Was it some ghastly nightmare, Tom wondered, as he clutched at the seat in front of him? But the suppressed grin on the faces near him, the foolish smile with which the publishing of banns is so often received in a village church, convinced him that he had heard aright. The blood was rioting to his brain, and the beating in his throat made him put up his hand with the vain endeavour to loosen his collar lest he should choke there and then with the passion that could find no outlet. For one instant he was possessed by a wild wish to stand up and forbid the banns; but what end would be gained by making himself a greater laughing-stock to the village than he was at present, for already he felt the derisive finger of scorn pointed at him as the man whom Rose had jilted. Even now he saw one or two of the lads nudge each other and look at him with curious eyes. To be watched at such a moment was torture, and, like an animal in pain, Tom longed for solitude. He groped blindly under the seat for his hat, made his way to the door and slipped out. He stumbled on like a man in delirium, looking neither to the right nor left, but following instinctively the path across the fields which led to the river. The turbulence of its grey waters, as it rushed on to the sea, seemed most in keeping with the wild, wicked thoughts that surged unchecked through his brain, and were bearing him he knew not whither. He threw himself upon the long, rank grass on the bank, still wet with the heavy mist of night, and, pillowing his chin in his hands, watched with dilating eyes the swirling river as it swept by. A giddiness dimmed his vision, a singing filled his ears.

"If I slipped over and was carried along with it, there'd be an end of it all," thought Tom. And the chill wind came sighing across the water, and shook the heavy rushes at the edge, which seemed whisperingly to echo his thought, "an end of it all."

Then Tom half-angrily roused himself, and pressed his hands to the eyes that burned like fire, and tried to collect his bewildered senses. What!—slip out of life like a drowned rat and never see Rose again, nor tell her what he knew of the man she had chosen in preference to him. She would be glad to know he was dead, he told himself with fierce bitterness. She had played with him like a cat with a mouse for more than a year but in the long run the mouse died squeaking. Surely she could not be so false-hearted as to break faith with him to-night; she would meet him and say good-bye? She should meet him, whether she liked it or not; and if Dixon were with her so much the better,—and Tom's fists clenched involuntarily.

For hours and hours he wandered, following the windings of the river, until, as the November sun paled and sank in a bank of grey cloud, he discovered that he was some six or eight miles from Rudham, and that his knees were knocking together with mingled emotion and fatigue. A wayside inn seemed a haven of refuge to him in his exhausted condition. Through the red blind of the bar a light shone cheerily, and Tom entered the door without knocking, and, seating himself on the settle by the fire, ordered sixpennyworth of brandy.

"Hot water or cold? You'll have it hot, if you take my advice," said the landlady, with a glance at the bloodshot eyes that glared so strangely out of the deathly white face.

"Neither, thanks," said Tom, tossing off the raw spirit at a gulp.

It tasted to him like so much water; it did not muddle his brain, it cleared it, it nerved him for that interview with Rose.

"Another sixpennyworth, please," he said, laying down a shilling on the table.

The landlady paused, and coughed behind her hand; she had sons of her own.

"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, pushing him back sixpence. "You've took as much as is good for you, and ne'er a drop of water.

"You can serve me or leave it alone," said Tom, angrily. "I'm ill; I need it. It tastes like so much water."

The landlady shook her head but gave him the brandy, and Tom, having swallowed it, bade her a civil good night and went on his way.

The landlady hurried to the door and looked after him; he was walking very fast but quite straight.

"It may have gone to his head, but it's not got into his legs," she said, a note of admiration in her voice.

Tom meanwhile hurried on to the station, which he knew to be not more than half a mile away. He was just in time to catch the one down-train that ran on Sunday evening, which would land him in Rudham in time for evening service—not that Tom meant to go to church that night. He would walk outside and wait for Dixon and for Rose. Many a time the two men had escorted Rose back to the Court, one on either side. This would be the last.



CHAPTER XI.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Rose Lancaster had never looked prettier than that Sunday night, as she tripped into church, a soft ruffle of fur setting off the delicate fair face, a large velvet hat resting on the golden hair. Dixon, with a proud air of possession, walked in behind her, and, seating himself at her side, proved his proprietorship by producing her Prayer-book from his pocket, and finding all her places for her throughout the service. When Rose dared to lift her head and look about her, she gave a sigh of relief to see that Tom was not present.

"I dare say he thought I should like it best if he stayed away," she thought. She was thankful that the question of her marriage was decided and well decided.

The moon had risen when the service ended. There was a group of people collected outside the church-gate discussing the village gossip before they dispersed to their several homes.

Dixon pulled Rose's arm through his own, and, not allowing her to linger for a moment, led her off. They did not either of them notice that a man with a hat well pulled over his eyes followed them at some little distance; and not until the village was left behind, and the pair had turned into the road, which, with many a wind, led up to the Court, did he attempt to lessen the space which separated them. Then, as unconsciously Rose and Dixon walked more slowly, Tom quickened his steps, and was alongside of them before they realized his presence. He pushed back his hat; and Rose broke into a smothered cry of alarm as the moonlight fell upon the haggard face and wild eyes of her rejected lover, and she clung the tighter to Dixon's arm.

Tom's laugh was not pleasant to listen to. "You asked for my company, Rose, but you don't seem best pleased now I've come," he said; "but, pleased or not, I'll walk with you to-night, and say a thing or two it's right for you to hear before we part company for good."

"I wrote to you," stammered Rose. "I sent it by a special messenger on Saturday night to tell you that, after thinking things over, I'd—I'd——"

"She made up her mind that I should be the best husband for her," said Dixon, putting a protecting arm round Rose's shoulder, and finishing off the sentence she found it so difficult to frame.

The words and the action alike maddened Tom. Was Rose to be protected from him when, to give her pleasure and shield her from pain, had been his one thought for the last eighteen months?

"It's only fair that, as she's chucked me for you, she should know the sort of man she's got hold of," he stuttered.

"I didn't lose my place for being so drunk that it took the parson the best part of the night to see me home, did I?" sneered Dixon.

"No, you didn't. But Rose shall hear now who plotted to make me drunk that night, and who informed against me next day. It was you, you sly, sneaking scamp!—deny it if you dare? If it comes to character who's got the better one, you or I? No man can throw a dirty, dishonest trick at me! And you! Who squares the corn-merchant? Who cooks every bill that goes into the Court? Don't I know it? Have I lived nearly a year under the same roof that covered you, without finding out pretty well how you've managed to feather your nest so as to make it fine enough for the pretty bird you've caught; and if I'd chosen to round on you when you got me turned out, where would you be now, I'd like to know? You would not be coachman at the Court."

Dixon had turned livid with rage, but kept his head.

"You are a poor, drunken fool, and don't know what you are saying, or I'd make you swallow your words."

"You wouldn't! I could prove them!" went on Tom, choking with passion. "And as you've cheated in work, you've cheated in love. You've cheated me, and you've cheated that one as followed you sobbing and crying from the place where you last came from, and who you'd promised faithful to marry, and who you'd walked with for three years and more. I had the story from the woman where I lodge. The girl spent the night there, and she was pretty nigh broken-hearted. She'd even got her wedding-gown."

Dixon sprang across the road like a tiger, and gave Tom such a swinging box on the ear that, for a moment, he reeled again. And then, all the devil in Tom was loosed, and he leaped on his foe, gripping him by the throat until every vein in his forehead stood out in blue knots. The action was so unexpected and so rapid that Dixon found it impossible to free himself. The men swayed to and fro in each other's embrace, finally falling heavily together with a sickening thud upon the road. Tom was uppermost, and picked himself up with a rather ghastly smile, but Dixon lay there rigid and motionless.

"Get up!" said Tom, poking him with the toe of his boot. "You won't be so ready to interfere with me another time." But Dixon did not stir.

Rose, who had tried to stop the quarrel by every artifice in her power, knelt down by the side of her lover. And suddenly a cry so shrill, so despairing, broke the air, that Tom's heart stood still and the blood froze in his veins.

"Tom! Tom!—you wicked man, you've killed him!" she shrieked.

And Tom, sobered by the cry, and realizing in all its horror the meaning of the words, turned like guilty Cain and fled. There was but one place for him now: the river—the river, and the end of it all. He was making for it straight, flying by the nearest cut across the fields, leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, regardless of the brambles that scored his face and hands. Like a hare hunted by the hounds he fled; away from his own guilty action, away from the woman he loved, to the river which would sweep him swiftly, painlessly to rest and forgetfulness. But would it? He had stumbled accidentally into the path which led towards the cottage where he lodged, and turned his head as he ran to take one last glance at the light which glimmered in the window. He could see the river now; he was nearing the brink. There was but one field between him and it, when he became conscious of a pursuing step. Somebody was already on his scent. The question now was whether he should die by his own act, or be delivered over to the terrible hands of justice; and at that thought Tom redoubled his speed to outstrip his pursuer. It was a desperate race, for his strength was nearly spent. His long fast had told upon him, and the fictitious power of the spirit he had swallowed had passed away. His breath was coming in quick, short gasps. His foot caught in a tussock of grass, and he fell face foremost to the ground, and, before he could regain his feet, a hand was on his collar.



"Let me go! Let me go!" he cried, struggling desperately in the hands of his capturer. "If I've killed him I'm ready to die too. You can't do more than hang me! One more moment and I'd have been in the river. Let me go, I say!"

"I shall not let you go; you are either mad or drunk—incapable of taking care of yourself," said a low, clear voice; and Tom was lifted to a standing posture by the rector's strong arms.

* * * * * *

When Dixon had called late on Saturday night to ask the rector to put up his banns on the morrow, Mr. Curzon's thoughts flew straight to Tom. So this was the end of his love-story, poor fellow! and he feared that it would go hardly with the lad.

"Maybe he will come to see me to-morrow. And, if not, I will see him," he had said.

He had noticed with satisfaction that Tom was in his accustomed place on Sunday morning, and did not see him slip out of church after the publishing of the banns; but on Sunday night he missed him, and, the minute service was ended, he set off for the cottage where he lodged. He had reached the field-path which led to it, when he heard the sound of footsteps that stumbled in their running, and, pausing to look round, he saw a figure, which he did not immediately recognize in the moonlight as Tom's, dashing across the pathway in the direction of the river. Almost before he knew what he was doing the rector gave chase, for he felt the man meant mischief: a conviction which grew into certainty as he gained upon the runaway, and recognized him as the man whom he sought.

Tom attempted no further resistance, and, from his incoherent utterances, Mr. Curzon presently gathered what had occurred.

"And you ran off and left Rose with her dead lover? I could not have believed you such a coward, Tom!" he said, unable to keep back the indignation and scorn he felt. "This is no place for you and me; we must go back at once, and see if anything can be done."

Nothing was said as the two hastened back to the spot where Dixon was left lying; but, to the utter astonishment of both, when they arrived there, Rose and Dixon had gone.

"Either some vehicle has driven by which has conveyed Dixon to the Court, or he was, by God's mercy, only stunned," said the rector. "We'll go on and find out."

Tom made no answer, but followed the rector's lead. In a kind of dumb despair he felt he was walking to meet his fate. They made their way first to the stables, anxious not to give the alarm at the house until they knew the extent of the mischief. The usual orderly quiet prevailed, and, in response to the rector's knock, the groom, who had played such a faithless part by Rose, appeared.

"Is Dixon in? Can I see him for a moment?" asked Mr. Curzon, guardedly.

"He came in, sir, about a quarter of an hour since, but he's gone straight up to bed. He'd a nasty fall—did not know quite how he'd done it, slipped up on his heel, he said, and fell on the back of his head. Rose Lancaster was with him, and seemed terrible cut up about it, said he lay like a dead thing; and she would never have got him home if it had not been that a cart drove by and gave 'em both a lift."

"Thank you. Tell Dixon that I'll come round in the morning to see how he is."

"We need do nothing more to-night; your worst fear is not realized," he said, as he and Tom turned towards home. "Now you will come back to supper with me, and we will trace your sin to its very root, please God. You've had a warning that I think you are not likely to forget."

But Tom, in the sudden relief from the horrible fear that he had inadvertently taken the life of a fellow creature, had broken into a passion of sobs, shedding such tears as a man sheds but once in a lifetime—scalding tears of bitter repentance and shame.

He and Mr. Curzon sat talking far into the night, and Tom told the story truly, keeping nothing back.

"You've let drink and passion get the upper hand, Tom. You have put the love of a woman before the love of God, and you've come near to wrecking your life and hers in consequence. It would not have mended matters if you had hurried yourself into another world to which you have given so little thought, would it? It was a mad, wicked thought! a thought of the devil's own suggestion; but you are saved for the beginning of a better life, a new life in new surroundings."

Tom glanced up quickly. "Not in Tasmania," he said. "The squire won't send me, after this."

"You'll tell him about it, then," replied Mr. Curzon, with a heart-throb of thanksgiving that Tom was ready to face out the consequences of his action.

"Oh yes; I shall tell him. He might hear it any way, but I'd rather tell him myself."

"Very good. Now you had better go home to bed, and, if you have never said a real prayer before, you will say one to-night, Tom, to the God who has saved you from falling over a precipice of crime."

Tom nodded; his heart was too full to speak.

When the morning broke it found the rector in his study where Tom had left him, still upon his knees, for here and there, in this hurrying nineteenth century world, there is yet found a disciple who, like the Master whom he serves, will spend whole nights in prayer. Was not the salvation of a soul at stake?

A fresh development of Rose Lancaster's love-affairs was brought to Mr. Curzon's notice on Monday, for the first person he met, as he left the rectory in the morning, was Rose herself—a crumpled dishevelled Rose, whose toilet gave evidence of hurry, and whose eyes were red with weeping.

"Oh, sir, I've come because I didn't know what to do. We're all in dreadful trouble!—Dixon's gone!"

"Not dead!" cried the rector in horror.

"Oh no; he's run away. And oh, it's cruel, cruel! to have used me like this," said Rose, her sobs bursting out afresh.

"I wonder what has made him do it? Has he left no note behind him?"

"Not a line—nor a message for me," replied Rose. "Only a scrawl in pencil which the groom found on the saddle-room table, to say that nobody need try to trace him. And only to think that our banns were put up yesterday."

"I think you are wasting your tears over a heartless scamp!" said the rector, a little impatiently. "Did you come with any message from the Court?"

"No, sir; I only came to ask you if I ought to tell?"

"To tell what?"

"All that happened last night. There was a dreadful quarrel between Dixon and Tom Burney; and that's how Dixon got hurt. He was stunned, and I thought he was dead; and Tom ran off, and, when Dixon came to himself, his one notion was that I was not to tell any one how he came by his fall."

"So you promised to back him up in a lie!" said the rector, coldly. "One can scarcely wonder that you wished to keep the thing quiet, however. You've terribly misused God's good gift of a pretty face, Rose. You have played with two men; and chosen the wrong one, and driven the other half off his head with misery. Mercifully the good God has saved you from what must have been a miserable marriage, for there is more in Dixon's disappearance than we can see just yet."

Rose's tears dried with her gathering indignation. It had not occurred to her to blame herself in any way; she felt rather in the position of the ill-used heroine of a tragedy in real life.

"Then you think I ought to tell," she said a little sulkily.

"I certainly think your mistress ought to know exactly what happened. You need not tell any one else, that I know of."

So Rose returned to the Court greatly crestfallen; and her account of the quarrel, and Tom's vague threats about Dixon's character, put Mrs. Webster on to the right clue as to the causes of his sudden flight. He was found to have been guilty of repeated acts of dishonesty, so cleverly concealed that, but for the fear that Tom would report him, he might have gone on for years longer, respected and trusted by his employers. As the time seemed ripe for flight, however, he had taken with him the change of a big cheque that Mrs. Webster had given him to cash on the Saturday, and which he had told her glibly that he could not get cashed until the Monday. Each fresh revelation filled Rose with misery and shame; and, behind all, was the one fact that she had kept to herself: the memory of Tom's mention of that other girl that Dixon had jilted—the crowning taunt which had hurried Dixon into showing fight.

"And it must have been true, or it would not have made him so angry," thought Rose.

It was a bitter pill for the vain little thing to swallow: the conviction that she had all along occupied the second place in Dixon's affections, and that he had cast her away, like that other girl, without any compunction. Tom would not have done it; and at the remembrance of him Rose's eyes filled with tears. Rose was returning from the village, whither she had been sent on a message, and she shivered a little as she passed the scene of the last night's disaster; and her alarm found expression in a little cry when she saw Tom Burney standing there, too, and yet there was nothing to terrify her in the deprecating glance of his troubled eyes.

"Rose," he said, stretching out his hands, "I don't wonder that you hate the sight of me, but you can afford to speak kindly to me for this once? God knows I'm sorry enough for what I've done, heart sorry. I came here to look at the place again, where I nearly killed a man, just to let it burn in so that I mayn't forget."

"But—but—you can't have heard that he's not much hurt even? that he's run away and taken a lot of money that does not belong to him?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, drearily. "But that does not alter things; I can't forget that I nearly killed him—and myself."

"Oh, Tom, not that! not that!" cried Rose, for the first time pierced by a pang of keen remorse.

"Yes. I should have drowned myself if Mr. Curzon had not stopped me," said Tom, simply. "I was mad, I think, with misery and drink."

Then Rose understood the full meaning of the rector's words that morning.

"I did not mean to try and see you before I went away," went on Tom, brokenly; "but I'm glad of the chance to ask your forgiveness for the hurt I might have done to the man you wished to marry."

"Oh don't! please don't talk like that!" said Rose, Tom's utter self-abasement and humility rousing all her better nature. "Don't you see that it's you who ought to forgive me for the cruel way I've treated you; and if you'd died, Tom, and my wickedness had killed you, how could I have ever lifted up my head again? I see now how wicked I've been. I wanted to marry Dixon because he promised to give me everything I liked: a pretty house and a little servant, and pretty clothes and things. It was not because I loved him best."

Tom threw back his head with a little cry.

"Rose," he said, coming a step nearer. "Rose, my dear; it can't hurt to tell me now. In two days I'm going away for good and all. I have told the squire all about it, and he is going to overlook it and send me across the seas just the same as if nothing had happened; but when I'm gone, it would make me happy to know that you had ever loved me just a little bit."

"I do," said Rose. "I think I've loved you all the time."

Tom drew a long breath, but did not attempt to come closer.

"Thank you," he said, with an odd thrill in his voice. "I'll go away and think of it. It will help me to be good, for I'll have a try at that, Rose, my dear. I'll keep clear of the drink; I'm going up to the rector to-night to tell him I'm ready to sign. He asked me to do it before; and don't I wish I had listened to him! But now I'll do it without the asking."

There was some difference in Tom that Rose felt but could not define, some influence over him that was stronger than her own. She had been conscious before that she had but to speak and he would try his utmost to carry out her whim; but to-day, miserable as he was, oppressed by the weight of sin, she felt respect for a certain strength of purpose that seemed developed in him. Mr. Curzon was right; she had chosen the wrong man. Never had she valued Tom's love as she did now when she was just about to lose it.

"Then you are going directly?" she almost whispered.

"Yes; I leave here the day after to-morrow, and I sail in about a fortnight. The squire thought the sooner I was out of the way the better."

"Shall you ever come back?"

"I don't know."

"Nor ever write?" asked Rose, with a sob in her throat.

"That's as may be; I'd write to one who cared."

"I care. Write to me, please?"

She was looking at him with pleading eyes, but he would not trust himself to return her glance.

"Rose," he said, "there's not the woman now that I would ask to be my wife. I'm guilty, before God, of two black sins; but if He gives me time to live it down and earn a clean name again——"

"He will! He will!" said Rose. "And, Tom, it does not matter if it's years, I'll wait." And then she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

His face was ashen grey; his arms ached with the longing to return her embrace and hold her close to his heart, but he let her go.

"Before God, Rose, my darling, I'll live worthy of your kiss! Maybe it won't be long before I dare return it."

The next instant he was gone, not daring to look back at her.



CHAPTER XII.

KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE.

"The Websters are off to London, Paul," said Sally, about two days after Tom's departure.

Paul started at the sudden mention of the name.

"I did not think they intended to go to town until after the New Year. Mrs. Webster dilates largely upon the superiority of a Christmas in the country versus a Christmas in London; but, I suppose, it is as sincere as most of her statements?"

"I think May has had more to do with it than her mother. She says Mrs. Webster has fussed a good deal over Dixon's flight, she trusted him so thoroughly. And May thinks it will be easier to get a good coachman in London, and that it will take off her mother's thoughts from an unpleasant subject. She now has visions of Dixon's return in company with an armed body of burglars, and prophesies cheerfully that they will all be found dead in their beds one morning, and that the house will be ransacked."

Paul laughed. "Under the circumstances Miss Webster is wise to remove her forcibly to London," he said. But he privately conjectured that May's real reason for flight lay in her desire to get away from himself. "Has anything been heard of Dixon?" he went on.

"Nothing. I don't think any very keen search has been made for him. Mrs. Webster declares that she would far rather lose her money than appear in a court of law, or have her name bandied about in the papers. I think, Paul, that if you approve I shall be off to London, too, when the New Year comes."

"In what capacity?" asked Paul, resignedly. "As a sister or something?"

"Oh dear, no; you know I've always wanted to join one of those settlements of girls at the East End, who work under the management of Miss Grant. She wrote a little while ago to tell me she would have a vacancy in the settlement soon after Christmas. My work would lie chiefly amongst factory girls, getting up statistics about their hours of work and their housing, and my play would be recreation evenings with them."

"But this is what you have always talked of doing. I expected you to take up quite different lines now: to district visit, and take classes on Sundays, under the guidance and supervision of the rector."

"I don't feel the least fitted for it; I know very little about it. Mr. Curzon thinks it would be a great pity for me to abandon the work to which I feel myself drawn. I like life in London far better than in the country."

"I quite agree with you," interposed Paul.

"And I think that my change of opinion about religious things will help, rather than hinder me in my work," continued Sally, with a slight effort.

"Let us hope it may," said Paul, in a tone that implied a doubt on the subject. "Anyway, I wish you to follow your own plan of life. I think women ought to be as free as men to choose what they will do. But"—with a glance from the window—"Miss Kitty's carriage stops the way. I must go and see what she wants."

"Why, Kitty," he began, almost before he had reached the gate, "I thought you had forgotten all about me! It is days, almost weeks, I think, since you've paid me a call."

"It's because it has rained nearly every day and I've not been out at all; and there are such a lot of things I want to ask you about."

Paul was Kitty's referee on every subject. "What is the first, I wonder?" he said, smiling down at her.

"Bend down, please, Mr. Paul. It's a secret."

And Paul brought his ear to a level with Kitty's mouth.

"Do boys like Noah's Arks?"

Paul straightened himself with a burst of laughter.

"I thought you would know. Nurse said you'd be sure to know," Kitty said, much injured by his untimely mirth.

"It's just because I don't that I am laughing," said Paul, whose remembrance of childhood was unconnected with any scriptural game. That he should be solemnly consulted about one seemed extremely ludicrous.

"Then you did not have one?"

"No, I did not."

"I suppose it won't do, after all," said Kitty, dejectedly. "And it's a real beauty; it cost half a crown."

"Really! That's a big price. I should think it might do for any one. After all, an ark might come in handy soon, if we are going to have a flood. Who's the happy boy?"

"Oh, you are shouting!" cried Kitty, warningly. "And it's a secret."

"I beg your pardon," said Paul, penitently. "Shall I look in and give an opinion?"

"Yes; you and Sally, too. Perhaps you would come to tea with me this afternoon? Daddy is gone to a Congress, or he could have told me everything."

"Yes, we will come—Sally and I."

"And then I can tell you all about it, for Nurse knows but has promised not to tell."

"We will try to be as trustworthy as Nurse," Paul said with a reassuring nod.

So, over tea and toast, after three false guesses on Paul and Sally's part, Kitty divulged her tremendous secret, which turned out to be that daddy had promised that when she was ten years old she should give a Christmas-tree party to every child in Rudham from ten years and under, and the whole responsibility of choosing the presents and assorting them should devolve upon her. For months past Kitty had been making out her list of the children she would have to invite, rather bewildering the villagers by her feverish anxiety to discover the ages of their offspring; but the choosing of suitable presents for her guests was a far more difficult task. A large box of toys had arrived, by her father's order, from a neighbouring town, from which Kitty could make a selection; she had spent one whole day poring over them. Girls were easy enough to please, but boys' tastes were quite a different matter. So Nurse had finally suggested that Mr. Lessing should be taken into confidence. Happily, by the afternoon he had grasped the gravity of the situation, and he discussed the varying merits of tops, marbles, horses, and carts as earnestly as even Kitty could desire. He still felt a lurking desire to laugh when he saw the Noah's Ark, which cost half a crown, set apart in a place by itself on Kitty's couch. From time to time she laid a caressing hand upon it. It was still unallotted, and Kitty gave a quivering sigh of excitement as she glanced down her crumpled list.

"I had meant this for Tommy Baird," she said, looking down at it fondly. "It's quite the best thing I have—and he's the oldest boy,—and it's very pretty, daddy thinks; but you say it won't do."

"I!" cried Paul, aghast. "I never said anything of the kind."

"You laughed at it! and you said something about a flood."

"Was not the ark connected with a flood? You know better than I."

Kitty looked from Paul to Sally with distress on her face.

"Of course," she said, a little petulantly. "But you said there might be another—and there can't be, daddy says."

"Of course there can't," said Paul, a little hurriedly, feeling it scarcely fair to make a joke to such a sensitive little girl.

"Look here! I'm writing a ticket for Tommy Baird, and I shall tuck it under the elephant's trunk. Do you think he will hold it fast?"

"Then it will do, after all," said Kitty, greatly relieved.

But when Paul and Sally were gone, and all the excitement and joy of the tea-party, and the allotting of her presents, was over, Kitty's mind reverted to the flood. Mr. Paul had meant something which he would not explain to her. Whilst the perplexing thought was still in her mind, she heard her father's latchkey turn in the lock of the front door, and he popped his head into the room where she lay with a merry laugh.

"I'm home, Kitty. I'll be down in a minute, but I must get my things off first. It is raining cats and dogs."

The words confirmed Kitty's worst fears. That is how it must have rained before that first great flood, when the waters crept up and up, and the people first climbed the hills, until the waters reached them there; and at last there was nothing to be seen anywhere but a waste of water and one little ark that floated on the top. By the time Mr. Curzon came and seated himself by her side, Kitty's eyes were round with the terror of the picture that her too vivid imagination had painted. Her father, quick to read each passing emotion on the face that was dearest to him in the whole world, stooped down and kissed her.

"My little Kitty is in one of her frightened moods. She must tell me all about it."

"It's the flood," Kitty whispered.

"What flood, darling?"

"Mr. Paul said we might have one."

"Did he? He must have meant that the river might overflow its banks; and perhaps it will after such a wet season."

"But it would drown us all."

"Not a bit of it. The cottages near the river might have some water in them; but unless it were something quite unprecedented, the water would not get to the upper floor of any house—and certainly won't come near us or the church and schools, so you may dismiss your fear of a flood. You ought not to have had it anyway, because God has promised that the world shall not be flooded totally again. Shall I tell you what a very good man wrote years ago—many hundreds of years ago—about floods? 'The floods are risen, O Lord, the floods have lift up their voice, the floods lift up their waves . . . but yet the Lord who dwelleth on high, is mightier.' If he could learn that, all that long time ago, you ought not to be afraid now, ought you?"

"And you don't think God will let it come before my Christmas tree, do you daddy? Because, if all the little children were obliged to stay upstairs, to keep out of the way of the water, they could not come," said Kitty, giving a strictly practical turn to the conversation.

Mr. Curzon smiled and stroked Kitty's head.

"That is more than I can say, darling. Although your Christmas tree seems such a big thing to you, it is only a little one; and if it were put off it would be a disappointment to you, but not a trouble, you see."

Kitty was silenced but not satisfied, and each night added a postscript to her prayers that the flood, if it was to come, should not occur before her Christmas tree. It was to be held in the school-room on Christmas Eve. The secret had exploded now, for the invitations were out, each one written by Kitty herself, and personally delivered in the course of her morning rambles. Paul and Sally were to come as humble helpers. December 23rd was a particularly wild, wet day; but a gleam of sunshine at the close of it produced a rainbow so brilliant in hue that Kitty regarded it as a written sign in the heavens that the flood would be averted, certainly until after her Christmas tree. But it was such a brief gleam of sun! All night through the rain fell, and the wind, which had been fairly quiet the previous day, rose to a perfect tempest, roaring in the tree-tops round the rectory, groaning in the chimneys, and dashing the rain in sheets against poor little Kitty's window-pane; and when in the morning Nurse drew up the blind, and burst into an exclamation of surprise, Kitty knew that her worst fear was realized, and that her prayer had been unavailing. The "Lord that dwelt on high" did not seem to have listened. She tried to nerve herself to bear the tidings which Nurse conveyed in as cheerful a tone as she could assume.

"Miss Kitty, my dear, what do you think has happened? The waters are out, and the river is turned into a great big lake, and the houses are standing out of it like little dots. It all looks so funny; shall I lift you out to see?"

But Kitty had buried her head under the clothes, and was sobbing quietly to herself. No mention was made of the Christmas tree in her prayers that morning, and the prayers themselves were very perfunctory indeed—said more from the force of habit than because she had any faith in their efficacy. True, the rain had ceased now, but what was the good of that now the flood had come? And the worst of it was that she could not talk this matter out to daddy; he would think her dreadfully wicked. So it was a very white-faced Kitty that presented herself at the breakfast-table, and she received her father's assurance that her tree should not be abandoned, but only delayed, with a watery, quivering smile.

"And I shall be so busy all the morning," went on Mr. Curzon, cheerfully. "You see, lots of the cottages are cut off from communication with the outside world, and the children will be hungry and wanting their breakfasts and dinners; so I must be off to see what I can do with carts or boats, according to the depth of the water."

This was rather exciting; and Kitty spent her morning with her chair drawn close to the window, which commanded the best view of the village, and saw carts drawn by pairs of horses splashing along to some of the cottages. And to one cottage, standing alone in a low-lying field, she saw a boat making its way; she was almost sure that the man who rowed it was her friend Mr. Paul. Later in the morning he paid her a visit, with a red colour in his face and a cheery ring in his voice.

"I could not get up before, Kitty. We have had such a lot to do, Sally and I, taking round supplies to the people who are flooded. Everybody is in quite good spirits—indeed, some of the children are thinking it first-rate fun."

At the mention of the children Kitty broke down helplessly, and sobbed aloud.

"Dear me! And I have had such a lot of water all the morning, I did not expect a shower-bath here. What time do you expect Sally and me? How long will it take to light up that blessed tree?"

Kitty uncovered one eye; Mr. Paul must be dreaming.

"I can't have it, you see."

"Who said so? Sally and I have been planning all the morning how we shall order out all my waggons, and go round and fetch your guests—only you must not have the tree too late, or else we might lose our way in taking them home again."

Kitty's joy could only find expressions in incoherent exclamations of delight.

"It's wonderfully kind of you," said the rector, who appeared at that moment, and gradually gathered from Kitty what Paul proposed to do.

"It seems a pity the thing should be put off," Paul answered a little awkwardly.

Perhaps no act of the squire's won such universal approbation as the spirited manner in which he carried through Miss Kitty's tree.

"You would not have thought as he was one to care about the little ones," said Mrs. Macdonald to Sally.

"And I don't think, honestly, that he is," Sally answered—"with the exception of Kitty Curzon; his devotion to her is something quite astonishing."

The tree had been, happily, trimmed the day before, and nothing therefore remained but for the guests to appear. One or two had to be fetched in a boat, and the cottage in the field had a special voyage to itself. There was a little child there that was a particular friend of Kitty's.

"It's very good of you to come, sir, but I'm not sure as I can let Jenny go; she's been ailing all day," said the smiling mother, looking out at Paul from an upstairs window. "She's felt the damp a bit. The water's begun to go down already. We'll be able to get downstairs again to-morrow; but, as I was saying to my mate, it will be the queerest Christmas Day we've ever spent."

"Yes, indeed," said Paul, hurriedly, anxious to cut short the disconnected speech; "but I think you must let me have Jenny, Mrs. Weldon. She's such a great friend of Kitty's, and we shall not have any more rain for the present. Put on an extra shawl. It will be fine fun for Jenny to have a ride in a boat."

So Jenny, wrapped up so that only her eyes were visible, was handed out; and Paul rowed her across the field that separated her from dry land, popping her into a cart that waited on the far side.

Sally, meanwhile, was at the school arranging the children as they arrived, whilst Kitty's carriage was drawn up close to the tree, which was veiled under a sheet. Jenny Weldon was the last to arrive, and, when duly uncloaked, was given a place close to Kitty.

Then followed the lighting of the tree; and the dancing eyes of the children watched the process with untold delight. Joining hands they walked round it singing a quaint old Christmas carol, led by the rector's strong sonorous voice; and finally came the distribution of the presents.

Paul, as he stood quietly at the back of the room, thought the scene a pretty one. It was a beautiful tradition, that of the Christ Child; he could have almost wished it true.

"It has come to an end—I think it has really come to an end," the rector said. "But, stay, I find some little things tucked away at the very bottom of the tree; and here upon the labels are written 'Miss Lessing' and 'Mr. Lessing.' That is quite as it should be, for to whom do we owe the fact of your all being here to-night but to the squire, who planned and carried it out?"

And as a penknife was handed to Paul, there were cheers ringing in his ears for him and for Sally, who had a pen with her name on it.

"It was really very jolly of you, Kitty," said Paul, making his way to her.

"Weren't you surprised?" said Kitty, joyfully. "Daddy said you would be; and I told him where to hide them so that Sally should not see them. And, oh!"—with a long-drawn sigh—"I've never been so happy in my life. Daddy says I must thank you ever so much, dear Mr. Paul."

Paul stooped and kissed the pretty, flushed face. "It's been great fun, Kitty; you've nothing to thank me for. It is my first Christmas tree, and I shall take great care of my penknife."

It was seven o'clock before Sally and Paul regained the quietness and peace of their lodging, for it took some time to deliver all the little ones to their several homes.

"It's wonderful what surroundings will do for one. I've felt as if I were a curate to-day; but it is Kitty who drove me to it. Her despair this morning was almost tragic," Paul said.

How little he knew that that night Kitty was thanking God for her happy day, and for the special help He had sent her to carry through her tree.

"Pray bless dear Mr. Paul!"



CHAPTER XIII.

THE CALL OF GOD.

With the dawn of the New Year there was an outbreak of fever in Rudham, the after-effect of the flood, which, although it subsided almost as quickly as it rose, left the houses which it had invaded damp and many of the drains blocked. Paul, as he went his rounds, condemned some of the cottages as insanitary, and determined that another spring should see new ones begun in higher, healthier situations—if, at least, he could by any means raise the requisite funds. He was constantly brought into contact with the rector, who busied himself amongst his sick people morning, noon, and night.

"Bless you!" said Mrs. Weldon, when Paul had been looking round her premises, and heard with some astonishment the sound of a strong, clear voice singing in the bedroom above, "that's only Mr. Curzon singing hymns to my little Jenny, who's proper bad with the fever. She must have been sickening with it that night as you fetched her to the tree. Mr. Curzon seems like a parson, and doctor, and nurse, all in one. He come'd here late last night, and he took her temperature ready to tell the doctor this morning, and he's round here again now; and it's not as though he favours mine more than another's. He's just the same to every one who's bad."

And what one said all said, and Paul pondered on their words. May Webster had spoken truly when she said that this man lived in the hearts of his people. Sally delayed her departure for London for a few weeks when she found that she could be of great service in the village by going and lending a helping hand when the mothers got overdone with nursing, for it was chiefly among the children of the place that the fever found its victims. Twenty succumbed, and then there was a day or two when no fresh case was reported.

Paul met the rector one morning and stayed to congratulate him on the fact that the fever seemed to have run its course, that there had been no death from it during the last few days, and apparently no fresh cases.

"Poor little Jenny Weldon passed away this morning; I was with her when she died," said the rector. Then came a long pause, and he cleared his throat. "My Kitty was the last case; she was pronounced to have the fever last night."

"Kitty!" echoed Paul, with a face almost as white as Mr. Curzon's own. "Good Heavens! and I was the double-dyed idiot who brought that child Jenny Weldon to the treat. Kitty probably caught it from her."

"That is quite impossible to decide," said Mr. Curzon, with a sad little smile; "the outbreak has been almost simultaneous. But Kitty's life is in God's Hands."

Paul turned away with an impatient exclamation; he had no word of comfort to offer, for he had but little hope that a child so delicate as Kitty would recover.

"If Sally could help in the nursing of her, or I in fetching any delicacy the child could fancy, you know we are ready to help," he said.

"Thank you; you have always been good to her."

It was a feeble fight that little Kitty made for life, and did not last many days. She had brief intervals of consciousness when she recognized the father, who was never absent from her bedside except when he visited the other sick children of his flock. All day long the rectory was besieged by anxious inquiries for Kitty, who was better known and more loved than any other child in the place; and Paul came each day with some offering of fruit or flowers. But before the week was over the passing-bell rang out, and a thrill of sympathy ran through the village, and the neighbours looked into each other's faces, and their kind eyes filled with tears as they said—

"That's little Miss Kitty gone home."

It was the phrase Mrs. Macdonald used as she brought in the breakfast for Paul and Sally that morning, and the tears ran down her cheeks as she said it.

"There may be some mistake, Mrs. Macdonald," said Paul, gently. "There are other children ill in the place besides Kitty."

"No, sir; it's true enough. My John got up in the dark and went to ask for her; and he saw the nurse, who told him she was dying then. She could not last the hour."

"And the rector?" inquired Sally, who was crying quietly. "Did she mention him?"

"Miss Kitty lay in his arms, poor lamb! He's never had his clothes off since she was taken ill, and he would not let her be frightened; he'd hold her fast until He came to fetch her," said Mrs. Macdonald, with simple conviction that the Good Shepherd Himself would lift little Kitty straight from her father's arms into His own.

Late that afternoon Paul called at the rectory to leave a wreath of white flowers from Sally and a bunch of arums from himself; and the rector, who saw him pass the study window, opened the door to him.

"I've only brought a few flowers from Sally and me," said Paul, omitting the usual greeting.

Mr. Curzon looked down at them for a moment, fingering the card attached to Paul's spray with hands that trembled. On it was written "For Kitty, from one who loved her."

"Thank you," he answered with a smile that was more pathetic than tears. "She loved you, too, very dearly. Will you give her them yourself?"

But Paul drew back with a shiver.

"Oh no; her bright, living face is the memory that I would have of her."

So it was the rector who carried up the flowers to the room where Kitty lay, and placed the wreath at her feet; and the arums framed the sweet, smiling face, and the card with its message of love was laid upon her breast, with the murmured prayer that the one who loved Kitty might learn to love Kitty's God.

All the villagers that were able attended Kitty's funeral two days later, drawn there by love and sympathy. Paul was there with Sally, sitting down in the belfry, close to the spot where Kitty's carriage had been placed upon the only other occasion when Paul had attended a service in Rudham church.

"If there is any meaning at all in the service, it is appropriate for Kitty," was the reason he had assigned to Sally for accompanying her. It seemed like a beautiful dream to him: the church nearly filled with people, the fragrance of the flowers as the little white coffin was carried into church headed by the rector and the choir, who sang, as they led the way to the chancel, the words of a hymn quite unfamiliar to Paul, and a few lines of which sounded clearly in his ears as they passed him.

"Death will be to slumber In that sweet embrace, And we shall awaken To behold His Face."

Only one person followed the little coffin, and that was the nurse, who had loved Kitty as devotedly as any mother. The door behind Paul was gently pushed open after the service had begun, and he was vividly conscious of the presence of the woman he loved the best in the world—May Webster. She was dressed in black, and sank upon her knees by Sally's side. The intense sympathy of her expression made her look more beautiful than ever, giving the touch of softness that her features sometimes lacked. Throughout the service the rector's brave, strong voice never faltered, and it rose and fell with the others in Psalm and hymn. He seemed, for the time being, borne aloft upon the wings of faith and love; but when, the service ended, Paul made his way back to the church to fetch his hat, which he had accidently left behind him, he caught a glimpse of a white-robed figure prostrate before the altar, and the frame was convulsed with sobs. Nature must have her way; and not even the rector could at once bring his will into perfect submission with the will of God. His darling was taken from his sight, and his heart was aching over the dreary years that might intervene before he could see her again. There was a lump in Paul's throat as he noiselessly left the church. May and Sally waited for him.

"It's heart-breaking," said May, putting her hand into his. "I was bound to come."

"You return to London to-night, I suppose? You will come and have tea with us on your way, won't you?" said Sally, eagerly.

"I will come to tea. But I am not going back at present; I told mother I should stay down here for a little while, until all this trouble had passed away; it cannot be right that we should be doing nothing to help. I only wish I had come in time to see that little girl alive again."

Sally had moved away to help to arrange the flowers on the newly-filled-in grave, and Paul stood a little apart by May's side.

"I'm sorry for every one," said May. "It is almost enough to kill Mr. Curzon. And I have thought of you too; I was sorry for the loss of your one friend."

"Yes," said Paul. "I've been sorry for myself; I did not believe any child's death could affect me so deeply. Life is an unanswerable riddle from beginning to end."

"Unless the rector is right," said May, softly. "In which case we may find the answer on the other side."

Never had May appeared so beautiful or gracious as that evening when she sat listening to the story of all that had occurred in Rudham since she and her mother had gone to London.

"I'm so glad to be back," she said. "Mother thinks me half-crazed for coming, and threw a dozen obstacles in my way. But I've brought Rose Lancaster with me, and the servants who are left in charge can manage for us; and, as for carriages it will do me good to walk for a little bit."

Paul left the talk almost entirely to the two girls; it was enough for him to sit and watch the play of May's beautiful features, and hear the sound of her voice. What could this sudden return of hers mean, he wondered? Was it a passing whim, or was it?—— He left even the thought unfinished, and called himself a presumptuous fool!

The next morning he received a note from the rector asking him to call.

"There is a matter of extreme importance that I cannot decide until I have seen you, so will you kindly look in this evening?" he wrote.

Paul found him in his study, and noticed that the handsome face was thinner, and the dark lines under the eyes betrayed the suffering through which he had passed.

"I wanted you to come for many reasons," he said, pushing an easy-chair near to the fire. "To thank you, first of all, for the kindness you have poured on my Kitty from the day of your coming until now. There are not many men who would have taken so much trouble about a delicate little girl."

"You need not thank me," Paul answered with tears in his eyes. "She was a friend I shall sorely miss."

"And there is this letter I wish to show you," continued the rector, not daring to talk further of Kitty.

It was a letter from the Bishop of the diocese, suggesting that Mr. Curzon should accept the living of Norrington, a populous town some thirty miles away. In money value it was less than Rudham, but "the needs of the place are great," wrote the Bishop. "You are in the heyday of your strength, and I believe you to be the man for the place. Unless there be any very urgent reason for your refusing to move, I greatly wish you to undertake it."

"Why can't the Bishop let well alone?" said Paul, as he returned the letter. "Of course, you will not go. I don't pretend to constitute myself a judge of a clergyman's work, but I should say that you have this place as well in hand as any man could. To move you, will be equal loss to yourself and Rudham."

"I cannot decide it so quickly. I do not believe in things happening by chance," said Mr. Curzon. "This letter came the day that Kitty passed away, and I telegraphed to the Bishop that I could decide nothing for a day or two; the one urgent reason that would have kept me here is gone, you see."

"Kitty?" questioned Paul.

"Yes; I could not have taken her to live in the heart of a town."

"Then you really had decided to leave us before you wrote to me."

"Several things point to it: a less strong man than I could undertake the work here. If it is God's voice that calls, I would not disobey it. One thought holds me back. What will happen here? Is it impertinent to ask? The presentation to the living is yours."

Paul smiled involuntarily. "And you scarcely think me the man to appoint to a cure of souls. I confess I don't myself feel I know enough about it. I should do as my godfather did before me, hand over the nomination of a successor to the Bishop. I believe this offer jumps with your own inclination."

"Only for one thing," said the rector, quietly, "that my house is 'left unto me desolate.'"

"And yet you call the God, who took your Kitty from you, a God of love."

"Yes. Who, looking at her pitiful little frame, can doubt it? My selfish heart cries out for her yet; but what could her life have been but one of constant suffering."

"But, I suppose, she was born like that?" said Paul, more to himself than to the rector.

Mr. Curzon's face twitched a little. "Oh no; she was the brightest, healthiest little child you have ever seen; and then she was dropped. And the girl who dropped her did not tell any one about it for months after—not until the child's back began to grow out."

"How did you find it out at last?" asked Paul, deeply interested.

"The girl came of her own accord to confess it. She was pretty well heart-broken when she discovered that Kitty was injured for life."

"I would never have forgiven her!" said Paul, bitterly.

"Yes, you would. You would have done much as I did, I expect; I let her work out her repentance. She is the nurse who has devoted herself to Kitty like a mother, and who mourns for her like one, too. We can never be separated; where I go she will go. And now she has not Kitty she will help me to look after some of the sick children in my parish."

"So you have decided to go?"

"Yes; I think I have scarcely a choice in the matter."

The Vicar was not one to keep his people long in ignorance of a decision which affected both him and them so largely, and, on the following Sunday morning, he told them in a few words that he must leave them.

"Dear people," he said, "the decision has been sharp and sudden, and the pain of it still lingers in my heart as I talk to you to-day; but I dare not have it otherwise lest, in hesitating, my will should cross the will of God, for, as soldiers must obey the command of their captain, nor ask the reason why, so I, Christ's soldier and servant, must be ready at His Word to pass on to where the battle is most fierce, and where, maybe, the army needs reinforcement. Shall I be less brave than Abraham, who, at the call of God, left home and kindred to settle in a strange land amongst an alien people? Dear friends, as clearly as God's message came to Abraham in those far-off days, it has seemed to come to me, telling me to leave the home and people that I love, and to go, work for Him in another part of His vineyard. Therefore I obey."

There were tears on the upturned faces that listened, and, when the people left the church, there was an almost universal wail of lamentation. But reticent natures like the Macdonalds could find no relief in words; they walked silently side by side with tears in their eyes and an untold aching in their hearts.

"Life won't be the same again, John; we shan't get another like the good man," said Mrs. Macdonald, as they neared home.

"No," said John, slowly. "But if he don't make a fuss about it, no more won't we; he's sure about the call, and he dursn't disobey. But now we'll save for the collectin'!"

"What collectin'?"

"They'll make him a present. They are sure to make him a present; and we'll be ready when they call," said John.

But, with all his brave words, John's dinner was pushed away untouched, and his broad back was turned resolutely to his wife so that she might not guess that he was crying!



CHAPTER XIV.

A CHANGE OF MIND.

Three months later Paul Lessing stood, one morning in March, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking out of his sitting-room window. His eyes rested on the little plot of ground before him, with its borders of snowdrops and crocuses, and the road beyond, along which the village children in their scarlet cloaks hurried to school: a narrow boundary to a narrow life, he told himself—and lonely, since Sally had left him a week or two ago. He was intolerably dull, and Sally's letter, which lay open on the table, brimful as it was of new energies and interests, had set him wondering whether he could continue his present course of life much longer. There was positively no one left in the village, at present, with whom he could interchange an idea.

Mr. Curzon, with whom, in the last three months, he had become fairly intimate, had gone to his new field of work, leaving a blank behind him in every house in the place; his successor had not yet arrived. "And we are not likely to have much in common when he does come," Paul thought, with a smile. May Webster, after manfully fulfilling her purpose of helping in the village until the trouble and distress, brought by the fever, had passed away, had returned to London; and it was little enough that Paul had seen of her whilst she had been there. And that very day Paul had received a letter from Mrs. Webster to tell him that at Michaelmas she wished to vacate the Court, which she now kept on as a yearly tenant.

"It cannot matter to me," Paul said to himself. "In many ways, of course, it is the best thing that could happen." And yet he found himself thinking of nothing but the utter desolation of Rudham, when May's bright presence should be removed from it, when he could no longer hope for a passing glimpse of her in the street.

"I have vegetated down here until I run a risk of softening of the brain," he said aloud. "I must have change. I'll be off to London for a week, put up at my club, see a few of my friends, and unearth Sally in her new quarters."

The thought had scarcely formed itself before he began to carry it into execution: putting together his papers, looking out a convenient train. And, shoving his head inside the door of the Macdonald's sitting-room, he enlisted Mrs. Macdonald's help in the matter of packing.

"Rather sudden, sir, isn't it?" she said, as she knelt upon the floor in the centre of the clothes which Paul had pulled out of his drawers and littered about in hopeless confusion. "It's bad enough to lose Miss Sally, but John and I won't know ourselves when you've gone too."

"It won't be for very long," said Paul, good-humouredly, grateful to discover that anybody would miss him, and careful to suppress the fact that he was dull.

Arrived in London the stir and bustle of the streets was as refreshing to him as water to a thirsty man, and to find himself once more amongst his fellows in the club, where many a man greeted him with a friendly nod, was simply delightful, One friend asked him to dinner that night, another made an appointment for the play on the night following; his presence was demanded at an important political meeting, where he was requested to speak on the labour question. And again the thought forced itself upon him how much better he felt fitted to cope with the masses, and work at the big social problems of the day, than to deal with the individual lives of the people of Rudham. And the parliamentary career for which he longed was absolutely within his grasp, for a seat belonging to his political party was to be vacated in the autumn, and his name was already mentioned as that of the likely candidate; but there was no course open to him but to refuse the offer if it came. It took more means than he had at his disposal to do his duty by Rudham.

He found Sally keen and happy over her work, and was satisfied that she had discovered her proper vocation.

The last day of his London visit had come, and, late in the afternoon, Paul found himself walking down Park Lane; and he hesitated for a moment, when he came to the house which he knew to be the Websters, wondering whether he would call and answer Mrs. Webster's note in person. That, at any rate, would be the ostensible reason for his visit; he scarcely cared to admit that it was the longing for a sight of May's face that made it impossible for him to pass the door. In another minute he had mounted the steps and rung the bell, and was handed into a room crammed with people—society people, all talking society gossip over their tea. Many of them bestowed a passing glance upon Paul as he made his way towards Mrs. Webster, but their interest died down when they discovered that he was not of their set.

"Mr. Lessing!" exclaimed Mrs. Webster. "Quite a welcome surprise! You are not often in London, are you? So good of you to call. Have you had any tea? Yes? Pray have some more."

Then another visitor demanded her attention, and Paul found himself stranded in a room full of people of whom he knew not one. May was nowhere to be seen; but, as Paul sidled his way past chairs and tables, making for the door, he found himself face to face with her as she led a party of people from the conservatory back to the drawing-room. She was talking with that brilliant, rapid fluency which had marked the earlier stages of their acquaintance; but at sight of him she coloured and stretched out her hand with unmistakable cordiality.

"This is indeed an unexpected honour," she said, letting her other guests move on, and taking up her own position by Paul. "I should not have thought wild horses would have dragged you to a tea-fight."

"And they would not have done," Paul answered, with a laugh, "had I known that such a thing was in process; but, finding myself in London, I came to call in answer to a note of your mother's."

A professional singer at the far end of the room rose preparatory to singing, and May gave an impatient little exclamation.

"Come into the conservatory and talk; I'm tired of all these people. You bring a whiff of country air with you."

As she spoke she led the way towards two easy-chairs, placed by the fountain in the middle of the conservatory, and, sinking into one herself, she motioned Paul to the other. From the half-open door of the drawing-room came the confused murmur of voices, dominated by the tenor soloist; but to Paul that society life seemed miles distant. He was enfolded by a sense of enchantment: for him, at that moment, there was but two people in the world—himself and May. To speak would be to break the brief spell of enjoyment, so he sat silent and content.

"We are wasting the time; I brought you here to talk," said May, turning towards him with a smile. "How do things fare at Rudham now Mr. Curzon has gone?"

"Badly; there is a sense of flatness. He embodied the life of the village in a way one could not believe unless one had lived there. I've seen a lot of him in the last few months; we were fairly driven into each other's society."

"How do you get on together?"

"To know Curzon intimately goes halfway towards converting one to his way of thinking," said Paul, slowly.

May looked up quickly.

"I don't mean that I am fully prepared to accept his opinions, but I have modified my views concerning them," Paul went on. "A man like Curzon, and his enormous power for good, cannot be ignored. His creed, which makes him what he is, must be reckoned with as a motive-force in the world. I said to myself at one time that, starting from opposite poles, he and I worked for the same end—the good of the race. But where I seem only to scratch the surface, he gets below it. Look at Burney, for example. I believed I had made a man of him by restoring his self-respect and giving him a fresh chance—by trusting him, in fact. It did well enough for a time, but then he broke out worse than ever. Then, from what Tom told me, Curzon stepped in, saved him from suicide, and saved him from himself; and has given him, apparently, some principle to live by that will turn him into a fine character yet—at any rate, I get excellent accounts of him."

"I did not know he had tried to kill himself," said May; "perhaps that is what has sobered poor Rose Lancaster so effectually. She told me the other day that she would marry no one but Tom. By the way, what brought you to London?"

"Mixed motives. Sheer dulness for one thing."

"You once aired a theory that only stupid people could be dull."

"Then, I suppose, I have grown stupid; I have not enough to occupy me, for one thing. If I could carry out all my whims I could be busy enough; but I have had to abandon that scheme for rebuilding a good many of my cottages from want of money, and that same want stands between me and my one ambition: a seat in Parliament. I might have had a chance of a vacancy in the autumn. By the way, as you intend to throw me over, I trust that amongst your numerous friends you will find me another tenant for the Court."

"I don't understand what you are talking of! Who is going to throw you over?"

"Your mother has written to say that she wishes to leave at Michaelmas. Her letter was my excuse for calling."

May did not answer for a minute; she was busily pondering what her mother's reason could have been for arriving at this decision without consulting her. It might be that the relations between themselves and the Blands being somewhat strained, she had thought it wise to go somewhere else, or—and here May's heart quickened its beating—it might be that she feared a rival in Paul Lessing.

"I hope you are sorry to lose us," she said.

"Am I to tell the conventional falsehood or the truth?" Paul asked.

"The truth, of course; we have not studied conventionality much, have we?"

"Then I am unfeignedly glad," said Paul, deliberately.

May had turned rather white. "You don't mince matters certainly."

"No, I don't; but I prefer solitude to living perpetually within sight of unattainable happiness. Our friendship is destroyed, you remember; you admitted as much once. I cannot pretend that you are an ordinary acquaintance, and, therefore, to have you taken out of my reach is really the best thing that could happen to me."

"And you have left any wish I might have about it outside your calculation," said May.

"It cannot signify to you where you live. You will amuse yourself wherever you are."

"It signifies considerably; as I like Rudham, at present, better than any place in the world."

Paul broke into an incredulous laugh.

"I suppose it would be an impertinence to ask your reason for this unaccountable preference?"

"It is a simple one: you live there," said May, with averted face.

Paul sprang to his feet and stood before May with arms folded, and looked down at her with eyes that literally burned.

"May!" he said hoarsely, "if it is a joke it is a cruel one."

"Oh, it's true that you have grown stupid!" cried May, between laughter and tears. "It is no joke to have to tell you that I have changed my mind. I love you better than all the world besides."

With an incoherent cry Paul clasped her to his breast.

"My darling! my darling!" he said, after the rapture of that first moment, "I am not worthy, and the sacrifice on your side is too great. I had no right ever to ask you to marry me. What will the world say of me? I could wish that you had no fortune——"

"Oh, nonsense! you were groaning for want of it just now. It is my own, to do as I like with; and I shall have a lot more, some day, unless mother disinherits me."

"Which reminds me that I have to face her," said Paul, rather ruefully.

"I think you had better go at once," said May, with merry decision, "and leave mother to me. I don't pretend she will like it; but she may consent, as she has been grievously worried by the fear that I was going to be an old maid—and so I should have been but for you."

Paul tried to repossess himself of her hands, but May had glided back to the drawing-room, turning as she left to tell him to call again in the morning. Left to himself, Paul tried to collect his thoughts, and to realize the intense happiness that had come to him. If it were true that May loved him, he would marry her in the face of all opposition, for she knew well enough that he did not care for her money, but for herself. Then he fell again to wondering whether she had sufficiently counted the cost of uniting her life with his, for, in marrying, Paul felt it would be impossible for him to change the whole scheme of his life. His objects and ambitions would be the same after it as before, and, unless May was prepared to share them, they would gradually drift apart. He must put it all before her to-morrow, lest she should make a lifelong mistake.

But May had made no mistake; she knew her own mind, at last, for absence from Paul had taught it her. She had turned with absolute loathing from the mill-round of gaiety which was the only marked characteristic of her life in London; and her thoughts had recurred persistently to Rudham, until finally, in the time of distress, she had followed the dictates of her heart and gone down there. But not until the day of Kitty's funeral, when she stood beside Paul at her grave, had she owned to herself that he was the man she loved: a conviction which deepened into certainty in the weeks which followed, for, although she saw little of him, to be in the place where he lived, and in some way to share his work, made her happy, and gave her a sense of repose which had not been hers since she left.

Mrs. Webster shed some very bitter tears when, after dinner that evening, May announced her engagement.

"It is wicked of him to have asked you! he is as poor as a church mouse!"

"I can't remember, exactly, but I don't think he did ask me," said May, knitting her pretty brows. "He did once before, but I don't think he did to-day. But he was so very miserable that——"

"Well!" interposed Mrs. Webster, "in my young days girls left it to the men to speak."

"Oh, mother, don't scold! I am so happy—happier that I have ever been before. You know you have wished me to marry; let me marry the man I love."

"It is such an ill-assorted match; he has no money——"

"And I have plenty," said May.

"And how can I ever consent to your living in a cottage?" went on Mrs. Webster, with a wail of despair.

"Oh, we have not come to that yet!" May answered, unable to check a laugh; "but I dare say he will not wish it. We could live quite simply at the Court. I wonder if we shall run to a house-parlourmaid?"

"It's no laughing matter; you have been used to every luxury, May."

"I have had more than my share. I feel rather a surfeit of the sweetest things."

"And he does not go to church——"

"But he is more in earnest than many of the men who do," said May. "Of this I am sure, that he is seeking after God; if I were not sure, I do not believe I should have the courage to marry him. A year back I should not have cared what a man thought as long as he led a straight life, but lately I have felt different about things. My own convictions are stronger."

"Well, if we discuss it from now until Doomsday I shall not like it, May; but it is equally certain that if you have set your mind on this man you will not give him up."

"I have set my heart upon him," said May, an unusual softness in her voice. "After all, mother, love is the first thing."

Mrs. Webster sat silent, the tears dropping down her face. Love, either of God or man, had been no important factor in her life. She had married for money, and such love as she could give had been centred on her one beautiful daughter; but even with her, her ambition was stronger than her love, and it received its deathblow with May's unaccountable choice of a husband. Further opposition she saw to be useless, so she surrendered with as good a grace as possible.

When May's engagement was publicly announced friends poured in to offer congratulations that had a note of surprise behind them; but Mrs. Webster proved fully equal to the occasion.

"Yes," she said; "May has been a long time making her choice, and now it seems a funny one, doesn't it? But Mr. Lessing is a very clever man, and May became bitten with his views first, and with the propounder of them afterwards. He is the sort of man who will make a career for himself yet. I believe he means to stand for —— in the autumn."

Perhaps no one received the news with such genuine delight as Sally, who came flying up to Park Lane directly she heard of it.

"I've always thought Paul the nicest man in the world, and you the most fascinating woman; and that you should make a match of it is ideally delightful," she said. "It really is very funny, though, when I come to think of it, and look back at that night in Brussels."

"What about that night at Brussels?" asked Paul, who had entered the room unperceived by either of the girls. But Sally laughed and held her tongue.

"If you had stayed away a minute longer I should have wormed the truth out of the too-truthful Sally," May said, turning upon him with a smile. "You clearly hated me."

"I don't think I ever hated you. I believe I struggled from the first against a tremendous fascination that you possessed for me. I quarrelled with your surroundings, with your money rather than with you."

"It is a distinct judgment that that same money will enable you to carry out all your schemes," May said quaintly, "from the new cottages to the seat in Parliament."

"I shall wish you to do exactly what you like, May."

"And what else could give me so much pleasure?"

"Oh, May, how perfectly lovely it all sounds!" cried Sally, enthusiastically. "And shall you have open-air evenings on the bowling-green for the village people, with a band playing and every one dancing? If so, ask me down with a contingent of girls."

When Paul returned to Rudham and informed Mrs. Macdonald of his approaching marriage, he was a little puzzled by the look of alarm with which she received the news.

"Come, come, Mrs. Macdonald! you have been as good as a mother to me; I thought you would be the first to wish me good luck," Paul said.

"It's not that, sir! it's not that at all, that I'm thinking; but plain people like John and me could noways manage for a pretty lady like Miss Webster," she said.

Paul sat down and laughed. "So that's it. Well! I had not thought of bringing my wife here to live. Happy as you have made me, it would be a little small for her. I suppose we shall go to the Court, and I could turn my rooms here into a workman's club, couldn't I? And we could keep a bedroom for any of Miss Sally's girls who want a change."

After which Mrs. Macdonald recovered her spirits, and offered her congratulations with Scotch sincerity.

"She's bonny, sir! she's very bonny! But my John will say that there's not another lady in the world like our Miss Sally. His heart is set on her, that it is! And when will be the wedding, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"To-morrow, if I had my way. Six weeks hence, as I have to wait Miss Webster's pleasure; and, I believe, in the years to come, she will rival Miss Sally in your affections."

"Maybe, sir," replied Mrs. Macdonald, cautiously.

* * * * * *

More than two years had passed; and on a sunny day in June, Rose Lancaster was once again making her way across the bowling-green at the Court towards the rose-garden, bent upon the same quest as on the summer morning, which seemed such a long time ago, when Tom Burney had first declared his love for her. It was said in the village that Rose had lost her looks, and certainly the indefinable first blush of youth had faded; but if Rose's face had lost its delicacy of colouring, it had gained infinitely in expression. The blue eyes were soft and wistful, the pretty lips had lost their trick of pouting, the head was poised less saucily; trouble had taught Rose lessons which had left a lasting impression upon her character. She had been retained in Mrs. Lessing's service; nor ever showed any desire to quit it, until such time as Tom was ready to come home and fetch her. But oh! how long it seemed to wait. He had hinted, a month or two back, at the possibility of his being sent over to England upon his master's business; but in the letter which followed immediately after, no mention had been made of the subject, so Rose feared that the happy chance was not to come yet, since which time there had been silence—the longest silence that had occurred since Tom had left. Whether the rose-garden unconsciously brought back her lover to her mind it is impossible to say, but as Rose snipped the buds there were tears in her eyes with the simple longing for news of her absent lover. She chose all white roses to-day, for the newly-arrived baby-girl at the Court was to be baptized, and Mr. Curzon was coming to take the service; and Rose had planned that she would slip off quietly to the church and put a wreath of white roses round the font. It was a business that must be carried through with secrecy and despatch, as presently her mistress would want her to help her to dress: she was far from strong yet. A straying bramble caught her gown and held it fast, and with an impatient little cry she stooped down to disentangle it, when, to her astonishment, a great brown hand from behind closed upon hers, and a strong arm was slipped round her waist, and a voice, that set her trembling from head to foot, exclaimed—

"Rose, Rose, my beauty! what luck to find you, the first minute I've come, like this! I was just making my way up the drive, and caught sight of something shining through the trees; and if it wasn't your head shining all yellow in the sun the same as when I left it! And I crept up behind you, and caught you crying over a thorn, I do believe."

Needless to say it was Tom Burney who was the speaker, a broader, bigger Tom than Rose remembered: a handsome, strong fellow that any girl might be proud of as a lover, who spoke half in jest to hide the fact that tears were not far from his own eyes. He held her so tightly clasped to his breast, that it was some few minutes before Rose could either speak or get a good look at her lover.

"Oh, Tom, you've taken the life out of me; you've given me such a start!" she said when she could speak. "How brown and big you are!—but you're worth the waiting for. Oh dear, how glad I am you've come!" And then Rose began to sob helplessly, and needed a deal of comforting, which Tom was not slow to offer. "There!" said Rose, at last, pushing him from her, and showing him her dimples for the first time, "you are wasting all my time; but you can come down to the church, if you like, and help me to put the roses on the font."

"What for?" asked Tom, unsympathetically, preferring the privacy of the rose-garden.

"For little Miss Kitty as is to be; that's the new baby at the Court. And nothing will satisfy Mr. Lessing but that she shall be named after the one that's gone. Mr. Curzon is coming to baptize her."

"Is he?" cried Tom, eagerly. "I'll come, then, and wait all day for a sight of him, the best friend I've ever had, Rose, my darling. Shall I ask him to tie up you and me?"

"Oh!" cried Rose, blushing rosy red, "I had not thought of that yet, Tom."

"Time you did," said Tom. "I must start back again in a month, and I'm not going without you."

"Oh no," said Rose. "It seems to come sudden at the last, but I've waited so long that I'll come when you like. I've not looked at another man since you went away."

Tom caught her again and kissed her. "And there was plenty to look at you, I'll bet."

"Yes, plenty," Rose admitted, with a dash of her old coquetry.

Then hand in hand, like two happy children, they walked down the lane to the church; and Tom stood and handed the flowers, which Rose's deft fingers arranged round the font. And all that miserable past seemed blotted out, and a future of perfect happiness seemed opening out before them. Just as their task was finished, and they stood side by side admiring their handiwork, the church door was softly pushed open, and Mr. Curzon entered. Real joy flashed into his face as he recognized Tom Burney, and saw that Rose was with him; but the words of greeting were very simple.

"So you've come home, Tom?" he said, as he heartily grasped his hand.

"For a bit, sir—just for a week or two."

"And you will take out Rose with you, I expect?" with a kindly smile at the pretty, downcast head.

"Well, yes, sir; that is my meaning. And we were thinking, she and I, as we would not feel rightly married unless you was kind enough to come and marry us."

"And that I will gladly."

"You're the best friend as ever I had," said Tom speaking with some effort. "And if I've kept straight and got a good name, it's you I have to thank for it."

"No, no," said Mr. Curzon; "God alone could do that. I may have chanced to be the sign-post that directed you to Him. Shall we thank Him now for bringing you back, and pray that He may bless your life with Rose?"

So side by side the three knelt down, and in a few simple words Mr. Curzon commended them to God. And when he rose from his knees he laid his hands upon their heads in blessing.

Then Tom and Rose made their way back to the Court, sobered, but unspeakably happy, whilst Mr. Curzon lingered awhile by Kitty's grave.

"There's to be another little Kitty named in memory of you, my darling," he said aloud, as he turned away from the grave with a tender smile on his face.

It never seemed to him that his own little Kitty was far from him, and a prayer was in his heart that Kitty the second might be as sweet, as good as the one who was ever present in his thoughts.

THE END