Only my father and Dr. Wilson were in the room. My father looked very anxious; but Dr. Wilson spoke to me cheerily enough.

"So this is the young gentleman," he said, drawing me towards him, "that is not content to walk by day, but must needs walk by night also!" and he looked straight at me, as if he could read me through and through; whilst I, knowing the dreadful story hidden in my heart, felt quite alarmed lest he might read that there; and I could feel the beatings of my heart, as if a steam-engine were at work, as I tried not to meet the glance of those keen, piercing eyes.

He released me after a moment, and presently afterwards said to my father,—

"Close your lesson-books for a while; the boat and the saddle will be the best lesson-books, or you may have more trouble than you think of."

I felt sure what he said had something to do with me, and wondered what he meant,—finding the explanation in Mr. Glengelly's strange indisposition to give me anything but a drawing-lesson that morning, and taking me off for a long ride before dinner, contrary to all established customs.

Aleck grew no better all through the day, and the next night he was worse.

On Saturday morning, two other doctors came to consult with Dr. Wilson; and I could read in the grave faces around me that the worst was apprehended. But I saw scarcely anything of my father or mother, or even nurse, so that all tidings from the sick-room came through remote channels—servants who had taken something up to the room, or Mr. Glengelly, who had seen one of the doctors for a moment, and whom I suspected of keeping back the full gravity of the verdict.

If I could only have seen my father or mother alone quietly, without their being in a hurry, I thought I should have told them everything; but no opportunity presented itself, and another weary day wore by without any unburdening of my conscience, or relief to my gloomy anticipations.

Sunday morning! Such a happy day generally! for my parents contrived to make it really, and not nominally, the best of all the seven; but now, how dreary was the awakening to a Sunday which I expected to be only the melancholy repetition of the preceding days, if not far sadder!

The weather had turned chilly, and the servants, to make things look a little brighter, made this the excuse for a fire in the dining-room, by which I crouched down on the rug, after breakfast, with a Sunday story-book in my hand, wondering whether I should go to church, or what would happen in a state of things so different from what was usual; and why it was I was told I need not prepare my repetition lesson from the Bible, according to custom. By-and-by my father came in and told me to get ready to go with him to church; he thought he might safely leave Aleck for a little while, and would like to have me walk with him.

We had not far to go, for the church stood but a quarter of a mile from our house, and there was a direct pathway to it through the woods. I thought perhaps I should muster courage to open my heart to my father as we went along. But first we met one person and then another, anxious to know the last report from the sick-room, so that we had no time alone, and I had to reserve my confession until we should come home after church. Aleck was to be prayed for in church, my father told me; and he added that I was to think of Uncle and Aunt Gordon too, in the Litany, for it would be a sore trouble to them to have been away from their only child in such a time as this. And then he spoke to me of childish fears about death, and said that, for those who were safe in Jesus, death was a friend, and not an enemy; and that I must pray that, if it pleased God Aleck should never get well, he might go to the beautiful home prepared for all the children of God: and the firm grasp of my father's hand, and his clear, unhesitating voice, conveyed to my timorous, troubled heart, a sort of belief in a calm, sheltered haven, that might succeed in time to the outside tossings on stormy waters, and I felt comforted, though I scarcely knew how.

Mr. Morton, our clergyman, was away for a month's holidays, and it was a stranger who performed the service. When I heard the prayers of the congregation requested for "Alexander Ringwall Gordon, who was dangerously ill," it seemed almost more than I could bear, the long formal enunciation of his name sounding so terribly like a death-warrant.

If ever I tried to pray the Church prayers, and not merely say them, it was that morning; and it seemed to me quite wonderful how much of them agreed with my own feelings, how many things there were in the service that were exactly what I wanted. Hitherto the singing had appeared the only attractive portion of divine worship; but now that, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to have a really sin-burdened conscience, the sweetest music seemed as nothing in comparison with the assurance that a broken and contrite spirit would not be despised of God, or to the comfort of ranking myself unreservedly amongst the miserable sinners in the Litany—concerning whom I had hitherto only wondered, Were they so miserable after all?—and pleading alike with voice and heart for God's mercy, of which I felt myself to stand so sorely in need.

The Commandments were being read when the little door leading into our large family-pew was opened, and Rickson softly came in and whispered to my father, who in his turn leant over and whispered to me. A message had come from the house, he said, and he must go back at once; he knew I could be trusted to stay by myself and walk home afterwards. He and Rickson quietly slipped out, and I was left sole tenant of the large square pew, with its high partition, and ponderous chairs, and fire-place, and table, just like a small room, as is the custom in old-fashioned churches.

Very lonely indeed I felt, as I stood up by myself, and tried to join in the hymn, and wished that I were not so small or the pew not so lofty; it seemed so strange to be joining in singing with people of whom no single individual could be seen—it had never struck me before, with my own dear parents always at my side. Presently the clerk appeared opening the door of the pulpit—that at all events I could see—to the strange clergyman, who seemed to me to look with a searching glance of inquiry straight down into my solitary domain, as if he meant to call me to account for being there all alone.

Having nobody to look at as an example, I sat myself timidly upon a corner of one of the chairs after the hymn was over, and then, suddenly remembering I had made a mistake, knelt down with the colour mounting to the very roots of my hair, and a terrible sense of the congregation all looking at me and taking notes of my behaviour.

We smile at our childish embarrassments as we look back upon them, but they are very serious and real troubles whilst they last.

When I rose from my knees, I was far too shy to place myself comfortably, but sat, as before, upon a little corner of a chair, and hoped the congregation wouldn't take any notice, whilst mentally I prepared myself for unrestrained meditation on the all-engrossing subject of my thoughts, in place of the many speculations with which I was wont to beguile sermon-time in general.

For here I must pause to observe that Mr. Morton's sermons were usually entirely beyond my childish understanding, and attention to them on my part was practically in vain; so that after learning the text by heart, which I was always expected to repeat perfectly afterwards, I used to spend a great part of the time remaining to me in a minute survey of all objects falling within the limited range of my observation, including especially the monumental tablets, of which there were many on the church walls; those on the right being for the most part to the memory of the Grants of Braycombe; those on the left to the successive rectors of Braycombe parish, who had lived and died after what seemed to me boundless periods of ministry amongst their attached flock.

Two of these tablets in particular had supplied much food for consideration in my early days.—I used to look back upon early days even at ten years old with a sort of affectionate patronage.—These tablets exactly corresponded with each other in size and position, and were both beyond the range of complete legibility, only words in capitals coming out distinctly. But these very words in capitals were the cause of my anxious meditations. For on the one hand I read the name of the "Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst, Rector," with, a line or two further down, "Mary, wife of the above;" whilst on the other, which was to the memory of my grandfather, my own name at full length, "William Preston Grant," was underneath the only other word I could distinguish, and that word was "Below." Many a Sunday did I ruminate upon the unpleasant contrast which, to my mind, was suggested by the two prepositions between the present condition of the Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst and that of my grandfather; and it was not without some hesitation that I revealed my perplexity to my father at last, by the abrupt inquiry, one day on our way home from church, whether my grandfather had been a very wicked man. Greatly surprised were both my parents at this unlooked-for question, and I believe not a little amused at the train of reasoning which had led me to it; but they took an early opportunity of taking me into the church, not on a Sunday, and permitting me to go near to the tablets, pointing out the connecting words which were not legible, and which supplied a full explanation of all that I wanted to know, and showing me that the below referred to the position of the family vault under the church, and the above to the relative position of the Rev. J. Brocklehurst's name to that of his wife.

Often after that explanation I thought, as I looked at the tablets, of the words my father said to me at the time: "Willie, there are many things in God's dealings with his children that are hard to understand here; by-and-by, when we see things nearer, in the light of eternity, we shall find out that our difficulty has just been because here we see in part—as you did the inscriptions—but then we shall see face to face, and know even as we are known."

There was another monumental tablet about which I thought a great deal, which preached to me a silent sermon as often as I looked at it. Under the name and date of birth and death of the person it commemorated were the words, "Prepare to meet thy God." I spent a long time looking for them in my Bible, and thought a great deal about the verse when I had found it; wondering whether the young midshipman, son of one of the rectors, upon whose monument it had been engraved, had thought about them too, or whether it was a sort of warning because he had not prepared. It was upon this latter train of thought, with reflections concerning Aleck and myself woven into it—I clearly not prepared, and wondering whether Aleck was prepared—that I found myself starting as I settled shyly upon my little corner of the chair, and looked timidly for my Bible in order to find the text.

What was my surprise when Psalm lxvi. 18 was given out, and the well-known words, so often repeated to myself, were repeated slowly and impressively by the stranger clergyman from the pulpit—"If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."

It seemed to me so wonderful and so strange that he should have fixed upon the very passage that I had thought of so often within the previous two days, that at first I almost fancied I was dreaming. But I felt still more surprised when, after anxiously attending to what was said for a few minutes, I found the sermon was as easy to understand as my mother's conversation after a Bible reading: all inattention was gone, and for the first time in my life I was listening with interest deep and anxious, whilst the clergyman, in simple language, explained the text so clearly that not one in the church need have gone away uninstructed.

The great question that I wanted to hear answered was, Whether, in my circumstances, with an unconfessed sin lying heavily on my heart, it was of any use for me to pray to God for Aleck?—what was the exact meaning of regarding iniquity in my heart?

The very first words of the sermon landed us in the midst of the question. "Unforgiven sin," said the clergyman, "is a barrier between our souls and our God." And presently afterwards he referred us to Isaiah lix. 2: "Your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you that he will not hear;" and to a long passage in the 1st chapter of Isaiah, finishing with the words, "When ye make many prayers, I will not hear: your hands are full of blood." Then he spoke to the congregation of the many Sundays during which they had come together to worship, whilst in the case of many of them their lives were unsanctified, their religion for one day in seven only, not for the whole week;—they loved their sins and would not give them up on any account, hoping to square their account with God by an outward attendance on Divine worship. It was all put in very simple language; and we were told to look back into one week of our lives to find out whether we were fighting against sin as an enemy, or cherishing sin as a friend: and if living in sin, as servants of Satan, we had the solemn truth to lay home to our consciences that our prayers never reached heaven; the promise, true for the children of God, that he would hear and answer prayer, was not true for those who were the servants or slaves of sin.

Then there was an appeal to those who felt conscious of sin and wished for forgiveness, and I felt I belonged to that class, and listened with increasing eagerness. Was it for them to say, "I must then reform my ways and make myself better before I can go to Christ for pardon?" Oh, no! The prayer of the publican, "God be merciful to me a sinner," was heard and answered. Christ's invitation was addressed to the weary and heavy laden, "Come unto Me." He died to take our punishment instead of us; and those who, instead of cherishing sin, felt it a burden too heavy for them to bear, were to bring it and lay it down at the foot of the cross, and find rest to their souls.

There followed a few words about sins forgiven being sins forsaken. Any person who had been in the habit of dishonest dealing would adopt habits of rectitude, and would make restitution when possible. Those who had uttered falsehoods would no longer persist in untruthfulness, but would speak the whole truth, even if to their own cost. And all this would be because Christ had forgiven them, and not in order to obtain forgiveness. I do not remember the rest of the sermon, but just at the end there was a beautiful piece about the happiness of finding the great barrier gone:—Just as when a little child, conscious of some wrong action, feels ashamed to meet the eyes of its loving parents, and is conscious of a separation that casts a dark shadow over all the usual home happiness, at last, with repenting heart and quivering voice, whispers in the loving ears of father or mother the secret trouble that lies heavily upon the sin-burdened conscience, and in the tender embrace of forgiveness finds pardon and peace: so with the sinner who has found peace at the foot of the cross; the barrier of separation is no more; the way into the holiest is made manifest by the blood of the Atonement; and the promise is written in letters of gold, "If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you."

Before I left the church, and took my solitary walk home through the wood, I had made up my mind to confess all to my parents at the very earliest opportunity; and with this determination there was already a sense of relief.

But the opportunity did not occur so soon as I had expected; for I found a solitary dinner awaiting me, and the whole of that long afternoon, except for the servants, who brought a message once or twice from the sick-room to the effect that my parents dared not leave even for a minute, I was quite alone, either sitting on the hearth-rug by the fire, or standing at the door listening for any footstep on the passage up-stairs, or even the opening or shutting of doors.

At last, at about five o'clock, I heard my father coming softly down-stairs, and sprang to meet him. "Papa, papa, tell me, is Aleck better?"

"I fear not, my child," answered my father gently. "I think, Willie, that God is going to take him to Himself. But he is conscious just now, and wants to see you. He has asked that he may wish you good-bye. You must be very quiet indeed, and speak very gently."

I felt the tears coming hot and fast, and there was a terrible choking in my throat; but it was impossible to hold out one moment longer, and, struggling through my sobs, I gasped out, "Oh, papa, I have killed him!—it's all my fault!—oh! what shall I do?" and I clung, terror-stricken, to the hand which he had placed on my shoulder.

My father sat down, and tried to soothe me, putting his arm around me, and saying kind, comforting words, evidently at a loss to understand the purport of my broken utterances, whilst I tried, and tried in vain, to control my sobs, and regain sufficient composure to explain.

At last he said firmly,—

"This agitation would do Aleck grievous harm; I must not take you to him until you are quite calm, Willie, and yet the moments are precious: keep what you have to say until another time, and try to stop crying; I shall have to go up-stairs without you, unless you can be ready soon."

Then he gave me a glass of water, and still telling me not to speak, waited until I had mastered my emotion and was tolerably calm, then led me by the hand up to Aleck's room.

"Wish me good-bye," I said over and over to myself. Such a long good-bye, how could I bear it!

There was no one else in the room at the moment but my mother, who sat at the foot of the bed with something in her hand for Aleck. It was not until I had advanced nearly to the bed that, with tear-blinded eyes, I could distinguish my cousin's face. It was so deadly pale that I started at the sight; but though pale and wan he was perfectly conscious, and as I drew near he whispered softly,—

"I'm so glad you've come, Willie—I wanted to see you, and wish you good-bye." There was a pause, and then more faintly he continued,—"I want to be quite sure you've forgiven me, Willie;—Jesus has; I've asked him."

I bent forward and kissed the white face that lay so quiet and still, struggling to keep down my sobs, though I felt as if my heart would break, and longing to be able to say but one word, that Aleck might know it was I who asked his forgiveness, but longing in vain.

"You forgive me quite, Willie," murmured Aleck again.



But at the first attempt to speak, I broke down utterly, with such a burst of pent-up grief, that to control it was impossible, and I was hurried quickly out of the room, lest my emotion should be injurious to Aleck; my mother herself almost carrying me down-stairs, and sorely divided between the desire to stay and comfort me, and at the same time to remain at her post up-stairs with my cousin.

For a few minutes, however, she remained with her arm around me, and my head resting on her shoulder; and when, by degrees, I grew a little more calm, though it cost a fearful effort, I contrived to sob out my confession, and let her know how wicked I had been, and also how miserable. I could see it was a terrible shock to her when she grasped my meaning, and she did not attempt to disguise the pain it cost her. For the first time in my life I saw my mother shed tears. But the knowledge of my guilt seemed to add to her pity for me.

"My poor little Willie," she said; "you have indeed had a terrible load upon your heart; your punishment has come more quickly upon you and more heavily than sometimes happens: but remember there is One whose blood cleanses from all sin—the heavenly Father's ear is open to you, Willie, through Jesus, and you must get forgiveness where those who really seek it are never turned away."

"I wanted to tell Aleck, mamma, too; but I couldn't."

"There is no need to trouble Aleck about that now," said my mother sorrowfully: "the ship seems a little thing to him now, Willie; his thoughts are on the great things of eternity. It might agitate him, and it would not make him happier to know about it; but if you like I will tell him that you love him dearly, and are very sorry for everything you have ever done that may not have been kind."

Even this message, vague as it was, seemed better than none, and I thankfully endorsed it.

"But oh, mamma," I added, "do tell me that you think it just possible he may get well again. I think it will kill me if he does not."

"He is in God's hands, Willie," answered my mother, "and with God all things are possible; but I fear there is little hope of his getting any better. Dr. Wilson does not say there is no hope, but the other doctors quite gave him up. I do not hide it from you, my child, because it is easier to know the worst than to be in doubt and suspense; and God will help you—help us all—to bear it."

There were tears in my mother's eyes and a tremble in her voice as she said this, and as it rushed upon me all at once how greatly it must add to her trouble to know that I was the cause of it, my own grief seemed rekindled. She gently unclasped my hands, which were tightly locked around her.

"I must leave you now, my poor child," she said; "I cannot stay a minute longer away from Aleck;" and stooping down, she kissed me in spite of my wickedness, and went away up-stairs; whilst I, throwing myself upon the sofa, buried my head in my hands, and wept until, from sheer exhaustion, I seemed to grow quiet at last, whilst the day-light faded away, and the faint flickering of the fire-light produced mysterious shadows on the ceiling, and made the things in the room assume to my fevered imagination weird and fanciful shapes.

But there was a species of dim comfort in watching the fire; and a comfort, too, in spite of my misery, in the recollection that I had confessed my sin—that it was no longer a dread secret in my own sole keeping, but was shared by the strong, tender hearts, of my parents: and it seemed to come soothingly to my mind that now the barrier of sin might be taken away, and my heart rose once again in earnest prayer to God for forgiveness. Then I began to think about the great things of eternity my mother had spoken of; and of the meeting-time for those who were parted on earth, of Aleck, and of Old George, and his son—Ralph's father; and of what Groves said about the open book; and then came the recollection of the sea-stained little Testament, and the quaint verse at its beginning, and the young sailor's profession of faith, "Father, He died for me, I must live for Him." My mind travelled from one thought to another, whilst ever and anon a struggling sob for breath seemed like the subsiding of a tempest. Shaping themselves into more or less definite plans, came thoughts, too, of the future before me in this world:—I should never be quite happy any more, I thought; but I would try to keep on, like Ralph's father, living for Christ in some way, and grow up to be very good—perhaps I should be a missionary—I was not quite sure on the whole what sphere of life would be the most trying or praiseworthy—and then at last Aleck and I would meet in heaven. This I believe to have been the last point of conscious reflection, for more and more vague and desultory became my thoughts afterwards. Nature would have her revenge for all the restlessness and anxiety of the past few days. I fell into a profound sleep.



CHAPTER X.

SUNDAY EVENING.

Where I was, why I was where I was, and what time of the day or night it might happen to be—were questions which presented themselves to my mind in hazy succession, as, roused from my slumbers by the hum of voices, I woke slowly to the consciousness that, though I had been asleep, I was not in bed. It was only by a very gradual process of recollection that the past came back upon me almost like a fresh story, and I was at least a minute rubbing my eyes, and collecting my thoughts, before I took in all the familiar objects in the room, from the sofa on which I found myself reposing, to the fire-place at which, with their backs turned to me, my father and Dr. Wilson were in close conversation. My father's voice was low and serious, and at the moment when, having finished the process of awakening, I was going to speak, his words came slowly and distinctly to my ears, and sank down into my heart:—

"The thought of his parents' grief on hearing of the death—such a death, too!—of their only child, has been almost more than I could bear."

Aleck was dead!—there was no hope left! I thought; and with a piteous exclamation of grief, I turned round and hid my face in my hands, leaning up against the sofa.

In another moment my father was at my side. I felt his arm encircling me as he drew me towards him, and bending down, whispered softly,—

"It is no time for grief now, Willie; I was speaking of what might have been; let us give God thanks, for the danger is over—Aleck is spared to us."

I slowly drew back my hands from my face. The relief was so great I could scarcely believe in it; and I must have appeared—as I certainly felt—utterly bewildered, whilst I tried to find words, and only at last succeeded in repeating my father's mechanically:

"The danger is over—Aleck is spared to us."

"To be sure he is," said Dr. Wilson, in his cheeriest tones. He had got up from his chair, and was standing with his back to the fire looking at us. "Yes, he'll be quite well again by-and-by; and all the more prudent, we'll hope, for the trouble he's been putting us in during these last few days. He's had a lesson that ought to last for some time to come; but boys never learn their lessons, do what one will to make them."

There was a moment's pause after this discouraging general statement with reference to boys; and then the doctor added, as if thinking to himself, in quite a different tone:

"Poor boy! poor boy! it's been a very near thing. By the help of God, we've brought him through. May it be a life worth the saving—a life given back to God!"

"Amen!" ejaculated my father, earnestly; and then, at his suggestion, we knelt together, and, in a few heartfelt words, he offered thanks to the heavenly Father for his goodness to us, and turned kind Dr. Wilson's aspiration into a prayer, that the life given back to my cousin might be by him given back to God.

I knew, as I knelt there by my father's side, for the first time in my life, the feeling of a deep and speechless thankfulness, for which all words would be too poor.

It was very late—past ten o'clock—but I was not allowed to go up to bed at once. Supper was ready, my father said, and I should come into the dining-room, and have it with him and Dr. Wilson. Accordingly, in spite of all remonstrances of nurse, who put in her appearance, and thought fit to reflect upon the utter impropriety of such late hours, I went to supper; and felt, moreover, greatly refreshed and strengthened by it, sitting there close by my father's side, and rejoicing every moment of the time in the feeling as of a great deliverance.

So it came to pass that my second night did not begin until eleven o'clock.



CHAPTER XI.

THE WHITE-ROCK COVE AGAIN.

Aleck was a long time getting well. He had to be nursed and taken care of all through that winter, only gradually making little steps towards recovery.

It was quite a festival when he was first carried down-stairs; and then again when he was taken out in the carriage for a drive, lying at full length upon a sort of couch which we erected for him, and to which he declared, in my anxiety to make him comfortable, I had contributed all the sofa cushions in the house.

The subject of the lost ship was forbidden for a long while; and I grew to thinking of it as a sort of formidable undertaking, though one upon which I was firmly bent—the confession to Aleck himself of my guilt in the matter.

But when at last I was permitted to approach the subject, I could only feel surprised that I had been for so long afraid of it. Aleck received my confession so quietly, instead of getting angry, and spoke so kindly and gently, that I could scarcely believe it was the same Aleck whose look of fiery indignation on that eventful morning of the 20th of September had so startled me.

In one way, indeed, he was not the same; for the accident, and illness consequent on it, seemed in some peculiar manner to have rendered him far more lovable and thoughtful than he had been formerly; a trifle graver, perhaps—at least I thought so, until, when he grew quite strong again, his merry laugh would ring out as cheerily as ever—and more serious in his way of looking at things, but not less happy. That I was sure of; for all through the long weeks of confinement there was not a brighter place in the house than the place at the side of his couch—he was so uniformly cheerful, and seemed so thoroughly to enjoy every little plan that we were able to form for his amusement.

I told him I was quite surprised that he received my confession so gently; it would have been so natural if he had got angry. I remember his answer very well:—

"Why, you see, Willie, it seems quite a little thing to me now. I don't think I can exactly put what I mean into words; but you know when I thought I was dying, and eternity seemed quite near, everything else seemed so little—only, the wrong words I had used to you seemed much worse than I had thought they could. Old George's words came back to me so often, about the loss of the ship being a very little thing; whilst wrong words and angry feelings would appear more terrible than we ever fancied possible. I was dreadfully frightened until I felt quite sure I was forgiven. You can't think how glad I was when I got your message."

"I wanted to tell you," I said, "when I came into your room that time; but I couldn't speak, though I nearly choked in trying to stop crying."

"Well since then," resumed Aleck, "the feeling doesn't seem to have gone off. I don't mean I don't care for things, because you know I like everything very much—our games, and the books, and madrepores; but I feel as if before my accident God and heaven and the Bible were all being put by, and got ready, for the time when one was old and grown up, and I've felt so different since then. It was when I felt so frightened at the thought of what a naughty boy I was, and of all the bad things I had done, and began to tell Jesus about it—in my heart, you know, for I couldn't speak—and remembered he was so good and kind he never turned any one away, and so felt sure he had heard me, that I began to think so differently."

At this point of Aleck's narration I broke in impetuously with—

"Oh, Aleck! for you to be feeling like that—you, who had only felt angry—what would you have done if you had been me?" And then I proceeded, with feelings of unconcealed horror, to tell him of my misery during the few days succeeding the loss of the boat; the terrible walk home that morning; the lonely terrors of the nights; and my feelings at church with that verse always sounding in my ears, "If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."

Before I had finished my story Aleck had got hold of one of my hands, and was stroking it as if he had been a girl. "You see," I said, "I was feeling rather like you, only I couldn't know I was forgiven, with that dreadful sin that no one knew of."

"We had both done wrong," Aleck replied; "it doesn't much signify which of us was worst. Willie, do you know I want us always to do something together that we haven't done before."

"What is it?" I inquired.

"I should like us to read a little bit of the Bible together every day, quite for our own selves; not like a lesson, you know, nor even having auntie to explain it to us, but just for our own selves, like when I have one of papa's or mamma's letters to read. I think it would help us to remember the really great things better, like auntie's text in my room."

I need scarcely say that the habit—afterwards continued, whenever practicable, through our school-life—was at once begun. In fact, Aleck's merest wish was a law to me; for all through the winter months every opportunity of rendering him any service was hailed with delight. I could never forget that his weakness and suffering were the result of my wicked behaviour, and could only comfort myself by doing all that in me lay to make his confinement as little wearisome as possible. Knowing his active, restless nature, I could fully appreciate what the trial must be, even with every alleviation, and often wondered he was able to bear it so cheerfully.

But when I ventured to express to my cousin these speculations of mine, he would laugh them off merrily.

"Why, Willie, how can I help being thankful and happy? Not to speak of uncle and aunt, who seem to be doing something for me every hour of the day; nor of old George, who toils up every morning to see me, though he used to tell me that it made his old bones ache—a fact he will never allow now; nor of Frisk, who sits upon my feet for hours, on purpose to keep them warm; I should like to know how I could help being cheerful, with your own dear old self giving up the greater part of your play-time to chess, or carpentry, or madrepores, and spending every penny of your pocket-money—No; it's of no use your stopping me to deny it. I've counted up, and you've spent every penny of your pocket-money—just as I was saying—in buying books, or tools, or things for me; waiting upon me, too, as if I were a prince and you my slave. Why, I'm perfectly afraid of admiring anything you have, lest I should find it done up in a parcel, and sent to me, like the illustrated copy of 'Robinson Crusoe' the other day!"

In this sort of grateful spirit, making much of all my little trifling acts of kindness, Aleck scarcely allowed us to feel that he was under-going any deprivation during the months that he lay on the sofa.

Once only I remember noticing a little cloud, that vanished again almost as soon as it appeared. One morning, after lessons were over, I came running into the study with my Latin exercise.

"Papa, Mr. Glengelly was so pleased with my exercise, he has sent me in to show it to you."

My father looked over it, reading little bits aloud, and finding with surprise that, difficult though it was, there were no mistakes. From my father's table I flew to the sofa on which Aleck was lying, with Frisk at his feet as usual, the open copy-book in my hand. But in an instant I could see there was some trouble in my cousin's face.

"Aleck, dear Aleck," I whispered anxiously, "what is it? Have I done anything?"

"No—nothing at all," replied my cousin with a great effort, and hastily brushing away his tears. "Let me have a look at it too. I'm ashamed of myself, Willie. I believe I was making myself unhappy at thinking that I shall just have gone back as much as you've gone forward. I didn't know I cared so much for being first in my lessons."

After that I avoided ever talking of my lessons when Aleck was in the room; but he noticed this, and insisted on introducing the subject, speaking often to Mr. Glengelly about my progress, and looking over my exercises from time to time, whilst he would playfully remark that "we should be about equal when he was allowed to begin lessons again, and better companions than ever before."

Sometimes he wondered at my getting on so much faster than formerly, not knowing the spirit of resolve and determination that had grown out of all the sad time of trouble, when I had found out for the first time what a poor sinful child I was, and had learned to seek and find for myself the sure Refuge and Strength—not for times of trouble only, but for the whole of life's journey.

From the circumstance of my play-time being in great part spent with my cousin, at least such part of it as was not taken up in rides or drives with my parents, it came to pass that my visits to the Cove were far less frequent than they had been at any previous time. But though old George growled and grumbled at seeing so little of me, he always encouraged me not to desert my cousin.

Now and then, however, I found my way down the Zig-zag to the lodge, and it was upon one of these occasions that I unburdened my mind to my old friend of a desire, which grew and strengthened upon me, in some way to provide for Aleck a boat which should be quite equal to the one he had lost. I knew it was worth a great deal more than I should be able to save in pocket-money, and a vague idea of the possibility of bartering some of my possessions had been dismissed as impracticable.

To part with the "Fair Alice" without old George's sanction would not be right, but if he would make no objection, it seemed to me that this would be on the whole the easiest mode of reparation, and I took him into consultation on the subject accordingly.

"I know it's your present to me, George," I said, feeling sadly alive to the delicacy of the request; "but if you'll give me leave, I think it's the only thing I have that would do to give Aleck. I can't think of any other way. I know it took you a tremendous time to make, and I care for it more than for anything. But I would rather give it to Aleck."

Old George chuckled rather provokingly, and seemed to be taken up with some abstruse calculation. "Well, I won't be against it, Master Aleck," he said, "unless—no—I'm not sure—" (the old man seemed to grow quite composed in his uncertainty), "I think—I may show you." And so saying he led the way into the work-shop.

I started with surprise—another little schooner-yacht was in course of construction, precisely similar to the one that had been lost.

"O George, how kind!"

"No; it's not a bit kind," responded George, "for I'm being paid for it. I meant to have done it without, but your papa, sir, has insisted upon it being his order, and I've been obliged to cave in."

It was to be a secret from Aleck, however.

How hard it was to keep that secret, when, every time there was a talk of Aleck's being able to get down to the Cove, I was on the point of letting out what he was to see there!

I did contrive to keep it, however; and when at last February was ushered in with a burst of warm weather that tempted all the little buds to unfold themselves with a perfectly reckless disregard of the cold that was sure to follow, and primroses and violets to start into blossom as though they could not lay the bright carpet for spring's advance too soon, Dr. Wilson decreed that nothing would do his little patient more good than a couple of hours of the freshest sea breezes, caught and partaken of on the spot, a mile off from shore;—which meant that Aleck had leave to go to the Cove once more, and out upon the sea for a sail.

Of course I had a whole holiday for the occasion; and I had satisfaction in observing that I was not the only one unable to settle down into quiet occupation. The carriage was nearly ready to drive my parents and Aleck down to the lodge, when I started off by way of the Zig-zag, to the Cove.

There was the new yacht, already decked from bow to stern with the tiny flags which I had been collecting for weeks past. All the sails were set, but a little anchor—also my addition to the furniture of the new vessel—kept her safely moored; and as she curtsied upon the water, every sail and flag reflected as in a mirror, I thought I had never seen anything so pretty.

Perhaps Aleck thought so too, for when he arrived a few minutes after, leaning on my father's arm, he seemed as if he could not speak, and had to sit down quite quietly in the boat whilst he drew the yacht close up to the side, and looked at it all over. Then he turned to my father, and said something about not being able to thank—and at this point broke down in a manner that was so singularly infectious, that no one was found able to break the silence at first.

My father said presently, however, "You must carry him off to sea, George; and I shall call you to account if those pale cheeks don't gather roses from the crests of the waves."

Then we drew up the anchor of the little yacht, and pushed off from the shore. A basket of provisions had been placed in the boat, and before we had been very long out at sea, George insisted upon its being unpacked, threatening Aleck that he should be reported as insubordinate unless he consumed precisely the quantity of wine and the whole amount of cold chicken dealt out to him.

"Willie," whispered my cousin to me, after dutifully doing his best at the luncheon, "I want very much indeed to go to the White-Rock Cove—do you think George will let us?"

Certainly I did not think so, but Aleck wished it, and that was quite enough to make me join earnestly in his entreaties that we should turn the boat's head round in the direction he wished.

Groves consented at last, but not without many misgivings, the White-Rock Cove being, he said, about the last place he'd have thought of taking us to; and sentiments to the same effect were respectfully echoed by Ralph, who, in my private belief, had held the place in superstitious horror ever since the 20th of September.

All of us, however, yielded as a matter of course when it was found Aleck had set his mind upon it; and the wind being favourable, we were not very long in rounding Braycombe headland.

Once in the Cove, my cousin asked me to land with him, requesting George and Ralph to leave us ashore a little while.

"It must have been almost exactly here, I think," said Aleck, leading the way to the spot which I remembered only too vividly, and glancing round to assure himself that our companions were out of sight. "Willie, I want us to thank God here, on the very spot—there's no one to see us—let us kneel down."

We knelt together at the foot of the White Rock; Aleck, who was still very weak, leaning against me for support. They were only a few childish words he said, but they came from a full heart; and I never remember in later life any liturgical service in church or cathedral that stirred my feelings more deeply than that simple thanksgiving. Nor even now, after the lapse of many a long year, can I visit that little retired nook in the dear Braycombe coast, and hear the plash of the ripple, and the flap of the sea-gulls' wings, and the echoing murmurs of the sea in the caverns, without being carried back by a rush of tender recollection to that day when all Nature's sweet voices seemed to be uniting in one hymn of praise, taking up and beautifying and repeating the utterance of two little thankful hearts—

"We praise Thee, O God."

THE END