CHAPTER XXXI.

HANDS FULL.

Dolly was, however, partly mistaken. Lady Brierley was a help. First, for the likenesses. Dolly painted so charming a little picture of her ladyship that it was a perpetual letter of recommendation; Lady Brierley's friends desired to have Dolly's pencil do the same service for them; neighbouring families saw and admired her work and came to beg to have her skill exerted on their behalf; and, in short, orders flowed in upon Dolly to the full occupation of all the time she had to give to them. They paid well, too. For that, Dolly had referred to Lady Brierley to say what the price ought to be; and Lady Brierley, guessing need on the one hand and knowing abundance on the other, had set the price at a very pretty figure; and money quite piled itself up in Dolly's secret hoard. She was very glad of it; for her supplies from her father became more and more precarious. He seemed to shut his eyes when he came to Brierley, and not recognise the fact that anything was wanting or missing. And well Dolly knew that such wilful oversight could never happen if Mr. Copley were himself doing true and faithful work; she knew he was going in false and dangerous ways, without being able to follow him and see just what they were. Her one comfort was, that her mother did not seem to read the signs that were so terribly legible to herself.

And here too Lady Brierley's new-found friendship was of use. She wrought a diversion for the girl's troubled spirits. She was constantly having Dolly at the House. Dolly objected to leaving her mother; at the same time Mrs. Copley very much objected to have Dolly stay at home when such chances offered; so, at first to paint, and then to give her sweet company, Dolly went often, and spent hours at a time with Lady Brierley, who on her part grew more and more fond of having the little American girl in her society. Dolly was a novelty, and a mystery, and a beauty. Lady Brierley's son was in Russia; so there was no harm in her being a beauty, but the contrary; it was pleasant to the eyes. And Dolly was naive, and fresh, and independent too, with a manner as fearless and much more frank than Lady Brierley's own, and yet with as simple a reserve of womanly dignity as any lady could have; and how a girl that painted likenesses for money, and made her own bread, and learned cookery of Mrs. Jersey, could talk to Lord Brierley with such sweet, quiet freedom, was a puzzle most puzzling to the great lady. So it was to others, for at Brierley House Dolly often saw a great deal of company. It did her good; it refreshed her; it gave her a world of things to tell for the amusement of her mother; and besides all that, she felt that Lady Brierley was really a friend, and would be kind if occasion were; indeed, she was kind now.

Dolly needed it all, for darker days were coming, and the shadow of them was "cast before," as the manner is. With every visit of Mr. Copley to the cottage, Dolly grew more uneasy. He was not looking well, nor happy, nor easy; his manner was constrained, his spirits were forced; and for all that appeared, he might suppose that Dolly and her mother could live on air. He gave them nothing else to live on. What did he live on himself, Dolly queried, besides wine? and she made up her mind that, hard as it was, and doubtful as the effect, she must have a talk with him the next time he came down. "O father, father!" she cried to herself in the bitterness of her heart, "how can you! how can you! how can you! It never, never ought to be, that a child is ashamed for her father! The world is turned upside down."

How intensely bitter it was, the children who have always been proud of their parents can never know. Dolly wrung her hands sometimes, in a distress that was beyond tears; and then devoted herself with redoubled ardour to her mother, to prevent her from finding out how things were going. She would have a plain talk with her father the next time he came, very difficult as she felt it would be; things could not go on as they were; or at least, not without ending in a thorough breakdown. But what we purpose is one thing; what we are able to execute is often quite another thing.

It was a week or two before Mr. Copley made his appearance. Dolly was looking from the window, and saw the village fly drive up and her father get out of it. She announced the fact to her mother, and then ran down to the garden gate to meet him. As their hands encountered at the gate, Dolly almost fell back; took her hand from the latch, and only put it forth again when she saw that her father could not readily get the gate open. He was looking ill; his gait was tottering, his eye wavering, and when he spoke his utterance was confused. Dolly felt as if a lump of ice had suddenly come where her heart used to be.

"You are not well, father?" she said as they went up the walk together.

"Well enough," returned Mr. Copley—"all right directly. Cursed wet weather—got soaked to the bone—haven't got warm yet."

"Wet weather!" said Dolly; "why, it is very sunny and warm. What are you thinking of, father?"

"Sun don't always shine in England," said Mr. Copley. "Let me get in and have a cup of tea or coffee. You don't keep such a thing as brandy in the house, do you?"

"You have had brandy enough already," said Dolly in a low, grave voice. "I will make some coffee. Come in—why, you are trembling, father! Are you cold?"

"Haven't been warm for three days. Cold? yes. Coffee, Dolly, let me have some coffee. It's the vilest climate a man ever lived in."

"Why, father," said Dolly, laying her hand on his sleeve, "your coat is wet! What have you done to yourself?"

"Wet? no,—it isn't. I put on a dry coat to come down—wouldn't be such a fool as to put on a wet one. Coffee, Dolly! It's cold enough for a fire."

"But how did your coat get wet, father?"

"'Tisn't wet. I left a wet coat in London—had enough of it. If you go out in England you must get wet. Give me some coffee, if you haven't got any brandy. I tell you, I've never been warm since."

Dolly ran up stairs, where Mrs. Copley was making a little alteration in her dress.

"Mother," she cried, "will you go down and take care of father? He is not well; I am afraid he has taken cold; I am going to make him some coffee as fast as I can. Get him to change his coat;—it is wet."

Then Dolly ran down again, every nerve in her trembling, but forcing herself to go steadily and methodically to work. She made a cup of strong coffee, cooked a nice bit of beefsteak she had in the house, rejoicing that she had it; and while the steak was doing she made a plate of toast, such as she knew both father and mother were fond of. In half an hour she had it all ready and carried it up on a tray. Mrs. Copley was sitting with an anxious and perplexed face watching her husband; he had crept to the empty fireplace and was leaning towards it as towards a place whence comfort ought to be looked for. His wife had persuaded him to exchange the wet coat for an old dressing-gown, which change, however, seemed to have wrought no bettering of affairs.

"What is the matter?" said poor Mrs. Copley with a scared face. "I can't make out anything from what he says."

"He has caught cold, I think," said Dolly very quietly; though her face was white, and all the time of her ministrations in the kitchen she had worked with that feeling of ice at her heart. "Father, here is your coffee, and it is good; maybe this will make you feel better."

She had set her dishes nicely on the table; she had poured out the coffee and cut a piece of the steak; but Mr. Copley would look at no food. He drank a little coffee, and set the cup down.

"Sloppy stuff! Haven't you got any brandy?"

"You have had brandy already this afternoon, father. Take the coffee now."

"Brandy? my teeth were chattering, and I took a wretched glass somewhere. Do give me some more, Dolly! and stop this shaking."

"Where did you get cold, Mr. Copley?" asked his wife. "You have caught a terrible cold."

"Nothing of the kind. I am all right. Just been in the rain; rain'll wet any man; my coat's got it."

"But when, Frank?" urged his wife. "There has been no rain to-day; it is clear, hot summer weather. When were you in the rain?"

"I don't know. Rain's rain. It don't signify when. Have you got nothing better than this? I shall not stop shaking till morning."

And he did not. They got him to bed, and sat and watched by him, the mother and daughter; watching the feverish trembling, and the feverish flush that gradually rose in his cheeks. They could get no more information as to the cause of the mischief. The truth was, that two or three nights previous, Mr. Copley had sat long at play and drunk freely; lost freely too; so that when at last he went home, his condition of mind and body was so encumbered and confused that he took no account of the fact that it was raining heavily. He was heated, and the outer air was refreshing; Mr. Copley walked home to his lodgings; was of course drenched through; and on getting home had no longer clearness of perception enough in exercise to know that he must take off his wet clothes. How he passed the night he never knew; but the morning found him very miserable, and he had been miserable ever since. Pains and aches, flushes of heat, creepings of inexplicable cold, would not be chased away by any potations his landlady recommended or by the stronger draughts to which Mr. Copley's habits bade him recur; and the third day, with something of the same sort of dumb instinct which makes a wounded or sick animal draw back to cover, he threw himself into the post coach and went down to Brierley. Naturally, he took advantage of stopping places by the way to get something to warm him; and so reached home at last in an altogether muddled and disordered state of mind and body.

Neither Mrs. Copley nor Dolly would go to bed that night. Not that there was much to do, but there was much to fear; and they clung in their fear to each other's company. Mrs. Copley dozed in an easy-chair part of the time; and Dolly sat at the open window with her head on the sill and lost herself there in slumber that was hardly refreshing. The night saw no change; and the morning was welcome, as the morning is in times of sickness, because it brought stir and the necessity of work to be done.

It was still early when Dolly, after refreshing herself with water and changing her dress, went downstairs. She opened the hall door, and stood still a moment. The summer morning met her outside, fresh with dew, heavy with the scent of roses, musical with the song of birds; dim, sweet, full of life, breathing loveliness, folding its loveliness in mystery. As yet, things could be seen but confusedly; the dark bank of Brierley Park with its giant trees rose up against the sky, there was no gleam on the little river, the outlines of nearer trees and bushes were merged and indistinct; but what a hum and stir and warble and chitter of happy creatures! how many creatures to be happy! and what a warm breath of incense told of the blessings of the summer day in store for them! For them, and not for Dolly? It smote her hard, the question and the answer. It was for her too; it ought to be for her; the Lord's will was that all His creatures should be happy; and some of his creatures would not! Some refused the rich invitation, and would neither take themselves nor let others take the bountiful, tender, blessed gifts of God. It came to Dolly with an unspeakable sore pain. Yes, the Lord's will was peace and joy and plenty for them all; fulness of gracious supply; the singing of delighted hearts, loving and praising Him. And men made their own choice to have something else, and brought bitterness into what was meant to be only sweet. Tears came slowly into her eyes, mournful tears, and rolled down her cheeks hopelessly. Whatever was to become now of her little family? Her father, she feared, was entering upon a serious illness, which might last no one knew how long. Who would nurse him? and if Dolly did, who would do the work of the household? and if her father was laid by for any considerable time, whence were needful supplies to come from? Dolly's little stock would not last for ever. And how would her mother stand the strain and the care and the fatigue? It seemed to Dolly as she stood there at the door, that her sky was closing in and the ground giving way beneath her feet. Usually she kept up her courage bravely; just now it failed.

"Dolly," her mother's voice came smothered from over the balusters of the upper hall.

"Yes, mother?"

"Send Nelly for the doctor as soon as you can."

"Yes, mother. As soon as it is light enough."

The doctor! that was another thought. Then there would be the doctor's bill. But at this point Dolly caught herself up. "Take no thought for the morrow"—what did that mean? "Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God." And, "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" The words loosed the bands which seemed to have bound Dolly's heart in iron; she broke down, fell down on her knees in the porch, resting her head on the seat, and burst into a thunder-shower of weeping, which greatly cleared the air and relieved the oppression under which she had been labouring. This was nearly as uncommon a thing for Dolly as her former hopeless mood; she rose up feeling shaken, and yet strengthened. Ready for duty.

She went into the little sitting-room, set open the casement, and put the furniture in order, dusting and arranging. Leaving that all right, Dolly went down to the kitchen and made the fire. She was thinking what she should do for breakfast, when her little handmaid made her appearance. Dolly gave her some bread and butter and cold coffee, and sent her off to the village with a note to the doctor which she had meanwhile prepared. Left to herself then, she put on her kettle, and looked at the untouched pieces of beefsteak she had cooked last night. She knew what to do with them, thanks to Mrs. Jersey. The next thing was to go out into the dewy garden and get a handful of different herbs and vegetables growing there; and what she did with them I will not say; but in a little while Dolly had a most savoury mess prepared. Then she crept upstairs to her mother. Here everything was just as it had been all night. Dolly whispered to her mother to come down and have some breakfast. Mrs. Copley shook her head.

"You must, mother, dear. I have got something nice—and father is sleeping; he don't want you. Come! I have got it in the kitchen, for Nelly is away, and it's less trouble, and keeps the coffee hot. Come! father won't want anything for a little while, and you and I do, and must have it, or we cannot stand what is on our hands. Come, mother. Wash your face, and it will refresh you, and come right down."

The little kitchen was very neat; the window was open and the summer morning looking in; nobody was there but themselves; and so there might be many a worse place to take breakfast in. And the meal prepared was dainty, though simple. Mrs. Copley could not eat much, nor Dolly; and yet the form of coming to breakfast and the nicety of the preparation were a comfort; they always are; they seem to say that all things are not confusion, and give a kind of guaranty for the continuance of old ways. Still, Mrs. Copley did not eat much, and soon went back to her watch; and Dolly cleared the table and considered what she could have for dinner. For dinner must be as usual; on that she was determined. But the doctor's coming was the next thing on the programme.

The doctor came and made his visit, and Dolly met him in the hall as he was going away. He was a comfortable-looking man, with the long English whiskers; ruddy and fleshy; one who, Dolly was sure, had no objection, for his own part, to a good glass of wine, or even a good measure of beer, if the wine were not forthcoming.

"Your father, is it?" said the doctor. "Well, take care of him—take care of him."

"How shall we take care of him, sir?"

"Well, I've left medicines upstairs. He won't want much to eat; nor much of anything, for a day or two."

"What is it? Cold?"

"No, my young lady. Fever."

"He got himself wet in the rain, a few days ago. He was shivering last night."

"Very likely. That's fever. Must take its course. He's not shivering now."

"Will he be long ill, sir, probably?"

"Impossible to say. These things are not to be counted upon. May get up in a day or two, but far more likely not in a week or two. Good morning!"

A week or two! Dolly stood and looked after the departing chaise which carried the functionary who gave judgment so easily on matters of life and death. The question came back. What would become of her mother and her, if watching and nursing had to be kept up for weeks?—with all the rest there was to do. Dolly felt very blue for a little while; then she shook it off again and took hold of her work. Nelly had returned by this time, with a knuckle of veal from the butcher's. Dolly put it on, to make the nicest possible delicate stew for her mother; and even for her father she thought the broth might, do. She gathered herbs and vegetables in the garden again, and a messenger came from Mrs. Jersey with a basket of strawberries; Dolly wrote a note to go back with the basket, and altogether had a busy morning of it. For bread had also to be made; and her small helpmate was good for only the simplest details of scrubbing and sweeping and washing dishes. It was with the greatest difficulty after all that Dolly coaxed her mother to come down to dinner; Nelly being left to keep watch the while and call them if anything was wanted.

"I can't eat, Dolly!" Mrs. Copley said, when she was seated at Dolly's board.

"Mother, it is necessary. See—this is what you like, and it is very good, I know. And these potatoes are excellent."

"But, Dolly, he may be sick for weeks, for aught we can tell; it is a low fever. Oh, this is the worst of all we have had yet!" cried Mrs. Copley, wringing her hands.

It did look so, and for a moment Dolly could not speak. Her heart seemed to stand still.

"Mother, we don't know," she said. "We do not know anything. It may be no such matter; it may not last so; the doctor cannot tell; and anyhow, mother, God does know and He will take care. We can trust Him, can't we? and meanwhile what you and I have to do is to keep up our strength and our faith and our spirits. Eat your dinner like a good woman. I am going to make a cup of tea for you. Perhaps father would take some."

"And you," said Mrs. Copley, eyeing her. Dolly had a white kitchen apron on, it is true, but she was otherwise in perfect order and looked very lovely. "What about me?" she said.

"Doing kitchen work! You, who are fit for—something so different!" Mrs. Copley had to get rid of some tears here.

"Doing kitchen work? Yes, certainly, if that is the thing given me to do. Why not? Isn't my veal good? I'll do anything, mother, that comes to hand, provided I can do it. Mother, we don't trust half enough. Remember who it is gives me the cooking to do. Shall I not do what He gives me? And I can tell you one little secret—I like to do cooking. Isn't it good?"

Mrs. Copley made a very respectable dinner after all.

This was the manner of the beginning of Mr. Copley's illness. Faith and courage were well tried as the days went on; for though never violently ill, he never mended. Day and night the same tedious low fever held him, wearing down not his strength only but that of the two whose unaided hands had to manage all that was done. Dolly did not know where to look for a nurse, and Mrs. Copley was utterly unwilling to have one called in. She herself roused to the emergency and ceased to complain about her own troubles; she sat up night after night, with only partial help from Dolly, who had her hands full with the care of the house and the day duty and the sick cookery. And as day after day went by, and night after night was watched through, and days and nights began to run into weeks, the strength and nervous energy of them both began at times to fail. Neither showed it to the other, except as pale faces and weary eyes told their story. Mrs. Copley cried in secret, at night, with her head on the window-sill; and Dolly went with slow foot to gather her herbs and vegetables, and sat down sometimes in the porch, in the early dawn or the evening gloom, and allowed herself to own that things were looking very dark indeed. The question was, how long would it be possible to go on as they were doing? how long would strength hold out?—and money? The doctor's fees took great pinches out of Dolly's fund; and for the present there was no adding to it. Lady Brierley was away; she had gone to the seaside. Mrs. Jersey was very kind; fruit and eggs and vegetables came almost daily from the House to Dolly's help, and the kind housekeeper herself had offered to sit up with the sick man; but this offer was refused. Mr. Copley did not like to see any stranger about him. And Dolly and her mother were becoming now very tired. As the weeks went on, they ceased to look in each other's faces any more with questioning eyes; they knew too well how anxiety and effort had told upon both of them, and each was too conscious of what the other was thinking and fearing. They did not meet each other's eyes with those mute demands in them any more; but they stole stealthy glances sometimes each to see how the other face looked; what tokens of wear and tear it was showing; taking in at a rapid view the lines of weariness, the marks of anxiety, the faded colour, the languor of spirit which had gradually taken the place of the earlier energy. In word and action they showed none of all this. All the more, no doubt, when each was alone and the guard might be relaxed, a very grave and sorrowful expression took possession of their faces. Nothing else might be relaxed. Day and night the labour and the watch were unintermitting.

And so the summer wore on to an end. Dolly was patient, but growing very sad; perhaps taking a wider view of things than her mother, who for the present was swallowed up in the one care about her husband's condition. Dolly, managing the finances and managing the household, had both parents to think of; and was sometimes almost in despair.

She was sitting so one afternoon in the kitchen, in a little lull of work before it was time to get supper, looking out into the summer glow. It was warm in the small kitchen, but Dolly had not energy to go somewhere else for coolness. She sat gazing out, and almost querying whether all things were coming to an end at once; life and the means to live together, and the strength to get means. And yet she remembered that it is written—"Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed." But then,—it came cold into her heart,—it could not be said that her father and mother had ever fulfilled those conditions; could the promise be good for her faith alone? And truly, where was Dolly's faith just now? Withal, as she sat gazing out of the window, she saw that full wealth of summer, which was a pledge and proof of the riches of the hand from which it came.

"There's a gentleman, mum," Dolly's little helpmate announced in her ear. Dolly started.

"A gentleman? what gentleman? It isn't the doctor? He has been here."

"It's no him. I knows Dr. Hopley. It's no him."

"I cannot see company. Is it company, Nelly?"

"The gentleman didn't say, mum."

"Where is he?"

"He's a standin' there at the door."

Dolly slowly rose up and doubtfully took off her great kitchen apron; doubtfully went upstairs. Perhaps she had better see who it was. Mrs. Jersey might have sent a messenger,—or Lady Brierley! She went on to the hall door, which was open, and where indeed she saw a tall figure against the summer glow which filled all out of doors. A tall figure, a tall, upright figure; at first Dolly could see only the silhouette of him against the warm outer light. She came doubtfully close up to the open door. Then she could see a little more besides the tallness; a peculiar uprightness of bearing, a manly, frank face, a head of close curling dark hair, and an expression of pleasant expectation; there was a half smile on the face, and a deferential look of waiting. He stood bareheaded before her, and had not the air of a stranger; but Dolly was quite bewildered. Somebody altogether strange, and yet somehow familiar. She said nothing; her eyes questioned why, being a stranger, he should stand there with such a look upon his face.

"I am afraid I am not remembered," said the gentleman, with the smile coming out a little more. His look, too, was steady and straightforward and observant,—where had Dolly seen that mixture of quietness and resoluteness? Her eyes fell to the little cap in his hand, an officer's cap, and then light came into them.

"Oh!" she cried,—"Mr. Shubrick!"

"It is a long time since that Christmas Day at Rome," he said; a more wistful gravity coming into his face as he better scanned the face opposite to him, which the evening light revealed very fully.

"Oh, I know now," said Dolly. "I do not need to be reminded; but I could not expect to see you here. I thought you were in the Mediterranean. Will you come in, Mr. Shubrick? I am very glad to see you; but my thoughts were so far away"——

"You thought I was in the Mediterranean?" he said as he followed Dolly in. "May I ask, why?"

"Your ship was there."

"Was there; but ships are not stationary things."

"No, of course not," said Dolly, throwing open the blinds and letting the summer light and fragrance stream in. "Then, when did you see Christina?"

"Not for months. The Red Chief has been ordered to the Baltic and is there now; and I got a furlough to come to England. But—how do you do, Miss Copley?"

"I am well, thank you."

"Forgive me for asking, if that information can be depended on?"

"Yes, indeed I am well. I suppose I look tired. We have had sickness here for a good while—my father. Mother and I are tired, no doubt."

"You look very tired. I am afraid I ought not to be here. Can you make me of use? What is the matter? Please remember that I am not a stranger."

"I am very glad to remember it," said Dolly. "No, I do not feel as if you were a stranger, Mr. Shubrick, after that day we spent together. You asked what was the matter—oh, I don't know! a sort of slow, nervous fever, not infectious at all, nor very alarming; only it must be watched, and he always wants some one with him, and of course after a while one gets tired. That cannot be helped. We have managed very well."

"Not Mrs. Copley and you alone?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"It is five weeks now."

"And no improvement yet?"

"I do not know. Mother thinks a little," said Dolly, faltering. This speaking to eyes and ears of sympathy, after so long an interval, rather upset her; her lips trembled, tears came, she was upon the point of breaking down; she struggled for self-command, but her lips trembled more and more.

"I have come in good time," said her visitor.

"It is pleasant to see somebody, to be able to speak to somebody, that is so good as to care," said Dolly, brushing her hand over her eyes swiftly.

"You are worn out," said the other gently. "I am not going to be simply somebody to speak to. Miss Copley, I am a countryman, and a sort of a friend, you know. You will let me take the watch to-night."

"You!" said Dolly, starting. "Oh no!"

"I beg your pardon. You ought to say 'Oh yes.' I have had experience. I think you may trust me."

"Oh, I cannot. We have no right to let you do so."

"You have a right to make any use of me you can; for I place myself at your disposal."

"You are very kind, Mr. Shubrick!"

"Don't say anything more. That is settled," said he, taking up his cap, as if in preparation for departure. Dolly was a little bewildered by the quiet, decided manner, just like what she remembered of Mr. Shubrick; unobtrusive and undemonstrative, but if he moved, moving straight to his goal. She rose as he rose.

"But," she stammered, "I don't think you can. Father likes nobody but mother and me about him."

"He will like me to-morrow," Mr. Shubrick answered with a smile. "Don't fear; I will manage that."

"You are very kind!" said Dolly. "You are very kind!"—Already her heart was leaping towards this offered help, and Mr. Shubrick looked so resolute and strong and ready; she could hardly oppose him. "But you are too kind!" she said suddenly.

"No," said he gravely; "that is impossible. Remember, in the family we belong to, the rule is one which we can never reach. 'That ye love one another, even as I have loved you.'"

What it was, I do not know, in these words which overcame Dolly. In the words and the manner together. She was very tired and overstrung, and they found some unguarded spot and reached the strained nerves. Dolly put both hands to her face and burst into tears, and for a moment was terribly afraid that she was going to be hysterical. But that was not Dolly's way at all, and she made resolute fight against her nerves. Meanwhile, she felt herself taken hold of and placed in a chair by the window; and the sense that somebody was watching her and waiting, helped the return of self-control. With a sort of childish sob, Dolly presently took down her hands and looked up through the glistening tears at the young man standing over her.

"There!" she said, forcing a smile on the lips that quivered,—"I am all right now. I do not know how I could be so foolish."

"I know," said Mr. Shubrick. "Then I will just return to the village for half and hour, and be back here as soon as possible."

"But"—said Dolly doubtfully. "Why don't you send for what you want?"

"Difficult," said the other. "I am going to get some supper."

"Oh!" said Dolly. "If that is what you want—sit down, Mr. Shubrick. Or send off your fly first, and then sit down. If you are going to stay here to-night, I'll give you your supper. Send away the fly, Mr. Shubrick, please!"

"I do not think I can. And you cannot possibly do such a thing as you propose. I shall be back here in a very little time."

Dolly put her hand upon Mr. Shubrick's cap and softly took it from him.

"No," she said. "It's a bargain. If I let you do one thing, you must let me do the other. It would trouble me to have you go. It is too pleasant to see a friend here, to lose sight of him in this fashion. There will be supper, of some sort, and you shall have the best we can. Will you send away your fly, please, and sit down and wait for it?"

If Dolly could not withstand him, so on this point there was no resisting her. Mr. Shubrick yielded to her evident urgent wish; and Dolly went back to her preparations. The question suddenly struck her, where should she have supper? Down here in the kitchen? But to have it in order, upstairs, would involve a great deal more outlay of strength and trouble. The little maid could not set the table up there, and Dolly could not, with the stranger looking on. That would never do. She debated, and finally decided to put her pride in her pocket and bring her visitor down to the kitchen. It was not a bad place, and if he was going to be a third nurse in the house, it would be out of keeping to make any ceremony with him. Dolly's supper itself was faultless. She had some cold game, sent by Lady Brierley or by her order; she had fresh raspberries sent by Mrs. Jersey, and a salad of cresses. But Mrs. Copley would not be persuaded to make her appearance. She did not want to see strangers; she did not like to leave Mr. Copley; in short, she excused herself obstinately, to Dolly's distress. However, she made no objection to having Mr. Shubrick take her place for the night; and she promised Dolly that if she got a good night's sleep and was rested, she would appear at breakfast.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE NURSE.

Dolly made her mother's excuses, which seemed to her visitor perfectly natural, and ushered him down to the supper laid in the little kitchen; Dolly explaining very simply that her mother and she had lived there since there had been sickness in the house, and had done so for want of hands to make other arrangements possible. And Mr. Shubrick seemed also to find it the most natural thing in the world to live in the kitchen, and for all that appeared, had never taken his meals anywhere else in his life. He did justice to the supper too, which was a great gratification to Dolly; and lifted the kettle for her from the hob when she wanted it, and took his place generally as if he were one of the family. As for Dolly, there came over her a most exquisite sense of relief; a glimpse of shelter and protection, the like of which she had not known since she could hardly remember when. True, it was transient; it could not abide; Mr. Shubrick was sitting there opposite her like some one that had fallen from the clouds, and whom mist and shadow would presently swallow up again; but in the meanwhile, what a gleam of light his presence brought! He would go soon again, of course; he must; but to have him there in the meantime was a momentary comfort unspeakable. More than momentary; he would stay all night. And her mother would get a night's sleep. For her own part, this feeling of rest was already as good as sleep. Yes, for once, for a little, a strong hand had come between her and her burdens. Dolly let herself rest upon it, with an intense appreciation of its strength and sufficiency.

And so resting, she observed her new helper curiously. She noticed how entirely he was the same man she had seen that Christmas Day in Rome; the same here as there, with no difference at all. There was the calm of manner that had struck her then, along with the readiness for action; the combination was peculiar, and expressed in every turn of head and hand. Here, in a strange house, he was as absolutely at ease and unconstrained as if he had been on the quarterdeck of his own ship. Is it the habit of command? thought Dolly. But that does not necessarily give a man ease of manner in his intercourse with others who are not under his command. Meanwhile, Mr. Shubrick sat and talked, keeping up a gentle run of unexciting thoughts, and apparently as much at home in the kitchen of Brierley Cottage as if he had lived there always.

"When have you seen Christina?" Dolly asked.

"Not in some months."

"Are they at Sorrento yet?"

"No; they spent the winter in Rome, and this summer they are in Switzerland. I had a letter from Miss Thayer the other day. I mean, a few weeks ago."

It occurred to Dolly that one or the other of them must be a slack correspondent.

"I almost wonder they could leave Sorrento," she remarked.

"They got tired of it."

"I never get tired of lovely things," said Dolly. "The longer I know them the better pleasure I take in them. I could have stayed in Venice, it seemed to me, for years; and Rome—I should never have got away from Rome of my own accord, if duty had not made me; and then at Naples, I enjoyed it better the last day than the first. And Sorrento"——

"What about Sorrento?"

"Oh, it was—you know what Sorrento is. It was roses and myrtles and orange blossoms, and the fire of the pomegranate flowers and the grey of the olives; and the Italian sun, and the Italian air; and, Mr. Shubrick, you know what the Mediterranean is, with all its colours under the shadow of the cliffs and the sunlight on the open sea. And Vesuvius was always a delightful wonder to me. And the people were so nice. Sorrento is perfect." A soft breath of a sigh came from Dolly's heart.

"You do not like England so well?"

"No. Oh no! But I could like England. Mr. Shubrick, my time at Sorrento was almost without care; and you know that makes a difference."

"Would you like to live without care?" said he.

Dolly looked at him, the question seemed so strange. "Without anxious care—I should," she answered.

"That you may, anywhere."

"How is it possible, sometimes?" Dolly asked wistfully.

"May I be Yankee enough to answer your question by another? Is it any relief to you to have me come in and take the watch for to-night?"

"The greatest," said Dolly. "I cannot express to you how great it is; for mother and I have had it all to do for so long. I cannot tell you, Mr. Shubrick, in what a strange lull of rest I have been sitting here since we came downstairs. I have just let my hands fall."

"How can you be sure it is safe to do that?" he said, smiling.

"Oh," said Dolly, "I know you will take care; and while you do, I need not."

Mr. Shubrick was silent. Dolly pondered.

"Do I know what you mean?" she said.

"I think you do," he replied. "Do you remember it is written, —'Casting your care upon Him, for He careth for you'?"

"And that means, not to care myself?"

"Not anxiously, or doubtfully. You cannot trust your care to another, and at the same time keep it yourself."

"I know all that," said Dolly slowly; "or I thought I knew it. How is it, then, that it is so difficult to get the good of it?"

"Was it very difficult to trust me?" Mr. Shubrick asked.

"No," said Dolly, "because—you know you are not a stranger, Mr. Shubrick. I feel as if I knew you."

He lifted his eyes and looked at her; not regarding the compliment to himself, but with a steady, keen eye carrying Dolly's own words home to her. He did not say a word; but Dolly changed colour.

"Oh, do you mean that?" she cried, almost with tears. "Is it because I know Christ so poorly that I trust Him so slowly?"

"What else can it be? And you know, Miss Dolly, just that absolute trust is the thing the Lord wants of us. And you know it is the thing of all others that we like from one another. We need not be surprised that He likes it; for we were made in His image."

Dolly sat silent, struck and moved both with sorrow and gladness; for if it were possible so to lay down care, what more could burden her? and that she had not done it, testified to more strangeness and distance on her part towards her best Friend than she liked to think of. Her musings were interrupted by Mr. Shubrick.

"Now may I be introduced to Mr. Copley?" he said.

Dolly was rather doubtful about the success of this introduction. However, she brought her mother out of the sick-room, and took Mr. Shubrick in; and there, in obedience to his desire, left him, without an introduction; for her father was asleep.

"He will never let him stay there, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley. "He will not bear it at all." And Dolly waited and feared and hoped. But the night drew on, and came down upon the world; Mrs. Copley went to bed, at Dolly's earnest suggestion, and was soon fast asleep, fatigue carrying it over anxiety; and Dolly watched and listened in vain for sounds of unrest from her father's room. None came; the house was still; the summer night was deliciously mild; Dolly's eyelids trembled and closed, and opened, and finally closed again, not to open till the summer morning was bright and the birds making a loud concert of their morning song.

Mr. Shubrick, left alone with his patient, sat down and waited; reviewing meanwhile the room and his surroundings. It was a moderate-sized, neat, pretty room, with one window looking out upon the garden. The casement was two-leaved, and one leaf only was part open. The air consequently was close and hot. And if the room was neat, that applies only to its natural and normal condition; for if neatness includes tidiness, it could not be said at present to deserve that praise. There was an indescribable litter everywhere, such as is certain to accumulate in a sick-room if the watchers are not imbued with the spirit of order. Here were one or two spare pillows, on so many chairs; over the back of another chair hung Mr. Copley's dressing-gown; at a very unconnected distance from his slippers under a fourth chair. On still another chair lay a plate and knife with the remains of an orange; on the mantelpiece, the rest of the chairs, the tables, and even the floor, stood a miscellaneous assortment of cups, glasses, saucers, bottles, spoons, and pitchers, large and small, attached to as varied an assemblage of drinks and medicines. Only one medicine was to be given from time to time, Mr. Shubrick had been instructed; and that was marked, and he recognised it; what were all the rest of this assemblage doing here? Some books lay about also, and papers, and magazines; here a shawl, there some articles of female apparel; and a basket of feminine work. The litter was general, and somewhat disheartening to a lover of order; Mrs. Copley being one of those people who have nothing of the sort belonging to them, and indeed during the most of her life accustomed to have somebody else keep order for her; servants formerly, Dolly of late. Mr. Shubrick sat and looked at all these things, but made no movement, until by and by his patient awoke. It was long past sunset now, the room in partial twilight, yet illumination enough still reflected from a very bright sky for the two people there to see each what the other looked like. Mr. Copley used his eyes in this investigation for a few minutes in silence.

"Who are you?" he inquired abruptly.

"A friend."

"What friend? You are a friend I don't know."

"That is true; but it will not be true to-morrow," Mr. Shubrick said quietly.

"What are you here for?"

"To act the part of a friend, if you will allow me. I am here to wait upon you, Mr. Copley."

"Thank you, I prefer my own people about me," said the sick man curtly. "You may go, and send them, or some of them, to me."

"I cannot do that," said the stranger, "and you must put up with me for to-night. Mrs. Copley and your daughter are both very tired, and need rest."

"Humph!" said the invalid with a surprised grunt. "Did they send you here?"

"No. They permitted me to come. I take it as a great privilege."

"You take it before you have got it. I have not given my leave yet. What are you doing there?"

"Letting some fresh air in for you." Mr. Shubrick was setting wide open both leaves of the casement.

"You mustn't do that. The night air is not good for me. Shut the window."

"You cannot have any air at night but night air," replied Mr. Shubrick, uttering what a great authority has since spoken, and leaving the window wide open.

"But night air is very bad. I don't want it; do you hear?"

"If you will lie still a minute or two, you will begin to feel that it is very good. It is full of the breath of roses and mignonette, and a hundred other pleasant things."

"But I tell you that's poison!" cried Mr. Copley, beginning to excite himself. "I choose to have the window shut; do you hear me, sir? Confound you, I want it shut!"

The young man, without regarding this order, came to the bedside, lifted Mr. Copley's head and shook up his pillows and laid him comfortably down again.

"Lie still," he said, "and be quiet. You are under orders, and I am in command here to-night. I am going to take care of you, and you have no need to think about it. Is that right?"

"Yes," said the other, with another grunt half of astonishment and half of relief,—"that's right. But I want the window shut, I tell you."

"Now you shall have your broth. It will be ready presently."

"I don't want any broth!" said the sick man. "If you could get me a glass of wine;—that would set me up. I'm tired to death of these confounded slops. They are nothing for a man to grow strong upon. Never would make a man strong—never!"

Mr. Shubrick made no answer. He was going quietly about the room.

"What are you doing?" said the other presently, watching him.

"Making things ship-shape—clearing decks."

"What do you know about clearing decks?" said Mr. Copley.

"I will show you."

And the sick man watched with languid amusement to see how, as his new nurse went from place to place, the look of the room changed. Shawls and clothing were folded up and bestowed on a chest of drawers; slippers were put ready for use at the bedside; books were laid together neatly on the table; and a small army of cups and glasses and empty vials were fairly marched out of the room. In a little while the apartment was in perfect order, and seemed half as large again. The invalid drew a long breath.

"You're an odd one!" said he, when he caught Mr. Shubrick's eye again. "Where did you learn all that? and who are you? and how did you come here? I have a right to know."

"You have a perfect right, and shall know all about me," was the answer; "but first, here is your broth, hot and good." (Mr. Shubrick had just received it from the little maid at the door). "Take this now, and to-morrow, if you behave well, you shall have something better."

Mr. Copley suffered himself to be persuaded, took the broth, and then repeated his question.

"I am Sandie Shubrick, lieutenant in the United States navy, on board ship 'The Red Chief;' just now on furlough, and in England."

"What did you come to England for?"

"Business and pleasure."

"Which do you call this you are about now?"

"Both," said Mr. Shubrick, smiling. "Now you may lie still, and keep the rest of your questions for another time."

Mr. Copley yielded, and lay looking at his new attendant, till he dozed off into unconsciousness. Waking then after a while, hot and restless, his nurse brought water and a sponge and began sponging his face and neck and hands; gently and soothingly; and kept up the exercise until restlessness abated, breaths of satisfied content came at easy intervals; and finally Mr. Copley slumbered off peacefully, and knew no more. When he awoke the sun was shining on the oaks of Brierley Park. The window was open, as it had been all night, and by the window sat Mr. Shubrick, looking out. The sick man eyed him for a while.

"Are you asleep there?" he said at last, growing impatient of the silence. Mr. Shubrick got up and came to him.

"Good morning!" said he. "How have you rested?"

"I believe it's the best night I've had yet. What were you doing to me in the night? using a sponge to me, weren't you? It put me to sleep. I believe it would cure a man of a fever, by Jupiter."

"Not by Jupiter," said Mr. Shubrick. "And you must not say such things while I am here."

"Why not?" Mr. Copley opened his eyes somewhat.

"It is no better than counterfeit swearing."

"Would you rather have the true thing?"

"I never permit either, where I am in authority?"

"Your authority can't reach far. You've got to take the world as you find it."

"I dispute that. You've got to take the world and make it better."

"What do you do where your authority is not sufficient?"

"I go away."

"Look here," said Mr. Copley. "Do you call yourself in authority here?"

"Those are the only terms on which I could stay," said Mr. Shubrick, smiling.

"Well, see," said the other,—"I wish you would stay. You've done me more good than all the doctor and everybody else before you."

"I come after them all, remember."

"I wish you had come before them. Women don't know anything. There's my wife,—she would have let the room get to be like a Jew's old clothes shop, and never be aware of it. I didn't know what was choking me so, and now I know it was the confusion. You belong to the navy?"

"I told you so last evening," said Mr. Shubrick, who meanwhile was sponging Mr. Copley's face and hands again and putting him in order generally, so as a sick man's toilet might be made.

"By Jupiter!—I beg your pardon—I believe I am going to get over this, after all," said Mr. Copley "I am sure I shall, if you'll stay and help me."

"I will do it with pleasure. Now, what are you going to have for your breakfast?"

"But, look here. Why should you stay with me? I am nothing to you. Who's to pay you for it?"

"I do not come for pay; or rather, I get it as I go along. Make yourself easy, and tell me about your breakfast."

"How do you come here? I don't know you. Who does know you?"

"I have been a friend of your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, for many years."

"Humph. Ah! Well. About breakfast, I don't know what they have got for me downstairs; some lolypop or other."

"We'll do better for you than that," said Mr. Shubrick.

The morning meanwhile had come to the other inmates of the house. Dolly had left the sofa where she had spent the night, with a glad consciousness that the night was over and there had been no disturbance. Her mother had slept all the night through and was sleeping yet. What refreshment and comfort it was. What strength and rest, to think of that kind, calm, strong, resolute man in her father's room; somebody that could be depended upon. Dolly thought Christina ought to be a happy woman, with always such a hand to support her all her life long. "And he drinks no wine," thought Dolly; "that temptation will never overtake him; she will never have to be ashamed of him. He will hold her up, and not she him. She is happy."

The worst thing about Mr. Shubrick's coming was, that he must go away again! However, not yet; he would be seen at breakfast first; and to prepare breakfast was now Dolly's next care. Then she got her mother up and persuaded her to make herself nice and appear at the meal.

"You are never going to bring him down into the kitchen?" said Mrs. Copley, horrified, when she got there.

"Certainly, mother; it is no use trying to make a fuss. I cannot give him breakfast anywhere else."

"Then I would let him go to the village, Dolly, and get his breakfast there."

"But that would be very inhospitable. He was here at supper, mother; I don't think he was frightened. He knows just how we are situated."

"He doesn't know you have nobody to help you, I hope?"

"How could he help knowing it? The thing is patent. Never mind, mother; the breakfast will be good, if the breakfast-room is only so so. If you do not mind, nobody else will."

"That you should come to this!" said Mrs. Copley, sinking into a chair. "My Dolly! Doing a servant's work, and for strangers, and nobody to help or care! And what are we coming to? I don't see, for my part. You are ruined."

"Not yet," said Dolly cheerfully. "If I am, I do not feel like it. Now, mother, see if you can get Mr. Shubrick down here before my omelette is ruined; for that is the greatest danger just at present."

It was not quite easy to get Mr. Shubrick down there, however; he demurred very seriously; and I am afraid the omelette was something the worse before he came. But then the breakfast was rather gay. The watcher reported a quiet night, and as he was much inclined to think, an amended patient.

"Quiet!" echoed Mrs. Copley. "How could you keep him quiet?"

"I suppose I imagined myself on board ship," said the young man, smiling, "and gave orders, as I am accustomed to do there. Habit is a great thing."

"And Mr. Copley minded your orders?"

"That is understood."

"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Copley. "He never would do the least thing I or Dolly wanted him to do; not the least thing. He has been giving the orders all along; and as fidgetty as ever he could be. Fidgetty and nervous. Wasn't he fidgetty?"

"No; very docile and peaceable."

"You must be a wonderful man," said Mrs. Copley.

"Habit," said Mr. Shubrick. "As I said, it is a great thing."

"He has been having his own way all along," said Mrs. Copley; "and ordering us about, and doing just the things he ought not to do. He was always that way."

"Not the proper way for a sick room," said Mr. Shubrick. "You had better install me as head nurse."

How Dolly wished they could do that! As she saw him there at the table, with his quiet air of efficiency and strength, Dolly thought what a treasure he was in a sick house; how strong she felt while she knew he was near. Perhaps Mrs. Copley's thoughts took the same turn; she sighed a little as she spoke.

"You have been very kind, Mr. Shubrick. We shall never forget it. You have been a great help. If Mr. Copley would only get better now"——

"I am going to see him better before I go."

"We could not ask any more help of you."

"You need not," and Mr. Shubrick smiled. "Mr. Copley has done me the honour to ask me."

"Mr. Copley has asked you!" repeated Mrs. Copley in bewilderment. "What?"

"Asked me to stay."

"To stay and nurse him?"

"Yes. And I said I would. You cannot turn me away after that."

"But you have your own business in England," Dolly here put in.

"This is it, I think."

"Your own pleasure, then. You did not come to England for this."

"It seems I did," he said. "I am off duty, Miss Dolly, I told you; here on furlough, to do what I like; and there is nothing else at present that I should like half so well."

Dolly scored another private mark here to the account of Mr. Shubrick's goodness; and in the ease which suddenly came to her own mind, felt as if her head were growing light and giddy. But it was no illusion or dream. Mr. Shubrick was really there, finishing his breakfast, and really going to stay and take care of her father; and Dolly felt as if the tide of their affairs had turned.

So indeed it proved. From that time Mr. Shubrick assumed the charge of the sick-room, by night and also by day. He went for a walk to the village sometimes, and always got his dinner there; the rest of the time he was at the cottage, attending to everything that concerned Mr. Copley. Dolly and her mother were quite put away from that care. And whether it were the moral force of character, which acted upon Mr. Copley, or whether it were that his disorder had really run its length and that a returning tide of health was coming back to its channels, the sick man certainly was better. He grew better from day to day. He had been quiet and manageable from the first in his new nurse's hands; now he began to take pleasure in his society, holding long talks with him on all possible subjects. Appetite mended also, and strength was gradually replacing weakness, which had been very great. Anxiety on the one score of her father's recovery was taken away from Dolly.

Other anxieties remained, and even pressed harder, when the more immediately engrossing care was removed. In spite of Mr. Shubrick's lecture about casting off care, Dolly found it difficult to act upon the truth she knew. Her little fund of money was much reduced; she could not help asking herself how they were going to live? Would her father, as soon as he was strong enough, go back to his former ways and be taken up with his old companions? and if he did, how much longer could the little household at Brierley struggle on alone? What had become of all her father's property in America, from which in old time the income had always been more than sufficient for all their wants and desires? Was it gone irrevocably? or had only the ready money accruing from it been swallowed up in speculation or pleasure? And whence could Dolly get light on these points, or how know what steps she ought to take? Could her weakness do anything, in view of that fact to which her mother had alluded, that Mr. Copley always took his own way? It was all utter and dark confusion as she looked forward. Could Dolly trust and be quiet?

In her meditations another subject occupied her a good deal. The presence of Sandie Shubrick was such a comfort that it was impossible not to think what she would do without him when he was gone. He was a universal comfort. Since he had taken charge of the sick-room, the sickness was disappearing; while he was in command, there was no rebellion; the affairs of the household worked smoothly, and Dolly had no need to draw a single long breath of perplexity or anxiety. The sound of that even, firm step on the gravel walk or in the hall, was a token of security; the sight of Mr. Shubrick's upright, alert figure anywhere was good for courage and hope. His resolute, calm face was a light in the house. Dolly's thoughts were much busied with him and with involuntary speculations about him and Christina. It was almost unavoidable. She thought, as indeed she had thought before, that Miss Thayer was a happy woman, to have so much strength and goodness belonging to her. What a shielded life hers would be, by this man's side. He would never neglect her or prefer his interests to hers; he would never give her cause to be ashamed of him; and here Dolly's lips sometimes quivered and a hot tear or two forced their way out from under her eyelids. And how could possibly Christina so play fast and loose with him, do dishonour to so much goodness, and put off her consent to his wishes until all grace was gone out of it? Mr. Shubrick apparently had made up his mind to this treatment and was not cast down by it; or perhaps would he, so self-reliant as he was, be cast down utterly by anything?

I think perhaps Dolly thought too much about Mr. Shubrick. It was difficult to help it. He had brought such a change into her life; he was doing such a work in the house; he was so very pleasant a companion at those breakfasts and suppers in the kitchen. For his dinner Mr. Shubrick persisted in going to the village inn. He said the walk did him good. He had become in these few days quite as one of themselves. And now he would go. Mr. Copley was fast getting well, and his nurse would go. Dolly could not bear to think of it.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

UNDER AN OAK TREE.

More than a week passed, and Mr. Copley was steadily convalescent. He had not left his room yet, but he needed no longer the steady attendance of some one bound to minister to his wants. Dolly was expecting now every day to hear Mr. Shubrick say he must bid them good-bye; and she took herself a little to task for caring so much about it. What was Sandie Shubrick to her, that she should feel such a heart-sinking at the prospect of his departure? It was a very wonderful thing that he, Christina Thayer's Mr. Shubrick, should have come to help this little family in its need; it was very astonishing that he should be there even then, waiting on Dolly Copley's sick father; let her be satisfied with this so unexpected good, and bid him farewell as easily as she had bid him welcome. But Dolly could not. How could she? she said to herself. And every time she saw Mr. Shubrick she feared lest the dreaded words would fall from his lips. So when he came to her one afternoon when she was sitting in the porch, her heart gave a throb of anticipation. However, he said nothing of going, but remarked how pretty the sloping ground looked, on the other side of the little river, with its giant trees and the sunlight streaming through the branches upon the greensward.

"It is very pretty," said Dolly. "The park is beautiful. You ought to see it"—before you go, she was on the point of saying, but did not say.

"Will you come with me, and show me what I ought to look at?"

"Now?" said Dolly.

"If it is not too warm for you. We might take it easily and keep in the shadow of the trees."

"Oh, it is not too warm," said Dolly; and she ran to fetch her garden hat.

It was not August now; the summer was past, yet the weather was fit for the height of summer. Warm, spicy, dry air, showing misty in the distance like a gossamer veil, and near by a still glow over everything. The two young people wandered over the bridge and slowly mounted the bank among the oaks and beeches, keeping in the shade as much as might be. There was a glorious play of shadow and sunlight all over the woodland; and the two went softly along, hardly disturbing the wild creatures that looked at them now and then. For the woods were full of life. They saw a hare cross an opening, and grey squirrels eyed them from the great oak branches overhead; and there was a soft hum of insects filling all the silence. It was not the time of day for the birds to be merry. Nor perhaps for the human creatures who slowly passed from tree to tree, avoiding the spaces of sunlight and summer glow. They were neither merry nor talked much.

"This is very noble," said Sandie at last.

"Were you ever in England before, Mr. Shubrick?"

"Yes."

"Then you have seen many of these fine places already, perhaps?"

"No, not many. My stay has been mostly in London; though I did run down a little into the country."

"People say we have nothing like this in America."

"True, I suppose," said Sandie. "We are too young a people, and we have had something else to do."

"It is like a dream, that anybody should have such a house and such a place as Brierley," Dolly went on. "There is nothing wanting that one can imagine, for beauty and dignity and delight of living and luxury of ease. It might be the Arabian Nights, or fairyland. You must see the house, with its lovely old carvings, and pictures, and old, old furniture; and the arms of the family that built it carved and painted everywhere, on doors and chairs and mantelpieces."

"Of the family that built it?" repeated Mr. Shubrick. "Not the family that owns it now?"

"No. You see their arms too, but the others are the oldest. And then it would take you hours to go through the gardens. There are different gardens; one, most exquisite, framed in with trees, and a fountain in the middle, and all the beds filled with rare plants. But I do not like anything about the place better than these trees and greensward."

"It must be a difficult thing," said Sandie meditatively, "to use it all for Christ."

Dolly was silent a while. "I don't see how it could be used so," she said.

The other made no answer. They went slowly on and on, getting up to the higher ground and more level going, while the sun's rays coming a little more slant as the afternoon declined, gave an increasing picturesqueness to the scene. Mr. Shubrick had been for some time almost entirely silent, when Dolly proposed to stop and rest.

"One enjoys it better so," she said. "One has better leisure to look. And I wanted to talk to you, besides."

Her companion was very willing, and they took their places under a great oak, on the swell of greensward at the foot of it. Ground and grass and moss were all dry. Dolly sat down and laid off her hat; however, the proposed "talk" did not seem to be ready, and she let Mr. Shubrick wait.

"I wanted to ask you something," said she at last. "I have been wanting to ask you something for a good while."

There she stopped. She was not looking at him; she was taking care not to look at him; she was trying to regard Mr. Shubrick as a foreign abstraction. Seeing which, he began to look at her more persistently than hitherto.

"What is it?" he asked, with not a little curiosity.

"There is nobody else I can ask," Dolly went on; "and if you could give me the help I want, it would be a great thing for me."

"I will if I can."

The young man's eyes did not turn away now. And Dolly was an excessively pretty thing to look at; so taken up with her own thoughts that she was in no danger of finding out that she was an object of attention or perhaps admiration. Her companion perceived this, and indulged his eyes fearlessly. Dolly's fair, flushed face was thin with the work and the care of many weeks past; the traces of that were plain enough; yet it was delicately fair all the same, and perhaps more than ever, with the heightened spirituality of the expression. The writing on her features, of love and purity, habitual self-devotion and self-forgetfulness, patience and sweetness, was so plain and so unconscious, that it made her a very rare subject of contemplation, and, as her companion thought, extremely lovely. Her attitude spoke the same unconsciousness; her dress was of the simplest description; her brown hair was tossed into disorder; but dress and hair and attitude alike were deliciously graceful, with that mingling of characteristics of child and woman which was peculiar to Dolly. Lieutenant Shubrick was familiar with a very diverse type of womanly charms in the shape of his long-betrothed Miss Thayer. The comparison, or contrast, might be interesting; at any rate, any one who had eyes to read this type before him needed no contrast to make it delightful; and probably Mr. Shubrick had such eyes. He was quite silent, leaving Dolly to choose her time and her words at her own pleasure.

"I know you will," she said slowly, taking up his last words;—"you have already; but I am a bad learner. You know what you said, Mr. Shubrick, the day you came, that evening when we were at supper,—about trusting, and not taking care?"

"Yes."

Dolly did not look at him, and went on. "I do not find that I can do it."

"Do what?"

"Lay down care. Quite lay it down."

"It is not easy," Mr. Shubrick admitted.

"Is it possible, always? I find I can trust pretty well when I can see at least a possible way out of difficulties; but when the way seems all shut up, and no opening anywhere,—then—I do not quite lay down care. How can I?"

"There is only one thing that can make it possible."

"I know—you told me; but how then can I get that? I must be very far from the knowledge of Christ—if that is what is wanting."

Dolly's eyes filled with tears.

"No," said Mr. Shubrick gently, "but perhaps it does follow, that you have not enough of that knowledge."

"Of course. And how shall I get it? I can trust when I see some light, but when I can see none, I am afraid."

"If I promised to take you home, I mean, to America, by ways known to me but unknown to you, could you trust me and take the steps I bade you."

I am not justifying Mr. Shubrick. This was a kind of tentative speech for his own satisfaction; but he made it, watching for Dolly's answer the while. It came without hesitation.

"Yes," she said. "I should believe you, if you told me so."

"Yet in that case you would follow me blindly."

"Yes."

"Seeing no light."

"Yes. But then I know you enough to know that you would not promise what you would not do."

"Thank you. This is by way of illustration. You would not be afraid?"

"Not a bit. I see what you mean," said Dolly, colouring a little.

"Do you think there is anything friends can give one another, so precious as such trust?"

"No—I suppose not."

"Is it wonderful, if the Lord wants it of His children?"

"No. O Mr. Shubrick, I am ashamed of myself! What is the reason that I can give it to you, for instance, and not to Him? Is it just wickedness?"

"It is rather, distance."

"Distance! Then how shall I get near?"

"Do you know what a question you are asking me? One of the grandest that a creature can ask. It is the question of questions. For, to get near, is to see the Lord's beauty; and to see Him is to love Him, and to love with that absolute confidence. 'Thou wilt keep Him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee.' And, 'This is life eternal, to know thee.'"

"Then how, Mr. Shubrick?" said Dolly. "How is one to do?" She was almost tearful in her earnestness. But he spoke, earnestly enough, yet with a smile.

"There are two sides to the question. On your side, you must do what you would do in any case where you wanted to cultivate a friendship. How would that be?"

Dolly pondered. "I never put it so to myself," she said slowly, "and yet I suppose it must be so. Why, in any such case I should try to see a great deal of the person I wanted to make a friend of. I would be in the person's company, hear him talk, or hear her talk, if it was a woman; and talk to her. It would be the only way we could become known to each other."

"Translate, now."

"Translate?" said Dolly. "You mean,"——

"Apply to the case in hand."

"You mean," said Dolly, "that to study the Bible is to hear the Lord speak; and to pray, is to speak to Him."

"To study the Bible with a heart ready to obey all it finds—that is hearing the Lord speak; and if prayer is telling Him your thoughts and wishes in your own language, that is speaking to Him."

"But it is speaking without an answer."

"I beg your pardon. It is speaking without an audible answer; that is all."

"Then how does the answer come?"

"In receiving what you ask for; in finding what you seek."

Dolly brushed away a tear again.

"One needs to take a good deal of time for all that," she said presently.

"Can you cultivate a friendship on any other terms?"

"Perhaps not. This is quite a new view of the whole matter, Mr. Shubrick. To me."

"Common sense. And Bible."

"Does the Bible speak of it?"

"The Bible speaks of the life of religion as contained in our knowing God and in His knowing us."

"But He,—He knows everybody."

"Not in this way. It is the sweet knowledge of intimate friendship and relations of affection. 'I know thee by name,' was one of the reasons given why the Lord would grant Moses' bold prayer. 'I have called thee by thy name, thou art Mine,' is the word to His people Israel. 'He calleth His own sheep by name,' you know it is said of the Good Shepherd. And 'they shall all know Me,' is the promise concerning the Church in Christ. While, you remember, the sentence of dismissal to the others will be simply, 'I know you not.' And, 'the Lord knoweth them that are His.'"

There was silence; and then Dolly said, "You said there were two sides to the question."

"Yes. Your part we have talked about; it is to study, and ask, and obey, and believe. The Lord's part is to reveal Himself to you. It is a matter of revelation. You cannot attain it by any efforts of your own, be they never so determinate. Therefore your prayer must be constantly like that of Moses—'I beseech thee, show me Thy glory.' And you see, that makes your part easy, because the other part is sure."

"Mr. Shubrick, you are a very comforting talker!" said Dolly.

"Nay, I am only repeating the Lord's words of comfort."

"So I am to study, and yet study will not do it," said Dolly; "and I am to pray, and yet prayer will not give it."

"Study will not do it, certainly. But when the Lord bestows His light, study becomes illumination. No, prayer does not give it, either; yet you must ask if yon would have. And Christ's promise to one who loves Him and keeps His commandments is,—you recollect it,—'I will love him and will manifest Myself to him.'"

"That will do, Mr. Shubrick, thank you," said Dolly rising. "You need not say any more. I think I understand. And I am very much obliged to you."

Mr. Shubrick made no answer. They went saunteringly along under the great trees, rather silent both of them after that. As the sun got lower the beauty of the wooded park ground grew more exceeding. All that a most noble growth of trees could show, scattered and grouped, all that a most lovely undulation of ground surface could give, in slope and vista and broken light and shadow, was gilded here and there with vivid gold, or filled elsewhere with a sunny, misty glow of vapourous rays, as if the air were streaming with gold dust among the trees. All tints and hues of greensward, moss, and fern, under all conditions of illumination, met their wondering eyes; and for a while there was little spoken but exclamations of delight and discussion of beautiful effects that came under review. They went on so, from point to point, by much the same way that Dolly had taken on her first visit to the park; till they came out as she had done from the thinner part of the woodland, and stood at the edge of the wide plain of open greensward which stretched on up to the House. Here they stood still. The low sun was shining over it all; the great groups of oaks and elms stood in full revealed beauty and majesty; and in the distance the House looked superbly down over the whole.

"There is hardly anything about Brierley that I like better than this," said Dolly. "Isn't it lovely? I always delight in this great slope of wavy green ground; and see how it is emphasised and set off by those magnificent trees? And the House looks better from nowhere than from here."

"It is very noble—it is exceeding beautiful," Mr. Shubrick assented.

"Now this, I suppose, one could not see in America," Dolly went on; "nor anything like it."

"America has its own beauties; doubtless nothing like this. There is the dignity of many generations here. But, Miss Dolly, as I said before,—it would be difficult to use all this for Christ."

"I do not see how it could be done," said Dolly. "Mr. Shubrick, I happen to know, it takes seven or eight thousand a year—or more—to keep the place up. Pounds sterling, I mean; not dollars. Merely to keep the establishment up and in order."

"And yet, if I were its owner, I should find it hard to give up these ancestral acres and trees, or to cease to take care of them. I am glad I am a poor man!"

"Give them up?" said Dolly. "Do you think that would be duty?"

"I do not know. How could I take seven or eight thousand pounds a year just to keep up all this magnificence, when the money is so wanted for the Lord's work, in so many ways? When it would do such great things, given to Him."

"Then, Mr. Shubrick, the world must be very much mistaken in its calculations. People would not even understand you, if they heard you say that."

"Do you understand me?"

"Oh yes. And yet I cannot tell you what delight I take in all this, every time I see it. The feeling of satisfaction seems to go to my very heart. And so when I am in the house,—and the gardens. Oh, you have not seen the gardens, nor the House either; and there is no time to-day. But I do not know that I enjoy anything much more than this view. Though the House is delicious, Mr. Shubrick."

"I can believe it," he said, smiling. "You see what reason I have to rejoice that I am a poor man."

Dolly thought, poor child, as they turned and went homeward, she could hardly go so far as to rejoice that she was a poor woman. Not that she wanted Brierley; but she did dread possible privation which seemed to be before her. She feared the uncertainty which lay over her future in regard to the very necessaries of life; she shrank a little from the difficulty and the struggle of existence, which she knew already by experience. And then, Mr. Shubrick, who had been such a help and had made such a temporary diversion of her troubled thoughts, would be soon far away; she had noticed that he did not speak of some other future opportunity of seeing the house and gardens, when she remarked that it was too late to-day. He would be going soon; this one walk with him was probably the last; and then the old times would set in again. Dolly went along down among the great oaks and beeches, down the bank now getting in shadow, and spoke hardly a word. And Mr. Shubrick was as silent as she, probably as busy with his own thoughts. So they went, until they came again in sight of the bridge and the little river down below them, and a few steps more would have brought the cottage into view.

"We have come home fast," said Mr. Shubrick. "Do you think we need go in and show ourselves quite yet? Suppose we sit down here under this tree for a few minutes again, and enjoy all we can."

Dolly knew it must be approaching the time for her to see about supper; but she could not withstand the proposal. She sat down silently and took off her hat to cool herself.

"I come here very often," she said, "to get a little refreshment. It is so pleasant, and so near home."

"You call Brierley 'home.' Have you accepted it as a permanent home?"

"What can we do?" said Dolly. "Mother and I long to go back to America—we cannot persuade father."

"Miss Dolly, will you excuse me for remarking that you wear a very peculiar watch-chain," Mr. Shubrick said next, somewhat irrelevantly.

"My watch-chain! Oh, yes, I know it is peculiar," said Dolly. "For anything I know, there is only one in the world."

"May I ask, whose manufacture it is?"

"It was made by somebody—a sort of a friend, and yet not a friend either—somebody I shall never see again."

"Ah? How is that?"

"It is a great while ago," said Dolly. "I was a little girl. At that time I was at school in Philadelphia, and staying with my aunt there. O Aunt Hal! how I would like to see her!—The girls were all taken one day to see a man-of-war lying in the river; our schoolmistress took us; it was her way to take us to see things on the holidays; and this time it was a man-of-war; a beautiful ship; the 'Achilles.' My chain is made out of some threads of a cable on board the 'Achilles.'"

"You did not make it?"

"No, indeed. I could not, nor anybody else that I know. The manufacture is exquisite. Look at it," said Dolly, putting chain and watch in Mr. Shubrick's hand.

"But somebody must have made it," said the young officer, examining the chain attentively.

"Yes. It was odd enough. The others were having lunch; I could not get into the little cabin where the table was set, the place was so full; and so I wandered away to look at things. I had not seen them half enough, and then one of the young officers of the ship found me—he was a midshipman, I believe—and he was very good to me. He took me up and down and round and about; and then I was trying to get a little bit of a piece off a cable that lay coiled up on the deck and could not, and he said he would send me a piece; and he sent me that."

"Seems strong," said Mr. Shubrick, still examining the chain.

"Oh, it is very strong."

"This is a nice little watch. Deserves a better thing to carry it."

"Better!" cried Dolly, stretching out her hand for the chain. "You do not appreciate it. I like this better than any other. I always wear this. Father gave me a very handsome gold chain; he was of your opinion; but I have never had it on. This is my cable." She slipped the chain over her neck as she spoke.

"What makes you think you will never see the maker of the cable again?"

"Oh, that is a part of the story I did not tell you. With the chain came a little note, asking me to say that I had received it, and signed 'A. Crowninshield.' I can show you the note. I have it in my work-box at home. Do you know anybody of that name in the navy, Mr. Shubrick?"

"Midshipman?"

"He might not be a midshipman now, you know. That is nine years ago."

"True. I do not know of a Lieutenant Crowninshield in the navy—and I am sure there is no captain of that name."

"That is what I thought," said Dolly. "I do not believe he is alive. Whenever I saw in the papers mention of a ship of the navy in port, I used to go carefully over the lists of her officers; but I never could find the name of Crowninshield."

Mr. Shubrick here produced his pocket-book, and after some opening of inner compartments, took out a small note, which he delivered to Dolly. Dolly handled it at first in blank surprise, turned it over and over, finally opened it.

"Why, this is my note!" she cried, very much confounded. "My own little note to that midshipman. Here is my name. And here is his name. How did you get it, Mr. Shubrick?" she asked, looking at him. But his face told her nothing.

"It was given to me," he said.

"By whom?"

"By the messenger that brought it from you."

"The messenger? But you you—you—are somebody else!"

Mr. Shubrick laughed out.

"Am I?" said he. "Well, perhaps,—though I think not."

"But you are not that midshipman?"

"No. I was he, though."

"Your name,—your name is not Crowninshield?"

"Yes. That is one of my names. Alexander Crowninshield Shubrick, at your service."

Dolly looked at him, like a person awake from a dream, trying to read some of the remembered lineaments of that midshipman in his face. He bore her examination very coolly.

"Why—Oh, is it possible you are he?" cried Dolly with an odd accent of almost disappointment, which struck Mr. Shubrick, but was inexplicable. "Why did you not sign your true name?"

"Excuse me. I signed my true name, as far as it went."

"But not the whole of it. Why didn't you?"

"I had a reason. I did not wish you to trace me."

"But please, why not, Mr. Shubrick?"

"We might say, it was a boy's folly."

"I shall not say so," said Dolly, tendering the note back. "I daresay you had some reason or other. But I cannot somehow get my brain out of a whirl. I thought you were somebody else!—Here is your note, Mr. Shubrick. I cannot imagine what made you keep it so long."

His hand did not move to receive the note.

"I have been keeping it for this time," he answered. "And now, I do not want to keep it any longer, Miss Dolly, unless—unless I may have you too."

Dolly looked at him now with a face of startled inquiry and uneasiness. Whether she were more startled or incredulous of what she heard, it would be impossible to say. The expression in her eyes grew to be almost terror. But Mr. Shubrick smiled a little as he met them.

"I kept the note, for I always knew, from that time, that I should marry that little girl, if ever I could find her,—and if she would let me."

Dolly's face was fairly blanched. "But—you belong to somebody else," she said.

"No," said he,—"I beg your pardon. I belong to nobody in the world, but myself. And you."

"Christina told me"——

"She told you true," said Mr. Shubrick quite composedly. "There was a connection subsisting between us, which, while it lasted, bound us to each other. It happened, as such things happen; years ago we were thrown into each other's company, in the country, when I was home on leave. My home was near hers; we saw a great deal of each other; and fancied that we liked each other more than the fact was, or rather in a different way. So we were engaged; on my part it was one of those boyish engagements which boys frequently form before they know their own minds, or what they want. On the other side you can see how it was from the circumstances of the case. Christina did not care enough about me to want to be married; she always put it off; and I was not deeply enough concerned to find the delay very hard to bear. And then, when I saw you in Rome that Christmas time, I knew immediately that if ever in the world I married anybody, it would be the lady that wore that chain."

"But Christina?" said Dolly, still with a face of terrified trouble. Was then Mr. Shubrick a traitor, false to his engagements, deserting a person to whom, whether willingly or not, he was every way bound? He did not look like a man conscious of dishonourable dealing, of any sort; and he answered in a voice that was both calm and unconcerned.

"Christina and I are good friends, but not engaged friends any more. Will you read that?"

He handed Dolly another letter as he spoke, and Dolly, bewildered, opened it.

"Ischl, May 6, 18—.

"DEAR SANDIE,—"You are quite ridiculous to want me to write this letter, for anybody that knows you, knows that whatever you say is the truth, absolutely unmixed and unvarnished. Your word is enough for any statement of facts, without mine to help it. However, since you will have it so, here I am writing.

"But really it is very awkward. What do you wish me to say, and how shall I say it? You want a testimony, I suppose. Well, then, this is to certify, that you and I are the best friends in the world, and mean to remain so, in spite of the fact that we once meant to be more than friends, and have found out that we made a mistake. Yes, it was a mistake. We both know it now. But anybody may be mistaken; it is no shame, either to you or me, especially since we have remedied the error after we discovered it. Really, I am in admiration of our clear-sightedness and bravery, in breaking loose, in despite of the trammels of conventionality. But you never were bound by those trammels, or any other, except what you call 'duty.' So I herewith declare you free,—that is what you want me to say, is it not?—free with all the honours, and with the full preservation of my regards and high consideration. Indeed, I do not believe I ever shall hold anybody else in quite such high consideration; but perhaps that very fact made me unfit to be anything but your friend. I am afraid you are too good for me, in stern earnest; but I have a notion that will be no disadvantage to you in certain other sweet eyes that I know; the goodness, I mean, not anything else.