Augusta why she cried, she would have been puzzled to state.

"Tell me!" she suddenly uttered, turning and seizing Mrs. Channing's hands—"what makes the difference between your children and mine? My children were not born bad, any more than yours were; and yet, look at the trouble they give me! In what does it lie?"

"I think," said Mrs. Channing, quietly, and with some hesitation—for it was not pleasant to say anything which might tacitly reflect on the Lady Augusta—"that the difference in most children lies in the bringing up. Children turn out well or ill, as they are trained; and in accordance with this rule they will become our blessing or our grief."

"Ah, yes, that must be it," acquiesced Lady Augusta. "And yet—I don't know," she rejoined, doubtingly. "Do you believe that so very much lies in the training?"

"It does, indeed, Lady Augusta. God's laws everywhere proclaim it. Take a rough diamond from a mine—what is it, unless you polish it, and cut it, and set it? Do you see its value, its beauty, in its original state? Look at the trees of our fields, the flowers and fruits of the earth—what are they, unless they are pruned and cared for? It is by cultivation alone that they can be brought, to perfection. And, if God so made the productions of the earth, that it is only by our constant attention and labour that they can be brought to perfection, would He, think you, have us give less care to that far more important product, our children's minds? They may be trained to perfectness, or they may be allowed to run to waste from neglect."

"Oh dear!" sighed Lady Augusta. "But it is a dreadful trouble, always to be worrying over children."

"It is a trouble that, in a very short time after entering upon it, grows into a pleasure," said Mrs. Channing. "I am sure that there is not a mother, really training her children to good, who will not bear me out in the assertion. It is a pleasure that they would not be without. Take it from them, and the most delightful occupation of their lives is gone. And think of the reward! Were there no higher end to be looked for, it would be found in the loving obedience of the children. You talk of the trouble, Lady Augusta: those who would escape trouble with their children should be careful how they train them."

"I think I'll begin at once with mine," exclaimed Lady Augusta, brightening up.

A smile crossed Mrs. Channing's lips, as she slightly shook her head. None knew better than she, that training, to bear its proper fruit, must be begun with a child's earliest years.

Meanwhile, the proctor was holding a conference with Mr. Channing. "Presents seem to be the order of the day," he was remarking, in allusion to sundry pretty offerings which had been made to Constance. "I think I may as well contribute my mite—"

"Why, you have done it! You gave her a bracelet, you know," cried Miss Annabel. For which abrupt interruption she was forthwith consigned to a distance; and ran away, to be teased by Tom and Gerald.

"I have something in my pocket which I wish to give to Arthur; which I have been intending for some time to give him," resumed Mr. Galloway, taking from his pocket what seemed to be a roll of parchment. "Will you accept them, Arthur?"

"What, sir?"

"Your articles."

"Oh! Mr. Galloway—"

"No thanks, my boy. I am in your debt far deeper than I like to be! A trifling thing such as this"—touching the parchment—"cannot wipe out the suspicion I cast upon you, the disgrace which followed it. Perhaps at some future time, I may be better able to atone for it. I hope we shall be together many years, Arthur. I have no son to succeed to my business, and it may be—But I will leave that until the future comes."

It was a valuable present gracefully offered, and Mr. Channing and Arthur so acknowledged it, passing over the more important hint in silence.

"Children," said Mr. Channing, as, the festivities of the day at an end, and the guests departed, they were gathered together round their fireside, bereft of Constance "what a forcible lesson of God's mercy ought these last few months to teach us! Six months ago, there came to us news that our suit was lost; other troubles followed upon it, and things looked dark and gloomy. But I, for one, never lost my trust in God; it was not for a moment shaken; and if you are the children I and your mother have striven to bring up, you did not lose yours. Tom," turning suddenly upon him, "I fear you were the only impatient one."

Tom looked contrite. "I fear I was, papa."

"What good did the indulgence of your hasty spirit do you?"

"No good, but harm," frankly confessed Tom. "I hope it has helped me to some notion of patience, though, for the future, papa."

"Ay," said Mr. Channing. "Hope on, strive on, work on, and trust on! I believe that you made those your watchwords; as did I. And now, in an almost unprecedentedly short time, we are brought out of our troubles. While others, equally deserving, have to struggle on for years before the cloud is lifted, it has pleased God to bring us wonderfully quickly out of ours; to heap mercies and blessings, and a hopeful future upon us. I may truly say, 'He has brought us to great honour, and comforted us on every side.'"

"I HAVE BEEN YOUNG, AND NOW AM OLD; AND YET SAW I NEVER THE RIGHTEOUS FORSAKEN, NOR HIS SEED BEGGING THEIR BREAD."

THE END