Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she had been. She found great repose in her aunt's attendance, retracing, as it did, her mother's presence, and she responded to her tenderness with increasing reliance and comfort; while as her strength began to revive, and there was more disposition to talk, she became gradually drawn into greater confidence.

The seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora had begun to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her into a nervous tremor, that caused it to be put off again and again. Her aunt found her one day almost faint with agitation—she had heard Ethel's voice in the next room, and had been winding up her expectations, and now was as much grieved as relieved, to find that she had been there seeing the baby, but was now gone.

"How does the dear Ethel look?" asked Flora presently.

"She is looking better to-day; she has looked very worn and harassed, but I thought her brighter to-day. She walked over by Aubrey on his pony, and I think it did her good."

"Dear old Ethel! Aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me yet. Can you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogilvie's engagement?"

"Do you mean—" and Mrs. Arnott stopped short in her interrogation.

"Yes," said Flora, answering the pause.

"But I thought young Ogilvie a most unexceptionable person."

"So he is," said Flora. "I was much annoyed at the time, but she was resolute."

"In rejecting him?"

"In running away as soon as she found what was likely to happen;" and Flora, in a few words, told what had passed at Oxford.

"Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father?"

"Entirely," said Flora. "No one could look at her without seeing that she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective one at home, and she sacrificed herself."

"I am glad that I have seen her," said Mrs. Arnott. "I should never have understood her by description. I always said that I must come home to set my correspondence going rightly."

"Aunt Flora," said her niece, "do you remember my dear mother's unfinished letter to you?"

"To be sure I do, my dear."

"Nothing ever was more true," said Flora. "I read it over some little time ago, when I set my papers in order, and understood it then. I never did before. I used to think it very good for the others."

"It is what one generally does with good advice."

"Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and me? It is so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved praise, but now dreads nothing so much; Ethel, who never cared for anything of the kind, but went straight on her own brave way; and oh! Aunt Flora— me—"

"Indeed, my dear, I should have thought you had her most full approbation."

"Ah! don't you see the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, as if she only could not see surface faults in me," said Flora; "and how she said she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. I wonder how it would have been if she had lived. I have looked back so often in the past year, and I think the hollowness began from that time. It might have been there before, but I am not so sure. You see, at that dreadful time, after the accident, I was the eldest who was able to be efficient, and much more useful than poor Ethel. I think the credit I gained made me think myself perfection, and I never did anything afterwards but seek my own honour."

Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora's continued depression, but she thought her self-reproach exaggerated, and said something at once soothing and calculated to encourage her to undraw the curtain of reserve.

"You do not know," continued Flora, "how greedy I was of credit and affection. It made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long as we were in the same sphere; and when I felt that she was more to papa than I could be, I looked beyond home for praise. I don't think the things I did were bad in themselves—brought up as I have been, they could hardly be so. I knew what merits praise and blame too well for that —but oh! the motive. I do believe I cared very much for Cocksmoor. I thought it would be a grand thing to bring about; but, you see, as it has turned out, all I thought I had done for it was in vain; and Ethel has been the real person and does not know it. I used to think Ethel so inferior to me. I left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she might have been happy with Norman Ogilvie—for never were two people better matched, and now she has done what I never thought to have left to another—watched over our own Margaret. Oh! how shall I ever bear to see her?"

"My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than Ethel. She does not think these things."

"She does," said Flora. "She always knew me better than I did myself. Her straightforward words should often have been rebukes to me. I shall see in every look and tone the opinion I have deserved. I have shrunk from her steadfast looks ever since I myself learned what I was. I could not bear them now—and yet—oh, aunt, you must bring her! Ethel! my dear, dear old King—my darling's godmother— the last who was with Margaret!"

She had fallen into one of those fits of weeping when it was impossible to attempt anything but soothing her; but, though she was so much exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great disgrace with Dr. May for having let her talk herself into this condition, she found that he was satisfied to find that she had so far relieved her mind, and declared that she would be better now.

The effect of the conversation was, that the next day, the last of the twelve Christmas days, when Ethel, whose yearning after her sister was almost equally divided between dread and eagerness— eagerness for her embrace, and dread of the chill of her reserve, came once again in hopes of an interview. Dr. May called her at once. "I shall take you in without any preparation," he said, "that she may not have time to be flurried. Only, be quiet and natural."

Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he seemed to think it so easy to be natural?

She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard his cheerful tones saying, "I have brought Ethel to you!"

"Ethel! oh!" said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of expecting a treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began, in the dimness, to see something white moving, and her hands were clasped by two long thin ones. "There!" said Dr. May, "now, if you will be good, I will leave you alone. Nurse is by to look after you, and you know she always separates naughty children."

Either the recurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly touch after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary mutual dread, and, as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Flora's arms were round her, the only feeling was of being together again, and both at once made the childish gesture of affection, and murmured the old pet names of "Flossy," and "King," that belonged to almost forgotten days, when they were baby sisters, then kissed each other again.

"I can't see you," said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. "Why, Flora, you look like a little white shadow!"

"I have had such weak eyes," said Flora, "and this dim light is comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain."

"But what can you do here?"

"Do? Oh, dear Ethel, I have not had much of doing. Papa says I have three years' rest to make up."

"Poor Flora!" said Ethel; "but I should have thought it tiresome, especially for you."

"I have only now been able to think again," said Flora; "and you will say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember some lines in that drama that Norman admired so much?"

"Philip von Artevelde?"

"Yes. I can't recollect them now, though they used to be always running in my head—something about time to mend and time to mourn."

"These?" said Ethel—

"He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that."

"I never had time before for either," said Flora. "You cannot think how I used to be haunted by those, when I was chased from one thing to another, all these long, long eighteen months. I am in no haste to take up work again."

"Mending as well as mourning," said Ethel thoughtfully.

Flora sighed.

"And now you have that dear little Christmas gift to—" Ethel paused.

"She is not nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was," said Flora, "poor little dear. You know, Ethel, even now, I shall have very little time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me so much, and I must leave her to—to the nurses." Flora's voice trembled again.

"Our own dear old nurse," said Ethel.

"Oh! I wanted to thank you all for sparing her to us," said Flora. "George wished it so much. But how does poor little Daisy bear it?"

"Very magnanimously," said Ethel, smiling. "In fact, nurse has had but little to do with Daisy of late, and would have been very forlorn at home. It is better for Aubrey and for her, not to return to be babies to comfort poor nurse. I have been breaking up the nursery, and taking Gertrude to live with me."

"Have you gone back there again?"

"It would not have been better for waiting," said Ethel; "and Gertrude was so proud to come to me. I could not have done it without her, but papa must not have vacancy next to him."

"It has been hard on you for me to engross him," said Flora; "but oh, Ethel, I could not spare him. I don't think even you can tell what papa is."

"You have found it out," said Ethel, in an odd, dry manner; which in sound, though not in feeling, was a contrast to the soft, whispering, tearful murmurs of her sister.

"And my aunt!" continued Flora—"that I should have taken up such a great piece of her short visit!"

"Ah! it is coming to an end very fast," said Ethel, sighing; "but you had the best right to her, and she and Meta have seen so much of each other. She tells me she is quite satisfied about Meta now."

"I am sorry to see Meta looking out of spirits," said Flora. "I almost made her cry by saying something about Norman. Is there anything going wrong?"

Ethel, as usual, blundered into the subject. "Only about Norman's going out."

Flora asked further questions, and she was obliged to explain. It roused Flora's energies at once.

"This will never do!" she said. "They must marry, and go with my aunt."

Ethel was aghast. "They would not hear of it now!"

"They must. It is the only reasonable thing. Why, Norman would be miserable, and as to Meta—Imagine his going out and returning—a year's work, such an expense and loss of time, besides the missing Aunt Flora."

"If it were not wrong—"

"The waste would be the wrong thing. Besides—" and she told of Margaret's wishes.

"But, Flora, think—the last week in February—and you so ill!"

"I am not to marry them," said Flora, smiling. "If it could be in a fortnight, they could go and get their outfit afterwards, and come back to us when I am stronger. Let me see—there need be no fuss about settlements—Mr. Rivers's will arranges everything for her."

"It would be a good thing to get rid of a fine wedding," said Ethel; "but they will never consent!"

"Yes, they will, and be grateful."

"Papa would be happier about Norman," said Ethel; "but I cannot fancy his liking it. And you—you can't spare Meta, for Aunt Flora must go to the Arnotts' in a week or two more."

"Suppose papa was to let me have you," said Flora. "If he wants you, he must come after you."

Ethel gasped at the thought that her occupation at home was gone, but she said, "If I am not too awkward for you, dear Flora. You will miss Meta terribly."

"I can't keep the humming-bird caged, with her heart far away," said Flora.

Dr. May came in to break up the conversation, and Ethel quickly guessed from his manner that Norman had been talking to him. Flora told him that she had been agreeing with Ethel that Meta had much better not miss this opportunity. He was far less startled than Ethel had expected; indeed, the proposal was rather a relief to his mind, and his chief objection was the fear that Flora would be fatigued by the extra bustle; but she promised not to trouble herself about it, otherwise than that if Norman could not persuade Meta, she would. The sisters parted, much more comfortable than before. Ethel felt as if she had found something like a dim reflection of Margaret, and Flora's fear of Ethel had fled away from the mere force of sisterhood.

As to Norman, he declared that he had not the audacity to make the proposal to Meta, though he was only too grateful; so his father carried it to the humming-bird; and, as soon as she found that it was not improper, nor would hurt any one's feelings, she gave ready consent—only begging that it might be as best suited every one, especially Flora; and ending by a whisper to her dear fatherly friend, owning that she was "very glad—she meant she was very glad there would be nobody there."

So Norman and Meta settled their plans as they walked home together from evening service, after listening to the prophecies of the blessings to be spread into the waste and desolate places, which should yet become the heritage of the Chosen, and with the evening star shining on them, like a faint reflex of the Star of the East, Who came to be a Light to lighten the Gentiles.



CHAPTER XXVII.



Euna delle facolta singolari ed incommunicabili della religione Cristiana questa, di poter dare indirizzo e quiete a chiunoque, in qualsivoglia congiuntura, a qualsivoglia termine, ricorra ad essa. Se al passato v'e rimedio, essa lo prescrive, lo somministra, presta lume e vigore per metterlo in opera a qualunque costo; se non v'e, essa da il, modo di fare realmento e in effeto, cio che 1' uom dice in proverbio, della necessita virtu. Insegna a continuare con sapienza cio che e stato intrapreso per leggerezza, piega l'animo ad abbracciare con propensione cio che e stato imposto dalla prepotenza, e da ad un elezione che fu temeraria, ma che e irrevocabile, tutta la santita, tutto il consiglio, diciamolo pur francamenta, tutte le gioje della vocazione.—MANZONI.

The wedding-day was fixed for the 20th of January, since it was less risk to Flora as an absolute invalid, than as convalescent enough to take any share in the doings.

Meta managed her correspondence with her own relatives, and obtained her uncle's kind approval, since he saw there could be nothing else; while her aunt treated her as an infatuated victim, but wished, for her mother's sake, to meet her in London before she sailed.

The worst stroke of all was to Bellairs, who had never chosen to believe that her mistress could move without her, and though mortally afraid in crossing to the Isle of Wight, and utterly abhorring all "natives," went into hysterics on finding that her young lady would take out no maid but a little hard-working village girl; and though transferred in the most flattering manner to Mrs. Rivers's service, shed a tear for every stitch she set in the trousseau, and assured her betrothed butler that, if Miss Rivers would only have heard reason, she would have followed her to the world's end, rather than that her beautiful hair should never look like anything again.

So the wedding-day came, and grass and trees wore a fitting suit of crisp hoariness. Nothing could be quieter. Meta was arrayed by the sobbing Bellairs in her simple bridal white, wrapped herself in a large shawl, took her brother's arm, and walked down the frosty path with him and Mrs. Arnott, as if going merely to the daily service.

The time had not been made known, and there was hardly an addition to the ordinary congregation, except the May family and Dr. Spencer; but the Christmas evergreens still adorned aisle and chancel, and over the altar stood the motto that Meta herself had woven of holly, on that Christmas Eve of grief and anxiety, without knowing how it would speak to her.

Fear not, for behold I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy, that shall be unto you and to all people.

Fear not, for length of voyage, for distance from kindred, for hardship, privation, misunderstanding, disappointment. The glad tidings are to all people, even to the utmost parts of the earth. Ye have your portion in the great joy—ye have freely cast in your lot with those, whose feet are beautiful on the mountains, who bear the good tidings. Fear not, for He is with you, who will never forsake.

Thus Dr. May read the words with swelling heart, as he looked at his son's clear, grave, manful look, even as it had been when he made his Confirmation vow—his natural nervous excitability quelled by a spirit not his own, and chastened into strong purpose; and the bride, her young face the more lovely for the depth of enthusiasm restrained by awe and humility, as she stood without trembling or faltering, the strength of innocence expressed in the whole bearing of her slight figure in her white drapery. Around were the four sisterly bride's- maids, their black dresses showing that these were still the twilight days of mourning, and that none would forget her, whose prayers might still bless their labour of love.

When Margaret Agatha May, on her husband's arm, turned for a last look at the altar of her own church, "Fear not," in evergreen letters, was the greeting she bore away.

Ethel was left at the Grange for the ensuing fortnight—a time of unusual leisure both to her and to Flora, which they both prized highly, for it taught them to know each other as they had never done before. Flora's confidence to her aunt had been a good thing for her, though so partial; it opened the way for further unreserve to one who knew the circumstances better, and, as to dread of Ethel, that could seldom prevail in her presence, partly from long habit, partly from her deficiency of manner, and still more from her true humility and affection. Gradually she arrived at the perception of the history of her sister's mind; understood what gloom had once overshadowed it; and how, since light had once shone upon her, she shrank not merely from the tasks that had become wearisome to her, but from the dread of losing among them her present peace.

"They are your duty," argued Ethel. "Duty brings peace."

"They were not," said Flora.

"They are now," said Ethel.

"Dinners and parties, empty talk and vain show," said Flora languidly. "Are you come to their defence, Ethel? If you could guess how sick one gets of them, and how much worse it is for them not to be hateful! And to think of bringing my poor little girl up to the like, if she is spared!"

"If they are not duties, I would not do them," said Ethel.

"Ethel," cried her sister, raising herself from her couch eagerly, "I will say it to you! What should you think of George resigning his seat, and living in peace here?"

"Would he?" said Ethel.

"If I wished it."

"But what would he do with himself?" said Ethel, not in too complimentary a strain.

"Yachting, farming, Cochin-Chinese—or something," said Flora. "Anything not so wearing as this!"

"That abominable candidate of Tomkins's would come in!" exclaimed Ethel. "Oh, Flora, that would be horrid!"

"That might be guarded against," said Flora. "Perhaps Sir Henry— But oh! let us leave politics in peace while we can. I thought we should do some great good, but it is all a maze of confusion. It is so hard to know principles from parties, and everything goes wrong! It is of no use to contend with it!"

"It is never vain to contend with evil," said Ethel.

"We are not generalising," said Flora. "There is evil nearer home than the state of parties, and I can't see that George's being in Parliament—being what he is—is anything like the benefit to things in general—that it is temptation and plague to me, besides the risk of London life for the baby, now and hereafter."

"I can't say that I think it is," said Ethel. "How nice it would be to have you here! I am so glad you are willing to give it up."

"It would have been better to have given it up untasted—like Norman," sighed Flora. "I will talk to George."

"But, Flora," said Ethel, a little startled, "you ought not to do such a thing without advice."

"There will be worry enough before it is done!" sighed Flora. "No fear of that!"

"Stop a minute," said Ethel, as if poor Flora could have done anything but lie still on her sofa. "I think you ought to consider well before you set it going."

"Have not I longed for it day and night? It is an escape from peril for ourselves and our child."

"I can't be sure!" said Ethel. "It may be more wrong to make George desert the post which—"

"Which I thrust him into," said Flora. "My father told me as much."

"I did not mean you to say that! But it is a puzzle. It seems as if it were right to give up such things; yet, when I recollect the difficulty of carrying an election right at Stoneborough, I think papa would be very sorry. I don't think his interest would bring in any sound man but his son-in-law; and George himself seems to like his parliamentary life better than anything else."

"Yes," said Flora hesitatingly; for she knew it was true—he liked to think himself important, and it gave him something to think of, and regular occupation—not too active or onerous; but she could not tell Ethel what she herself felt; that all she could do for him could not prevent him from being held cheap by the men among whom she had placed him.

"Then," said Ethel, as she heard her affirmative, "I don't think it is for his dignity, for you to put him into Parliament to please you and then take him out to please you."

"I'll take care of his dignity," said Flora shortly.

"I know you would do it well—"

"I am sick of doing things well!" said poor Flora. "You little know how I dread reading up all I must read presently! I shall lose all I have scarcely gained. I cannot find peace any way, but by throwing down the load I gave my peace for."

"Whether this is truth or fancy," said Ethel thoughtfully. "If you would ask some one competent."

"Don't you know there are some things one cannot ask?" said Flora. "I don't know why I spoke to you! Ah! come in! Why, George, that is a finer egg than ever," as he entered with a Shanghai egg in each hand, for her to mark with the date when it had been laid. Poultry was a new hobby, and Ethel had been hearing, in her tete-a-tete dinners with George, a great deal about the perfections of the hideous monsters that had obtained fabulous prices. They had been the best resource for conversation; but she watched, with something between vexation and softness, how Flora roused herself to give her full attention and interest to his prosing about his pets, really pleased as it seemed; and, at last, encouraging him actually to fetch his favourite cock to show her; when she went through the points of perfection of the ungainly mass of feathers, and did not at all allow Ethel to laugh at the unearthly sounds of disapproval which handling elicited.

"And this is our senator!" thought Ethel. "I wonder whether Honorius's hen was a Shanghai! Poor Flora is right—it is poor work to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear! but, putting him into the place is one thing, taking him out another. I wish she would take advice; but I never knew her do that, except as a civil way of communicating her intentions. However, she is not quite what she was! Poor dear! Aunt Flora will never believe what a beautiful creature she used to be! It seems wrong to think of her going back to that horrid London; but I can't judge. For my part, I'd rather do work, than no work for George, and he is a good, kind-hearted fellow after all! I won't be a crab!"

So Ethel did her best, and said the cock had a bright eye—all she could say for him—and George instructed her to admire the awkward legs, and invited her to a poultry show, at Whitford, in two days' time—and they sent him away to continue his consultations with the poultry woman, which pullets should be preferred as candidates for a prize.

"Meta set him upon this," said Flora. "I hope you will go, Ethel. You see he can be very happy here."

"Still," said Ethel, "the more I think, the more sure I am that you ought to ask advice."

"I have asked yours," said Flora, as if it were a great effort. "You don't know what to say—I shall do what I see to be the only way to rest."

"I do know what to say," said Ethel; "and that is, do as the Prayer- book tells you, in any perplexity."

"I am not perplexed," said Flora.

"Don't say so. This is either the station to which God has called you, or it is not."

"He never called me to it."

"But you don't know whether you ought to leave it. If you ought not, you would be ten times more miserable. Go to Richard, Flora—he belongs to you as much as I—he has authority besides."

"Richard!"

"He is the clearest of us all in practical matters," said Ethel, preventing what she feared would be disparaging. "I don't mean only that you should ask him about this Parliament matter alone; but I am sure you would be happier and more settled if you talked things over with him before—before you go to church."

"You don't know what you propose."

"I do," said Ethel, growing bolder. "You have been going all this time by feeling. You have never cleared up, and got to the bottom of, your troubles."

"I could not talk to any one."

"Not to any one but a clergyman. Now, to enter on such a thing is most averse to your nature; and I do believe that, for that very reason, it would be what would do you most good. You say you have recovered sense of—Oh, Flora! I can't talk of what you have gone through; but if you have only a vague feeling that seems as if lying still would be the only way to keep it, I don't think it can be altogether sound, or the 'quiet conscience' that is meant."

"Oh, Ethel! Ethel! I have never told you what I have undergone, since I knew my former quietness of conscience was but sleep! I have gone on in agony, with the sense of hypocrisy and despair, because I was afraid, for George's sake, to do otherwise."

Elhel felt herself utterly powerless to advise; and, after a kind sound of sympathy, sat shocked, pondering on what none could answer; whether this were, indeed, what poor Flora imagined, or whether it had been a holding-fast to the thread through the darkness. The proud reserve was the true evil, and Ethel prayed and trusted it might give way.

She went very amiably to Whitford with George, and gained great credit with him, for admiring the prettiest speckled Hamburgh present; indeed, George was becoming very fond of "poor Ethel," as he still called her, and sometimes predicted that she would turn out a fine figure of a woman after all.

Ethel heard, on her return, that Richard had been there; and three days after, when Flora was making arrangements for going to church, a moment of confidence came over her, and she said, "I did it, Ethel! I have spoken to Richard."

"I am so glad!"

"You were right. He is as clear as he is kind," said Flora; "he showed me that, for George's sake, I must bear with my present life, and do the best I can with it, unless some leading comes for an escape; and that the glare, and weariness, and being spoken well of, must be taken as punishment for having sought after these things."

"I was afraid he would say so," said Ethel. "But you will find happiness again, Flora dear."

"Scarcely—before I come to Margaret and to my child," sighed Flora. "I suppose it was Mercy that would not let me follow when I wished it. I must work till the time of rest comes!"

"And your own little Margaret will cheer you!" said Ethel, more hopefully, as she saw Flora bend over her baby with a face that might one day be bright.

She trusted that patient continuance in well-doing would one day win peace and joy, even in the dreary world that poor Flora had chosen.

For her own part, Ethel found Flora's practical good sense and sympathy very useful, in her present need of the counsel she had always had from Margaret.

The visit to Flora lasted a fortnight, and Ethel was much benefited by the leisure for reading and the repose after the long nursing; though, before the end, her refreshed energies began to pine for Daisy and her hymns, for Aubrey and his Virgil, for Cherry and her scholars, and, above all, for her father; for, come as often as he would, it was not papa at home.

On the other hand, Mary was at a loss for Ethel every hour; Richard was putting off his affairs till Ethel should come home; Miss Bracy and Blanche longed for her to relieve the schoolroom from the children; Aubrey could not perform a lesson in comfort with any one else—never ended a sum without groaning for Ethel, and sometimes rode to Abbotstoke for the mere purpose of appealing to her; in short, no one could get on without her, and the doctor least of all.

Dr. Spencer, and Mr. Wilmot, and all his sons and daughters, had done their best for him; but, in spite of his satisfaction at seeing the two sisters so happy together, he could not help missing Ethel every minute, as the very light of his home; and when, at last, Flora brought her back, she was received with uproarious joy by Aubrey and Daisy, while the rest of the household felt a revival and refreshment of spirits—the first drawing aside of the cloud that had hung over the winter. The pearl of their home might be missed every hour, but they could thankfully rest in the trust that she was a jewel stored up in safety and peace, to shine as a star for evermore.

A few weeks more, and there were other partings, sad indeed, yet cheery. Dr. May told Mrs. Arnott that, though he grieved that so much of sorrow had come to dim her visit, he could not but own that it was the very time when her coming could be most comforting; and this, as she truly said, was satisfaction enough for her, besides that she could not rejoice enough that her arrival had been in time to see their dear Margaret. She should carry away most precious recollections; and she further told Dr. Spencer that she was far more comfortable about her brother-in-law, than if she had only known him in his youthful character, which had seemed so little calculated to bear sorrow or care. She looked at him now only to wonder at, and reverence the change that had been gradually wrought by the affections placed above.

Norman and his wife went with her—the one grave but hopeful, the other trying to wile away the pain of parting, by her tearful mirth— making all sorts of odd promises and touching requests, between jest and earnest, and clinging to the last to her dear father-in-law, as if the separation from him were the hardest of all.

"Well, humming-birds must be let fly!" said he at last. "Ah! ha! Meta, are they of no use?"

"Stay till you hear!" said Meta archly—then turning back once more. "Oh! how I have thanked you, Ethel, for those first hints you gave me how to make my life real. If I had only sat still and wished, instead of trying what could be done as I was, how unhappy I should have been!"

"Come, take your sprite away, Norman, if you don't want me to keep her for good! God bless you, my dear children! Good-bye! Who knows but when Doctor Tom sets up in my place, Ethel and I may come out and pay you a visit?"

It had all been over for some weeks, and the home-party had settled down again into what was likely to be their usual course, excepting in the holidays, to which the doctor looked forward with redoubled interest, as Tom was fast becoming a very agreeable and sensible companion; for his moodiness had been charmed away by Meta, and principle was teaching him true command of temper. He seemed to take his father as a special charge, bequeathed to him by Norman, and had already acquired that value and importance at home which comes of the laying aside of all self-importance.

It was a clear evening in March, full of promise of spring, and Ethel was standing in the church porch at Cocksmoor, after making some visits in the parish, waiting for Richard, while the bell was ringing for the Wednesday evening service, and the pearly tints of a cloudless sunset were fading into the western sky.

Ethel began to wonder where Norman might be looking at the sun dipping into the western sea, and thence arose before her the visions of her girlhood, when she had first dreamt of a church on Cocksmoor, and of Richard ministering before a willing congregation. So strange did the accomplishment seem, that she even touched the stone to assure herself of the reality; and therewith came intense thanksgiving that the work had been taken out of her hands, to be the more fully blessed and accomplished—that is, as far as the building went; as to the people, there was far more labour in store, and the same Hand must be looked to for the increase.

For herself, Ethel looked back and looked on. Norman Ogilvie's marriage seemed to her to have fixed her lot in life, and what was that lot? Home and Cocksmoor had been her choice, and they were before her. Home! but her eyes had been opened to see that earthly homes may not endure, nor fill the heart. Her dear father might, indeed, claim her full-hearted devotion, but, to him, she was only one of many. Norman was no longer solely hers; and she had begun to understand that the unmarried woman must not seek undivided return of affection, and must not set her love, with exclusive eagerness, on aught below, but must be ready to cease in turn to be first with any. Ethel was truly a mother to the younger ones; but she faced the probability that they would find others to whom she would have the second place. To love each heartily, to do her utmost for each in turn, and to be grateful for their fondness, was her call; but never to count on their affection as her sole right and inalienable possession. She felt that this was the probable course, and that she might look to becoming comparatively solitary in the course of years —then tried to realise what her lonely life might be, but broke off smiling at herself, "What is that to me? What will it be when it is over? My course and aim are straight on, and He will direct my paths. I don't know that I shall be alone, and I shall have the memory—the communion with them, if not their presence. Some one there must be to be loved and helped, and the poor for certain. Only I must have my treasure above, and when I think what is there, and of—Oh! that bliss of being perfectly able to praise—with no bad old self to mar the full joy of giving thanks, and blessing, and honour, and power! Need I dread a few short years?—and they have not begun yet—perhaps they won't—Oh! here is actually papa coming home this way! how delightful! Papa, are you coming to church here?"

"Ay, Ethel. That weathercock of Spencer's is a magnet, I believe! It draws me from all parts of the country to hear Richard in St. Andrew's Church."

THE END