They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel might survey the Principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded. Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone, and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear sailor brother, and found him so sympathising and considerate, that she did not like him less; though she felt her intercourse with him a sort of intoxication, that would only make it the worse for her by-and-by.

During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of departure, but she kept her resolution against it—she thought it would have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa, with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, "Well, Ethel, are you ready for the ball?"

"We shall spare her the ball," said Dr. May; "there is a report about the Alcestis in the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and this good sister will not stay away from her."

Norman started up crying, "What, papa?"

"It is a mere nothing in reality," said Dr. May, "only what we knew before;" and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a death warrant; the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks; he trembled so that he was obliged to sit down, and, without speaking, he kept his eyes fixed on the words, "Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain Gordon—"

"If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as I have, you would not take this so much to heart," said Dr. May. "I expect to hear that this very mail has brought letters."

And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the honorary doctors—a naval captain—who had been making discoveries in the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling the Alcestis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her detention, adding besides, that no one believed the Australian paper whence the report was taken. He had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have been perfect; as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman's cheek, and the light to his eye.

"When do we set off?" was Norman's question.

"At five," said Ethel. "You mean it, papa?"

"I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till eight; nor you, Norman, at all."

Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on, Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, "Are you really going home?"

"Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this."

He looked down—Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go; but both the Normans spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned; Dr. May was very happy reviving all his Scottish recollections, and talking to young Ogilvie about Edinburgh. Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite. What! on a week's acquaintance?

When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for something heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin's kind consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as well as to call him off from the studies with which he had this term overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth; but there was no more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of anticipation.

Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her bed.

Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol men walked in.

Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never forgetting— happiest week—but in the civilities which the other occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were, "Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home."



CHAPTER X.



True to the kindred points of Heaven and home. WORDSWORTH.

Etheldred's dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin, foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, "it was not worth while—this carriage was a very transitory resting-place."

The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, "Dick himself!"

"Spencer, old fellow, is it you?" cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm.

"Ha! what is amiss with your arm?" was the immediate question. Three technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, "Ethel, here! You have heard of him!"

Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour, while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford.

"Ay; and what for, do you think?" said Dr. May joyously.

"You don't say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his voice had a trick of yours—but then I thought you would have held by old Cambridge."

"What could I do?" said Dr. May deprecatingly; "the boy would go and get a Balliol scholarship—"

"Why! the lad is a genius! a poet—no mistake about it! but I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age."

"Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders—one of his sisters is married. There's for you, Spencer!"

"Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!"

"What! with hair of that colour?" said Dr. May, looking at his friend's milk-white locks.

"Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I thought I was done for. But you! you—the boy of the whole lot! You think me very disrespectful to your father," added he, turning to Ethel, "but you see what old times are."

"I know," said Ethel, with a bright look.

"So you were in the theatre yesterday," continued Dr. May; "but there is no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?"

"A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him."

"And where are you bound for?" as the train showed signs of a halt.

"For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you, and other old friends."

"Does he expect you?"

"No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond."

"Come home with us," said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm. "I cannot part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. Take your ticket for Gloucester."

"So suddenly! Will it not be inconvenient?" said he, looking tempted, but irresolute.

"Oh, no, no; pray come!" said Ethel eagerly. "We shall be so glad."

He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en-route for Stoneborough.

Ethel's thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the traveller to enter into her father's happiness, and to have no fears is of another Sir Matthew.

They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship; but, by Dr. May's own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his studies, and Dr. May's model of perfection. Their paths had since lain far apart, and they had not seen each other since, twenty- six years ago, they had parted in London—the one to settle at his native town, while the other accepted a situation as travelling physician. On his return, he had almost sacrificed his life, by self-devoted attendance on a fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had afterwards received an appointment in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr. May had lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to relinquish his post.

It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since. He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about to explore the Asiatic islands and he had accompanied them, as well as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been employed in various sanitary arrangements there and in India, and had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or French Cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days.

He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling, and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished, indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage, was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey, she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend—one of those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling anxiously on her father's left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon the little finger.

There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been mentioned.

When, at five o'clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up to him with a note.

"All well at home?"

"Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig."

"I must go at once," said Dr May hastily—"the Larkins' child is worse. Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I'll be at home before tea."

He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious voice, "My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many years. Your mother—"

"It was an accident," said Ethel looking straight before her. "It was when papa's arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned."

"And—" repeated Dr Spencer earnestly

"She was killed on the spot," said Ethel, speaking shortly, and abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.

He was dreadfully shocked—she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally blunt. "Margaret had some harm done to her spine—she cannot walk."

He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.

They had just passed Mr Bramshaw's office, when a voice was heard behind, calling, "Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!" and Edward Anderson, now articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and inky.

"Miss Ethel!" he said breathlessly, "I beg your pardon, but have you heard from Harry?"

"No!" said Ethel. "Have they had that paper at home?"

"Not that I know of," said Edward. "My mother wanted to send it, but I would not take it—not while Dr. May was away."

"Thank you—that was very kind of you."

"And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?"

"We hope not," said Ethel kindly—"we saw a Captain at Oxford who thought it not at all to be depended on."

"I am so glad," said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in explanation. "We are very anxious for news of my next brother's ship, Alcestis, in the Pacific—"

"More!" exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; "Good Heavens! I thought May, at least, was happy!"

"He is not unhappy," said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the back entrance of the shrubbery.

"How long ago was this?" said he, standing still, as soon as they had passed into the garden.

"Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always good."

"When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!" he sighed, then recollecting himself. "Forgive me, I have given you pain."

"No," she said, "or rather, I gave you more."

"I knew her—" and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and said, walking on, "This garden is not much altered."

At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among the laurels—"But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty thieves!"

"A startling announcement!" said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels, where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called for the reproof of the more earnest actors.

"Ethel! Ethel!" screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat.

"That will do! that will do, old man—let go! Speak to Dr. Spencer, my dear."

Blanche did so demurely, and asked where was papa?

"Coming, as soon as he has been to Mrs. Larkins's poor baby."

"George Larkins has been here," said Aubrey. "And I have finished 'Vipera et lima', Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities!"

"What is your name, youngster?" said Dr. Spencer, laying his hand on Aubrey's head.

"Aubrey Spencer May," was the answer.

"Hey day! where did you steal my name?" exclaimed Dr. Spencer, while Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation.

"Oh!" exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and whispering, "is it really the boy that climbed the market cross?"

"You see your fame lives here," said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. Spencer evidently heard.

"He was a little boy!" said Aubrey indignantly, looking at the gray- haired man.

"There!" said Ethel to Dr. Spencer.

"The tables turned!" he said, laughing heartily. "But do not let me keep you. You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall improve my acquaintance here. Where are the forty thieves?"

"I am all of them," said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude; and Ethel hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true good-breeding.

There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to her eldest sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her home-sick Ethel. "Naughty girl! running home at once! I did think you would have been happy there!"

"So I was," said Ethel hastily; "but who do you think I have brought home?" Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to set her guessing again, and hurried to explain; and having heard that all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to fetch the guest; but Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time, ran after her, and checked her.

"Ethel, have you heard?" she said.

"Have you?" said Ethel.

"George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would come home, and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not believe it."

"And you have not! That is very good of you, Mary."

"Oh! I am glad you are come! I could not have helped telling, if you had been away a whole week! But, Ethel, does papa believe it?" Poor Mary's full lip swelled, and her eyes swam, ready to laugh or weep, in full faith in her sister's answer.

Ethel told of Meta's captain, and the smile predominated, and settled down into Mary's usual broad beamy look, like a benignant rising sun on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and consideration of which she had not thought her capable.

Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the forty thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-captain and the ass, and the children in perfect ecstasies with him.

They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey to show him to his room, where he might have some peace.

She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden return; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house in bed, and Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to everybody, under an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of turmoil.

Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort; she evidently thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of her papa's presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not; she was relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilvie, one or two inquiries whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him, were all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and conscious by them.

She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she heard her father come home, among the children's loud welcomes, and go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at the door between their rooms.

"So Margaret does not know?" he said.

"No, Mary has been so very good;" and she told what had passed.

"Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a pinch, you see!"

"And we don't speak of it now? Or will it hurt Margaret more to think we keep things from her?"

"That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm done in that way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too much of it."

"Won't you, papa?"

"You had better—it will seem of less importance. I think nothing of it myself."

Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to broach the subject to Margaret.

"How was the Larkins' baby?"

"Doing better. What have you done with Spencer?"

"I put him into Richard's room. The children were eating him up! He is so kind to them."

"Ay! I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your coming home with me."

"What a delightful person he is!"

"Is he not? A true knight errant, as he always was! I could not tell you what I owed to him as a boy—all my life, I may say. Ethel," he added suddenly: "we must do our best to make him happy here. I know it now—I never guessed it then, but one is very hard and selfish when one is happy—"

"What do you mean, papa?"

"I see it now," continued Dr. May incoherently; "the cause of his wandering life—advantages thrown aside. He! the most worthy. Things I little heeded at the time have come back on me! I understand why he banished himself!"

"Why?" asked Ethel bewildered.

"She never had an idea of it; but I might have guessed from what fell from him unconsciously, for not a word would he have said—nor did he say, to show how he sacrificed himself!"

"Who was it? Aunt Flora?" said Ethel, beginning to collect his meaning.

"No, Ethel, it was your own dear mother! You will think this another romantic fancy of mine, but I am sure of it."

"So am I," said Ethel.

"How—what? Ah! I remembered after we parted that he might know nothing—"

"He asked me," said Ethel.

"And how did he bear it?"

Ethel told, and the tears filled her father's eyes.

"It was wrong and cruel in me to bring him home unprepared! and then to leave it to you. I always forget other people's feelings. Poor Spencer! And now, Ethel, you see what manner of man we have here, and how we ought to treat him."

"Indeed I do!"

"The most unselfish—the most self-sacrificing—" continued Dr. May. "And to see what it all turned on! I happened to have this place open to me—the very cause, perhaps, of my having taken things easy— and so the old Professor threw opportunities in my way; while Aubrey Spencer, with every recommendation that man could have, was set aside, and exiled himself, leaving the station, and all he might so easily have gained. Ah, Ethel, Sir Matthew Fleet never came near him in ability. But not one word to interfere with me would he say, and— how I have longed to meet him again, after parting in my selfish, unfeeling gladness; and now I have nothing to do for him, but show him how little I was to be trusted with her."

Ethel never knew how to deal with these occasional bursts of grief, but she said that she thought Dr. Spencer was very much pleased to have met with him, and delighted with the children.

"Ah! well, you are her children," said Dr. May, with his hand on Ethel's shoulder.

So they went downstairs, and found Mary making tea; and Margaret, fearing Dr. Spencer was overwhelmed with his young admirers—for Aubrey and Gertrude were one on each knee, and Blanche standing beside him, inflicting on him a catalogue of the names and ages of all the eleven.

"Ethel has introduced you, I see," said Dr. May.

"Ay, I assure you, it was an alarming introduction. No sooner do I enter your garden, than I hear that I am in the midst of the Forty Thieves. I find a young lady putting the world to death, after the fashion of Hamlet—and, looking about to find what I have lost, I find this urchin has robbed me of my name—a property I supposed was always left to unfortunate travellers, however small they might be chopped themselves."

"Well, Aubrey boy, will you make restitution?"

"It is my name," said Aubrey positively; for, as his father added, "He is not without dread of the threat being fulfilled, and himself left to be that Anon who, Blanche says, writes so much poetry."

Aubrey privately went to Ethel, to ask her if this were possible; and she had to reassure him, by telling him that they were "only in fun."

It was fun with a much deeper current though; for Dr. Spencer was saying, with a smile, between gratification and sadness, "I did not think my name would have been remembered here so long."

"We had used up mine, and the grandfathers', and the uncles', and began to think we might look a little further a-field," said Dr. May. "If I had only known where you were, I would have asked you to be the varlet's godfather; but I was much afraid you were nowhere in the land of the living."

"I have but one godson, and he is coffee-coloured! I ought to have written; but, you see, for seven years I thought I was coming home."

Aubrey had recovered sufficiently to observe to Blanche, "That was almost as bad as Ulysses," which, being overheard and repeated, led to the information that he was Ethel's pupil, whereupon Dr. Spencer began to inquire after the school, and to exclaim at his friend for having deserted it in the person of Tom. Dr. May looked convicted, but said it was all Norman's fault; and Dr. Spencer, shaking his head at Blanche, opined that the young gentleman was a great innovater, and that he was sure he was at the bottom of the pulling down the Market Cross, and the stopping up Randall's Alley—iniquities of the "nasty people," of which she already had made him aware.

"Poor Norman, he suffered enough anent Randall's Alley," said Dr. May; "but as to the Market Cross, that came down a year before he was born."

"It was the Town Council!" said Ethel.

"One of the ordinary stultifications of Town Councils?"

"Take care, Spencer," said Dr. May. "I am a Town Council man my- self—"

"You, Dick!" and he turned with a start of astonishment, and went into a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who were especially tickled by hearing, from another, the abbreviation that had, hitherto, only lived in the favourite expletive, "As sure as my name is Dick May."

"Of course," said Dr. May. "'Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? One that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him!'"

His friend laughed the more, and they betook themselves to the College stories, of which the quotation from Dogberry seemed to have reminded them.

There was something curious and affecting in their manner to each other. Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two youths they had once been together, with somewhat of elder brotherhood on Dr. Spencer's side—and of looking up on Dr. May's—and just as they had recurred to these terms, some allusion would bring back to Dr. Spencer, that the heedless, high-spirited "Dick," whom he had always had much ado to keep out of scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence; a light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then mirth would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspect! After having thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret Mackenzie, he found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief apparent on the countenance, once so gay—the oppression of anxiety marked on the brow, formerly so joyous, the merriment almost more touching than gravity would have been, for the former nature seemed rather shattered than altered. In merging towards this side, there was a tender respect in Dr. Spencer's manner that was most beautiful, though this evening such subjects were scrupulously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant interchange of new and old jokes and stories.

Only when bed-time had come, and Margaret had been carried off—did a silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr. May rose and proposed going upstairs. When he gave his hand to wish good-night, Dr. Spencer held it this time most carefully, and said, "Oh, May! I did not expect this!"

"I should have prepared you," said his host, "but I never recollected that you knew nothing—"

"I had dwelt on your happiness!"

"There never were two happier creatures for twenty-two years," said Dr. May, his voice low with emotion. "Sorrow spared her! Yes, think of her always in undimmed brightness—always smiling as you remember her. She was happy. She is," he concluded. His friend had turned aside and hidden his face with his hands, then looked up for a moment, "And you, Dick," he said briefly.

"Sorrow spared her," was Dr. May's first answer. "And hers are very good children!"

There was a silence again, ending in Dr. May's saying, "What do you think of my poor girl?"

They discussed the nature of the injury: Dr. Spencer could not feel otherwise than that it was a very hopeless matter. Her father owned that he had thought so from the first, and had wondered at Sir Matthew Fleet's opinion. His subdued tone of patience and resignation, struck his guest above all, as changed from what he had once been.

"You have been sorely tried," he said, when they parted at his room door.

"I have received much good!" simply answered Dr. May. "Goodnight! I am glad to have you here—if you can bear it."

"Bear it? Dick! how like that girl is to you! She is yourself!"

"Such a self as I never was! Good-night."

Ethel overcame the difficulty of giving the account of the newspaper alarm with tolerable success, by putting the story of Meta's conversation foremost. Margaret did not take it to heart as much as she had feared, nor did she appear to dwell on it afterwards. The truth was perhaps that Dr. Spencer's visit was to every one more of an excitement and amusement than it was to Ethel. Not that she did not like him extremely, but after such a week as she had been spending, the home-world seemed rather stale and unprofitable.

Miss Bracy relapsed into a state of "feelings," imagining that Ethel had distrusted her capabilities, and therefore returned; or as Ethel herself sometimes feared, there might be irritability in her own manner that gave cause of annoyance. The children were inclined to be riotous with their new friend, who made much of them continually, and especially patronised Aubrey; Mary was proud of showing how much she had learned to do for Margaret in her sister's absence; Dr. May was so much taken up with his friend, that Ethel saw less of him than usual, and she began to believe that it had been all a mistake that every one was so dependent on her, for, in fact, they did much better without her.

Meantime, she heard of the gaieties which the others were enjoying, and she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At the end of a week, Meta Rivers was escorted home from Warwick by two servants, and came to Stoneborough, giving a lively description of all the concluding pleasures, but declaring that Ethel's departure had taken away the zest of the whole, and Mr. Ogilvie had been very disconsolate. Margaret had not been prepared to hear that Mr. Ogilvie had been so constant a companion, and was struck by finding that Ethel had passed over one who had evidently been so great an ingredient in the delights of the expedition. Meta had, however observed nothing—she was a great deal too simple and too much engrossed for such notions to have crossed her mind; but Margaret inferred something, and hoped to learn more when she should see Flora. This would not be immediately. George and his wife were gone to London, and thence intended to pay a round of visits; and Norman had accompanied his namesake to Glenbracken.

Ethel fought hard with her own petulance and sense of tedium at home, which was, as she felt, particularly uncalled for at present; when Dr. Spencer was enlivening them so much. He was never in the way, he was always either busy in the dining-room in the morning with books and papers, or wandering about his old school-boy haunts in the town, or taking Adam's place, and driving out Dr. May, or sometimes joining the children in a walk, to their supreme delight. His sketches, for he drew most beautifully, were an endless pleasure to Margaret, with his explanations of them—she even tried to sit up to copy them, and he began to teach Blanche to draw. The evenings, when there was certain to be some entertaining talk going on between the two doctors, were very charming, and Margaret seemed quite revived by seeing her father so happy with his friend. Ethel knew she ought to be happy also, and if attention could make her so, she had it, for kind and courteous as Dr. Spencer was to all, she seemed to have a double charm for him. It was as if he found united in her the quaint brusquerie, that he had loved in her father, with somewhat of her mother; for though Ethel had less personal resemblance to Mrs. May than any other of the family, Dr. Spencer transferred to her much of the chivalrous distant devotion, with which he had regarded her mother. Ethel was very little conscious of it, but he was certainly her sworn knight, and there was an eagerness in his manner of performing every little service for her, a deference in his way of listening to her, over and above his ordinary polish of manner.

Ethel lighted up, and enjoyed herself when talking was going on—her periods of ennui were when she had to set about any home employment— when Aubrey's lessons did not go well—when she wanted to speak to her father, and could not catch him; and even when she had to go to Cocksmoor.

She did not seem to make any progress there—the room was very full, and very close, the children were dull, and she began to believe she was doing no good—it was all a weariness. But she was so heartily ashamed of her feelings, that she worked the more vehemently for them, and the utmost show that they outwardly made was, that Margaret thought her less vivacious than her wont, and she was a little too peremptory at times with Mary and Blanche. She had so much disliked the display that Flora had made about Cocksmoor, that she had imposed total silence on it upon her younger sisters, and Dr. Spencer had spent a fortnight at Stoneborough without being aware of their occupation; when there occurred such an extremely sultry day, that Margaret remonstrated with Ethel on her intention of broiling herself and Mary by walking to Cocksmoor, when the quicksilver stood at 80 in the shade.

Ethel was much inclined to stay at home, but she did not know whether this was from heat or from idleness, and her fretted spirits took the turn of determination—so she posted off at a galloping pace, that her brothers called her "Cocksmoor speed," and Mary panted by her side, humbly petitioning for the plantation path, when she answered "that it was as well to be hot in the sun as in the shade."

The school-room was unusually full, all the haymaking mothers made it serve as an infant school, and though as much window was opened as there could be, the effect was not coolness. Nevertheless, Ethel sat down and gathered her class round her, and she had just heard the chapter once read, when there was a little confusion, a frightened cry of "Ethel!" and before she could rise to her feet—a flump upon the floor—poor Mary had absolutely fainted dead away.

Ethel was much terrified, and very angry with herself; Mary was no light weight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry, helped Ethel to drag her into the outer room, where she soon began to recover, and to be excessively puzzled as to what had happened to her. She said the sea was roaring, and where was Harry? and then she looked much surprised to find herself lying on Mrs. Elwood's damp flags—a circumstance extremely distressing to Mrs. Elwood, who wanted to carry her upstairs into Cherry's room, very clean and very white, but with such a sun shining full into it!

Ethel lavished all care, and reproached herself greatly, though to be sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, and Mary herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the children's voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves of the sea, and therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, and asked whether Harry would ever come back. The tears did her a great deal of good, though not so much as the being petted by Ethel, and she soon declared herself perfectly well; but Ethel could not think of letting her walk home, and sent off a boy—who she trusted would not faint—with a note to Margaret, desiring her to send the gig, which fortunately was at home to-day.

Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood's tea, which, though extremely bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite revived, in the arbour at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. Spencer walked in.

"Well, and how are you?"

"Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened? Why did you come?"

"I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at home. Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a doctor but your papa? There's not much the matter with you, however. Where is Ethel?"

"In the school," and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked in, as Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman's look.

"No wonder!" was all he said.

Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the circumstances. "How many human creatures do you keep there?" he asked.

"Forty-seven to-day," said Mary proudly.

"I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!"

"It was very wrong of me," said Ethel. "I should have thought of poor Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains."

"Oh, never mind," said Mary, "it did not hurt."

"I'm not thinking of Mary," said Dr. Spencer, "but of the wretched beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be there."

"We cannot help it," said Mary. "We cannot get the ground."

And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee; while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on Harry's account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it was necessary to quit the subject.

"Ethel, dearest," said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, "is there anything the matter?"

"No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me," said Ethel, resolutely. "I am very cross and selfish!"

"It will be better by-and-by," said Margaret, "if only you are sure you have nothing to make you unhappy."

"Nothing," said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had spoiled her.

"If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!" she sighed, presently, "with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle."

Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable, present or future. The ground could not be had—the pig would not get over the stile—the old woman could not get home to- night. Cocksmoor must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to death.

Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the daily details of life.



CHAPTER XI.



If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had been Churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. MERCHANT OF VENICE.

"Dick," said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary's swoon, "you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters."

"It does not hurt them," said Dr. May carelessly.

"Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day."

"That was chance."

"If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine—"

"Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You don't know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm—rather good."

"Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?"

"Can't be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?"

"What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?"

"The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which, hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the land can't be had."

"Why not?"

"Tied up between the Drydale Estate and — College, and in the hands of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the College, but they did not begin at the right end."

"Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!" cried his friend, rather indignantly.

"I own I have not stirred in the matter," said Dr. May. "I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with—" and, as he heard a sound a little like "pish!" he continued, "and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head—or no head. There's nothing for it but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action."

"You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!"

"The cure is worse than the disease!"

"There spoke the Corporation!"

"Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore."

"Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides."

Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and example of the English physician.

"Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time," said Dr. May.

"I dare say you have, Dick!" and they both laughed—the inconsiderate way was so well delineated.

"Just so," replied Dr. May; "and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right—I have not; but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don't write easily. I have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been."

"I see, I see!" said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, "but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to hers?"

"The vicar won't stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never comes near the place, nor does anything for it."

"Who is he?"

"Sir Henry Walkinghame."

"Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him—irregular, was not it? but one does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh's tomb. I got him through with it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!"

"I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance."

Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for anything but a salamander.

Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.

"No thank you." (He had them by this time). "But I am going to Cocksmoor."

"Will you allow me to be your companion?"

"I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in the least afraid of going alone," said she, smiling, however, so as to show she was glad of such pleasant company. "I forewarn you though that I have business there."

"I will find occupation."

"And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I can't have papa set against it again—besides, he would mind you more."

Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be on the road, though she had never let them be "lions in the path."

The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.

"If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?" he asked. "You know it will not do to go and say, 'Be pleased to give me a piece of land,' without specifying what, or you might chance to have one at the Land's End."

"I see, that was one of the blunders," said Ethel. "But I had often thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and sheltered by the old quarry."

"Ha! hardly space enough, I should say," replied Dr. Spencer, stepping it out. "No, that won't do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look farther."

A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself, but that was too wild a supposition—she knew he had nothing of his own, only a moderate pension from the East India Company.

"What do you think of this?" he said, coming to the slope of a knoll, commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry, and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making a circuit that amazed her, but he said, "It is of no use to do it at twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you had better have room—enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in the meantime."

He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school. She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits.

In the evening, he brought down a traveller's case of instruments, and proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the bare idea.

Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to say he must go and have a holiday of smoking—he could not bear too much civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down long before he said, "Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow."

"To Vienna!" was the general and dolorous outcry, and Gertrude laid hold of him and said he should not go.

"I am coming back," he said, "if you will have me. The college holds a court at Fordholm on the 3rd, and on the last of this month, I hope to return."

"College! Court! What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left your senses?" asked Dr. May.

"I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an exploring expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business, and where he is to be written to. The college holds a court at Fordholm, and I hope to have our business settled."

Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the shortness of the time.

"Plenty of time," said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vienna—a journey which he seemed to think less of, than did Dr. May of going to London.

As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed, notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor that the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time: by her vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in what was passing; and though now and then Norman's letters, carrying sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady to her resolution that she averted all traffic in messages through her brother's correspondence, and, in that fear, allowed it to lapse into Margaret's hands more than she had ever done. Indeed, no one greatly liked writing from home, it was heartless work to say always, "No news from the Alcestis" and yet they all declared they were not anxious.

Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret's sofa, on the first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced talk between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for Margaret looked much more harassed and anxious, after having heard the outpouring of all that was on his mind.

Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come he did, on the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkinghame's full consent to the surrender of the land; drawn up in such form as could be acted upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicolson! He was a worse dragon nearer home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May.

However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, "Have I encountered Rajahs, and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that I should dread the face of the father of quarrymen."

What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, whether he talked him over, or bought him off—Margaret hoped the former; Dr. May feared the latter; the results were certain; Mr. Nicolson had agreed that the land should be given up.

The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to the college authorities, when they should come to hold their court.

"The land must be put into the hands of trustees," he said. "The incumbent of course?"

"Then yourself; and we must have another. Your son-in-law?"

"You, I should think," said Dr. May.

"I! Why, I am going."

"Going, but not gone," said his friend.

"I must go! I tell you, Dick; I must have a place of my own to smoke my pipe in."

"Is that all?" said Dr. May. "I think you might be accommodated here, unless you wished to be near your sister."

"My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces do nothing but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only place I have not seen yet, and I more than half engaged to go and help at Poonshedagore."

"Better order your coffin then," muttered Dr. May.

"I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps—and go and turn over the British Museum library."

"Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you know that scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big enough for you and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school built without you."

"Oh! that would be capital!" cried Ethel.

"It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the last old woman never did," continued Dr. May. "A garden the length of this one—"

"But I say—I want to be near the British Museum."

"Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week."

"I shall teach your boys to smoke!"

"I'll see to that!"

"You have given Cocksmoor one lift," said Ethel, "and it will never go on without you."

"It is such a nice house!" added the children, in chorus; "it would be such fun to have you there."

"Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor," said Margaret, smiling.

"Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key," said Dr. May.

There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked down the garden to inspect the house—a matter of curiosity to some—for it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry had played so many tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George Larkins.

It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow. Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, parlour, museum, smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and answered doubtfully; and the children's clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent.

Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jackdaw's nest in the chimney, whereupon the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May pressing, Dr. Spencer raising desultory objections; but so evidently against his own wishes, that Ethel said, "Now, indeed, you must not disappoint us all."

"No," said Dr. May, "it is a settled thing."

"No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go;" and he spoke with emotion. "You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of."

"Why not?" said Dr. May. "Spencer, stay with me;" and he spoke with a pleading, almost dependent air. "Why should you go?"

"It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do to encumber you with a lone man, growing old."

"We have been young together," said Dr. May.

"And you must not leave papa," added Ethel.

"No," said Dr. May. "Trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it. Remember, these children have no uncles."

"You will stay?" said Ethel.

He made a sign of assent—he could do no more, and just then Gertrude came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody's attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up the chimney, in hopes of reaching the nest; and the consequences of this amateur chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators with soot, that so greatly distressed the young ladies, that Mary and Blanche had fled away from public view.

Dr. Spencer's first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general acclamation; and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times, when the jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried.

"Ah!" said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the outraged jackdaws, and half choked, "what do you know about jackdaws' nests? You that are no Whichcote scholars."

"Don't we?" cried Hector, "when there is a jackdaw's nest in Eton Chapel, twenty feet high."

"Old Grey made that!" said Tom, who usually acted the part of esprit fort to Hector's credulity.

"Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse's book," said Hector.

"But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the nest, papa?" said Tom.

"You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house."

Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to show the old Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take care of Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too; for Dr. May had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder after them, that she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician were seen disporting himself on the top of the house.

"Ah! I'm not a physician unattached, like him," said Dr. May, laughing. "Hullo! have you got up, Tom? There's a door up there. I'll show you—"

"No, don't papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich; and asking her to see two trustees up there!" said Ethel.

"Ah! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel?"

"I am sure I can't tell. If Flora were but at home, she would manage it."

"Spencer can manage anything!" was the answer. "That was the happiest chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by the same train."

Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but the best men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so—have the boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures, to be a great provocation to womankind; and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit till the brood of the jackdaws had been discovered, and two gray-headed nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education. Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of outrageous classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that he would make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should be nothing but Jack and Jill.

"There's nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school," cried Tom, sententiously turning round to Ethel.

"Ay, to Stoneborough," said Dr. Spencer.

Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives.

Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been so eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, asked Ethel whether she would have him for a trustee.

"Will the other eight ladies?" said Ethel, "that's the point."

"Ha, Spencer! you did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to be let off?" said Dr. May.

"Not I," said the undaunted doctor. "Come, Ethel, let us hear what should be done."

"There's no time," said Ethel, bewildered. "The court will be only on the day after to-morrow."

"Ample time!" said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into it with all his might. "What we have to do is this. The ladies to be propitiated are—"

"Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo," said Dr. May, who, having put his friend into the situation, had a mischievous delight in laughing at him, and watching what he would do.

"One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers!"

"Rather eight and nine," said Ethel, "though Flora may be somebody now."

"Seven then," said Dr. Spencer. "Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call a meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees."

"You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how many notes Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished."

"Faint heart—you know the proverb, Ethel. Allons. I'll call on Mrs. Ledwich—"

"Stay," said Dr. May. "Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, and we will show her your drawing of the school."

So the remaining ladies were divided—Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson, Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich; Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if possible, be appointed for the next day.

Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had been a subject of much mysterious speculation in Stoneborough, and to gain any intelligence respecting him, was a great object; so that she was extremely welcome wherever she called.

Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk to Miss Rich, and authorise her to send out the notes of summons to the morrow's meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer's call; the daughter just going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Ledwich, and both extremely enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who "would be such an acquisition."

The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at the garden gate.

"Well!" he said, smiling, "I think we have fixed them off—have not we?"

"Yes; but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so much nonsense?"

"Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never finished?" said Dr. Spencer.

"No; why not?"

"Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbours."

"I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good motives."

"There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education; and you have some perception of the system by which things like this should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the like, among them; but for their own sakes we should rather show them the way, than throw them overboard."

"If they will be shown," said Ethel.

"I can't say they seemed to me so very formidable," said Dr. Spencer. "Gentle little women."

"Oh! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you are prepared for that encounter."

Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was very patronising and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great dread, for she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and overwhelmed Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It was not that he went out of his ordinary self, he was always the same simple-mannered, polished gentleman; but it was this that told— she was evidently somewhat in awe of him—the refinement kept her in check. She behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich!

"You will get on now, Ethel," said Dr. May afterwards. "Never fear but that he will get the Ladies' Committee well in hand." "Why do you think so, papa?"

"Never you fear."

That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The Ladies' Committee accepted of their representatives with full consent; and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt up the fellow trustee. He finally contrived to collect every one he wanted at Fordholm, the case was laid before the College—the College was propitious, and by four o'clock in the evening, Dr. Spencer laid before Ethel the promise of the piece of land.

Mary's joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to thank. This would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, and she was vexed with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy the attainment of her object would once have given to her. Then she would have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything; now she took it so composedly as to annoy herself.

"To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head of mine!"

Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but though the zest of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion.

Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, when he had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to; and building was not new to him, though his former subjects—a church and mission station in India—bore little remembrance to the present.

He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted all over the country in search of building materials and builders, he discovered trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home specimens of stone, one in each pocket, to compare and analyse, he went to London to look at model schools, he drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the last, he compared builders' estimates, and wrote letters to the National Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring.

In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice, either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to London, and these seemed to make him the more content with Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting-place in the gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or of going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at Poonshedagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him.

It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as could anywhere be seen; in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a grand tea-party for all the Ladies' Committee, when he should borrow her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great power, wherewith he tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel, and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent an evening without special and earnest invitation.

He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking off Dr. May's hands such of his gratuitous patients as were not averse to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in shepherd's plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, he soon visited every one far and wide, and went to every sort of party, from the grand dinners of the "county families," to the tea-drinkings of the Stoneborough ladies—a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way. English life was so new to him that he entered into the little accessories with the zest of a youth; and there seemed to be a curious change between the two old fellow students, the elder and more staid of former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows.

It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer's histories of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own well- trodden district appeared to travelled eyes; and not less amusing was Dr. Spencer's resolute defence of all the nine muses, generally and individually.

He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, they were led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle; and, indeed, the more youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass of fashion, uttered disrespectful opinions as to the doctor's age, and would not accede to his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, "much younger than Dr. May."

Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr. Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. "Very clever, but an old world man," said Harvey. "He has made up his bundle of prejudices."

"Clever sort of lad!" said Dr. Spencer, "a cool hand, but very shallow—"

Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of argument that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice; and to one young, struggling in self- formation, and more used to theories than to realities.



CHAPTER XII.



The heart may ache, but may not burst; Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake. Christian Year.

Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning's shooting at the Grange, Dr. May promising to meet them, and let them drive him home.

Meta was out when he arrived; and, repairing to the library, he found Mr. Rivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in September, with the newspaper before him, but not reading. He looked depressed, and seemed much disappointed at having heard that George and Flora had accepted some further invitations in Scotland, and did not intend to return for another month. Dr. May spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness they had met, but failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign some cause for his vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began to dread an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the Arctic regions.

He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora, and speaking of the great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so admirable a person. He only wished it could be the same with his daughter.

"You are a very unselfish father," said Dr. May. "I cannot imagine you without your little fairy."

"It would be hard to part," said Mr. Rivers, sighing; "yet I should be relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging as she is, and something of an heiress. With our dear Flora, she is secure of a happy home when I am gone, but still I should be glad to have seen—" and he broke off thoughtfully.

"She is so sensible, that we shall see her make a good choice," said Dr. May, smiling; "that is, if she choose at all, for I do not know who is worthy of her."

"I am quite indifferent as to fortune," continued Mr. Rivers. "She will have enough of her own."

"Enough not to be dependent, which is the point," said Dr. May, "though I should have few fears for her any way."

"It would be a comfort," harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on the subject, as if he wanted to say something, "if she were only safe with a man who knew how to value her and make her happy. Such a young man as your Norman, now—I have often thought—"

Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent himself from blushing as crimson as if he had been the very Norman, as he answered, going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers's had been unmade, "She is the brightest little creature under the sun, and the sparkle is down so deep within, that however it may turn out, I should never fear for her happiness."

"Flora is my great reliance," proceeded Mr. Rivers. "Her aunt, Lady Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit with Meta."

"Oh, ho," thought the doctor, "have you made that discovery, my good friend?"

The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining their achievements to Meta, and Dr. May took his departure, Hector driving him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own affairs as if he had quite forgotten that the doctor was not his father, and going on emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind now and then betrayed by his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer's door, exclaimed, "Stop, Hector, let me out here—thank you;" and presently brought out his friend into the garden, and sat down on the grass, talking low and earnestly over the disease with which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected; for though Dr. May could not perceive any positively unfavourable symptom, he had been rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that Blanche was sent out, primed with an impertinent message, that two such old doctors ought to be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in the dew.

Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had just been merrily concluded, when the door bell rang, and a message was brought in. "The carriage from the Grange, sir; Miss Rivers would be much obliged if you would come directly."

"There!" said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to say, I told you so, in the first triumph of professional sagacity; but the next moment exclaiming, "Poor little Meta!" he hurried away.

A gloom fell on those who remained, for, besides their sympathy for Meta, and their liking for her kind old father, there was that one unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general bravely combated, lay in wait always ready to prey on them. Hector stole round to sit by Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, "This will never do," and sent Tom to fetch some papers lying on his table, whence he read them some curious accounts that he had just received from his missionary friends in India.

They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the servant from the Grange said his master was very ill—he had brought a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from her father, and contained these few words:

"DEAR E.—,

"I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meta, and bring my things. R. M."

Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness; but it was but for a moment—the next she was in a state of over-bustle and eagerness. She wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, and could hardly obey the word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her side.

"Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use."

"I? I can't be of any use! Oh, if you could go! If Flora were but here! But I must go, Margaret."

"I will put up your father's things," said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing tone. "The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be full time."

Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel's own goods, which she would otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of counsel, that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless.

Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory overhead, and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east, and bringing to her mind the sailor-boy under the southern sky; if, indeed, he were not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that the thought came more as soothing than as acute pain; she could bear to think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to talk of him. Under those solemn stars, the life everlasting seemed to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel's agitation was calmed away.

The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked rather surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary, from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty seats which Ethel had lately seen filled with a glad home party. She was looking round, thinking whether to venture up to Meta's room, and there summon Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her. Ethel could not speak, but Meta's voice was more cheerful than she had expected. "How kind of you, dear Ethel!"

"Papa sent for me," said Ethel.

"He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?"

"Oh, yes; but you must leave me. You must want to be with him."

"He never lets me come in when he has these attacks," said Meta. "If he only would! But will you come up to my room? That is nearer."

"Is papa with him?"

"Yes."

Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room, where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner- hour, when he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not, however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he had another seizure.

Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more than a few days' weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his countenance at once.

Not so Meta. "How is he? May I go to him?" cried she.

"Not now, my dear," said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. "Yes, my dear, the struggle is over."

Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta's waist, as if to strengthen her, as she stood quite passive and still.

Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter. "Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared to hope."

Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her, she inarticulately murmured, "Oh! why did you not call me?"

"I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not to let you see him suffer."

Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to rouse her, that she said, "I should like to go to bed."

"Right—the best thing," said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, "Go with her, but don't try to rouse her—don't talk to her. Come back to me, presently."

He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she disappeared into her own room.

Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head, under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs asked her if she would have a light.

"No, no, thank you—the dark and alone. Good-night," said Meta. Ethel went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her in his arms, and kissed her forehead. "And how is the poor little dear?" he asked.

"The same," said Ethel. "I can't bear to leave her alone, and to have said nothing to comfort her."

"It is too soon as yet," said Dr. May—"her mind has not taken it in. I hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when she wakens."

"She was utterly unprepared."

"I could not make her understand me," said Dr. May.

"And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there!"

"It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes; and his whole mind seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been."

"Must we leave her to herself all night?"

"Better so," said Dr. May. "She has been used to loneliness; and to thrust companionship on her would be only harassing."

Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did not understand.

"I used to try to force consolation on people," said Dr. May, "but I know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent."

"You have seen so many sorrows," said Ethel.

"I never understood till I felt," said Dr. May. "Those few first days were a lesson."

"I did not think you knew what was passing," said Ethel.

"I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than those two days," said Dr. May. "Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan sitting by me; but I don't believe I had any will. I could no more have moved my mind than my broken arm; and I verily think, Ethel, that, but for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never to disturb grief."

"And what shall we do?"

"You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased."

"If only I were anybody else!"

Dr. May again threw his arm round her, and looked into her face. He felt that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else; and, together, they sat down, and talked of what was to be done, and what was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the house of death. Ethel felt and showed it so much, in her subdued, awe-struck manner, that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his ordinary manner, familiarised, as he necessarily was, with the like scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble, and their conversation recurred to those days, so that each gained a more full understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning.

Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as early as might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep continued to shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, and had been with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and then she found her half dressed, and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down, nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered, as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not to mind—Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients; but she did not seem to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being reminded.