Tea went off happily in the garden, with much laughing and talking. "Pity to leave such good company!" said the doctor, unwillingly rising at last—"but I must go to the Union—I promised Ward to meet him there."

"Oh, let me walk with you!" cried Harry.

"And me!" cried other voices, and the doctor proposed that they should wait for him in the meads, and extend the walk after the visit. Richard and Ethel both expressing their intention of adhering to Margaret—the latter observing how nice it would be to get rid of everybody, and have a talk.

"What have we been doing all this time?" said Dr. May, laughing.

"Chattering, not conversing," said Ethel saucily.

"Ay! the Cocksmoor board is going to sit," said Dr. May.

"What is a board?" inquired Blanche, who had just come down prepared for her walk.

"Richard, Margaret, and Ethel, when they sit upon Cocksmoor," said Dr. May.

"But Margaret never does sit on Cocksmoor, papa."

"Only allegorically, Blanche," said Norman.

"But I don't understand what is a board?" pursued Blanche.

"Mr. May in his ship," was Norman's suggestion.

Poor Blanche stood in perplexity. "What is it really?"

"Something wooden headed," continued the provoking papa.

"A board is all wooden, not only its head," said Blanche.

"Exactly so, especially at Stoneborough!" said the doctor.

"It is what papa is when he comes out of the council-room," added Ethel.

"Or what every one is while the girls are rigging themselves," sighed Harry. "Ha! here's Polly—now we only want Flora."

"And my stethoscope! Has any one seen my stethoscope!" exclaimed the doctor, beginning to rush frantically into the study, dining-room, and his own room; but failing, quietly took up a book, and gave up the search, which was vigorously pursued by Richard, Flora, and Mary, until the missing article was detected, where Aubrey had left it in the nook on the stairs, after using it for a trumpet and a telescope.

"Ah! now my goods will have a chance!" said Dr. May, as he took it, and patted Richard's shoulder. "I have my best right hand, and Margaret will be saved endless sufferings."

"Papa!"

"Ay! poor dear! don't I see what she undergoes, when nobody will remember that useful proverb, 'A place for everything, and everything in its place.' I believe one use of her brains is to make an inventory of all the things left about the drawing-room; but, beyond it, it is past her power."

"Yes," said Flora, rather aggrieved; "I do the best I can, but, when nobody ever puts anything into its place, what can I do, single- handed? So no one ever goes anywhere without first turning the house upside down for their property; and Aubrey, and now even baby, are always carrying whatever they can lay hands on into the nursery. I can't bear it; and the worst of it is that," she added, finishing her lamentation, after the others were out at the door, "papa and Ethel have neither of them the least shame about it."

"No, no, Flora, that is not fair!" exclaimed Margaret—but Flora was gone.

"I have shame," sighed Ethel, walking across the room disconsolately, to put a book into a shelf.

"And you don't leave trainants as you used," said Margaret. "That is what I meant."

"I wish I did not," said Ethel; "I was thinking whether I had better not make myself pay a forfeit. Suppose you keep a book for me, Margaret, and make a mark against me at everything I leave about, and if I pay a farthing for each, it will be so much away from Cocksmoor, so I must cure myself!"

"And what shall become of the forfeits?" asked Richard.

"Oh, they won't be enough to be worth having, I hope," said Margaret.

"Give them to the Ladies' Committee," said Ethel, making a face. "Oh, Ritchie! they are worse than ever. We are so glad that Flora is going to join it, and see whether she can do any good."

"We?" said Margaret, hesitating.

"Ah! I know you aren't, but papa said she might—and you know she has so much tact and management—"

"As Norman says," observed Margaret doubtfully. "I cannot like the notion of Flora going and squabbling with Mrs. Ledwich and Louisa Anderson!"

"What do you think, Ritchie?" asked Ethel. "Is it not too bad that they should have it all their own way, and spoil the whole female population? Why, the last thing they did was to leave off reading the Prayer-book prayers morning and evening! And it is much expected that next they will attack all learning by heart."

"It is too bad," said Richard, "but Flora can hardly hinder them."

"It will be one voice," said Ethel; "but oh! if I could only say half what I have in my mind, they must see the error. Why, these, these— what they call formal—these the ties—links on to the Church—on to what is good—if they don't learn them soundly—rammed down hard—you know what I mean—so that they can't remember the first—remember when they did not know them—they will never get to learn—know— understand when they can understand!"

"My dear Ethel, don't frown so horribly, or it will spoil your eloquence," said Margaret.

"I don't understand either," said Richard gravely. "Not understand when they can understand? What do you mean?"

"Why, Ritchie, don't you see? If they don't learn them—hard, firm, by rote when they can't—they won't understand when they can."

"If they don't learn when they can't, they won't understand when they can?" puzzled Richard, making Margaret laugh; but Ethel was too much in earnest for amusement.

"If they don't learn them by rote when they have strong memories. Yes, that's it!" she continued; "they will not know them well enough to understand them when they are old enough!"

"Who won't learn and understand what?" said Richard.

"Oh, Ritchie, Ritchie! Why the children—the Psalms—the Gospels— the things. They ought to know them, love them, grow up to them, before they know the meaning, or they won't care. Memory, association, affection, all those come when one is younger than comprehension!"

"Younger than one's own comprehension?"

"Richard, you are grown more tiresome than ever. Are you laughing at me?"

"Indeed, I beg your pardon—I did not mean it," said Richard. "I am very sorry to be so stupid."

"My dear Ritchie, it was only my blundering-never mind."

"But what did you mean? I want to know, indeed, Ethel."

"I mean that memory and association come before comprehension, so that one ought to know all good things—fa—with familiarity before one can understand, because understanding does not make one love. Oh! one does that before, and, when the first little gleam, little bit of a sparklet of the meaning does come, then it is so valuable and so delightful."

"I never heard of a little bit of a sparklet before," said Richard, "but I think I do see what Ethel means; and it is like what I heard and liked in a university sermon some Sundays ago, saying that these lessons and holy words were to be impressed on us here from infancy on earth, that we might be always unravelling their meaning, and learn it fully at last—where we hope to be."

"The very same thought!" exclaimed Margaret, delighted; "but," after a pause, "I am afraid the Ladies' Committee might not enter into it in plain English, far less in Ethel's language."

"Now, Margaret! You know I never meant myself. I never can get the right words for what I mean."

"And you leave about your faux commencements, as M. Ballompre would call them, for us to stumble over," said Margaret.

"But Flora would manage!" said Ethel. "She has power over people, and can influence them. Oh, Ritchie, don't persuade papa out of letting her go."

"Does Mr. Wilmot wish it?" asked Richard.

"I have not heard him say, but he was very much vexed about the prayers," said Ethel.

"Will he stay here for the holidays?"

"No, his father has not been well, and he is gone to take his duty. He walked with us to Cocksmoor before he went, and we did so wish for you."

"How have you been getting on?"

"Pretty well, on the whole," said Ethel, "but, oh, dear! oh, dear, Richard, the M'Carthys are gone!"

"Gone, where?"

"Oh, to Wales. I knew nothing of it till they were off. Una and Fergus were missing, and Jane Taylor told me they were all gone. Oh, it is so horrid! Una had really come to be so good and so much in earnest. She behaved so well at school and church, that even Mrs. Ledwich liked her, and she used to read her Testament half the day, and bring her Sunday-school lessons to ask me about! Oh! I was so fond of her, and it really seemed to have done some good with her. And now it is all lost! Oh, I wish I knew what would become of my poor child!"

"The only hope is that it may not be all lost," said Margaret.

"With such a woman for a mother!" said Ethel; "and going to some heathenish place again! If I could only have seen her first, and begged her to go to church and say her prayers. If I only knew where she is gone! but I don't. I did think Una would have come to wish me good-bye!"

"I am very sorry to lose her," said Richard.

"Mr. Wilmot says it is bread cast on the waters," said Margaret—"he was very kind in consoling Ethel, who came home quite in despair."

"Yes, he said it was one of the trials," said Ethel, "and that it might be better for Una as well as for me. And I am trying to care for the rest still, but I cannot yet as I did for her. There are none of the eyes that look as if they were eating up one's words before they come, and that smile of comprehension! Oh, they all are such stupid little dolts, and so indifferent!"

"Why, Ethel!"

"Fancy last Friday—Mary and I found only eight there—"

"Do you remember what a broiling day Friday was?" interrupted Margaret. "Miss Winter and Norman both told me I ought not to let them go, and I began to think so when they came home. Mary was the colour of a peony!"

"Oh! it would not have signified if the children had been good for anything, but all their mothers were out at work, and, of those that did come, hardly one had learned their lessons—Willy Blake had lost his spelling-card; Anne Harris kicked Susan Pope, and would not say she was sorry; Mary Hale would not know M from N, do all our Mary would; and Jane Taylor, after all the pains I have taken with her, when I asked how the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, seemed never to have heard of them."

Margaret could have said that Ethel had come in positively crying with vexation, but with no diminution of the spirit of perseverance.

"I am so glad you are come, Richard!" she continued. "You will put a little new life into them. They all looked so pleased when we told them Mr. Richard was coming."

"I hope we shall get on," said Richard.

"I want you to judge whether the Popes are civilised enough to be dressed for Sunday-school. Oh, and the money! Here is the account- book—"

"How neatly you have kept it, Ethel."

"Ah! it was for you, you know. Receipts—see, aren't you surprised?"

"Four pounds eighteen and eightpence! That is a great deal!"

"The three guineas were Mr. Rivers's fees, you know; then, Margaret gave us half-a-sovereign, and Mary a shilling, and there was one that we picked up, tumbling about the house, and papa said we might have, and the twopence were little Blanche's savings. Oh, Ritchie!" as a bright coin appeared on the book.

"That is all I could save this term," he said.

"Oh, it is famous! Now, I do think I may put another whole sovereign away into the purse for the church. See, here is what we have paid. Shoes—those did bring our money very low, and then I bought a piece of print which cost sixteen shillings, but it will make plenty of frocks. So, you see, the balance is actually two pounds nine! That is something. The nine shillings will go on till we get another fee; for I have two frocks ready made for the Popes, so the two pounds are a real nest-egg towards the church."

"The church!" repeated Rlchard, half smiling.

"I looked in the paper the other day, and saw that a chapel had been built for nine hundred pounds," said Ethel.

"And you have two!"

"Two in eight months, Ritchie, and more will come as we get older. I have a scheme in my head, but I won't tell you now."

"Nine hundred! And a church has to be endowed as well as built, you know, Ethel."

"Oh! never mind that now. If we can begin and build, some good person will come and help. I'll run and fetch it, Ritchie. I drew out a sketch of what I want it to be."

"What a girl that is!" said Richard, as Ethel dashed away.

"Is not she?" said Margaret. "And she means all so heartily. Do you know she has spent nothing on her own pleasures, not a book, not a thing has she bought this year, except a present for Blanche's birthday, and some silk to net a purse for Harry."

"I cannot help being sometimes persuaded that she will succeed," said Richard.

"Faith, energy, self-denial, perseverance, they go a great way," said Margaret. "And yet when we look at poor dear Ethel, and her queer ungainly ways, and think of her building a church!"

Neither Richard nor Margaret could help laughing, but they checked it at once, and the former said, "That brave spirit is a reproof to us all."

"Yes," said Margaret; "and so is the resolution to mend her little faults."

Ethel came back, having, of course, mislaid her sketch, and, much vexed, wished to know if it ought to cause her first forfeit, but Margaret thought these should not begin till the date of the agreement, and the three resumed the Cocksmoor discussion.

It lasted till the return of the walking party, so late, that they had been star-gazing, and came in, in full dispute as to which was Cygnus and which Aquila, while Blanche was talking very grandly of Taurus Poniatouski, and Harry begging to be told which constellations he should still see in the southern hemisphere. Dr. May was the first to rectify the globe for the southern latitudes, and fingers were affectionately laid on Orion's studded belt, as though he were a friend who would accompany the sailor-boy. Voices grew loud and eager in enumerating the stars common to both; and so came bedtime, and the globe stood on the table in danger of being forgotten. Ethel diligently lifted it up; and while Norman exclaimed at her tidiness, Margaret told how a new leaf was to be turned, and of her voluntary forfeits.

"A very good plan," cried the doctor. "We can't do better than follow her example."

"What you, papa? Oh, what fun!" exclaimed Harry.

"So you think I shall be ruined, Mr. Monkey. How do you know I shall not be the most orderly of all? A penny for everything left about, confiscated for the benefit of Cocksmoor, eh?"

"And twopence for pocket-handkerchiefs, if you please," said Norman, with a gesture of disgust.

"Very well. From Blanche, upwards. Margaret shall have a book, and set down marks against us—hold an audit every Saturday night. What say you, Blanche?"

"Oh, I hope Flora will leave something about!" cried Blanche, dancing with glee.



CHAPTER XXV.



Oh, no, we never mention her, We never breathe her name.—SONG.

A great deal of merriment had come home with Harry, who never was grave for ten minutes without a strong reaction, and distracted the house with his noise and his antics, in proportion, as it sometimes seemed, to the spaces of serious thought and reading spent in the study, where Dr. May did his best to supply Mr. Ramsden's insufficient attention to his Confirmation candidates, by giving an hour every day to Norman, Ethel, and Harry. He could not lecture, but he read with them, and his own earnestness was very impressive.

The two eldest felt deeply, but Harry often kept it in doubt, whether he were not as yet too young and wild for permanent impressions, so rapid were his transitions, and so overpowering his high spirits. Not that these were objected to; but there was a feeling that there might as well be moderation in all things, and that it would have been satisfactory if, under present circumstances, he had been somewhat more subdued and diligent.

"There are your decimals not done yet, Harry."

For Harry, being somewhat deficient in arithmetic, had been recommended to work in that line during his visit at home—an operation usually deferred, as at present, to the evening.

"I am going to do my sums now, Flora," said Harry, somewhat annoyed.

He really fetched his arithmetic, and his voice was soon heard asking how he was ever to put an end to a sum that would turn to nothing but everlasting threes.

"What have you been doing, young ladies?" asked Dr. May. "Did you call on Miss Walkingham?"

"Flora and Blanche did," said Ethel; "I thought you did not want me to go, and I had not time. Besides, a London grand young lady—oh!" and Ethel shook her head in disgust.

"That is not the way you treat Meta Rivers."

"Oh, Meta is different! She has never been out!"

"I should have been glad for you to have seen Miss Walkingham," said her father. Pretty manners are improving; besides, old Lady Walkingham begged me to send my daughters."

"I should not have seen her," said Ethel, "for she was not well enough to let us in."

"Was it not pushing?" said Flora. "There were the Andersons leaving their card!"

"Those Andersons!" exclaimed the doctor; "I am sick of the very sound of the name. As sure as my name is Dick May, I'll include it in Margaret's book of fines."

Flora looked dignified.

"They are always harping on that little trumpery girl's nonsense," said Harry. "Aught, aught, eight, that is eight thousandths, eh, Norman! If it was about those two fellows, the boys—"

"You would harp only on what affects you?" said the doctor.

"No, I don't; men never do. That is one hundred and twenty-fifth."

"One man does it to an hundred and twenty-five women?" said Dr. May.

"It is rather a female defect, indeed," said Margaret.

"Defect!" said Flora.

"Yes," said Dr. May, "since it is not only irksome to the hearers, but leads to the breaking of the ninth commandment."

Many voices declared, in forms of varying severity, that it was impossible to speak worse of the Andersons than they deserved.

"Andersons again!" cried Dr. May. "One, two, three, four, five, six forfeits!"

"Papa himself, for he said the name," saucily put in Blanche.

"I think I should like the rule to be made in earnest," said Ethel.

"What! in order to catch Flora's pence for Cocksmoor?" suggested Harry.

"No, but because it is malice. I mean, that is, if there is dislike, or a grudge in our hearts at them—talking for ever of nasty little miserable irritations makes it worse."

"Then why do you do it?" asked Flora. "I heard you only on Sunday declaiming about Fanny Anderson."

"Ha!" cried out all at once. "There goes Flora."

She looked intensely serious and innocent.

"I know," said Ethel. "It is the very reason I want the rule to be made, just to stop us, for I am sure we must often say more than is right."

"Especially when we come to the pass of declaring that the ninth commandment cannot be broken in regard to them," observed the doctor.

"Most likely they are saying much the same of us," said Richard.

"Or worse," rejoined Dr. May. "The injured never hates as much as the injurer."

"Now papa has said the severest thing of all!" whispered Ethel.

"Proving the inexpedience of personalities," said Dr. May, "and in good time enter the evening post.—Why! how now, Mr. May, are you gone mad?"

"Hallo! why ho! ha! hurrah!" and up went Harry's book of decimals to the ceiling, coming down upon a candle, which would have been overturned on Ethel's work, if it had not been dexterously caught by Richard.

"Harry!" indignantly cried Ethel and Flora, "see what you have done;" and the doctor's voice called to order, but Harry could not heed. "Hear! hear! he has a fortune, an estate."

"Who? Tell us—don't be so absurd. Who?"

"Who, Mr. Ernescliffe. Here is a letter from Hector. Only listen:

"'Did you know we had an old far-away English cousin, one Mr. Halliday? I hardly did, though Alan was named after him, and he belonged to my mother. He was a cross old fellow, and took no notice of us, but within the last year or two, his nephew, or son, or something, died, and now he is just dead, and the lawyer wrote to tell Alan he is heir-at-law. Mr. Ernescliffe of Maplewood! Does it not sound well? It is a beautiful great place in Shropshire, and Alan and I mean to run off to see it as soon as he can have any time on shore.'"

Ethel could not help looking at Margaret, but was ashamed of her impertinence, and coloured violently, whereas her sister did not colour at all, and Norman, looking down, wondered whether Alan would make the voyage.

"Oh, of course he will; he must!" said Harry. "He would never give up now."

Norman further wondered whether Hector would remain on the Stoneborough foundation, and Mary hoped they should not lose him; but there was no great readiness to talk over the event, and there soon was a silence broken by Flora saying, "He is no such nobody, as Louisa Anderson said, when we—"

Another shout, which caused Flora to take refuge in playing waltzes for the rest of the evening. Moreover, to the extreme satisfaction of Mary, she left her crochet-needle on the floor at night. While a tumultuous party were pursuing her with it to claim the penny, and Richard was conveying Margaret upstairs, Ethel found an opportunity of asking her father if he were not very glad of Mr. Ernescliffe's good fortune.

"Yes, very. He is a good fellow, and will make a good use of it."

"And now, papa, does it not make—You won't say now you are sorry he came here."

She had no answer but a sigh, and a look that made her blush for having ventured so far. She was so much persuaded that great events must ensue, that, all the next day, she listened to every ring of the bell, and when one at last was followed by a light, though, to her ears, manly sounding tread, she looked up flushing with expectation.

Behold, she was disappointed. "Miss Walkingham" was announced, and she rose surprised, for the lady in question had only come to Stoneborough for a couple of days with an infirm mother, who, having known Dr. May in old times, had made it her especial request that he would let her see his daughters. She was to proceed on her journey to-day, and the return of the visit had been by no means expected.

Flora went forward to receive her, wondering to see her so young looking, and so unformed. She held out her hand, with a red wrist, and, as far as could be seen under her veil, coloured when presented to the recumbent Margaret. How she got into her chair, they hardly knew, for Flora was at that moment extremely annoyed by hearing an ill-bred peal of Mary's laughter in the garden, close to the window; but she thought it best to appear unconscious, since she had no power to stop it.

Margaret thought the stranger embarrassed, and kindly inquired for Lady Walkingham.

"Much the same, thank you," mumbled a voice down in the throat.

A silence, until Margaret tried another question, equally briefly answered; and, after a short interval, the young lady contrived to make her exit, with the same amount of gaucherie as had marked her entrance.

Expressions of surprise at once began, and were so loud, that when Harry entered the room, his inquiry was, "What's the row?"

"Miss Walkingham," said Ethel, "but you won't understand. She seemed half wild! Worse than me!"

"How did you like the pretty improving manners?" asked Harry.

"Manners! she had none," said Flora. "She, highly connected! used to the best society!"

"How do you know what the best society do?" asked Harry.

"The poor thing seemed very shy," said Margaret.

"I don't know about shyness," said Flora.

"She was stifling a laugh all the time, like a rude schoolboy. And I thought papa said she was pretty!"

"Ay? Did you think her so?" asked Harry.

"A great broad red face—and so awkward!" cried Flora indignantly.

"If one could have seen her face, I think she might have been nice- looking," said Margaret. "She had pretty golden curls, and merry blue eyes, rather like Harry's."

"Umph!" said Flora; "beauty and manners seemed to me much on a par. This is one of papa's swans, indeed!"

"I can't believe it was Miss Walkingham at all," said Ethel. "It must have been some boy in disguise."

"Dear me!" cried Margaret, starting with the painful timidity of helplessness.

"Do look whether anything is gone. Where's the silver inkstand?"

"You don't think she could put that into her pocket," said Ethel, laughing as she held it up.

"I don't know. Do, Harry, see if the umbrellas are safe in the hall. I wish you would, for now I come to remember, the Walkinghams went at nine this morning. Miss Winter said that she saw the old lady helped into the carriage, as she passed." Margaret's eyes looked quite large and terrified. "She must have been a spy—the whole gang will come at night. I wish Richard was here. Harry, it really is no laughing matter. You had better give notice to the police."

The more Margaret was alarmed, the more Harry laughed. "Never mind, Margaret, I'll take care of you! Here's my dirk. I'll stick all the robbers."

"Harry! Harry! Oh, don't!" cried Margaret, raising herself up in an agony of nervous terror. "Oh, where is papa? Will nobody ring the bell, and send George for the police?"

"Police, police! Thieves! Murder! Robbers! Fire! All hands ahoy!" shouted Harry, his hands making a trumpet over his mouth.

"Harry, how can you?" said Ethel, hastily; "don't you see that Margaret is terribly frightened. Can't you say at once that it was you?"

"You!" and Margaret sank back, as there was a general outcry of laughter and wonder.

"Did you know it, Ethel?" asked Flora severely.

"I only guessed at this moment," said Ethel. "How well you did it, Harry!"

"Well!" said Flora, "I did think her dress very like Margaret's shot silk. I hope you did not do that any harm."

"But how did you manage?" said Ethel. "Where did your bonnet come from?"

"It was a new one of Adams's wife. Mary got it for me. Come in, Polly, they have found it out. Did you not hear her splitting with laughing outside the window? I would not let her come in for fear she should spoil all."

"And I was just going to give her such a scolding for giggling in the garden," said Flora, "and to say we had been as bad as Miss Walkingham. You should not have been so awkward, Harry; you nearly betrayed yourself."

"He had nobody to teach him but Mary," said Ethel.

"Ah! you should have seen me at my ease in Minster Street. No one suspected me there."

"In Minster Street. Oh, Harry, you don't really mean it!"

"I do. That was what I did it for. I was resolved to know what the nameless ones said of the Misses May."

Hasty and eager inquiries broke out from Flora and Ethel.

"Oh, Dr. May was very clever, certainly, very clever. Had I seen the daughters? I said I was going to call there, and they said—"

"What, oh, what, Harry?"

"They said Flora was thought pretty, but—and as to Ethel, now, how do you think you came off, Unready?"

"Tell me. They could not say the same of me, at any rate."

"Quite the reverse! They called Ethel very odd, poor girl."

"I don't mind," said Ethel. "They may say what they please of me; besides that, I believe it is all Harry's own invention."

"Nay, that is a libel on my invention!" exclaimed Harry. "If I had drawn on that, could I not have told you something much droller?"

"And was that really all?" said Flora.

"They said—let me see—that all our noses were too long, and, that as to Flora's being a beauty! when their brothers called her—so droll of them—but Harvey called her a stuck-up duchess. In fact, it was the fashion to make a great deal of those Mays."

"I hope they said something of the sailor brother," said Ethel.

"No; I found if I stayed to hear much more, I should be knocking Ned down, so I thought it time to take leave before he suspected."

All this had passed very quickly, with much laughter, and numerous interjections of amusement, and reprobation, or delight. So excited were the young people, that they did not perceive a step on the gravel, till Dr. May entered by the window, and stood among them. His first exclamation was of consternation. "Margaret, my dear child, what is the matter?"

Only then did her brother and sisters perceive that Margaret was lying back on her cushions, very pale, and panting for breath. She tried to smile and say, "it was nothing," and "she was silly," but the words were faint, from the palpitation of her heart.

"It was Harry's trick," said Flora indignantly, as she flew for the scent-bottle, while her father bent over Margaret. "Harry dressed himself up, and she was frightened."

"Oh, no—no—he did not mean it," gasped Margaret; "don't."

"Harry, I did not think you could be so cowardly and unfeeling!" and Dr. May's look was even more reproachful than his words.

Harry was dismayed at his sister's condition, but the injustice of the wholesale reproach chased away contrition. "I did nothing to frighten any one," he said moodily.

"Now, Harry, you know how you kept on," said Flora, "and when you saw she was frightened—"

"I can have no more of this," said Dr. May, seeing that the discussion was injuring Margaret more and more. "Go away to my study, sir, and wait till I come to you. All of you out of the room. Flora, fetch the sal volatile."

"Let me tell you," whispered Margaret. "Don't be angry with Harry. It was—"

"Not now, not now, my dear. Lie quite still." She obeyed, took the sal volatile, and shut her eyes, while he sat leaning anxiously over, watching her. Presently she opened them, and, looking up, said rather faintly, and trying to smile, "I don't think I can be better till you have heard the rights of it. He did not mean it."

"Boys never do mean it," was the doctor's answer. "I hoped better things of Harry."

"He had no intention—" began Margaret, but she still was unfit to talk, and her father silenced her, by promising to go and hear the boy's own account.

In the hall, he was instantly beset by Ethel and Mary, the former exclaiming, "Papa, you are quite mistaken! It was very foolish of Margaret to be so frightened. He did nothing at all to frighten any one."

Ethel's mode of pleading was unfortunate; the "very foolish of Margaret" were the very words to displease.

"Do not interfere!" said her father sternly. "You only encourage him in his wanton mischief, and no one takes any heed how he torments my poor Margaret."

"Papa," cried Harry, passionately bursting open the study door, "tormenting Margaret was the last thing I would do!"

"That is not the way to speak, Harry. What have you been doing?"

With rapid agitated utterance, Harry made his confession. At another time the doctor would have treated the matter as a joke carried too far, but which, while it called for censure, was very amusing; but now the explanation that the disguise had been assumed to impose on the Andersons, only added to his displeasure.

"You seem to think you have a licence to play off any impertinent freaks you please, without consideration for any one," he said; "but I tell you it is not so. As long as you are under my roof, you shall feel my authority, and you shall spend the rest of the day in your room. I hope quietness there will bring you to a better mind, but I am disappointed in you. A boy who can choose such a time, and such subjects, for insolent, unfeeling, practical jokes, cannot be in a fit state for Confirmation."

"Oh, papa! papa!" cried the two girls, in tones of entreaty—while Harry, with a burning face and hasty step, dashed upstairs without a word.

"You have been as bad!" said Dr. May. "I say nothing to you, Mary, you knew no better; but, to see you, Ethel, first encouraging him in his impertinence, and terrifying Margaret so, that I dare say she may be a week getting over it, and now defending him, and calling her silly, is unbearable. I cannot trust one of you!"

"Only listen, papa!"

"I will have no altercation; I must go back to Margaret, since no one else has the slightest consideration for her."

An hour had passed away, when Richard knocked at Ethel's door to tell her that tea was ready.

"I have a great mind not to go down," said Ethel, as he looked in, and saw her seated with a book.

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot bear to go down while poor Harry is so unjustly used."

"Hush, Ethel!"

"I cannot hush. Just because Margaret fancies robbers and murderers, and all sorts of nonsense, as she always did, is poor Harry to be accused of wantonly terrifying her, and shut up, and cut off from Confirmation? and just when he is going away, too! It is unkind, and unjust, and—"

"Ethel, you will be sorry—"

"Papa will be sorry," continued Ethel, disregarding the caution. "It is very unfair, that I will say so. It was all nonsense of Margaret's, but he will always make everything give way to her. And poor Harry just going to sea! No, Ritchie, I cannot come down; I cannot behave as usual."

"You will grieve Margaret much more," said Richard.

"I can't help that—she should not have made such a fuss."

Richard was somewhat in difficulties how to answer, but at that moment Harry's door, which was next, was slightly opened, and his voice said, "Go down, Ethel. The captain may punish any one he pleases, and it is mutiny in the rest of the crew to take his part."

"Harry is in the right," said Richard. "It is our duty not to question our father's judgments. It would be wrong of you to stay up."

"Wrong?" said Ethel.

"Of course. It would be against the articles of war," said Harry, opening his door another inch. "But, Ritchie, I say, do tell me whether it has hurt Margaret."

"She is better now," said Richard, "but she has a headache, chiefly, I believe, from distress at having brought this on you. She is very sorry for her fright."

"I had not the least intention of frightening the most fearsome little tender mouse on earth," said Harry.

"No, indeed!" said Ethel.

"And at another time it would not have signified," said Richard; "but, you know, Margaret always was timid, and now, the not being able to move, and the being out of health, has made her nerves weak, so that she cannot help it."

"The fault was in our never heeding her when we were so eager to hear Harry's story," said Ethel. "That was what made the palpitation so bad. But, now papa knows all, does he not understand about Harry?"

"He was obliged to go out as soon as Margaret was better," said Richard, "and was scarcely come in when I came up."

"Go down, Ethel," repeated Harry. "Never mind me. Norman told me that sort of joke never answered, and I might have minded him."

The voice was very much troubled, and it brought back that burning sensation of indignant tears to Ethel's eyes.

"Oh, Harry! you did not deserve to be so punished for it."

"That is what you are not to say," returned Harry. "I ought not to have played the trick, and—and just now too—but I always forget things—"

The door shut, and they fancied they heard sobs. Ethel groaned, but made no opposition to following her brother down to tea. Margaret lay, wan and exhausted, on the sofa—the doctor looked very melancholy and rather stern, and the others were silent. Ethel had begun to hope for the warm reaction she had so often known after a hasty fit, but it did not readily come; Harry was boy instead of girl—the fault and its consequence had been more serious—and the anxiety for the future was greater. Besides, he had not fully heard the story; Harry, in his incoherent narration, had not excused himself, and Margaret's panic had appeared more as if inspired by him, than, as it was, in fact, the work of her fancy.

Thus the evening passed gloomily away, and it was not till the others had said good-night that Dr. May began to talk over the affair with his eldest son, who then was able to lay before him the facts of the case, as gathered from his sisters. He listened with a manner as though it were a reproof, and then said sadly, "I am afraid I was in a passion."

"It was very wrong in Harry," said Richard, "and particularly unlucky it should happen with the Andersons."

"Very thoughtless," said the doctor, "no more, even as regarded Margaret; but thoughtlessness should not have been treated as a crime."

"I wish we could see him otherwise," said Richard.

"He wants—" and there Dr. May stopped short, and, taking up his candle, slowly mounted the stairs, and looked into Harry's room. The boy was in bed, but started up on hearing his father's step, and exclaimed, "Papa, I am very sorry! Is Margaret better?"

"Yes, she is; and I understand now, Harry, that her alarm was an accident. I beg your pardon for thinking for a moment that it was otherwise—"

"No," interrupted Harry, "of course I could never mean to frighten her; but I did not leave off the moment I saw she was afraid, because it was so very ridiculous, and I did not guess it would hurt her."

"I see, my honest boy. I do not blame you, for you did not know how much harm a little terror does to a person in her helpless state. But, indeed, Harry, though you did not deserve such anger as mine was, it is a serious thing that you should be so much set on fun and frolic as to forget all considerations, especially at such a time as this. It takes away from much of my comfort in sending you into the world; and for higher things—how can I believe you really impressed and reverent, if the next minute—"

"I'm not fit! I'm not fit!" sobbed Harry, hiding his face.

"Indeed, I hardly know whether it is not so," said the doctor. "You are under the usual age, and, though I know you wish to be a good boy, yet I don't feel sure that these wild spirits do not carry away everything serious, and whether it is right to bring one so thoughtless to—"

"No, no," and Harry cried bitterly, and his father was deeply grieved; but no more could then be said, and they parted for the night—Dr. May saying, as he went away, "You understand, that it is not as punishment for your trick, if I do not take you to Mr. Ramsden for a ticket, but that I cannot be certain whether it is right to bring you to such solemn privileges while you do not seem to me to retain steadily any grave or deep feelings. Perhaps your mother would have better helped you."

And Dr. May went away to mourn over what he viewed as far greater sins than those of his son.

Anger had, indeed, given place to sorrow, and all were grave the next morning, as if each had something to be forgiven.

Margaret, especially, felt guilty of the fears which, perhaps, had not been sufficiently combated in her days of health, and now were beyond control, and had occasioned so much pain. Ethel grieved over the words she had yesterday spoken in haste of her father and sister; Mary knew herself to have been an accomplice in the joke; and Norman blamed himself for not having taken the trouble to perceive that Harry had not been talking rhodomontade, when he had communicated "his capital scheme" the previous morning.

The decision as to the Confirmation was a great grief to all. Flora consoled herself by observing that, as he was so young, no one need know it, nor miss him; and Ethel, with a trembling, almost sobbing voice, enumerated all Harry's excellences, his perfect truth, his kindness, his generosity, his flashes of intense feeling—declared that nobody might be confirmed if he were not, and begged and entreated that Mr. Wilmot might be written to, and consulted. She would almost have done so herself, if Richard had not shown her it would be undutiful.

Harry himself was really subdued. He made no question as to the propriety of the decision, but rather felt his own unworthiness, and was completely humbled and downcast. When a note came from Mrs. Anderson, saying that she was convinced that it could not have been Dr. May's wish that she should be exposed to the indignity of a practical joke, and that a young lady of the highest family should have been insulted, no one had spirits to laugh at the terms; and when Dr. May said, "What is to be done?" Harry turned crimson, and was evidently trying to utter something.

"I see nothing for it but for him to ask their pardon," said Dr. May; and a sound was heard, not very articulate, but expressing full assent.

"That is right," said the doctor. "I'll come with you."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Harry, looking up.

They set off at once. Mrs. Anderson was neither an unpleasing nor unkind person—her chief defect being a blind admiration of her sons and daughters, which gave her, in speaking of them, a tone of pretension that she would never have shown on her own account.

Her displeasure was pacified in a moment by the sight of the confused contrition of the culprit, coupled with his father's frank and kindly tone of avowal, that it had been a foolish improper frolic, and that he had been much displeased with him for it.

"Say no more—pray, say no more, Dr. May. We all know how to overlook a sailor's frolic, and, I am sure, Master Harry's present behaviour; but you'll take a bit of luncheon," and, as something was said of going home to the early dinner, "I am sure you will wait one minute. Master Harry must have a piece of my cake, and allow me to drink to his success."

Poor Mr. May! to be called Master Harry, and treated to sweet cake! But he saw his father thought he ought to endure, and he even said, "Thank you."

The cake stuck in his throat, however, when Mrs. Anderson and her daughters opened their full course of praise on their dear Harvey and dearest Edward, telling all the flattering things Dr. Hoxton had said of the order into which Harvey had brought the school, and insisting on Dr. May's reading the copy of the testimonial that he had carried to Oxford. "I knew you would be kind enough to rejoice," said Mrs. Anderson, "and that you would have no—no feeling about Mr. Norman; for, of course, at his age, a little matter is nothing, and it must be better for the dear boy himself to be a little while under a friend like Harvey, than to have authority while so young."

"I believe it has done him no harm," was all that the doctor could bring himself to say; and thinking that he and his son had endured quite enough, he took his leave as soon as Harry had convulsively bolted the last mouthful.

Not a word was spoken all the way home. Harry's own trouble had overpowered even this subject of resentment. On Sunday, the notice of the Confirmation was read. It was to take place on the following Thursday, and all those who had already given in their names were to come to Mr. Ramsden to apply for their tickets. While this was read, large tear-drops were silently falling on poor Harry's book.

Ethel and Norman walked together in the twilight, in deep lamentation over their brother's deprivation, which seemed especially to humble them; "for," said Norman, "I am sure no one can be more resolved on doing right than July, and he has got through school better than I did."

"Yes," said Ethel; "if we don't get into his sort of scrape, it is only that we are older, not better. I am sure mine are worse, my letting Aubrey be nearly burned—my neglects."

"Papa must be doing right," said Norman, "but for July to be turned back when we are taken, makes me think of man judging only by outward appearance."

"A few outrageous-looking acts of giddiness that are so much grieved over, may not be half so bad as the hundreds of wandering thoughts that one forgets, because no one else can see them!" said Ethel.

Meanwhile, Harry and Mary were sitting twisted together into a sort of bundle, on the same footstool, by Margaret's sofa. Harry had begged of her to hear him say the Catechism once more, and Mary had joined with him in the repetition. There was to be only one more Sunday at home. "And that!" he said, and sighed.

Margaret knew what he meant, for the Feast was to be spread for those newly admitted to share it. She only said a caressing word of affection.

"I wonder when I shall have another chance," said Harry. "If we should get to Australia, or New Zealand—but then, perhaps, there would be no Confirmation going on, and I might be worse by that time."

"Oh, you must not let that be!"

"Why, you see, if I can't be good here, with all this going on, what shall I do among those fellows, away from all?"

"You will have one friend!"

"Mr. Ernescliffe! You are always thinking of him, Margaret; but perhaps he may not go, and if he should, a lieutenant cannot do much for a midshipman. No, I thought, when I was reading with my father, that somehow it might help me to do what it called putting away childish things—don't you know? I might be able to be stronger and steadier, somehow. And then, if—if—you know, if I did tumble overboard, or anything of that sort, there is that about the—what they will go to next Sunday, being necessary to salvation."

Harry laid down his head and cried; Margaret could not speak for tears; and Mary was incoherently protesting against any notion of his falling overboard.

"It is generally necessary, Harry," Margaret said at last—"not in impossible cases."

"Yes if it had been impossible, but it was not; if I had not been a mad goose all this time, but when a bit of fun gets hold of me, I can't think. And if I am too bad for that, I am too bad for—for— and I shall never see mamma again! Margaret, it almost makes me af— afraid to sail."

"Harry, don't, don't talk so!" sobbed Mary. "Oh, do come to papa, and let us beg and pray. Take hold of my hand, and Margaret will beg too, and when he sees how sorry you are, I am sure he will forgive, and let you be confirmed." She would have dragged him after her.

"No, Mary," said Harry, resisting her. "It is not that he does not forgive. You don't understand. It is what is right. And he cannot help it, or make it right for me, if I am such a horrid wretch that I can't keep grave thoughts in my head. I might do it again after that, just the same."

"You have been grave enough of late," said Mary.

"This was enough to make me so," said Harry; "but even at church, since I came home, I have behaved ill! I kicked Tom, to make him look at old Levitt asleep, and then I went on, because he did not like it. I know I am too idle."

On the Tuesday, Dr. May had said he would take Norman and Etheldred to Mr. Ramsden. Ethel was gravely putting on her walking dress, when she heard her father's voice calling Harry, and she started with a joyful hope.

There, indeed, when she came downstairs, stood Harry, his cap in his hand, and his face serious, but with a look on it that had as much subdued joy as awe.

"Dear, dear Harry! you are going with us then?"

"Yes, papa wrote to ask what Mr. Wilmot thought, and he said—"

Harry broke off as his father advanced, and gave her the letter itself to read. Mr. Wilmot answered that he certainly should not refuse such a boy as Harry, on the proof of such entire penitence and deep feeling. Whether to bring him to the further privilege might be another question; but, as far as the Confirmation was concerned, the opinion was decided.

Norman and Ethel were too happy for words, as they went arm in arm along the street, leaving their dear sailor to be leaned on by his father.

Harry's sadness was gone, but he still was guarded and gentle during the few days that followed; he seemed to have learned thought, and in his gratitude for the privileges he had so nearly missed, to rate them more highly than he might otherwise have done. Indeed, the doubt for the Sunday gave him a sense of probation.

The Confirmation day came. Mr. Rivers had asked that his daughter might be with Miss May, and Ethel had therefore to be called for in the Abbotstoke carriage, quite contrary to her wishes, as she had set her heart on the walk to church with her father and brothers. Flora would not come, for fear of crowding Mr. Rivers, who, with Mrs. Larpent, accompanied his darling.

"Oh, Margaret," said Flora, after putting her sister into the carriage, "I wish we had put Ethel into a veil! There is Meta all white from head to foot, with such a veil! and Ethel, in her little white cap, looks as if she might be Lucy Taylor, only not so pretty."

"Mamma thought the best rule was to take the dress that needs least attention from ourselves, and will be least noticed," said Margaret.

"There is Fanny Anderson gone by in the fly with a white veil on!" cried Mary, dashing in.

"Then I am glad Ethel has not one," said Flora. Margaret looked annoyed, but she had not found the means of checking Flora without giving offence; and she could only call Mary and Blanche to order, beg them to think of what the others were doing, and offer to read to them a little tale on Confirmation.

Flora sat and worked, and Margaret, stealing a glance at her, understood that, in her quiet way, she resented the implied reproof. "Making the children think me worldly and frivolous!" she thought; "as if Margaret did not know that I think and feel as much as any reasonable person!"

The party came home in due time, and after one kiss to Margaret, given in silence, dispersed, for they could not yet talk of what had passed.

Only Ethel, as she met Richard on the stairs, said, "Ritchie, do you know what the bishop's text was? 'No man having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.'"

"Yes?" said Richard interrogatively.

"I thought it might be a voice to me," said Ethel; "besides what it says to all, about our Christian course. It seems to tell me not to be out of heart about all those vexations at Cocksmoor. Is it not a sort of putting our hand to the plough?"

Dr. May gave his own history of the Confirmation to Margaret. "It was a beautiful thing to watch," he said, "the faces of our own set. Those four were really like a poem. There was little Meta in her snowy whiteness, looking like innocence itself, hardly knowing of evil, or pain, or struggle, as that soft earnest voice made her vow to be ready for it all, almost as unscathed and unconscious of trial, as when they made it for her at her baptism; pretty little thing—may she long be as happy. And for our own Ethel, she looked as if she was promising on and on, straight into eternity. I heard her 'I do,' dear child, and it was in such a tone as if she meant to be ever doing."

"And for the boys?"

"There was Norman grave and steadfast, as if he knew what he was about, and was manfully and calmly ready—he might have been a young knight, watching his armour."

"And so he is," said Margaret softly. "And poor Harry?"

The doctor could hardly command voice to tell her. "Poor Harry, he was last of all, he turned his back and looked into the corner of the seat, till all the voices had spoken, and then turned about in haste, and the two words came on the end of a sob."

"You will not keep him away on Sunday?" said Margaret.

"Far be it from me. I know not who should come, if he should not."



CHAPTER XXVI.



What matter, whether through delight, Or led through vale of tears, Or seen at once, or hid from sight, The glorious way appears? If step by step the path we see, That leads, my Saviour, up to Thee!

"I could not help it," said Dr. May; "that little witch—"

"Meta Rivers? Oh! what, papa?"

"It seems that Wednesday is her birthday, and nothing will serve her but to eat her dinner in the old Roman camp."

"And are we to go? Oh, which of us?"

"Every one of anything like rational years. Blanche is especially invited."

There were transports till it was recollected that on Thursday morning school would recommence, and that on Friday Harry must join his ship.

However, the Roman camp had long been an object of their desires, and Margaret was glad that the last day should have a brilliancy, so she would not hear of any one remaining to keep her company, talked of the profit she should gain by a leisure day, and took ardent interest in every one's preparations and expectations, in Ethel's researches into county histories and classical dictionaries, Flora's sketching intentions, Norman's promises of campanula glomerata, and a secret whispered into her ear by Mary and Harry.

"Meta's weather," as they said, when the August sun rose fresh and joyous; and great was the unnecessary bustle, and happy confusion from six o'clock till eleven, when Dr. May, who was going to visit patients some way farther on the same road, carried off Harry and Mary, to set them down at the place.

The rest were called for by Mr. Rivers's carriage and brake. Mrs. Charles Wilmot and her little girl were the only additions to the party, and Meta, putting Blanche into the carriage to keep company with her contemporary, went herself in the brake. What a brilliant little fairy she was, in her pink summer robes, fluttering like a butterfly, and with the same apparent felicity in basking in joy, all gaiety, glee, and light-heartedness in making others happy. On they went, through honeysuckled lanes, catching glimpses of sunny fields of corn falling before the reaper, and happy knots of harvest folks dining beneath the shelter of their sheaves, with the sturdy old green umbrella sheltering them from the sun.

Snatches of song, peals of laughter, merry nonsense, passed from one to the other; Norman, roused into blitheness, found wit, the young ladies found laughter, and Richard's eyes and mouth looked very pretty, as they smiled their quiet diversion.

At last, his face drawn all into one silent laugh, he directed the eyes of the rest to a high green mound, rising immediately before them, where stood two little figures, one with a spy-glass, intently gazing the opposite way.

At the same time came the halt, and Norman, bounding out, sprang lightly and nimbly up the side of the mound, and, while the spy-glass was yet pointed full at Wales, had hold of a pair of stout legs, and with the words, "Keep a good lockout!" had tumbled Mr. May headforemost down the grassy slope, with Mary rolling after.

Harry's first outcry was for his precious glass—his second was, not at his fall, but that they should have come from the east, when, by the compass, Stoneborough was north-north-west. And then the boys took to tumbling over one another, while Meta frolicked joyously, with Nipen after her, up and down the mounds, chased by Mary and Blanche, who were wild with glee.

By-and-by she joined Ethel, and Norman was summoned to help them to trace out the old lines of encampment, ditch, rampart, and gates— happy work on those slopes of fresh turf, embroidered with every minute blossom of the moor—thyme, birdsfoot, eyebright, and dwarf purple thistle, buzzed and hummed over by busy, black-tailed, yellow- banded dumbledores, the breezy wind blowing softly in their faces, and the expanse of country—wooded hill, verdant pasture, amber harvest-field, winding river, smoke-canopied town, and brown moor, melting grayly away to the mountain heads.

Now in sun, now in shade, the bright young antiquaries surveyed the old banks, and talked wisely of vallum and fossa, of legion and cohort, of Agricola and Suetonius, and discussed the delightful probability, that this might have been raised in the war with Caractacus, whence, argued Ethel, since Caractacus was certainly Arviragus, it must have been the very spot where Imogen met Posthumus again. Was not yonder the very high-road to Milford Haven, and thus must not "fair Fidele's grassy tomb" be in the immediate neighbourhood?

Then followed the suggestion that the mound in the middle was a good deal like an ancient tomb, where, as Blanche interposed with some of the lore lately caught from Ethel's studies, "they used to bury their tears in wheelbarrows," while Norman observed it was the more probable, as fair Fidele never was buried at all.

The idea of a search enchanted the young ladies. "It was the right sort of vehicle, evidently," said Norman, looking at Harry, who had been particularly earnest in recommending that it should be explored; and Meta declared that if they could but find the least trace, her papa would be delighted to go regularly to work, and reveal all the treasures.

Richard seemed a little afraid of the responsibility of treasure- trove, but he was overruled by a chorus of eager voices, and dispossessed of the trowel, which he had brought to dig up some down- gentians for the garden. While Norman set to work as pioneer, some skipped about in wild ecstasy, and Ethel knelt down to peer into the hole.

Very soon there was a discovery—an eager outcry—some pottery! Roman vessels—a red thing that might have been a lamp, another that might have been a lachrymatory.

"Well," said Ethel, "you know, Norman, I always told you that the children's pots and pans in the clay ditch were very like Roman pottery."

"Posthumus's patty pan!" said Norman, holding it up. "No doubt this was the bottle filled with the old queen's tears when Cloten was killed."

"You see it is very small," added Harry; "she could not squeeze out many."

"Come now, I do believe you are laughing at it!" said Meta, taking the derided vessels into her hands. "Now, they really are genuine, and very curious things, are not they, Flora?"

Flora and Ethel admired and speculated till there was a fresh, and still more exciting discovery—a coin, actually a medal, with the head of an emperor upon it—not a doubt of his high nose being Roman. Meta was certain that she knew one exactly like him among her father's gems. Ethel was resolved that he should be Claudius, and began decyphering the defaced inscription THVRVS. She tried Claudius's whole torrent of names, and, at last, made it into a contraction of Tiberius, which highly satisfied her.

Then Meta, in her turn, read D.V.X., which, as Ethel said, was all she could wish—of course it was dux et imperator, and Harry muttered into Norman's ear, "ducks and geese!" and then heaved a sigh, as he thought of the dux no longer. "V.V.," continued Meta; "what can that mean?"

"Five, five, of course," said Flora.

"No, no! I have it, Venus Victrix" said Ethel, "the ancestral Venus! Ha! don't you see? there she is on the other side, crowning Claudius."

"Then there is an E."

"Something about Aeneas," suggested Norman gravely. But Ethel was sure that could not be, because there was no diphthong; and a fresh theory was just being started, when Blanche's head was thrust in to know what made them all so busy.

"Why, Ethel, what are you doing with Harry's old medal of the Duke of Wellington?"

Poor Meta and Ethel, what a downfall! Meta was sure that Norman had known it the whole time, and he owned to having guessed it from Harry's importunity for the search. Harry and Mary had certainly made good use of their time, and great was the mirth over the trap so cleverly set—the more when it was disclosed that Dr. May had been a full participator in the scheme, had suggested the addition of the pottery, had helped Harry to some liquid to efface part of the inscription, and had even come up with them to plant the snare in the most plausible corner for researches.

Meta, enchanted with the joke, flew off to try to take in her governess and Mrs. Wilmot, whom she found completing their leisurely promenade, and considering where they should spread the dinner.

The sight of those great baskets of good fare was appetising, and the company soon collected on the shady turf, where Richard made himself extremely useful, and the feast was spread without any worse mishap than Nipen's running away with half a chicken, of which he was robbed, as Tom reported, by a surly-looking dog that watched in the outskirts of the camp, and caused Tom to return nearly as fast as the poor little white marauder.

Meta "very immorally," as Norman told her, comforted Nipen with a large share of her sandwiches. Harry armed himself with a stick and Mary with a stone, and marched off to the attack, but saw no signs of the enemy, and had begun to believe him a figment of Tom's imagination, when Mary spied him under a bush, lying at the feet of a boy, with whom he was sharing the spoil.

Harry called out rather roughly, "Hallo! what are you doing there?"

The boy jumped up, the dog growled, Mary shrank behind her brother, and begged him not to be cross to the poor boy, but to come away. Harry repeated his question.

"Please, sir, Toby brought it to me."

"What, is Toby your dog?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you so hungry as to eat dog's meat?"

"I have not had nothing before to-day, sir."

"Why, where do you live? hereabouts?"

"Oh, no, sir; I lived with grandmother up in Cheshire, but she is dead now, and father is just come home from sea, and he wrote down I was to be sent to him at Portsmouth, to go to sea with him."

"How do you live? do you beg your way?"

"No, sir; father sent up a pound in a letter, only Nanny Brooks said I owed some to her for my victuals, and I have not much of it left, and bread comes dear, so when Toby brought me this bit of meat I was glad of it, sir, but I would not have taken it—"

The boy was desired to wait while the brother and sister, in breathless excitement, rushed back with their story.

Mrs. Wilmot was at first inclined to fear that the naval part of it had been inspired by Harry's uniform, but the examination of Jem Jennings put it beyond a doubt that he spoke nothing but the truth; and the choicest delight of the feast was the establishing him and Toby behind the barrow, and feeding them with such viands as they had probably never seen before.

The boy could not read writing, but he had his father's letter in his pocket, and Mary capered at the delightful coincidence, on finding that Jem Jennings was actually a quarter-master on board the Alcestis. It gave a sort of property in the boy, and she almost grudged Meta the having been first to say that she would pay for the rest of his journey, instead of doing it by subscription.

However, Mary had a consolation, she would offer to take charge of Toby, who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned—he could not be taken on board. To be sure, he was a particularly ugly animal, rough, grisly, short-legged, long-backed, and with an apology for a tail—but he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he and Jem lived on terms of such close friendship, that he would have been miserable in leaving him to the mercy of Nanny Brooks.

So, after their meal, Jem and Toby were bidden to wait for Dr. May's coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank, while the rest either sketched, or wandered, or botanised. Flora acted the grown-up lady with Mrs. Wilmot, and Meta found herself sitting by Ethel, asking her a great many questions about Margaret, and her home, and what it could be like to be one of such a numerous family. Flora had always turned aside from personal matters, as uninteresting to her companion, and, in spite of Meta's admiration, and the mutual wish to be intimate, confidence did not spring up spontaneously, as it had done with the doctor, and, in that single hour, with Margaret. Blunt as Ethel was, her heartiness of manner gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their Confirmation vows seemed to make a link, and Meta's unfeigned enthusiasm for the doctor was the sure road to Ethel's heart. She was soon telling how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure in to-day's scheme, since, not only were his spirits tried by the approach of Harry's departure, but he had, within the last few days, been made very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora's first letter on the news of last October's misfortune.

"My aunt in New Zealand," explained Ethel.

"Have you an aunt in New Zealand?" cried Meta. "I never heard of her!"

"Did not you? Oh! she does write such charming long letters!"

"Is she Dr. May's sister?"

"No; he was an only child. She is dear mamma's sister. I don't remember her, for she went out when I was a baby, but Richard and Margaret were so fond of her. They say she used to play with them, and tell them stories, and sing Scotch songs to them. Margaret says the first sorrow of her life was Aunt Flora's going away."

"Did she live with them?"

"Yes; after grandpapa died, she came to live with them, but then Mr. Arnott came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, for he is my godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt Flora! That letter of hers showed me what a comfort it would be to papa to have her here."

"Perhaps she will come."

"No; Uncle Arnott has too much to do. It was a pretty story altogether. He was an officer at Edinburgh, and fell in love with Aunt Flora, but my grandfather Mackenzie thought him too poor to marry her, and it was all broken off, and they tried to think no more of it. But grandpapa died, and she came to live here, and somehow Mr. Arnott turned up again, quartered at Whitford, and papa talked over my Uncle Mackenzie, and helped them—and Mr. Arnott thought the best way would be to go out to the colonies. They went when New Zealand was very new, and a very funny life they had! Once they had their house burned in Heki's rebellion—and Aunt Flora saw a Maori walking about in her best Sunday bonnet; but, in general, everything has gone on very well, and he has a great farm, besides an office under government."

"Oh, so he went out as a settler! I was in hopes it was as a missionary."

"I fancy Aunt Flora has done a good deal that may be called missionary work," said Ethel, "teaching the Maori women and girls. They call her mother, and she has quite a doctor's shop for them, and tries hard to teach them to take proper care of their poor little children when they are ill; and she cuts out clothes for the whole pah, that is, the village."

"And are they Christians?"

"Oh! to be sure they are now! They meet in the pah for prayers every morning and evening—they used to have a hoe struck against a bit of metal for a signal, and when papa heard of it, he gave them a bell, and they were so delighted. Now there comes a clergyman every fourth Sunday, and, on the others, Uncle Arnott reads part of the service to the English near, and the Maori teacher to his people."

Meta asked ravenously for more details, and when she had pretty well exhausted Ethel's stock, she said, "How nice it must be! Ethel, did you ever read the 'Faithful Little Girl?'"

"Yes; it was one of Margaret's old Sunday books. I often recollected it before I was allowed to begin Cocksmoor."

"I'm afraid I am very like Lucilla!" said Meta.

"What? In wishing to be a boy, that you might be a missionary?" said Ethel. "Not in being quite so cross at home?" she added, laughing.

"I am not cross, because I have no opportunity," said Meta.

"No opportunity. Oh, Meta, if people wish to be cross, it is easy enough to find grounds for it. There is always the moon to cry for."

"Really and truly," said Meta thoughtfully, "I never do meet with any reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it cannot be right or safe to live so entirely at ease, and without contradictions."

"Well, but," said Ethel, "it is the state of life in which you are placed."

"Yes; but are we meant never to have vexations?"

"I thought you had them," said Ethel. "Margaret told me about your maid. That would have worried some people, and made them horridly cross."

"Oh, no rational person," cried Meta. "It was so nice to think of her being with the poor mother, and I was quite interested in managing for myself; besides, you know, it was just a proof how one learns to be selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I ought to spare her."

"And your school children—you were in some trouble about them?"

"Oh, that is pleasure."

"I thought you had a class you did not like?"

"I like them now—they are such steady plodding girls, so much in earnest, and one, that has been neglected, is so pleased and touched by kindness. I would not give them up for anything now—they are just fit for my capacity."

"Do you mean that nothing ever goes wrong with you, or that you do not mind anything—which?"

"Nothing goes wrong enough with me to give me a handsome excuse for minding it."

"Then it must be all your good temper."

"I don't think so," said Meta; "it is that nothing is ever disagreeable to me."

"Stay," said Ethel, "if the ill-temper was in you, you would only be the crosser for being indulged—at least, so books say. And I am sure myself that it is not whether things are disagreeable or not, but whether one's will is with them, that signifies."

"I don't quite understand."

"Why—I have seen the boys do for play, and done myself, what would have been a horrid hardship if one had been made to do it. I never liked any lessons as well as those I did without being obliged, and always, when there is a thing I hate very much in itself, I can get up an interest in it, by resolving that I will do it well, or fast, or something—if I can stick my will to it, it is like a lever, and it is done. Now, I think it must be the same with you, only your will is more easily set at it than mine."

"What makes me uncomfortable is, that I feel as if I never followed anything but my will."

Ethel screwed up her face, as if the eyes of her mind were pursuing some thought almost beyond her. "If our will and our duty run the same," she said, "that can't be wrong. The better people are, the more they 'love what He commands,' you know. In heaven they have no will but His."

"Oh! but Ethel," cried Meta, distressed, "that is putting it too high. Won't you understand what I mean? We have learned so much lately about self-denial, and crossing one's own inclinations, and enduring hardness. And here I live with two dear kind people, who only try to keep every little annoyance from my path. I can't wish for a thing without getting it—I am waited on all day long, and I feel like one of the women that are at ease—one of the careless daughters."

"I think still papa would say it was your happy contented temper that made you find no vexation."

"But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it; I never did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless I knew papa was grieved, which always did make me unhappy enough. I laughed, and went to play most saucily, whatever they did to me. If I had striven for the temper, it would be worth having, but it is my nature. And Ethel," she added, in a low voice, as the tears came into her eyes, "don't you remember last Sunday? I felt myself so vain and petted a thing! as if I had no share in the Cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself a member—it seemed ungrateful."

Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her own had been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she sought for the answer that would only come to her mind in sense, not at first in words. "Discipline," said she, "would not that show the willingness to have the part? Taking the right times for refusing oneself some pleasant thing."

"Would not that be only making up something for oneself?" said Meta.

"No, the Church orders it. It is in the Prayer-book," said Ethel. "I mean one can do little secret things—not read storybooks on those days, or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. It is very trumpery, but it keeps the remembrance, and it is not so much as if one did not heed."

"I'll think," said Meta, sighing. "If only I felt myself at work, not to please myself, but to be of use. Ha!" she cried, springing up, "I do believe I see Dr. May coming!"

"Let us run and meet him," said Ethel.

They did so, and he called out his wishes of many happy returns of blithe days to the little birthday queen, then added, "You both look grave, though—have they deserted you?"

"No, papa, we have been having a talk," said Ethel. "May I tell him, Meta? I want to know what he says."

Meta had not bargained for this, but she was very much in earnest, and there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented.

"Meta is longing to be at work—she thinks she is of no use," said Ethel; "she says she never does anything but please herself."

"Pleasing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself," said Dr. May kindly.

"And she thinks it cannot be safe or right," added Ethel, "to live that happy bright life, as if people without care or trouble could not be living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meta?"

"Yes, I think it is," said Meta. "I seem to be only put here to be made much of!"

"What did David say, Meta?" returned Dr. May.

"My Shepherd is the living Lord, Nothing therefore I need; In pastures fair, near pleasant streams, He setteth me to feed."

"Then you think," said Meta, much touched, "that I ought to look on this as 'the pastures fair,' and be thankful. I hope I was not unthankful."

"Oh, no," said Ethel. "It was the wish to bear hardness, and be a good soldier, was it not?"

"Ah! my dear," he said, "the rugged path and dark valley will come in His own fit time. Depend upon it, the good Shepherd is giving you what is best for you in the green meadow, and if you lay hold on His rod and staff in your sunny days—" He stopped short, and turned to his daughter. "Ethel, they sang that psalm the first Sunday I brought your mamma home!"

Meta was much affected, and began to put together what the father and daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret discipline, of which Ethel had spoken, might be the true means of clasping the staff—perhaps she had been impatient, and wanting in humility in craving for the strife, when her armour was scarce put on.

Dr. May spoke once again. "Don't let any one long for external trial. The offering of a free heart is the thing. To offer praise is the great object of all creatures in heaven and earth. If the happier we are, the more we praise, then all is well."

But the serious discussion was suddenly broken off.

Others had seen Dr. May's approach, and Harry and Mary rushed down in dismay at their story having, as they thought, been forestalled. However, they had it all to themselves, and the doctor took up the subject as keenly as could have been hoped, but the poor boy being still fast asleep, after, probably, much fatigue, he would not then waken him to examine him, but came and sat down in the semicircle, formed by a terraced bank of soft turf, where Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Wilmot, Richard, and Flora, had for some time taken up their abode. Meta brought him the choice little basket of fruit which she had saved for him, and all delighted in having him there, evidently enjoying the rest and sport very much, as he reposed on the fragrant slope, eating grapes, and making inquiries as to the antiquities lately discovered.

Norman gave an exceedingly droll account of the great Roman Emperor, Tiberius V.V., and Meta correcting it, there was a regular gay skirmish of words, which entertained every one extremely—above all, Meta's indignation when the charge was brought home to her of having declared the "old Duke" exactly like in turns to Domitian and Tiberius—his features quite forbidding.

This lasted till the younger ones, who had been playing and rioting till they were tired, came up, and throwing themselves down on the grass, Blanche petitioned for something that every one could play at.

Meta proposed what she called the story play. One was to be sent out of earshot, and the rest to agree upon a word, which was then to be guessed by each telling a story, and introducing the word into it, not too prominently. Meta volunteered to guess, and Harry whispered to Mary it would be no go, but, in the meantime, the word was found, and Blanche eagerly recalled Meta, and sat in the utmost expectation and delight. Meta turned first to Richard, but he coloured distressfully, and begged that Flora might tell his story for him—he should only spoil the game. Flora, with a little tinge of graceful reluctance, obeyed. "No woman had been to the summit of Mont Blanc," she said, "till one young girl, named Marie, resolved to have this glory. The guides told her it was madness, but she persevered. She took the staff, and everything requisite, and, following a party, began the ascent. She bravely supported every fatigue, climbed each precipice, was undaunted by the giddy heights she attained, bravely crossed the fields of snow, supported the bitter cold, and finally, though suffering severely, arrived at the topmost peak, looked forth where woman had never looked before, felt her heart swell at the attainment of her utmost ambition, and the name of Marie was inscribed as that of the woman who alone has had the glory of standing on the summit of the Giant of the Alps."

It was prettily enunciated, and had a pleasing effect. Meta stood conning the words—woman—giant—mountain—glory—and begged for another tale.

"Mine shall not be so stupid as Flora's," said Harry. "We have an old sailor on board the Alcestis—a giant he might be for his voice— but he sailed once in the Glory of the West, and there they had a monkey that was picked up in Africa, and one day this old fellow found his queer messmate, as he called him, spying through a glass, just like the captain. The captain had a glorious collection of old coins, and the like, dug up in some of the old Greek colonies, and whenever Master Monkey saw him overhauling them, he would get out a brass button, or a card or two, and turn 'em over, and chatter at them, and glory over them, quite knowing," said Harry, imitating the gesture, "and I dare say he saw V.V., and Tiberius Caesar, as well as the best of them."

"Thank you, Mr. Harry," said Meta. "I think we are at no loss for monkeys here. But I have not the word yet. Who comes next? Ethel—"

"I shall blunder, I forewarn you," said Ethel, "but this is mine: There was a young king who had an old tutor, whom he despised because he was so strict, so he got rid of him, and took to idle sport. One day, when he was out hunting in a forest, a white hind came and ran before him, till she guided him to a castle, and there he found a lady all dressed in white, with a beamy crown on head, and so nobly beautiful that he fell in love with her at once, and was only sorry to see another prince who was come to her palace too. She told them her name was Gloria, and that she had had many suitors, but the choice did not depend on herself—she could only be won by him who deserved her, and for three years they were to be on their probation, trying for her. So she dismissed them, only burning to gain her, and telling them to come back in three years' time. But they had not gone far before they saw another palace, much finer, all glittering with gold and silver, and their Lady Gloria came out to meet them, not in her white dress, but in one all gay and bright with fine colours, and her crown they now saw was of diamonds. She told them they had only seen her everyday dress and house, this was her best; and she showed them about the castle, and all the pictures of her former lovers. There was Alexander, who had been nearer retaining her than any one, only the fever prevented it; there was Pyrrhus, always seeking her, but slain by a tile; Julius Caesar—Tamerlane— all the rest, and she hoped that one of these two would really prove worthy and gain her, by going in the same path as these great people.

"So our prince went home; his head full of being like Alexander and all the rest of them, and he sent for his good old tutor to reckon up his armies, and see whom he could conquer in order to win her. But the old tutor told him he was under a mistake; the second lady he had seen was a treacherous cousin of Gloria, who drew away her suitors by her deceits, and whose real name was Vana Gloria. If he wished to earn the true Gloria, he must set to work to do his subjects good, and to be virtuous. And he did; he taught them, and he did justice to them, and he bore it patiently and kindly when they did not understand. But by-and-by the other king, who had no good tutor to help him, had got his armies together, and conquered ever so many people, and drawn off their men to be soldiers; and now he attacked the good prince, and was so strong that he gained the victory, though both prince and subjects fought manfully with heart and hand; but the battle was lost, and the faithful prince wounded and made prisoner, but bearing it most patiently, till he was dragged behind the other's triumphal car with all the rest, when the three years were up, to be presented to Vana Gloria. And so he was carried into the forest, bleeding and wounded, and his enemy drove the car over his body, and stretched out his arms to Vana Gloria, and found her a vain, ugly wretch, who grew frightful as soon as he grasped her. But the good dying prince saw the beautiful beamy face of his lady—love bending over him. 'Oh!' he said, 'vision of my life, hast thou come to lighten my dying eyes? Never—never, even in my best days, did I deem that I could be worthy of thee; the more I strove, the more I knew that Gloria is for none below—for me less than all.'

"And then the lady came and lifted him up, and she said, 'Gloria is given to all who do and suffer truly in a good cause, for faithfulness is glory, and that is thine.'"

Ethel's language had become more flowing as she grew more eager in the tale, and they all listened with suspended interest. Norman asked where she got the story. "Out of an old French book, the 'Magazin des enfans,'" was the answer.

"But why did you alter the end?" said Flora, "why kill the poor man? He used to be prosperous, why not?"

"Because I thought," said Ethel, "that glory could not properly belong to any one here, and if he was once conscious of it, it would be all spoiled. Well, Meta, do you guess?"

"Oh! the word! I had forgotten all about it. I think I know what it must be, but I should so like another story. May I not have one?" said Meta coaxingly. "Mary, it is you."

Mary fell back on her papa, and begged him to take hers. Papa told the best stories of all, she said, and Meta looked beseeching.

"My story will not be as long as Ethel's," said the doctor, yielding with a half-reluctant smile. "My story is of a humming-bird, a little creature that loved its master with all its strength, and longed to do somewhat for him. It was not satisfied with its lot, because it seemed merely a vain and profitless creature. The nightingale sang praise, and the woods sounded with the glory of its strains; the fowl was valued for its flesh, the ostrich for its plume, but what could the little humming-bird do, save rejoice in the glory of the flood of sunbeams, and disport itself over the flowers, and glance in the sunny light, as its bright breastplate flashed from rich purple to dazzling flame-colour, and its wings supported it, fluttering so fast that the eye could hardly trace them, as it darted its slender beak into the deep-belled blossoms. So the little bird grieved, and could not rest, for thinking that it was useless in this world, that it sought merely its own gratification, and could do nothing that could conduce to the glory of its master. But one night a voice spoke to the little bird, 'Why hast thou been placed here,' it said, 'but at the will of thy master? Was it not that he might delight himself in thy radiant plumage, and see thy joy in the sunshine? His gifts are thy buoyant wing, thy beauteous colours, the love of all around, the sweetness of the honey-drop in the flowers, the shade of the palm leaf. Esteem them, then, as his; value thine own bliss, while it lasts, as the token of his care and love; and while thy heart praises him for them, and thy wings quiver and dance to the tune of that praise, then, indeed, thy gladness conduces to no vain-glory of thine own, in beauty, or in graceful flight, but thou art a creature serving—as best thou canst to his glory.'"

"I know the word," half whispered Meta, not without a trembling of the lip. "I know why you told the story, Dr. May, but one is not as good as the humming-birds."

The elder ladies had begun to look at watches, and talk of time to go home; and Jem Jemmings having been seen rearing himself up from behind the barrow, the doctor proceeded to investigate his case, was perfectly satisfied of the boy's truth, and as ready as the young ones to befriend him. A letter should be written at once, desiring his father to look out for him on Friday, when he should go by the same train as Harry, who was delighted at the notion of protecting him so far, and begged to be allowed to drive him home to Stoneborough in the gig.

Consent was given; and Richard being added to give weight and discretion, the gig set out at once—the doctor, much to Meta's delight, took his place in the brake. Blanche, who, in the morning, had been inclined to despise it as something akin to a cart, now finding it a popular conveyance, was urgent to return in it; and Flora was made over to the carriage, not at all unwillingly, for, though it separated her from Meta, it made a senior of her.

Norman's fate conveyed him to the exalted seat beside the driver of the brake, where he could only now and then catch the sounds of mirth from below. He had enjoyed the day exceedingly, with that sort of abandon more than ordinarily delicious to grave or saddened temperaments, when roused or drawn out for a time. Meta's winning grace and sweetness had a peculiar charm for him, and, perhaps, his having been originally introduced to her as ill, and in sorrow, had given her manner towards him a sort of kindness which was very gratifying.

And now he felt as if he was going back to a very dusky dusty world; the last and blithest day of his holidays was past, and he must return to the misapprehensions and injustice that had blighted his school career, be kept beneath boys with half his ability, and without generous feeling, and find all his attainments useless in restoring his position. Dr. Hoxton's dull scholarship would chill all pleasure in his studies—there would be no companionship among the boys—even his supporters, Ernescliffe and Larkins, were gone, and Harry would leave him still under a cloud.

Norman felt it more as disgrace than he had done since the first, and wished he had consented to quit the school when it had been offered— be made a man, instead of suffering these doubly irksome provocations, which rose before him in renewed force. "And what would that little humming-bird think of me if she knew me disgraced?" thought he. "But it is of no use to think of it. I must go through with it, and as I always am getting vain-glorious, I had better have no opportunity. I did not declare I renounced vain pomp and glory last week, to begin coveting them now again."

So Norman repressed the sigh as he looked at the school buildings, which never could give him the pleasures of memory they afforded to others.

The brake had set out before the carriage, so that Meta had to come in and wait for her governess. Before the vehicle had disgorged half its contents, Harry had rushed out to meet them. "Come in, come in, Norman! Only hear. Margaret shall tell you herself! Hurrah!"

Is Mr. Ernescliffe come? crossed Ethel's mind, but Margaret was alone, flushed, and holding out her hands. "Norman! where is he? Dear Norman, here is good news! Papa, Dr. Hoxton has been here, and he knows all about it—and oh! Norman, he is very sorry for the injustice, and you are dux again!"

Norman really trembled so much that he could neither speak nor stand, but sat down on the window-seat, while a confusion of tongues asked more.

Dr. Hoxton and Mr. Larkins had come to call—heard no one was at home but Miss May—had, nevertheless, come in—and Margaret had heard that Mr. Larkins, who had before intended to remove his son from Stoneborough, had, in the course of the holidays, made discoveries from him, which he could not feel justified in concealing from Dr. Hoxton.

The whole of the transactions with Ballhatchet, and Norman's part in them, had been explained, as well as the true history of the affray in Randall's Alley—how Norman had dispersed the boys, how they had again collected, and, with the full concurrence of Harvey Anderson, renewed the mischief, how the Andersons had refused to bear witness in his favour, and how Ballhatchet's ill-will had kept back the evidence which would have cleared him.

Little Larkins had told all, and his father had no scruple in repeating it, and causing the investigation to be set on foot. Nay, he deemed that Norman's influence had saved his son, and came, as anxious to thank him, as Dr. Hoxton, warm-hearted, though injudicious, was to repair his injustice. They were much surprised and struck by finding that Dr. May had been aware of the truth the whole time, and had patiently put up with the injustice, and the loss of the scholarship—a loss which Dr. Hoxton would have given anything to repair, so as to have sent up a scholar likely to do him so much credit; but it was now too late, and he had only been able to tell Margaret how dismayed he was at finding out that the boy to whom all the good order in his school was owing had been so ill-used. Kind Dr. May's first feeling really seemed to be pity and sympathy for his old friend, the head-master, in the shock of such a discovery. Harry was vociferously telling his version of the story to Ethel and Mary. Tom stood transfixed in attention. Meta, forgotten and bewildered, was standing near Norman, whose colour rapidly varied, and whose breath came short and quick as he listened. A quick half interrogation passed Meta's lips, heard by no one else.

"It is only that it is all right," he answered, scarcely audibly; "they have found out the truth."

"What?—who?—you?" said Meta, as she heard words that implied the past suspicion.

"Yes," said Norman, "I was suspected, but never at home."

"And is it over now?"

"Yes, yes," he whispered huskily, "all is right, and Harry will not leave me in disgrace."

Meta did not speak, but she held out her hand in hearty congratulation; Norman, scarce knowing what he did, grasped and wrung it so tight that it was positive pain, as he turned away his head to the window to struggle with those irrepressible tears. Meta's colour flushed into her cheek as she found it still held, almost unconsciously, perhaps, in his agitation, and she heard Margaret's words, that both gentlemen had said Norman had acted nobly, and that every revelation made in the course of their examination had only more fully established his admirable conduct.

"Oh, Norman, Norman, I am so glad!" cried Mary's voice in the first pause, and, Margaret asking where he was, he suddenly turned round, recollected himself, and found it was not the back of the chair that he had been squeezing, blushed intensely, but made no attempt at apology, for indeed he could not speak—he only leaned down over Margaret, to receive her heartfelt embrace; and, as he stood up again, his father laid his hand on his shoulder, "My boy, I am glad;" but the words were broken, and, as if neither could bear more, Norman hastily left the room, Ethel rushing after him.

"Quite overcome!" said the doctor, "and no wonder. He felt it cruelly, though he bore up gallantly. Well, July?"

"I'll go down to school with him to-morrow, and see him dux again! I'll have three-times-three!" shouted Harry; "hip! hip! hurrah!" and Tom and Mary joined in chorus.

"What is all this?" exclaimed Flora, opening the door, "—is every one gone mad?"

Many were the voices that answered.

"Well, I am glad, and I hope the Andersons will make an apology. But where is poor Meta? Quite forgotten?"

"Meta would not wonder if she knew all," said the doctor, turning, with a sweet smile that had in it something, nevertheless, of apology.

"Oh, I am so glad—so glad!" said Meta, her eyes full of tears, as she came forward.

And there was no helping it; the first kiss between Margaret May and Margaret Rivers was given in that overflowing sympathy of congratulation.

The doctor gave her his arm to take her to the carriage, and, on the way, his quick warm words filled up the sketch of Norman's behaviour; Meta's eyes responded better than her tongue, but, to her good-bye, she could not help adding, "Now I have seen true glory."

His answer was much such a grip as her poor little fingers had already received, but though they felt hot and crushed all the way home, the sensation seemed to cause such throbs of joy, that she would not have been without it.



CHAPTER XXVII.



And full of hope, day followed day, While that stout ship at anchor lay Beside the shores of Wight. The May had then made all things green, And floating there, in pomp serene, That ship was goodly to be seen, His pride and his delight.

Yet then when called ashore, he sought The tender peace of rural thought, In more than happy mood. To your abodes, bright daisy flowers, He then would steal at leisure hours, And loved you, glittering in your bowers, A starry multitude. WORDSWORTH.

Harry's last home morning was brightened by going to the school to see full justice done to Norman, and enjoying the scene for him. It was indeed a painful ordeal to Norman himself, who could, at the moment, scarcely feel pleasure in his restoration, excepting for the sake of his father, Harry, and his sisters. To find the head-master making apologies to him was positively painful and embarrassing, and his countenance would have been fitter for a culprit receiving a lecture. It was pleasanter when the two other masters shook hands with him, Mr. Harrison with a free confession that he had done him injustice, and Mr. Wilmot with a glad look of congratulation, that convinced Harry he had never believed Norman to blame.

Harry himself was somewhat of a hero; the masters all spoke to him, bade him good speed, and wished him a happy voyage, and all the boys were eager to admire his uniform, and wish themselves already men and officers like Mr. May. He had his long-desired three cheers for "May senior!" shouted with a thorough goodwill by the united lungs of the Whichcote foundation, and a supplementary cheer arose for the good ship Alcestis, while hands were held out on every side; and the boy arrived at such a pitch of benevolence and good humour, as actually to volunteer a friendly shake of the hand to Edward Anderson, whom he encountered skulking apart.

"Never mind, Ned, we have often licked each other before now, and don't let us bear a grudge now I am going away. We are Stoneborough fellows both, you know, after all."

Edward did not refuse the offered grasp, and though his words were only, "Good-bye, I hope you will have plenty of fun!" Harry went away with a lighter heart.

The rest of the day Harry adhered closely to his father, though chiefly in silence; Dr. May had intended much advice and exhortation for his warm-hearted, wild-spirited son, but words would not come, not even when in the still evening twilight they walked down alone together to the cloister, and stood over the little stone marked M. M. After standing there for some minutes, Harry knelt to collect some of the daisies in the grass.