Except for the desire for a beverage that was not champagne, Reggie did not think a great deal about what he supposed was usual at weddings, till he caught a whisper between two girls whom he was piloting to see some ducklings on the pond at the bottom of the garden.

"Howard can't walk straight already," whispered one with a giggle.

"Isn't it horrid!" answered the other, "Leslie Johns took me round the garden just now, and he told me he had had far more champagne than Howard had, but Howard has a weak head. Howard wanted me to go to the conservatories with him. I'm glad I didn't; I should have been positively ashamed to be seen with him. Why can't such fellows let champagne alone?"

"They might at least know when to stop," sneered the first speaker.

Reggie, leading the way a few paces in front, between close rows of gooseberry bushes, heard every word, and he set his teeth.

The subtle distinction between the man who had taken a quantity of champagne and shewed no effects, and the man who had only had a little and showed it, did not appeal to him. He felt a vast pity for Howard, though he had not the slightest idea who Howard might be.

He got rid of his charges sooner than he had hoped, for a hint that the bride would soon be down from changing her dress, reached the girls and made them hurry back to the house, and Reggie, suddenly sick at heart with combined remembrances that he and everybody else must probably, in the general gathering of guests to one place, see poor Howard's faltering footsteps, and the thought of Gertrude enjoying herself so much that she could not write for his birthday, made his way slowly and by a circuitous route back to the main party.

He was nearing the house when a turn in the path brought him face to face with a young and handsomely-dressed woman, his own Bank Manager's wife, Mrs. Gray.

"Oh, Reggie!" she said with a sort of gasp, "oh, Reggie, whatever shall I do? Look!"



CHAPTER XII.

MASTER AND MAN.

Reggie looked in the direction indicated. Down a vista of pink and white apple blossom that seemed in its pure loveliness to emphasize the miserableness and shame of sin, came two men, stumbling and laughing and stumbling again and holding each other up. One was Mr. Gray, the Bank Manager, the other, as Reggie guessed in a moment, was Howard Bushman, of whom he had just heard.

One glance was enough for Reggie, and his eyes came back to his companion. She was white and shivering.

"Oh Reggie!" she said again, "help him, do help him, it will ruin him."

Just behind her was a small summer-house. It came to Reggie all in a moment what to do.

"Go and sit down in there," he said gently, "and when Mr. Gray comes, keep him with you till I get back."

Then he went swiftly to meet that stumbling, laughing pair, and he spoke as gently as he had done to the poor wife.

"Mrs. Gray is sitting down in that summer-house," he said, "I think she wants you. Will you stay with her while I run to the house for something?"

The Bank Manager laughed foolishly.

"He! He! Reggie! Looking after the ladies, as usual! Bring some champagne, my lad, and we'll have a nice little spree on the quiet."

But Reggie had not waited for directions.

He walked swiftly towards the house, but he did not wish to appear hurried or to be on any secret errand, and as he went his thoughts flew hither and thither bewilderingly.

For this man was his master. This man whom he had been asked to help, had much of the making or marring of Reggie's prospects in his hand, and to interfere, especially in such a delicate matter, was almost certainly to incur more anger, more abiding, unredeemable displeasure, than for any other misdemeanour.

And yet, for four months Reggie had been praying for this very man!

Three years before, when Charlie Henchman had come to the engineering college in the town, he had sought out the loneliest fellow that he knew and for Christ's sake had endeavoured to cheer and uplift and help him by just being companionable to him. And the loneliest fellow that Charlie knew was Reggie Alston, and after they had been companions for quite a long time they found out that they both knew the Brougham family, a link which drew them to be more than companions,—to be friends.

Now Charlie was gone, and Reggie had promised him to seek out some lonely fellow too, and try to help him and cheer him and lead him nearer to Christ. He had prayed to be shown the right fellow, but among all his acquaintances there was no one lonely; one name, and one name only, seemed laid upon his heart, the name of Mr. Gray, his own Manager and master!

But as yet Reggie had done nothing more than to pray for him earnestly and regularly, for there seemed nothing else possible. For how could a junior Bank clerk seek out the companionship of his superior and invite him to supper or to cycle or to go with him to church?

He had been asked to help him now, and if those ways in which he had wished to help some fellow had seemed impossible, in this case how much more impossible were these circumstances? For to help in this way could only bring the downfall of all Reggie's hopes of promotion, and put off that day when he could tell Gertrude that his home was ready for her.

Yet with all these thoughts surging through his brain, Reggie felt that the call of duty had come to him, and to refuse would be to refuse to take up his Cross and follow Christ. As he took four cups of strong black coffee back to the summer-house, he realised that the Cross is the place of suffering and of death.

He had scarcely been five minutes on his errand and the little party in the summer-house had neither been added to nor diminished, and hope had brought a little colour back to Mrs. Gray's woe-begone face.

A simple straightforwardness was one of Reggie's characteristics. He put a cup of coffee into the manager's hand.

"You'd better drink it, Mr. Gray," he said quietly, "it's—it's refreshing, and then if you'd just take Mrs. Gray home—I'm sure she would feel better at home, and the bride has gone, so we can all slip away together. People are beginning to go now."

Mrs. Gray hated black coffee, but she drank her cup bravely, and looked all the better for it too.

"That stuff is refreshing," said Howard, suddenly, with a nod towards the empty cups, as the four left the summer-house, to make their farewells. "I felt rotten, but I feel as right as a trivet now."

Mr. Gray said nothing. He knew perfectly well that he was being helped, and his pride fiercely resented it, but Reggie's three years of quiet faithful work had had its influence, and the clinging touch of Mrs. Gray's hand on his arm softened him, and he said to himself that Reggie had an unbounded cheek, but there was really nothing to wait for any longer, now that the bride had gone.

But there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. The bride's mother, shaking hands and saying pleasant nothings to the first of her departing guests, looked at Mr. Gray reproachfully.

"Mr. Gray! you are never going to desert us already! We want our brightest stars to help illumine our darkness. Mrs. Gray feeling ill? Surely, my dear Elaine, you do not need three gentlemen to take you home!"

The colour flamed into Mrs. Gray's cheeks.

"My husband is taking me home," she said proudly, "Mr. Alston and Mr. Bushman happen to be leaving at the same time."

"It is rather early," admitted Mr. Gray. He had caught sight of a fresh tray of glasses going the round of a circle of his acquaintances, and he decided not to be managed any longer, but to do as he chose.

"Look here, Elaine!" he said in a low tone, "you let Reggie take you home. I won't be a few minutes, but I must speak to Thornton. I've been looking for him all the afternoon, and it's really important."

"I'm sure you are not in a hurry, Howard," said the hostess.

So Reggie and Mrs. Gray found themselves outside the gate alone.

"I'll never go inside that gate again," cried Mrs. Gray, angrily. Then she added piteously, "Oh, Reggie, I thought we had got him safe."

"So did I," said Reggie, ruefully.

"What can I do?" she moaned, "I've seen it coming on little by little, and now he's beginning not to care so much if—if people guess. I'm glad you know, Reggie; it's a comfort to have somebody to speak to. I used to think I should be perfectly happy if I had plenty of money—we girls at home used to be poor till Aunt died and left us her property, just before I was engaged, and now, often, I think I would so willingly have just John's income—and it's only a small income for so responsible a position—or work hard myself, if I could be sure of—of him. But there it is," she added sadly. "Tell me what I can do, Reggie."

"You can pray for him," said Reggie, earnestly, "God does hear and answer prayer and He can save to the uttermost." He hesitated and then added in a lower tone,

"Mrs. Gray, are you an abstainer yourself?"

"Well, not quite," said she, "but I hardly take anything."

Reggie nodded.

"Yes, but you take as much as you care to, and he takes as much as he cares to. That is how Mr. Gray would look at it, and the way God looks at it is this, 'Judge this rather that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother's way. Anything whereby thy brother stumbleth or is offended or is made weak.'"

They had reached the Bank and she held out her hand with a sigh.

"Thank you," she said, "well, I'll think about it."

Reggie walked on to the corner of his own road and stood looking down it distastefully.

Here he was in the middle of Bank holiday afternoon, in his best clothes, with nowhere to go and no one to speak to, feeling as if his life and himself and everything else were an utter failure. If he had only had on his cycling suit, he might have contemplated a ride, but the thought of turning into his dull lodgings, even to change, was unbearable, and the writing of a letter to Gertrude, with which he had beguiled many a lonely hour before, was not possible to-day.

He turned at the sound of quick footsteps behind him, and heard his name called.

"Why! Mr. Alston!" said the cheerful voice of the Scotch minister's little wife, "you look as if you belonged to nobody, and nowhere!"

Then, seeing instantly that her words had hit too near the mark, she added quickly,

"I wish, if you aren't engaged, you would come home to supper with us. I always feel as if I wanted to be entertained after a wedding, as if it were very dull to go home to just an ordinary tea, and its being a Bank holiday seems to emphasise the feeling. Mr. Mackenzie and I were just saying so, weren't we, Will?"

"That is so," assented Mr. Mackenzie, with his grave smile, "I hear, Mr. Alston, that you are musical and might have played our organ for the marriage had we but known it. I have the organ keys, if you would care to try the instrument. It was unfortunate that our organist was away. I like a little singing at a wedding."

Reggie's face beamed.

"I'd like to come, awfully," he said, "what time shall I turn up?"

"Why, now!" said Mrs. Mackenzie, "we'll have tea at once and then the garden-boy shall blow for you, and we'll be audience, and then we can have supper and talk."

"That's the chief item in the programme, isn't it?" said her husband, with a twinkle.

Reggie tried to smother a laugh but did not succeed. This unexpected treat had wonderfully cheered his drooping spirits, and he laughed and chatted merrily as they walked to the Manse; but beneath the outward pleasure that the invitation gave him, there was running an undercurrent of deep happiness, for he knew that in the moment of the most intense loneliness, the most utter hopelessness that he had ever known, God had sent His angel and delivered him.

And Mrs. Mackenzie talked on in her usual cheerful, lighthearted way and never dreamed that she had been God's angel to any one that afternoon. Reggie was too shy to tell her, and she had not the key to the thoughts of the young organist who first woke the echoes of the church for her, with the strains of,

But the Lord is mindful of His own, He remembers His children.

That was for to-day and for to-morrow too, in Reggie's mind. As the evening wore on, the dread of the to-morrow morning, when at nine o'clock he must meet Mr. Gray, grew upon him. That his interference had been resented, even while it was accepted, Reggie had seen quite plainly, and to-morrow was coming nearer with each tick of the clock.



CHAPTER XIII.

BEARDING THE LION.

When Reggie entered the Bank just before nine o'clock on the following morning, his heart was going pit-a-pat, for he knew his chief well enough to be certain that it was impossible to count upon how he would look at yesterday's happenings. He might never think of the occurrence again, or he might refer to it with an easy laugh at Reggie's stricter principles, or he might be riding the high horse and resent the interference to an extent which Reggie knew would be long enduring, if it ever ceased at all.



So much depended on how Mrs. Gray had dealt with the matter, and on how long her husband had remained with his convivial friends, and on these two points Reggie had no knowledge. Yet much of the success which attended his efforts for Mr. Gray this morning, had their beginning in the fact that Mrs. Gray had received her husband late the night before, with no word of reproach, but had treated him with unusual gentleness and affection, and he had come down to his work this morning softened by love, and not hardened by bitter words or arguments. Reggie chided himself for thinking so much of the harm he might have done his own future, but with another morning's post in, and no birthday letter from Gertrude, he felt more sore and more uneasy. If his prospects at the Bank became gloomy, what would be his chances of securing Gertrude?

But when he went into Mr. Gray's private room, nothing was written so plainly on the Manager's face as headache and dejection; and a great wave of pity and desire, swept away from Reggie all thought of himself and of his own happiness.

What could he do to help this man who was slipping down into the bondage of strong drink?

What had Mrs. Gray said and done, he wondered, as he listened to the dull, listless voice in which Mr. Gray bade him take the omnibus at once, and proceed to the house of a wealthy client who lived three miles out of the town, and who had been taken ill and wished to transact some business.

There was no opportunity now to think of anything but the matters to be arranged with the wealthy client, which were important and urgent, and the minutes before the omnibus started were few, so the moment Reggie was sure he understood his errand he took his hat, relocked his desk and stepped out from the Bank, well pleased to be leaving the town for a country outing, on such a lovely April morning.

But as he glanced down the long, sunny street, he saw something which suddenly arrested his footsteps.

Only a gentleman crossing the road and coming towards him, but a gentleman whose identity was unmistakable even at this distance, by reason of a very peculiar lameness. A gentleman who was one of the largest shareholders, and had much influence in the Bank—a man who was so stern a teetotaller that he could forgive any sin sooner than intemperance.

In one instant Reggie was back in the Bank, Mr. Gray's hat was in his hand, and he was standing beside the astonished Manager. "Quick!" he said breathlessly. "You go down to Muirend House instead of me—here's your hat! Don't ask any questions, and when you get outside, turn to the left and don't look behind you on any account. Never mind the omnibus; it will do you good to walk! Quick—or you'll be too late."

"What?" demanded Mr. Gray, "are you going wrong in the head, Reggie?"

Reggie repeated his request, still breathlessly, and there was something so insistent in his manner, so beseeching in his eyes, and his three years of patient faithful work, so rose up to help his influence, that the Manager actually stood up, laid down his pen and took his hat.

"I suppose you know what you are playing at," said he, a little coldly. "What is it I am to do? Turn to the left and not look behind me!"

"Yes! that's it," said Reggie eagerly; "oh, be quick, or it will be too late."

"And I'm to walk, though it's three miles," said the Manager. "Well! take care of the Bank; it appears to me that it has a new Manager!"

He passed out through the swing doors, and a couple of minutes went by and he did not return, and Reggie began to breathe freely, till the fear struck him that after all, his efforts had been of no use if Mr. Bowles, the lame gentleman, had just caught Mr. Gray on the pavement outside, but even as the thought darted into his mind, the doors swung open again, and the lame gentleman entered and looked round. "Mr. Gray?" said he, interrogatively, as Reggie came forward.

"Mr. Gray has just gone down to Muirend to see Mr. Collins, who is very ill."

"It is very inconvenient of him," said Mr. Bowles irritably, "I wrote so that he should get the letter by the first post this morning."

Reggie glanced down at the pile of letters he had just brought from Mr. Gray's room to open.

"It will be here, I expect," he said politely, "can I take your instructions?"

Mr. Bowles grunted and scowled, but nevertheless he followed Reggie into the Manager's room and ran through what he had come to say, and watched Reggie's careful noting down of the points.

"So Lily Jarrold got married yesterday," he said abruptly, as Reggie finished. "I suppose champagne ran like rivers, and half you fellows got drunk, and the girls did not know what they were laughing at, eh? Were you there?"

"I was there," answered Reggie, a trifle stiffly, "it was a very pretty wedding, and she looked awfully happy."

"Humph!" said the old gentleman, "but wasn't it as I said, afterwards?"

"I did not stay late—and I am an abstainer," said Reggie, wishing his visitor would depart. He glanced at the pile of unopened letters he had brought back with him, and Mr. Bowles intercepted the glance.

"Well! well!" said he, "that's a good hearing, my boy, and I see you are wishing I'd be off and let you get at your work. Industry is of the utmost importance, my lad, and you'll rise to be Manager, one day! Tell Mr. Gray I need not see him till next week as he left such a capable second. Good morning."

That was over. Reggie saw him out, opened the letters, and went through the usual routine of his morning work, and welcomed back his fellow clerk who had been away for the Easter. The clock ticked peacefully on, till it was past noon, and then at last the swing doors opened once more to admit the Manager.

He passed straight through to his room, closing the door behind him. A moment later he opened it again.

"Mr. Alston!" he said.

"Now for it," thought Reggie.

Mr. Gray was seated at his table and he motioned Reggie to the seat usually assigned to clients, and there was a pause. Reggie felt all his courage oozing out at the toes of his boots. All that he had thought it possible he might say to Mr. Gray on this question, all his arguments, all his reasons, his pleas, seemed to melt away into thin air, and he wondered however he had dared to interfere in another man's life, and that man his master, even to the degree of wishing to help him and praying for him, much more in openly offering him coffee, and sending him out of the sight of condemning eyes!

But with the remembrance of that four months of daily prayer for this man, came the remembrance of words spoken long ago to faint-hearted men. "The battle is not yours, but God's." That made all the difference.

Then Mr. Gray spoke, coldly, hardly.

"And now, Mr. Alston, what is the meaning of all this?"

Reggie leant forward eagerly.

"Mr. Gray, don't be angry, it was just Mr. Bowles coming along. I saw him as I got outside and—and—you know what he is, and—I thought—you could do the Muirend business—and—oh, I wish you would give up this strong drink, it is going to ruin you, body and soul!"

It was out. The bitter truth had been put into words; the young clerk had told his Manager that he knew his sin and degradation. The words had been spoken, and never again could things be as they had been before they were spoken, and Reggie knew it, and he knew that the man who sat before him with his face shaded with his hand, was a proud, proud man.

The clock ticked on loudly and evenly. There seemed nothing more for Reggie to say, and Mr. Gray did not break the silence. He was filling in the details of Reggie's broken words and he knew Mr. Bowles well enough to do it very accurately. He had reason to believe that Mr. Bowles had made a special visit on this special morning with intent. He knew, ah, far more truly than Reggie did, that this temptation was ruining his worldly position. Reggie had saved his reputation for this time and he could not but thank him, and yet—and yet—how hard it was to humble himself to say so; and there stretched before his weary eyes those times, coming oftener and oftener, when his reputation would not be saved, and he would sink lower in men's estimation, and that would come to be openly said, which was already a whisper, that the Bank Manager drank.

His thoughts came back to Reggie with a start. Reggie had asked him to give up strong drink!

"Reggie!" he said hoarsely, passing by all else that had been said, "you don't know what you are asking!"

"Yes, I do!" said Reggie firmly, "and you'll want outside help."

"Ah!" said the manager sadly, "I have thought sometimes, that if we'd had a child, Elaine and I, it would have made it easier. I might have done it for the child's sake."

"Suppose that God did not dare to risk the child in your hands," said Reggie solemnly, "suppose, if He sent a child, then you had not the strength to give up the drink?"

And as the words fell from Reggie's lips there came a sound from the outer office that made both the men start.

"Father!" said a little treble voice which rang through the Bank. "Father! father! let me do it."

The manager raised himself so that he could see over the frosted glass in the door which gave on to the front premises, but Reggie had no need to look. He recognised the clear child's voice. He seemed to see little Cyril Mackenzie's round, rosy face lifted confidingly to his father's as he had seen it only last night. And Mr. Gray saw the bright little lad, and he sat down again in his seat with a groan, and hid his face in his hands.

"Suppose—" he said, "suppose I haven't the strength to give it up now."

"It was the help of Jesus Christ, our Saviour, that I meant. He will give you the strength if you will let Him, and I will help you all I can, if you will let me," answered Reggie earnestly.



CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNWELCOME GUEST.

Denys had undertaken, at the earnest request of the woman at the Landslip Cottage, to take care of Harry as far as to Mixham Junction, where his uncle would meet him.

She was on her way to the Landslip cottage to make sure that the arrangements for meeting Harry at the station the following day were all complete, a duty which had obliged her to give up a two hours' drive with Mrs. Henchman, Audrey and Gertrude, who had all gone with a friend of Mrs. Henchman's.

Denys had, however, scarcely entered the Landslip road when she encountered little Harry and his kind friend, and being thus saved more than an hour's walk, she arrived back at Mrs. Henchman's house much sooner than she had expected.

Mary opened the door for her, and Denys was struck by her woebegone, weary face. For a moment Denys hesitated, thinking of that accusation of interference, thinking of Mary's constant ungraciousness to her, but she pushed the remembrance aside and said kindly, "Is anything the matter, Mary? You look so sad."

Tears sprang into Mary's eyes at the unexpected interest.

"It's my head, Miss," she said, "one of my bad headaches, and its so unfortunate to-day, because my brother is just coming home for this one evening, and Mrs. Henchman was going to let me go special, and by after tea I sha'n't be able to hold my head up, and I've not seen him for two years, and he's my favourite."

"Perhaps you can see him to-morrow," suggested Denys.

"No, Miss; he's a gentleman's servant, he is, and he's always travelling about. It was just this one chance, and now I've missed it."

"I've some headache pills—they are wonderful for nervous headaches. You would not like to try them, would you?" asked Denys. "Mother has these dreadful nervous headaches and nothing else has ever been any good to her."

"I'd try them, Miss, and be thankful."

Denys ran upstairs and came back to the kitchen, "Could you not just lie down for half-an-hour's sleep?" she said, "you might wake up with it all gone."

Mary shook her head dolefully.

"It's the milkman, Miss, and I wouldn't hear the door bell in my room."

Denys laughed.

"I have attended on the milkman before now, and I can open the front door if necessary," said she cheerfully. "Now run away upstairs, and I'll call you in plenty of time to get the tea ready. I don't suppose I had better undertake that!"

"You are real good, Miss," said Mary gratefully, "if I do see my brother to-night, I shall tell him it was all your doing."

Denys smiled to herself happily as she went back to the dining-room, and sat down to write to Charlie and to listen for the door bell. She had hated to go away with the remembrance of Mary's unpleasant looks, and the little bit of sympathy she had offered had turned Mary into a friend.

When Denys and Gertrude arrived at the station the next day, little Harry was already there, smiling and radiant. He greeted Denys as a very old friend, and did not appear to be the least homesick. The journey was of the most intense interest to him, till at last the rush and roar of the train made him drowsy, and he climbed contentedly into Denys's arms and fell asleep.

Denys sat watching him for a long time, wondering what his new life was to be, and she was somewhat surprised to find Gertrude's eyes also fixed upon the little face.

"I hope the people that child is going to will be good to him," she said. "What do you know about them?"

"Nothing!" said Denys. "His mother said her brother had promised to take him, but she had never seen the wife. Perhaps we shall see her at Mixham, but anyhow, we can't do anything except look him up now and then."

"Humph!" said Gertrude, "I should pity anybody who was in charge of the woman who washes at the house at the bottom of our garden. She comes from Mixham; Pattie used to be engaged to her brother. She looks a perfect vixen."

"Used to be engaged?" repeated Denys, startled. "You don't mean to say it is broken off? Poor Pattie!"

"Not poor Pattie at all," answered Gertrude sharply. "He was as poor as anything, and his isn't the sort of trade where they ever get much money. Why, here's Mixham! Where's that child's hat? Wake up, Tommy, or Harry, or whatever your name is!"

Jim Adams, as he had promised, had come down to meet Harry, and if he had been asked what sort of a child he was going to look for, he would have pointed to one of a dozen little urchins, playing up and down his own street, and said that boys were all alike.

So, as he was looking for a nondescript boy in knickers and jacket and cap and heavy boots, it was little wonder that he looked in vain among the crowd of travellers who poured out of the big train on the Junction platform, and he was proportionately surprised when a young lady with red-brown hair and a sweet face touched him on the arm.

"Do you happen to be Mr. Jim Adams?" she asked in her soft, pretty voice.

Jim gasped as he looked down at her, and saw the child she was holding by the hand. A child in petticoats, almost a baby it seemed to him, with a little black kilted frock and sailor coat, and a big white hat with a black ribbon, and underneath it, golden curls and the sweetest little face he had ever seen since last he saw his sister Nellie's face!

He knew it in a moment, and his heart went out to the child with an intensity of love that astonished even himself, and an awful sort of choke came into his throat as he stooped and lifted Nellie's child in his arms.

"Hullo! little chap! I'm Uncle Jim," he said.

Harry looked at him approvingly.

"I'm going to live along with you!" he said. "Mother's gone away," he added mournfully.

The clasp of Jim's arms tightened on the little fellow.

"I'm going to look after you now," he whispered. Then he remembered Denys's presence and he turned to her.

"Thank you for bringing him up, Miss. They say as you was very kind to my poor sister, and I thank you for that too. I'll do my best by the little chap."

"There was one thing," said Denys, hesitatingly. It did not seem so easy to say as she had thought. The handsome, tall young workman before her took away her breath somewhat, and she wished she had written what Nellie Lyon had particularly asked her to impress upon Jim.

"Yes, Miss," said Jim wonderingly.

"She wanted him to be brought up an abstainer," explained Denys, "as she and you were brought up."

Jim's eyes dropped.

"Yes," he said after a moment, "Yes, he shall, and so shall my own baby! I'll give 'em all the chance I can to start right. I've been trying to do without anything myself for this two months," he added, with a shy little laugh.

"I'm glad of that—we were all brought up so," said Denys, heartily, "now Mr. Adams, I may come and see Harry if I am in Mixham any time, mayn't I? He's such a dear, lovable little chap."

"That you may, Miss! any time," cried Jim earnestly, "and I thank you once again, and I'll do my best—every way."

He strode off with Harry still in his arms, well pleased with his new possession, and turned his steps towards home. But as he drew nearer to his own door, his speed slackened. What sort of a welcome would Jane give him—and the child?

He had the sense to put him down and let him walk into his new home, and so, hand in hand, the big uncle and the little nephew presented themselves before Jane.

She looked at the pair for a moment in silence, and then burst into a loud, ironical laugh.

"I always knew you were a cheat, Jim Adams! You talked enough about your sister's boy and you've brought a baby in petticoats."

"I'm not a baby—I'm going in four," said Harry gravely, "that's a baby in there," pointing to the cradle. He crossed the room and looked curiously down at the baby, and the baby, pleased with the kind little face, laughed and threw out its arms.

"Can't I have him out to play with? He likes me," cried Harry, "look, Uncle Jim, he's pulling my finger."

Jim lifted out his baby and sat down, and Harry stood beside him, lost in admiration.

"Well, this is a nice set-out," said Jane crossly, as she looked at the happy little trio, "the first thing you do, Jim Adams, is to get that boy some breeches. I'm not going to wash a lot of petticoats." She stooped and lifted Harry's frock—the little black frock that Nellie had prepared weeks ago, ready for this very time, knowing that there would be no one to buy mourning for her child.

Jane examined the petticoats, and her face relaxed a little.

"Humph!" she said, "they're not such bad petticoats! They'll do for baby finely. You can sell the frock, if you like, Jim Adams, that's no good to me, and it will help towards the breeches."

"Indeed I won't," answered Jim fiercely, "if I part with the frock, I'll give it away. Who made your pretty frock, Harry, boy?"

Harry looked down at himself proudly.

"My mother made that," he said, "that's my bestest frock. She made it ages ago, but she wouldn't never let me wear it."

Jim's eyes filled and he turned hastily to the window that Jane might not perceive it.

"Don't you part with that frock, Jane," he said.

Jane snorted.

"Tea's ready!" she said ungraciously.

The meal was about half through when she started a new subject.

"Where's the brat's bed?" said she.

"His bed?" repeated Jim, helplessly.

"His bed," she reiterated, "I suppose you thought he'd share the baby's cradle!"

Jim kept what he had thought to himself.

"You must go and get one somewhere," decreed his wife.

Jim rose obediently and went downstairs. In about half an hour he returned with his arms full of irons, blankets and bedding.

"Here, Harry, boy," he said, "uncle's got a jolly little bed for you!"

"Where did you get that?" demanded Jane.



CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST HOPE.

Little Harry Lyon found the circumstances of his fresh life so entirely different from his old existence, that he seemed a greater stranger to himself than the most strange of those who peopled his new world.

To begin with, he was, to use his aunt's own term, "breeched" the next day, and his petticoats became the big baby's property, while his precious best frock was poked unceremoniously into a box under his aunt's bed.

He looked after it with longing eyes. He had waited so long to wear it and it seemed too bad to have it taken away when he had only worn it so few times, and it was made with a pocket, the first he had ever had. As he saw the box slammed down, he remembered with a pang that in the pocket was his little bestest white handkerchief with lace on it and in the corner of the handkerchief, tied in an easy knot, was a penny that Denys had given him.

He had never dared to ask her again for even a ha'penny, but one day she had given him a bright penny that shone like gold and he had treasured it with utmost joy, more because he had not asked for it, than for its value as a penny.

The edge of the box which held his treasures stuck out from under the bed, and he watched it for a long time, resolving in his little mind that one day he would manage somehow to get his own again.

The confinement of his new life irked him as much as his breeches, for he had been used to wandering about the Landslip and the Whitecliff beach at his own pleasure, and now there were but two rooms to wander in, or at best a short and narrow street, beyond whose limits he was forbidden to go, and it was filled with rough and noisy children who pushed him and pinched him and who roared vociferously whenever they saw him, after they discovered that his name was Lyon.

He had always made friends with all the sailors and visitors at Whitecliff, but here the men and women hurried about their business and never even glanced at the golden-headed little chap, and there were no boats to be pulled up and pushed out, and no tide, and no sands, and no—no anything.

Harry stood at the top of the dull street looking forlornly about him, when he came to that conclusion, and when he realised it, he burst into a sudden fit of heart-broken crying.

There were no loving arms now in which to sob out his woes, and he turned his little back upon the world and covering his face with his hands, leaned his head against a big brick wall and wept, and wept, and wept for his mother.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy—"

"Why, Harry!" said his Uncle Jim's voice, "whatever's the matter with you? You shouldn't be crying—you're a big boy now. Have the boys been hitting you?"

Harry did not turn or heed him.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy," he wailed.

"Harry!" said Jim again, "here's a penny for you—let's go and buy some sweeties."

But Harry was past that.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—my mummy—I want my mummy."

There was no mistaking the heart-broken cry this time, and Jim looked helplessly at Tom Green who stood beside him.

"It's the old story," said Tom gently, "'They have taken away my Lord and I know not where they have laid him.'" Then he stooped down to the level of the little weeping child and drew him into his arms and turned the tear-stained little face to rest on his shoulder.

"Harry!" he said gently, "dear mummy has gone to live in a beautiful Home with Jesus and she's so happy and she doesn't cough any more or feel tired any more. Oh, she's so happy. And she is with Jesus. She used to tell you about Him, didn't she?"

The comfort of the kind arms and the kind voice, and above all, the words of hope that carried the childish thoughts straight to happiness and seemed to find his mother for him again, comforted the little heart at once, and Harry's sobs came only with a long drawn breath as he listened.

Tom did not wait for an answer, he went on in the same low, soothing tone.

"Jesus has got such a lovely Home ready for dear mummy and He is getting one ready for little Harry too, and one day Jesus will call Harry and he will see Jesus and dear mummy and the beautiful Home and be so happy."

"Yes," murmured Harry nestling closer. He was so tired of crying and being lonely, and these arms held him so nicely. He gave a deep, deep sigh which somehow spoke of restfulness and of the sorrow being past, and Tom raised himself and looked in the tear-stained face a moment, then kissed it and wiped it with his handkerchief.

"That's better!" he said cheerfully, "would you like a ride on Uncle Tom's shoulder? Uncle Tom is coming home to tea with Harry, and Uncle Tom's awful hungry—he's going to eat a whole big loaf for tea."

Harry laughed gleefully as he found himself swung in an instant on to Uncle Tom's shoulder and was carried along high above all the other little rough children's heads, and was even on a level with Uncle Jim! By stretching out his hand he could pat the top of Uncle Jim's head; and he laughed again as he gave Uncle Jim a good hard pat.

"You are a clever one, Tom," said Jim admiringly, "how did you pick it up?"

Tom might have said, "Out of my own sorrow," but he only smiled, and told Harry to mind his head as he stopped at Jim's doorway and carried him upstairs to Aunt Jane and the baby.

Harry became Tom's devoted slave thenceforth, and Jim watched the two playing and whispering together almost jealously, and yet he liked Tom too well to really grudge him the child's love, and Tom looked so happy,—happier than Jim had seen him since Pattie gave him up.

Jim took notice too of the way Tom amused the child, how he became a child for the time being, and all the materials he had were trifles from his pockets; a piece of paper and a pencil, a few odd buttons and keys, a bit of string and an empty match box!

Jim knew that his ingenuity could never amuse Harry with such things, but he determined to buy some toys that very evening, and to try his hand at winning the child's heart the next evening. Jane took very little notice of any of them and after putting the baby to bed, announced that she had shopping to do, and as Tom saw her slip an empty jug into her shopping basket, he knew what her final destination would be and that she would not return for some considerable time.

"Aren't you going to put the little 'un to bed before you go out, Jane?" he said, "we've had a good spell of play and he's half asleep now."

But Jane deigned no answer, unless the slam of the door as she disappeared on to the stairs, was one.

Jim shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Harry and me, we do the bedding-down between us," he said rather sheepishly, "run and get your nightie, boy."

Then as Harry trotted off, he added in a lower tone, "She won't do nothing for him, so I have to. It's no use arguing over everything and so——"

Tom nodded. "So you have to be father and mother both," he said. "He's more of a little 'un than I expected, but he's a dear little 'un. I've right down enjoyed myself this evening."

The two men between them undressed Harry and superintended his prayers, and tucked him into his bed, and then they sat by the open window and chatted in low tones till the sound of their voices had lulled Harry to sleep, and then at last Tom rose and said he must be going. He went over to the cot and stood looking down on the little sleeping face, with its regular features, its long lashes lying on the bright cheeks, and its crown of tumbled golden hair.

"He's like the pictures of the angels," he said regretfully, "if Pattie and I had had our little home, we'd have loved to let him stay with us a bit, but I'll come in on Saturday and take him on the river, if you'll let me. It seems so long since I had anybody to go out with."

"Poor old Tom," said Jim affectionately, "it's cut you very hard, but I always believe it will come all right, you know!"

"Pooh!" said an unexpected voice behind them, "you would always believe anything silly, Jim Adams! Come right, indeed! Very likely! You just wait till I have seen Miss Pattie Paul again."

"Have you seen her?" asked Tom in a curiously quiet tone. He had gone very pale, but his face was in shadow and Jane did not perceive it or anything peculiar in his voice.

"Ha!" she cried vaingloriously, "I have! I let her know what I thought of her—mean little cat."

"Jane!" said her husband warningly.

"Oh, you needn't stand up for her," she said airily. "I'm not going to stand by and see my brother treated so. But what's a talking-to with a brazen hussy like that? Wait a bit, I haven't thought how to do it yet, but I'm going to pay her out. Trust me!"

And then Jim did what he had never done in his life before,—he took his wife by the shoulders and forcibly marched her into the bedroom and shut the door upon her.

"Come, Tom!" he said touching him gently on the shoulder, "we've had enough of this."

They passed down the stairs together, but on the landing below Tom stopped, and covering his face with his hands, leaned against the wall.

"Oh Pattie, Pattie," he moaned, "that's my last chance gone. And my own sister too."

Jim said nothing. He was not good at words, but he waited till Tom had recovered himself, and then he went right to his home with him and made a cup of tea for him and sat and chatted till past midnight.

"Don't be downhearted, old fellow," he said when he parted from him.

But as he went home again he muttered to himself and frowned.

"I wonder what Jane means to do? I wonder what she could do?"



CHAPTER XVI.

LINKS IN A CHAIN.

Gertrude had never had such a summer of gaieties.

She had not long returned from Whitecliff when a young American, cousin to Pauline Stacey, with a long purse and unlimited ideas of enjoying himself, made his appearance in Old Keston.

He had "done" England, and wished to stay with his Aunt Stacey "for a few days" before going on to Switzerland, and with his cousin Pauline's very ready help, he inaugurated a series of boating excursions, moonlight strolls, tennis matches and picnics, which lengthened his visit into weeks instead of days, and in which Gertrude, to her great delight, found herself involved from the very first. Pauline Stacey had long ago found Gertrude a far more congenial spirit than her first friend, Denys, had ever been, so that though Denys was occasionally invited to the American's festivities, it generally fell out that Gertrude and Willie or Gertrude and Conway, but always Gertrude, helped to make up the large parties, without which the American could not be satisfied and which stirred up and drew together the social side of Old Keston in an unprecedented manner.

The weather was glorious, and Gertrude spent every halfpenny she could scrape together on white frocks, and though she professed to hate needlework, she suddenly became extremely industrious and worked early and late, turning out dainty blouses which far outshone Denys's creations and astounded her family. On Saturday mornings she gave up all her usual avocations, denied herself to the general public, and devoted her energies to the wash-tub and the ironing board, the result of which operations she proudly displayed in a pile of muslins which would have done credit to an experienced laundry-maid.

"People think I can't do things," she said complacently to her mother, "Denys is not the only one who can get up frocks and make blouses."

"Very likely not," muttered Conway, who overheard the remark, "you only do them when it is for yourself. Denys does them every day for everybody else."

Gertrude carefully laid by her freshly got up stock of elegancies, and stretched her tired back on the bed which they had occupied, hoping to get half an hour's sleep before she dressed for a picnic.

"Money would have sent all those horrid frills to the laundry and saved me a backache," she said to herself, "frills are bad enough to make, but they are infinitely worse to iron. Of course I want money to do things with! I don't want to be poor all my life."

Then she smiled as she closed her eyes and composed herself to sleep.

"I believe I really am having my chance," she reflected. "I know pretty nearly everybody who is worth knowing here now."

And then, as so often happened when Gertrude contemplated her matrimonial prospects, a vision of Reggie Alston rose up before her, and disturbed her serenity.

"Reggie was a nice boy—it is a pity he is poor," she thought regretfully, and then she suddenly sprang into a sitting posture, all thought of sleep completely banished from her mind.

Reggie's birthday! It had come and gone weeks ago and she had missed it—she had completely forgotten it! What must Reggie have thought?

She glanced at the clock; there was just time to scribble a note before she dressed for the picnic, and of course, though she had no wish to encourage Reggie's friendship, yet a birthday was a special occasion, and had she remembered it she would certainly have written!

Why, it was on Easter Monday! No wonder she had forgotten it! Mrs. Henchman had sent all her young party and several other friends off for a lovely expedition to an old castle, and Audrey had been hostess and had felt herself tied to the luncheon basket and the elder guests, while Cecil Greyburne and Gertrude had wandered about together all day and she had never once thought of Reggie.

But she ought to have written on the Friday or Saturday. She remembered how they had all come in late from a long walk, and Cecil had discovered that the country post had gone out, and he had not sent off a particular letter and an Easter card. He had fumed and worried to such an extent that she had thought it really unnecessary, and wondered whoever could be of such importance to him. Then Charlie had recollected that there was a later country post in Dennetford and Cecil had sat down at Charlie's desk and written furiously, and enclosed a lovely Easter card—Gertrude had seen enough of it to know that—and then, without waiting for even a cup of tea, he had ridden off to Dennetford as if his very life depended on catching that post!

If she had only thought of Reggie's birthday, Cecil would have posted the letter with his, as he posted one for Charlie.

She went hot all over as she suddenly realised that Charlie's letter must have been a birthday letter for Reggie. She distinctly remembered Charlie's words,

"It will reach Scotland on Monday morning."

Charlie might have reminded her!

Hastily now she gathered her writing materials and wrote Reggie his long delayed birthday letter, and in her haste and regret she forgot all about her casual on-the-top-of-things style, and though the letter was very short it was just such a letter as she had written him before these new ideas came into her head. "I am rushing off to a picnic with the Stacey people, so cannot write more," she ended up. "We are going to the Roman Hill. Do you remember how we went there last year and what a jolly time we had?"

Simple words—and yet Reggie treasured them like gold-dust.

Gertrude posted her letter on her way to the Stacey's house and she felt vaguely relieved when it slipped from her fingers into the chasm of the red pillar box. She felt that now she could enjoy herself in peace.

She was the most popular, the most sought-after girl at the picnic that afternoon; she was never short of a cavalier to wait on her lightest behest; she was her prettiest, her most charming self. The American whispered to her that a picnic without her would be a desolation and he had half a mind to stop another week at his aunt's—but Gertrude was not enjoying herself. From behind the gorse bushes, from between the moss-grown boulders, from beneath the dark foliage of the Scotch firs, there peeped at her a ghost.

She saw it everywhere. It was the ghost of Reggie Alston.

The next day was Sunday; always a quiet home day in the St. Olave's household, and in the little interval between tea-time and evening service the whole family were gathered in the cool shaded drawing-room, reading, or listening to Gertrude's description of the yesterday's picnic. Suddenly she broke in upon her own narrative with a question—

"Mother, how did you and father happen to meet and like one another?"

Mrs. Brougham smiled as she glanced over at Mr. Brougham.

"My dear!" she said, "that's a very old story!"

"Mother won't tell it!" said Willie in his slow, drawly way, "so I will; I know all about it. Father made up his mind that there was nobody like mother in all the world, but prospects were bad in England and he did not see how he could buy the furniture, so he did not say a word to anybody except to his own mother, and he went to China and saved up, and in four years he came back because the firm shut up shop, and the first thing he heard when he got back, was that mother was going into a big hospital to train as a nurse, and he said to himself, 'One of those doctors will take a fancy to her, as sure as sure,' so he put on his best clothes and rushed off—and—and—"

"Proposed," ended up Gertrude. "Of course I know all that as well as you do. What I want to know is before all that."

"Now it is my turn," said Mr. Brougham looking up from his book, "before that, mother used to give music lessons to my little step-sister and brother—and two more rampageous little mortals I never came across—and they were always in hot water with their masters and mistresses. But whatever they did, she was so patient and gentle—though she made them mind her too—but she never spoke sharply or raised her voice. I used to stand on the stairs outside the drawing-room door, to be sure that they were not very naughty to her, and I made up my mind then. When true love comes to bless us, it is generally through some little everyday thing, some strength or tenderness of character, some simple good quality, some sympathetic tone, or some unselfish act."

"Oh, what fun it would have been if mother had come out and caught you," cried Tony exultantly.

"I wonder what Charlie chose Denys for," murmured Gertrude.

"Really!" said Denys, flushing and rising, "this conversation is getting altogether too personal. Come, Maudie, it is your bedtime."

She carried the child off, and Conway said a little pointedly—

"I wonder what anybody could choose Gertrude for."

Gertrude coloured angrily and his mother said gently, "Conway, dear!"

"Well!" said Willie's drawly voice again, "I should like to know what a girl looks for in a fellow. What should you expect, for instance, Gertrude?"

One word rose involuntarily to Gertrude's lips, but she choked it back.

"My dear Willie!" she said with her easy laugh.

And that same word had risen to Conway's lips, but with a tremendous effort he too choked it back. Gertrude always aggravated him, and it was a daily fight with him to be civil to her.

He rose abruptly and went into the garden, and in a few minutes the others drifted after him, and Mr. and Mrs. Brougham were left alone.

"It is nice to see them all together like this," said Mrs. Brougham fondly, as she watched the moving figures in the garden.

There was a smile in Mr. Brougham's eyes as he quoted—

"And the ancient arrow maker Turned again unto his labour, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying, That it is our daughters leave us."

"We shan't have to part with little Maud—yet," answered Mrs. Brougham with a low laugh.

There did not rise before her mental vision a picture of a vengeful woman cowering over a handful of red embers, her mind set on one object and one object only—some mode of vengeance.

But even if she could have seen such a picture, how could she have formed a chain of association which should link that woman with the maid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-haired child upstairs, the patter of whose little feet sounded over her head?

How the patter of those childish footsteps came back to her heart's memory on Monday night!

"No," repeated Mr. Brougham thoughtfully, "not yet!"



CHAPTER XVII.

MEETING AND PARTING.

Monday morning brought a letter for Gertrude in a distinctly masculine, but quite unfamiliar handwriting.

Its very unfamiliarity made her let it lie unopened beside her plate while she began her breakfast. If anyone showed curiosity about her correspondent she could truthfully say she did not know who the letter was from, and she liked to amuse herself with wondering about it. Even the postmark was obliterated. She decided then that the rich American, who really was leaving for Switzerland at last, had written to say farewell and to tell her when he was likely to return for the final wind-up picnic he had promised to Old Keston.

She did not guess that the mysterious writing was well known to Denys as that of one of Charlie Henchman's friends, and that she had said to herself as she carried it in from the post-box, "What is Cecil Greyburne writing to Gertrude for?"

At last curiosity overcame Gertrude. All the family were busy with their breakfast and their own concerns. Conway and her father were each buried in a daily paper, Willie and Tony had lesson books propped in front of them, little Maud was engrossed in bread and milk, and Mrs. Brougham and Denys at either end of the table were pouring out tea, and cutting bread, and dispensing porridge and bacon, and generally devoting themselves to the wants of the family. Nobody was heeding Gertrude, and she opened her letter and glanced first at the signature.

Cecil Greyburne!

She was distinctly conscious of a feeling of disappointment, but in a moment she pushed that aside. It was pleasant to find Cecil had not forgotten her, though the note was but a short one, nothing to compare in length with the one that had accompanied the Easter card which he had ridden fast and far to post.

"MY DEAR GERTRUDE," the note ran, "You know I am always trotting about the country for my work, and on Monday afternoon I find I pass through Old Keston station, waiting three minutes by the official time-table (probably that will mean five). I meant to call in and give you all a surprise visit, but find there is no suitable train to carry me on later. If some of you are near the station at 5.15 and can waste a few minutes on a chat, it would cheer a hot and tiring journey and make it seem worth while. I shall be in the front of the train; at least half of me will be, the other half will be outside the window watching for you.

"Yours truly, "CECIL GREYBURNE."

Monday afternoon at 5.15! Gertrude's memory rapidly ran through her list of Monday classes and pupils. One of the pupils was ill and, a most unusual thing, she would be free at four o'clock! She need not go to the station in her school dress, but have time to come home and put on something pretty. It was very jolly of Cecil to have thought of writing. Of course she would go if she possibly could.

She frowned as she wondered whether she must mention Cecil's request to her mother and Denys. He had said "some of you," but he had written specially to her. She remembered that Denys always went to help with a Blanket Club on Monday afternoons and was seldom home before six o'clock, and she did not see exactly what interest it would be to Denys to see Cecil.

At any rate she would leave that decision till she came home at dinner-time.

At dinner-time she had a bright idea. She would take little Maud. The care of Maud on Monday afternoons devolved on Mrs. Brougham, and Gertrude knew that a proposal to take the child out would be very welcome, and it would fulfil Cecil's "some of you." Cecil would like to see the family pet.

So Denys went on unsuspectingly to the Blanket Club, and at four o'clock Gertrude turned up at home, announced that for a wonder she had an hour off, that she was going up to the station and that she would take Maud with her, if Mrs. Brougham liked.

Then she arrayed herself in her freshest muslin and most becoming hat, curled up Maud's ringlets and dressed her in a clean and dainty frock, put her in her little wheel chair, and catching up a library book to change at the station, as a sort of excuse, started forth to see Cecil.

Her mother came to the gate with them both and stood watching them down the road, thinking to herself what a pretty pair they made, and at the corner they turned and waved to her, and Gertrude's heart suddenly misgave her. She wished now that she had made no secret of Cecil's letter, she had even half a mind to run back and ask her mother to come with them and see Cecil, or at any rate, to send a message of kind regards to him, but as she hesitated, thinking how astonished her mother would be that she had not mentioned it before, Mrs. Brougham, with a final smile and wave of the hand, turned back to the house, and the chiming of the church clock sounding out warned Gertrude that it was far later than she had guessed it could be.

Five o'clock! How could she have been so long getting ready?

It was fifteen minutes' steady walk to the station, and the church clock was often slow, but then the train was sure to be late!

Comforting herself with this reflection Gertrude hurried along, hating to look hot and flurried, and yet more and more determined not to be too late, even if she had to run for it.

And run for it she did, for the signal was down when it came into view a hundred yards away from the station, and as she entered the booking office she saw the engine of Cecil's train rounding the last bend of the line, and there were the steps and the subway between her and the down platform.

If she waited to unfasten Maud's strap, to lift her out, and carry her down the steps and up the steps, she would miss Cecil. The thought came to her unbidden as the train thundered in, and hastily pushing the wheel chair into a corner by the booking office window, she bade the child look through and see all the lovely big trains, till Gertrude came back in a minute. Then she flew down the steps and through the subway and was rushing up the other side when an unexpected voice arrested her steps.

"Good afternoon, Gertrude. I was just wishing to see you. What are you in such a flurry for? There is another three minutes before the train goes!"

"I've to meet someone," explained Gertrude hurriedly, "I'll come and see you, Mrs. Parsons. I can't stay now."

She ran on, and Mrs. Parsons followed her leisurely. She liked to know everybody's business and she lived opposite the Stacey's and had observed that Gertrude had attended every festivity provided by the American cousin, while her own daughter had been invited only once. She had also heard that the American was leaving for Switzerland to-day, and she immediately jumped to the conclusion that Gertrude had come to see him off. So she strolled along the platform and made her observations.

No, it was not the American, but it was a young fellow; a tall and pleasant-looking fellow too. He stood on the platform, one hand on the open door of the carriage, talking eagerly to Gertrude, and Mrs. Parsons stationed herself at a moderate distance, partly screened by a pile of luggage, and waited. She wished the engine would cease blowing off steam, she could perhaps have caught snatches of that interesting conversation, for she had wonderful hearing, besides an imagination.

"I was awfully disappointed I could not call and see you all," Cecil was saying, "I seem to know you all through Charlie and Denys. I hoped Denys would have come with you, but I suppose she was too busy. I saw Charlie yesterday and I had heaps of messages for her."

Gertrude coloured, "I'm sorry!" she said, a little nettled that he should be unsatisfied with her company, "you didn't mention Denys specially and she is always at the Blanket Club on Mondays, so I didn't even tell her I was coming, but I did bring Maudie, only we got late somehow and there wasn't time to bring her round, so I left her on the other side in the booking office."

"Here's twopence to get her out again," laughed Cecil, "Well! better luck next time. I suppose you got late by making yourself so fetching!"

"Perhaps!" answered Gertrude with a tiny bit of starch in her tone, but the next moment she laughed, and asked him when he would be making the return journey.

So the minutes slipped by till their chat was overpowered by the rush and roar of a train coming in on the up side and there was a sudden waving of flags and shouting by porters of "Take your seats," along Cecil's train.

"Hullo! we're off!" he exclaimed as he jumped on to the footboard, "we were waiting for that train to cross I suppose, but they gave us a jolly long three minutes; its been quite six, I should say. I knew they would. It's awfully good of you to come down and see me. Give my love to everybody. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" she echoed, "mind you write when you come through again, and see if I don't bring Denys and Maud and mother and anybody else I can lay hold of, to meet you!"

"All right!" he said, "that's a promise!"

The train moved and she stood back smiling and waving, watching him till the train passed round the bend. Then she turned, and encountered Mrs. Parsons.

"I thought I would wait for you, my dear. It is a pity to trouble you to call when you must have so many engagements. It is only a matter of a couple of words."

"Then I must get you to come round to the booking office," said Gertrude, trying to hide her annoyance, "for I have little Maud waiting for me, and she will think I am never coming back."

They passed down the steps and up the other side to the booking office, and Gertrude, entering first, went quickly to the corner where she had left her little sister.

"Well, Maudie!" she said cheerfully, "did you think I——"

She stopped short, aghast. There was the wheel chair, just as she had left it, but it was empty. Little Maud was not there.

"Maud!" she said, looking round into every corner as if the child might be hiding. "Maud! wherever are you?"

There was no answer. The office was empty except for the wheel chair.

Gertrude glanced up and down the platform, then out at the door that stood open to the road. Then she knocked at the office door.

"Have you seen anything of my little sister?" she asked, "I left her in that chair five minutes or so ago, and I can't think what has became of her."

The clerk shook his head.

"I didn't see her," he said, "I was giving out tickets for the up train. There was a terrific scrimmage between two dogs—no end of a row. Perhaps your brother or your father came in by the up train and took the child home. It was enough to frighten anybody to hear the lady that the little dog belonged to! She was right down screaming for somebody to rescue her dog."

"It might be that," assented Gertrude. All her bright colour had departed, she looked pale and anxious, and such an upset of her nicely laid plans was extremely annoying. Besides, she might be very much blamed for leaving Maud alone.

"Well! I'm not going to wheel home that empty chair," said she, "you might keep it for me till to-morrow."

Then she turned to Mrs. Parsons. It was an aggravation of annoyance to have her as a witness of these contretemps.

"Really, Mrs. Parsons!" she said sharply, "I cannot attend to any business to-night. I must get home and see about Maud. It's very thoughtless of Conway to take her off without my knowing."

Mrs. Parsons had quite intended to accompany Gertrude to St. Olave's and see the end of the story, and she was highly offended at Gertrude's tone.

So she turned homewards alone and she told the story in her own way.

Gertrude's footsteps grew quicker and quicker as she neared St. Olave's. It seemed to her that a string was being tied round her neck so tightly that she could scarcely get her breath.

If Conway had taken Maud home, why had he left the wheel chair?

On the doorstep she paused to pull herself together. It was ridiculous to be so nervous.

She went straight to the dining-room. Her mother and Denys were sitting peacefully at tea.

"Are father or Conway home?" she asked abruptly.

"No, they expect to be late," answered Mrs. Brougham serenely.

"Have you been up to the station, Denys?"

"No," said Denys, glancing up wonderingly.

"Nor Pattie?"

"No! whatever is the matter, Gertrude?"

"Somebody has taken Maud!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

A BASE TRICK.

Jim Adams could not make out what had changed his wife, but changed she was.

It might have been a dream that she had threatened vengeance on Pattie, for she now never mentioned her, and she treated Tom with a politeness and a thoughtfulness that made Jim believe she repented her interview with Pattie, and wished Tom to forget it. She might even have herself forgotten what she had said about paying Pattie out. She had undoubtedly had a few glasses the night Tom came in to see Harry, and that was enough to account for uncontrolled words, and forgetfulness of them.

Jane had also ceased to grumble at Harry's presence, and she cooked Jim appetising suppers as of old and she even spoke pleasantly to Harry. Jim fondly imagined that she was becoming as devoted to the bright, engaging little fellow as he was himself, and he could not know that in his absence hard words and frequent blows became the child's portion whenever his aunt happened to be annoyed with him or anybody else.

Jim little guessed the real reasons that lurked beneath Jane's changed and pleasant behaviour. The truth was that her thirst for vengeance and her desire for strong drink were growing together, and with them—for it was allied to both of them—cunning grew.

On that evening when Jim had summarily marched her into her bed-room, she had been enraged beyond words, and had the two men not taken their immediate departure, there is no saying what might have happened.

But while she waited for Jim's return she had time for reflection.

Aided by the inspiriting action of the supper beer, she had thought over the situation, and before the inspiriting effect had gone off, and the lowering, muddling effect had come on, she came to the conclusion that she would be making a great mistake if she allowed Tom or Jim to know her intentions against Pattie. What was the use of all her plans and determination, if they interfered and spoilt it all? They must think it was only an empty threat, and by and by they would forget it.

That settled the matter of the desire for vengeance, and she forthwith brooded over it in silence, till it became part of her very existence.

The thirst for strong drink touched her relations towards Harry. She was finding the extra money that Jim gave her for the child most useful. She scarcely missed his food, for he ate but little, and his share was usually what would otherwise have been wasted. Jane was not of a thrifty turn of mind, but the money was hard, solid cash, and gave her a free hand for spending on that in which her soul most delighted.

It was therefore necessary to make the child at least apparently comfortable, or Jim might take it into his head to board him out. Any woman among her neighbours would have taken the boy for less than Jane had demanded for his keep.

With these reasons to help the most powerful influences of her life, Jane kept an oiled tongue and an even temper, and like the calm before the storm, it made things pleasanter for those around her.

Little Harry quickly discovered that it was safer to play in the street when Aunt Jane was alone, but that there was no need for fear if Uncle Jim or Uncle Tom were at home. He was a cheerful little soul too, and began to enjoy such pleasures as came into his new life and to forget the old. Saturday, Sunday and Monday were his joy-days, for on Saturday Uncle Tom always came and took him out for some excursion or treat, or if it were wet, to his own home.

On Sunday Uncle Jim sent him to a Mission Sunday School, morning and afternoon, and sometimes, greatest treat of all, in the evening Uncle Jim would take him to the Mission Service. That Mission Service had a home-like feeling to little Harry, for it reminded him of the Sailor's Rest where he had so often gone with his mother at Whitecliff, before her cough got worse.

He loved the singing there, and at Sunday School. He had a voice like a little bird, sweet and true and clear, and sometimes when Aunt Jane was out on Sunday evening, Uncle Jim would let him sing to him, and even Aunt Jane would let him sing the baby to sleep of a night.

There was one hymn that he learned at Sunday School that he was never tired of singing. It had a chorus, and he always fancied that it was the baby's favourite, too—

I am so glad that Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me; I am so glad that Jesus loves me, Jesus loves even me.

On Mondays Harry went to the Mixham Nursery. Harry thought it a charming place. There were no big rough boys or girls—only little people like himself, and the tables were little and the seats were little, and there were toys, and somebody besides himself to make a grand play and pretend to be soldiers, or engine-drivers or horses.

There was a kind-faced woman there, who put pretty clean pinafores on all the children when they came in the morning, and there was always something nice for dinner.

There was a room for the babies upstairs, which Harry considered a most suitable arrangement, and he saw his baby cousin carried up there with great content. He wished Aunt Jane would go out washing every day till Saturday!

Dinner-time was twelve o'clock, and Harry, having learned to tell the time, and having taken a great fancy to the seat at the end of the long, low table, always took his place at least five minutes before twelve, to ensure its possession, and such is the force of example and the love of the best available seat, that on Mondays there was no need for the matron to say, "Come to dinner, children," for a row of little eager faces lined the table, and a row of little hands were folded reverently upon it, waiting for her to ask a blessing.

And after dinner came the only drawback which Harry found in the Nursery life.

He and all the other children had to take a good long nap.

On one side of the room was a sort of pen, with mattresses and blankets, and into this the children were tucked, the room was darkened, talking was forbidden and in a very few minutes they were all asleep, and silence and peace reigned.

"It keeps them good-tempered, and it rests the nurses," the smiling matron used to say.

Eight o'clock seemed to come much earlier on Monday night than on any other, and with the hour came Aunt Jane for the baby, and Harry's bliss was over till Saturday should dawn again, but after all it was not long from Monday night to Saturday morning, only Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!

These pleasant summer days were bringing to Jim, too, a smooth and easy-going existence—just the existence that suited his easy-going temperament. And then, partly through the very smoothness of these days, partly on account of his great satisfaction in his own strength in keeping a resolve, there arose in Jim's life a little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand.

He had been a total abstainer such a long time now. He had so often resisted Jane's repeated invitations to share the supper beer, that she had ceased to offer it. The old liking for strong drink did not assail him now. He even mentioned with a superior little laugh to his mates, that there had been a time when he had liked his glass a trifle overmuch, but now he had given it up for good and all.

And the very next day they played a trick on him.

He was extremely fond of cold coffee, and generally brought a can of it with him for his dinner, and one very hot morning he set it down on a great stone in a shady corner of the workshop to keep it cool.

And when dinner-time came, being thirsty, the first thing he did was to take a long pull at his can. He had swallowed half its contents at one draught, before he realised what had happened.

The mystified, horrified expression on his face as he set the can down, was almost ludicrous; to his mates who were all in the secret, it was irresistibly funny.

There was a roar of delighted laughter, and Jim's eyes blazed with anger as he glared at the can he still grasped in his hand.

Yes! It was his own can, and they had taken away his coffee and filled it with beer! He had been basely tricked. He stood there realising it, while the roars of laughter were sobering down into words.

"Ha! Ha! old teetotaller! That's the best fun we ever had!"

"Jolly good coffee! isn't it, Jim? If you could only have seen your own face!"

"Never mind, old chap! You can be a teetotaller again to-morrow."

"I won't!" said Jim angrily, "I did try. Now I don't care what happens."

He gathered up his dinner basket and the can of beer, and stalked away, and a silence fell upon the little group of workmen as they watched him.



CHAPTER XIX.

A SUCCESSFUL RAID.

Jim Adams stuck to his threat. He ceased to be an abstainer, and life changed at once for himself and for all those with whom he came in contact.

He was morose with his mates, and withdrew from their company as much as possible. He shared the supper beer with Jane, but he constantly spoke sharply to her and especially resented the least inattention to Harry's wants, so that it seemed as if the two had changed places, and now it was Jim who found fault and Jane who, aided by that secret object in her mind, took it quietly and made the best of things.

To Harry, Jim was never cross, but the child felt a difference, and missed the companionship Jim had given him, for now Jim either called in at the public-house on his way home from work, or, returning early, went out immediately after supper, and he ceased to take an interest in the Mission Service or in Harry's singing.

Jim was bitterly disappointed with himself. He had been trying to be good like his little sister Nellie, to be good enough to meet her in Heaven, and now he had been tricked into doing what he had no intention of doing, and the old liking had come back with the old taste. He had emptied the rest of that can of beer with real relish, for in his anger he had carried it away to finish it with his dinner, and in that finishing of it, he had gone under to the old temptation.

He had fought and failed. If, in his anger at the base trickery of his mates, he had dashed the can of beer on the ground, he would not have despised himself, he could have forgiven himself; but he knew perfectly well that, even as the unexpected liquid poured down his throat, and he realised what it was, he had made up his mind to finish it, come what might.

He said to himself moodily that men and the devil had combined against him, and what was the use of fighting any more?

He only hoped that Tom would not guess. He knew Tom would be disappointed in him, and he avoided seeing him if he was able. Besides, he knew all Tom could say to him, but he did not mean to try to be a teetotaller again.

And Tom did guess. But he said nothing, for with his wise, kind eyes he saw that the time had not come, only, as he went to and from his work, many an earnest prayer went up from Tom's heart that Jim might try again, not this time in his own strength, but in the strength of that One who had died to redeem him from all iniquity; that he might one day say, "I will go forth in the strength of the Lord God."

So Tom came and went to Jim's home as regularly as ever on a Saturday, and took Harry out with him. Though he seldom found Jim in, and the very sight of Jane and the sound of her voice, brought back the shiver to his heart that had come to it when he knew she had seen and spoken to Pattie, yet he persevered in coming for the child. If things were not going too well with Jim, little Harry needed the more love and guardianship, for was not this a little life that must one day grow to good or to evil?

He was thankful that Jane never mentioned Pattie, but he little guessed that her thoughts were ever hovering round the idea of vengeance for his wrongs, like a moth about a candle.

One Monday evening, Jane returned from her work in Old Keston, full of wrath and dismay.

She had received a week's notice from her lady, and no reason, adequate in Jane's mind, had been given for the change. This made her furious, for though washing jobs were plentiful, one that suited her as well as this was rare, and she would also lose her vantage ground of keeping an eye on Pattie and finding a chance of paying her out.

Only one Monday remained to her, but rack her brains as she would, no way of working her will occurred to her. Yet if she once lost sight of Pattie, small chance of doing anything would remain.

The last Monday came, and all day Jane kept a sharp look-out on Pattie's premises; but Pattie had eyes as well as Jane Adams, and she took very good care that Mondays never took her down the garden within reach of Jane's tongue. Yet the very proximity of Tom's sister on Mondays brought him before Pattie's mind and made her remember that phrase which had seemed like music to her, "going thin and a-fretting for a worthless thing like you."

Yes! she was but a worthless thing—only Tom had not thought so. He had loved her. Sam Willard liked her, but if she had not gone out with him on Sunday evening after church, he would have asked somebody else to go, and laughed and talked nonsense and enjoyed himself just the same, scarcely heeding the difference of his companion. Sam was never free on Saturday evening as Tom used to be. She wondered what Tom did with his Saturdays now. She would like, unseen herself, to see Tom for just a moment. She wondered if he ever thought of her now. It was almost worth risking meeting Jane to know that!

Watch as she would, however, Jane saw nothing of Pattie till about four o'clock that Monday afternoon, and then she saw her bustle out into the garden, and begin vigorously brushing and dusting a child's wheel chair. It was but a few minutes' work and Pattie took the chair inside again, but a few moments later she reappeared at her bed-room window, and throwing the sash up she brought a hat and a brush to the sill and brushed the hat vigorously. Clearly Pattie and the child were going out for a walk! At any rate, if she could but meet them on her way to the station, Jane thought she could annoy Pattie pretty considerably.

She had meant to have a few words with her lady about her dismissal, but her lady had taken the opportunity to go out calling and left the maid to pay Mrs. Adams, and Jane scarcely regretted it, so anxious was she to be off before Pattie's walk should be over.

However, though she looked up and down every road she passed on her way to the station, she saw no sign of Pattie, and the station bell warning her of her train, she hurried on She did not want to lose it and wait an hour.

She found the booking office in an uproar. In the centre of the crowd of people gathered for this train, the greatest favourite in the day for Mixham Junction, a terrible dog-fight was going on between a big Irish terrier and a small black terrier, and the small dog was getting the worst of it.

In vain the lady who owned the small dog, begged and besought the onlookers to rescue her pet; nobody seemed to own the Irish terrier, and the majority of the passengers, being working men, carried neither sticks nor umbrellas, and nobody appeared to be inclined to interfere otherwise with so formidable-looking an antagonist. Into the midst of this hubbub came Jane, and the first thing her eyes fell upon was a frightened child, in a little wheel chair in a corner under the window, who was sobbing loudly with absolute terror.

Pattie's little charge!

Jane recognised the child and the chair in an instant, and looked round for Pattie. As she did so the Mixham Junction train thundered in, adding tenfold to the noise and confusion, the dog-fight lost its interest in a moment for the onlookers, and they streamed out on to the platform, mingling and struggling with the passengers who were alighting.

One glance showed Jane that Pattie was not in sight. Her opportunity of vengeance had come to her. She recognised it, triumphed in it, all in the flash of a moment, and bending over little terrified, crying Maud, she unfastened her strap with a touch, lifted her out, and saying aloud,

"Never mind, dear, it's all over now," she stepped swiftly across the platform and entered a third class carriage.

"Right!" shouted a porter, banging the door behind her. There was a moment's pause—a moment for reflection—a moment to go back, but Jane did not take it. She had paid Pattie out at last.

The carriage was full of people, and they looked at the sobbing child, some with curiosity, some with annoyance, but Jane was equal to the occasion.

She settled the child on her lap, wiped her wet eyes and set her hat straight, and then she faced a kind-looking lady who sat opposite.

"There's been two dogs fighting in there and it's frightened her," she said. "Never mind, my dear, it's all over now."

"I don't want to go in the train, I want to go home," cried Maud, struggling to get off this strange woman's knee, "I want to go home. I want my mother," she sobbed.

"Hush, hush, my dear!" said Jane authoritatively, giving her an admonitory little shake. Then she looked apologetically at the kind lady again.

"She don't like leaving her mother—but there's a new baby sister at her home," she said glibly, "so she's coming home with me for a bit. But she's been spoilt and she don't like the idea of a new baby at all, and she ain't used to her auntie yet, and then there was the dogs on top of it all! Hush, my dear, hush, you're disturbing the ladies and gentlemen."

She was relieved when the whole carriage load turned out at the next station: she and Maud were left alone, and she had time to collect her thoughts.

Her triumph was complete! She had paid Pattie out thoroughly and she was satisfied. The opportunity for her vengeance had come to her and she had seized it without fear and without regret. How clever it was of her to have thought of that fiction about her sister and the new baby! It would do for Jim too, admirably, and he would never find out. She doubted if he even knew where in the outskirts of Old Keston her sister lived. He might even not know her married name! He would accept the story as she gave it, especially now that he was beginning to drink again. Well! he could drink as much as he liked, so long as he brought her her money and Harry's money regularly!

In a day or two she would take the child back to Old Keston, ostensibly to see its mother and the new baby, but in reality she would take it in the dark to its own gate, and leave it to make its own presence known.

In the meantime Pattie would be dismissed without a character, with a multitude of blame upon her head, if indeed she escaped so easily. They might think Pattie had stolen the child, and clap her into prison till she was found!

That would be vengeance indeed!



CHAPTER XX.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

"It is worse than death," sobbed Mrs. Brougham, and they all felt that it was so.

They were gathered at home at last, in the small hours of the night, for there was nothing more that they could do till morning came to wake the world again—that wide desolate world of houses and roads, of byways and slums; that world in which, somewhere, was their little Maud.

Pale, wide-eyed and silent, they all tried to eat the supper which Pattie, pale and wide-eyed too, set before them, for they thought of the day that would soon dawn, when they would need their strength to begin the search again, and though it seemed horrible to be seeking rest in their comfortable beds while their little sister's fate was unsolved, yet for that same reason, slowly and lingeringly they all said good-night and crept upstairs.

For in vain they had searched for little Maud all the evening long. Police, neighbours, friends, had all helped, but no trace, not even the faintest clue, had come to light. Porters, booking-clerks, railway officials, cabmen, had all been questioned to no purpose. Everybody talked about the dog-fight, nobody had even seen a child, though a porter averred that he had seen the empty chair long before the dogs came on the scene, and a workman that there had been no chair there at all when the up-train came in. He had stood on the very spot where the chair was supposed to be, watching through the window for a friend, with his bag of tools on the ground beside him. He had moved forward to speak to his friend, and returning a few moments later when the train had gone, to take up the tools, had then noticed the empty chair.

What had become of the child was a complete mystery! Every house of the Broughams' acquaintance was visited, in the forlorn hope that someone had taken Maud home with them, but the answer was always the same. Telegrams were sent to all the stations on the line, both up and down, but the hour between five and six held the busiest trains of the day, and in the rush of passengers, augmented by gangs of working men returning to their homes, there was small chance of a ticket collector having leisure to observe the children who passed through his gate.

No one at home said a word of blame to Gertrude. There was no need. They had heard the whole story and they only pitied her, and her grief was far greater than their own, they thought, for there was no self-blame, no shadow of deception, no regret of wilfulness in their sorrow. Even Conway felt unutterably tender towards this least dear of his sisters, when he came in from a fruitless errand, and found the proud, dark head resting on little Maud's high chair, while Gertrude's whole frame shook with sobs.