Alick's cave

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: Margaret would steal in and sit down close to her mother's knee . . . and listening too.]

[Sequel to "Alick's Hero"]

_Alick's Cave;_

Or,

On The Cliff.

By

Catharine Shaw

AUTHOR OF "ALICK'S HERO," "SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY," AND EDITOR OF "SUNDAY SUNSHINE."

New Edition

JOHN F. SHAW & CO., LTD. _Publishers_ 3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

[Illustration]

Contents.

[Illustration]

_Chapter I._

Salome

_Chapter II._

A Shadow

_Chapter III._

On The Surface

_Chapter IV._

In The Cave

_Chapter V._

On The Rocks

_Chapter VI._

Claude

_Chapter VII._

Salome'S Slate

_Chapter VIII._

Marian'S Sunshine

_Chapter IX._

On The Hillside

_Chapter X._

Margaret'S Legacy

_Chapter XI._

At The Towers

_Chapter XII._

A Purse

_Chapter XIII._

Marian'S Class

_Chapter XIV._

Reconciled

_Chapter XV._

Lionel'S Desire

_Chapter XVI._

A Farewell

_Chapter XVII._

In London

_Chapter XVIII._

Salome'S Tea-Party

_Chapter XIX._

Lilian'S Peacemaker

_Chapter XX._

"The Recompence Of The Reward"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Alick'S Cave.

[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]

Chapter I.

_Salome._

"Salome!"

"I'm listenin', child, my lovey."

"Salome, has mother told you about Lionel and Marian?"

"Nofing as I know on, dearie."

"Then she hasn't been up here since Aunt Ella came over?"

"Why no, Master Charlie, dear. Why should she come up?"

"Then I shall tell you the news," burst forth Charlie, colouring with excitement. "Marian and Lionel have got to come and stay over here for ever so long, because—because—"

Salome turned her head round, and looked in the glowing face, and put out her dark hand.

"It's not a secret, lovey dear, is it?" she asked gently. "The dear missis wouldn't mind you tellin' me, would she?"

"Why no, nursey dear," laughed Charlie. "She said, 'Run off and tell Salome, if the news has not got to the nursery yet, Charlie; she will be very sorry though.'"

"That's all right then," answered Salome, settling herself to her work and preparing to listen. "I'm one as like news very much, lovey, if 'tis all right for me to hear it."

"Well," pursued Charlie, "you know Marian and Lionel have been staying here since Saturday because it was Alick's birthday, and he wanted to have them particularly?"

"Why of course I do, Master Charlie. Haven't they been running in and out of this nursery, a kissin' of the little ones half the time?"

Charlie laughed.

"Teasing them too," he added. "But any way, Salome, when I was sitting with mother just now (you know the others are all gone for a walk), who should come over the grass and round the garden way but Aunt Ella. She had thrown a cloak over her head, and her face was all white and scared. She beckoned mother to the window, and said she would not come in. Mother went to her, and begged her to enter, but she waved her hand, and looked more miserable than I have ever seen her. And then she said, bursting into tears—

"'Claude has scarlet fever; the doctor has just been, and says so.'"

"Then mother caught up a shawl that was lying there, and went out on to the verandah, and they stood talking for ever so long. At last she came in, saying, as she closed the door upon Aunt Ella, 'It's so hard not to kiss you, but I suppose I must not.'

"Aunt Ella shook her head vigorously, and said, 'Then you will detain them when they come? It is "very" good of you, Greta dear.'

"And then she hurried away, and mother sat down by the fire, as if she were quite tired out."

Charlie paused. Salome's handsome, dark face was turned towards him intently, and for once her work had fallen from her busy hands.

"Poor dear, poor dear!" she murmured. "What good thing de dear Lord know all 'bout it. Poor dear, poor dear!"

"Then," pursued Charlie, "I came over to mother, and asked her why she was sad, and she began to cry too, like Aunt Ella.

"'Is scarlet fever very bad, mother?' I said.

"'Very, very bad, dear.'

"'Is Claude very ill?'

"'They do not know yet. But it is so sad for them to be shut away from everybody.'

"'Will they be?'

"Mother nodded. And then, wiping her eyes, and kissing me, she said more cheerfully:

"'You will be pleased with one piece of news, Charlie. I have asked Marian and Lionel to stay with us for a long visit. You will like that.'

"'I wish it were Claude though,' I said; 'for he is nearer my age.'

"And then I was sorry; for mother looked disappointed. Salome, I wish I weren't so selfish."

"Well, lovey, tell de dear Lord so. That's de best way as I knows of to get things right."

Charlie pondered. His Indian nurse's advice was always good. Ever since he could remember, she had been the same. Love shone out of her beautiful dark eyes; loving words came from her mouth. Charlie put his hand into hers confidingly.

"Does de dear missis want me, lovey?" she asked suddenly.

"No; she's gone out in the garden to find father. Do you think it will be nice, having them to stay, Salome?"

"If de Lord has sent dem, child, you may 'pend on it as He 'll make it all right."

"Yes," said Charlie soberly; "only, you see, they are different from us, and—"

"Don't you be upset, lovey; you jest know what I say is de trufe. De ways of de Lord is de very best ways. Don't you worry yourself 'bout 'em."

Just at this moment Ruth and Sydney, who had been listening open-mouthed to the conversation, began to grow tired of the little sermon with which their dear nurse often ended a talk, and proceeded to the other side of the room, to go on with their interrupted play. Charlie sprang up, and went after them, while Salome took her work again, and went on with it industriously.

There were three houses on the top of the downs at Leesworth, which stood, as a little colony, all to themselves, quite apart from the village under the cliff.

One had been there for generations, and was called The Towers. In it lived Courtenay Malden and his young wife, both now away in India. Belonging to this was a large garden, two or three fields, coachhouse, and stables, with coachman's and gardener's cottages attached. It stood on the summit of the hill, and the ground sloped away from it on either side, a steep lane leading from it to the beach beneath, some eight minutes' pleasant walk between red cliffs and overhanging trees.

Then there was The Cottage, as it was called, adjoining Courtenay's garden, and belonging to him, which had been done up a year or two ago, and turned into a gentleman's house. Though the rooms were extremely small, the rent suited Mr. Chantry's small income, and his wife thought that the long, low nursery, built out over extensive kitchens and laundry, amply made up to her for the confined space of the other chambers. Sometimes she confessed to herself that a peep of the sea would have been very refreshing to her, but when she looked out at the sweet country lane in front, she was so grateful for the peaceful home which was provided her that she felt she ought not to wish for anything else.

In the old-fashioned garden belonging to this cottage, Mr. Chantry, who was very delicate, employed himself whenever the weather allowed. He had been ordered to spend as much time as possible in the open air, and now, from such time in the morning as his health permitted him to rise, he was to be seen busily working. Sometimes Mrs. Chantry would take her sewing out, and sit by his side; and he would look up at her from his weeding, and say:

"Greta, this is the happiest piece of our life, after all."

They had four children—Alick, aged seventeen; Charlie, eleven; Ruth, six; and Sydney, three years old. They had lost two little ones during their long residence in India. Salome and a little maid completed the family.

The third house was Sunnyside, built by Courtenay for his invalid father's use, in the field adjoining his own garden, but a little lower down the hill, nearer the edge of the cliff. In this lived Mr. and Mrs. Malden, Lionel, Marian, Claude, Muriel, and Leslie, varying in ages from sixteen to eight years old.

As Salome sat at her work on the day on which the story opens, the occupants of the nursery heard voices approaching, and Charlie exclaimed:

"There they are!"

"Who?" asked Ruth.

"Alick and the others."

"I hope they will not come up here bothering."

"Hush, dearie," said Salome, turning round.

"They 'do' bother," added Sydney, in his little, distinct voice; "and I don't like botherin'."

"Of course you don't," laughed Charlie, "but the best thing you can do is to put up with it as well as you can, Sydney. They don't mean to tease you."

Sydney looked unconvinced, and before long the three young people about whom they had been talking were heard running up the stairs, and came quickly into the room.

The first to enter was a girl of about fifteen, tall and robust, with a fresh, sweet face, which looked as if care sat but lightly on it. This was Marian Malden.

Behind her came her brother Lionel, and following him Alick Chantry, a head taller than his cousin, with slight, graceful figure, and earnest face.

"Oh, Salome, have you heard?" asked Marian, coming over and kneeling down by the nurse's side. "Is it not dreadful? What will poor mother do?"

Salome's peaceful eyes turned towards the young, fresh face, but she did not at once reply.

"I call it a horrid nuisance!" exclaimed Lionel. "It's just how things happen. Here were we going to have jolly Easter holidays, and now everything's upset."

"But we shall have some nice times here," put in Alick. "We often do; and when once we know that Claude is going on well—"

"Oh, of course he will! That's not it a bit," said Lionel. "But here are we, shut off from all our games and books, and even clothes, and obliged to be mewed up in this little cottage, with nothing on earth to do."

Marian looked distressed. Her hand, which was resting on the nurse's knee, fidgeted nervously with the strings of the pinafore which Salome was mending, and her face turned red and uncomfortable.

"It is dreadfully unfortunate," Lionel went on, "that we were out for this walk, instead of having gone home first. Then mother would have had no excuse for exiling us; as it is, as we have not been home for three days, it would be daft, I suppose, to go. But, all the same, it is a great bore."

"But—" said Marian, anxious to stop her brother.

"I suppose we shall have to make the best of it," pursued Lionel loftily; "and so we'll say no more about it. But things always seem to happen 'contrairy.' If I particularly want to do anything, sure enough something prevents."

Salome smiled silently over her work, and Marian's eyes, which were fixed on her face, looked enquiringly.

Alick had turned on his heel after a glance at his cousin, and had walked out of the room, with an annoyed shrug of his shoulders.

"What did you so particularly want to do?" asked Charlie, breaking a rather awkward pause.

"I wanted to enjoy my Easter holidays. I had planned to have a lot of boating, and father had promised to get me a bicycle."

"You will be able to have the boating all the same," said Charlie.

"Yes, but not half such fun as if there were our own house to run in and out of. One thing I know, when Claude gets out of this horrid fever—"

Salome raised her face, and put out her hand gently.

"Dear young master," she said gravely, "I don't think as de dear Lord would like you to say 'dat. We've got to submit to Him. Them as will be led, He leads as tender as tender, but them as want to be drove—"

"Do you mean that I want driving?" asked Lionel, turning red.

"Don't you think as you're anxious to go this way and that way, as pleases you best, Master Lionel?"

"I certainly do," he answered, trying to laugh off his displeasure. "Don't you think that the pleasantest?"

Marian listened intently for the answer. She so often thought her own way was best, and found out afterwards that she was wrong.

"I have learnt not," answered Salome humbly. "It can't be learnt all at once, but if we're 'willing,' de dear Lord takes us in hand, and then it's all right wid us."

Lionel picked up his cap, and walked over to disturb the little ones at their play.

Marian got up, and bent her head to kiss the smooth, dark cheek.

"Oh, Salome," she said, "what a way on the road you've got!"

"Me, dearie?"

"Yes; it looks very, very far off to be able to be sure the Lord's way is best. I wish I could jump right over to it."

"Well, dearie, we can't 'jump' to nothin'. It's just a step at a time—followin' on. If you take what He sends to-day, you'll find as you'll be a step nearer home to-morrow."

Marian's face gave a little flash through one or two tears, and she went to seek her aunt with a very tender hope of doing to-day what came next.

"Aunt Greta," she said, when she found her aunt, sitting somewhat dejectedly by the fire in the dining-room, "do you want a new daughter for a little while?"

Mrs. Chantry looked up, brightening in spite of herself at the bright tone.

"Because I mean to try to be one, if you will have me. I cannot think what dear mother will do without me, but since she has decided it so, I mean to make the best of it. It would be poor gratitude to you for your kindness in having us, to keep on lamenting that we are not at home."

"Dear child, you know how glad I am to be able—"

"Yes, auntie. So now that's all settled, what are you going to set your new daughter to do?"

Marian's homely face was quite brilliant for a moment.

Mrs. Chantry looked round the room with a sigh; it was disordered enough to make any one sigh.

Marian hastened to pull the tablecloth straight, and began to pack Sydney's bricks into their box.

"Aunt Greta," she said, as she passed the back of her aunt's chair, bending down, and speaking shyly, "will you not go up and see Salome?"

"Why, darling?"

"She would give you some medicine."

"Medicine?" echoed Mrs. Chantry, wondering.

"Don't you know the sort of medicine she always carries about with her?"

Mrs. Chantry smiled and roused herself.

"We all might," she said, as she went to the door.

And then Marian was left alone to her untidy room.

Meanwhile, Alick, disgusted with his cousin's selfishness, had gone to his own chamber, and shut himself in.

Like Charlie, he felt this illness at Sunnyside a great blow to him. Setting aside the risk and sorrow to all there, the actual thwarting of his plans, and having to make room for Lionel in their narrow abode, meant a great deal of annoyance to orderly Alick. As to Marian, he did not at the moment give her a thought.

He looked round on his dear little domain.

It had been all very well for Lionel to share it for two days, which had been specially set apart as a special holiday, but how to put up with his cousin for two months (had not Salome said something about two months?) he could not conceive, and paced up and down his room in sore vexation.

Alick's life flowed on in an even, uneventful way just now, and the boy confessed to himself, or hardly knew that he confessed it, that it was rather tame and dull.

More than two years ago his beloved step-cousin, Courtenay Malden, had been married, and had brought his young wife to the large house which overshadowed Alick's little home. And since that time, his whole interest had been centred in the doings and sayings at "The Towers," as it had been called for longer than any one could remember.

After a year of cloudless happiness to the young pair, as well as the little circle to which they belonged, and on whom they lavished all the love of which they were so full, a little cloud had fallen upon them all.

A tiny baby came to grace the happy home, but soon it was found that she had not the health of ordinary babies. And when her parents were suddenly called to take a journey to India, on the death of Margaret's father, the little frail girl was taken with them. She had hardly been kept alive where she could have every care at home. And when she became exposed to the changes incident to a journey, she quietly sank. They were but a week from port when her little body was laid beneath the waves of the Indian Ocean.

News of this had but lately reached the homes at Leesworth, and even the prospect of Courtenay's speedy return could hardly cheer Alick from the sorrow he felt on the behalf of those whom he loved so well.

His mother, tender as was her love for her boy, sometimes felt with a pang that his deepest interest and affection were centred outside his home.

"It will all come right," his father would say consolingly; "it is not as if Alick loved any one unworthy of him."

Mrs. Chantry tried to be satisfied, but confessed to herself a sense of relief when Margaret and Courtenay had really started for India.

Now they were on their homeward journey, bringing with them Margaret's widowed mother, whose health of body and mind had been shattered by the blow of her husband's death, and leaving behind them in that sea the tiny form on which for nearly a year all hearts had been set.

In all his life Alick had never spent such a sorrowful, unhappy three months. The empty house at the end of their garden was but typical of the emptiness of his life without Courtenay.

It was true he went often to read to Courtenay's invalid father at Sunnyside, and found some satisfaction in fulfilling one of his step-cousin's last requests; it was true that he walked frequently down into the fishing village beneath the cliff to call upon Courtenay's old men and women, but all seemed flat and dull. And he wondered at himself for being out of sorts, and was angry at himself, but could not guess why it was; nor did it occur to him to speak to any one of it.

His mother looked on and prayed. She knew not what else to do.

Salome looked on and prayed. She knew it was the best to do.

So Alick stood this bright day in March, and looked round on his invaded room.

"I teazed mother, I do believe, to have Lionel here, when she was hardly up to it, and this is what I've got for it," he said to himself. "Here he is, to be my constant companion night and day for two months. Well, I deserve it."

He sat down by his window, and pushed open the little old-fashioned lattice. The sunshine came streaming in with the wind fresh from the North Sea. He leaned his head on his hand, deep in thought.

"I wonder why all this has happened?" he asked himself. Then, pausing even in his thoughts, he waited for a moment.

"It cannot have happened by chance; why, of course it cannot. Courtenay's going away, their poor little baby, this illness of Claude's, my unutterable loneliness—"

He turned from the window, and opened his little well-worn Bible.

He might have found out the reason there. He probably would, but at this moment a step was heard outside, and Lionel entered abruptly.

"Aren't you coming down? I say, Alick, it's all very kind of Aunt Greta to have us, but where on earth are we to fix ourselves? You have only those two little bits of sitting-rooms downstairs, and these poky bedrooms up here. Wherever shall we be all day?"

"There's the large nursery."

"Yes, but who would like to settle down with the babies?"

"We often sit there. The little ones play by one window, and we have the other."

"Salome is always near that one."

"Well?"

"We can't talk, or anything."

Alick frowned. Unhappy, unrefreshed, because he had not drunk fresh supplies at the Fountain of Life, he had no strength or spirit to withstand to-day's annoyances.

"Don't you think so?" went on Lionel.

"I think we had better put up with it, and not be disagreeable."

Lionel whistled.

"I thought you'd have given a fellow a little better welcome than this, Alick."

Alick got up and turned away.

Oh, for Courtenay to set him right, to talk it all out to; to be able to explain his worries, and have the kind, generous sympathy in return!

The boy could have wept in his loneliness and despair. He had "forgotten his resting-place." If he could only have found out how poor he was, he might have asked to be enriched with the great riches. For "blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]

Chapter II.

_A Shadow._

"HERE'S Mr. Alick's tutor called, ma'am," said Mrs. Chantry's little maid that afternoon, throwing open the door of the dining-room where her mistress was sitting with Marian.

Mrs. Chantry turned round hastily.

"Good morning, Mr. Fortescue."

"I am so sorry to hear this bad news," began the tutor.

"Yes, it is very bad news."

"Lionel came round to tell me about it just now. I had not heard it, on account of its being Alick's birthday and a holiday. What do you think had better be done with regard to their studies?"

"I have been thinking about it. It has occurred to me that, as we are so short of room in our cottage, perhaps they might use Mr. Courtenay's library. I am sure he would be glad for us to do so."

"Just so," answered Mr. Fortescue; "I had thought the same thing. Lionel walked up with me— Oh, here he is!"

Mrs. Chantry explained to her nephew what they had been proposing, and had hardly finished when Lionel burst out:

"Then, if we go to The Towers at all, why should we not take up our abode there altogether? Marian and I could do finely together."

Mrs. Chantry shook her head; but Lionel continued:

"You see, Mr. Fortescue, there is not room for us here; and though it is very good of aunt to have us, if we could clear out, it would be a charity to everybody, I'm sure."

"I should not wish to 'take French leave' like that," interposed Marian.

"Nor I," answered Mrs. Chantry, "unless under great necessity. We can make room for you here, and therefore I do not feel justified in proposing it."

"I shall then. I shall go over at once, and ask mother," said Lionel.

Mrs. Chantry stopped him.

"Not with my permission, Lionel," she said decidedly. "I told your mother that there must be no communication backwards and forwards between you young people. What may be necessary to say, must be said between us elders. You are not to go into your own garden even."

Lionel stared. His gentle aunt was speaking as he had never heard her speak before.

"Am I to be treated like a baby?" he asked haughtily.

"You are to keep to the few rules that are made," answered his aunt gravely.

"Certainly," said Mr. Fortescue, "you must see, Lionel, the necessity of that."

"I see the necessity, but not the obligation," said Lionel. "Do your rules allow of my writing to my mother?"

Mrs. Chantry thought for an instant.

"There can be no objection to that," she answered. "My sister can answer through me."

"Not to get an answer myself?" fumed Lionel, freshly affronted.

"No!" answered his aunt.

He took himself off without further words, feeling even then that he had gone beyond all the limits of respect due to his hostess, to say nothing of that hostess being his dearly-loved aunt.

"It is a sore trial," said Mrs. Chantry, turning to Mr. Fortescue.

"Lionel should be better able to bear it," answered the tutor severely.

"Aunt Greta, I am so sorry," said Marian, looking up with burning cheeks. "I cannot think how Lionel—"

"Do not distress yourself, my dear," answered her aunt kindly; "Lionel will be sorry by-and-by."

"Shall we begin studies to-morrow, then?" asked Mr. Fortescue.

"I believe Alick said that was the arrangement."

"That is all right then. I only came over to ask that, and to condole with you on the misfortune."

He took leave, and Marian and her aunt were left alone.

"Salome would not call it 'a misfortune,' would she?" said Marian quietly.

Mrs. Chantry smiled.

"It is not a word I like," she answered. "I would rather feel it was 'permitted,' Marian."

"Aunt Greta—" Marian hesitated. "Do you think mother will wish us to take up our abode at The Towers?"

"We shall see what she says; that is, if Lionel asks her."

"I would a great deal rather be here, auntie."

"I like to have you, dear."

Just at this moment, Mr. Chantry came in—a tall, pale man, whose health had been greatly impaired by a long residence in India.

"Well, my dear, is tea coming? Let us gather all our new family together, and settle in as we are to be."

"Before it gets dark, I was going to see if I could get any news from Sunnyside. I should like to know how Claude is to-night."

"I will go, my dear; you look worn out."

Mrs. Chantry made no objection. She felt indeed that she had passed through a great deal since that morning-hour when her sister had come to her over the grass.

"Tea will be ready then," she said, ringing the bell.

"I will make the tea, auntie," exclaimed Marian, springing up, "I always do it at home."

By the time it was ready, Alick and Lionel came in, and Mr. Chantry returned from Sunnyside.

His wife looked up in his face, fearing to ask, but he spoke at once.

"There is no change to be expected at present, my dear; and your sister says you must not be anxious. Claude has slept nearly all day, and the doctor has not yet been again."

"How did you find out?" she asked.

"I tapped at the window where Uncle Malden sits, and he answered through the glass."

Lionel stood listening, and as they took their seats at the small table he said to Alick, in a low tone:

"What a plague that Claude is! I hope he'll make haste and get well."

"I hope so indeed," answered Alick gravely.

After tea Alick, Lionel, and Marian set themselves down to study at a side-table, Lionel covertly complaining how small and inconvenient it was, while Marian besought him in a low tone to behave properly, and Alick whistled to himself an impatient tune.

Mrs. Chantry sat by the fire working, and teaching Charlie his lessons. And her husband paced up and down the narrow space left to him, in the restlessness of confirmed ill-health, which often came on with increased discomfort in the evening.

After the lessons were put away, the young people got out a game in which all joined, Mr. Chantry sitting down, and looking relieved to have something to turn off his thoughts from himself.

When Alick and Lionel went up to their room and the door was shut, there was silence for some little time. Alick got out his Bible, finding the place, and putting a chair by the wide window-sill sat down.

"Look here, Alick," began Lionel, "are you and I to have a kind of feud while I am here?"

"Not that I know of; that is, if you'll make the best of things."

"That's nice for you to say, but if you were turned out of house and home, and stuck into a little place like this, when there's a great empty house with nobody in it—"

"Where?" asked Alick.

"Courtenay's."

"Oh! Well, anyway, mother has not thought of that; and it makes everything horrid to have you so complaining."

"I thought of it, but Aunt Greta would not even let me ask mother about it."

"Then I suppose she had her reasons. Anyway, Lionel, do let me read; for I'm tired enough of all this, and we have a tough day with Mr. Fortescue before us."

Alick turned towards his Bible, and Lionel was forced to be silent, though he rustled about his things in a disturbing kind of way.

As Alick read, he began to think over the frame of mind he had been in all day. He blamed his cousin for it; for if Lionel had not been so disagreeable, all would have been right, he argued to himself.

As his eyes ran over the familiar words, his thoughts chased each other backwards and forwards, first accusing himself of impatience and unkindness, then excusing himself with the plea of justifiable indignation at unprovoked rudeness.

Without taking in the sense of any of the sacred words, he closed the book, and knelt down to pray.

Used to be alone, with the exception of sleeping little Charlie, since the time when he and Courtenay had sometimes shared the same room in the old days, he could not forget the presence of his cousin, and he could think of nothing to say. Still he justified himself, and still the warning voice of conscience whispered that, however tempted he had been, yet he had failed of his high standard.

At last, ashamed to rise from his knees without one prayer from his heart, in despair of any other, he repeated slowly,—

"'Our Father, which art in heaven,'" and went on mechanically till he came to the words, "'As we forgive our debtors.'"

Then he paused, and raised his head for a moment. His eyes rested on his cousin's dark form, standing between him and the light, and he almost hated him for being there—for making all his life dark and miserable. Then came as a flash—

"'Neither will your Father . . . forgive your trespasses.'"

"I can't be sorry; he is in fault, and not I," he said bitterly to himself, and buried his head in his hands again.

He knelt on. Lionel quickly got through his undressing and short prayers, and jumped into bed, and still Alick felt he could not be sorry.

At last, just as he was almost giving up the struggle, those words came over him—

"I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also who is of a humble and contrite spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble."

With one beseeching inward cry for help, he rose and went over to the bed.

"Lionel," he said, in a smothered voice, "I'm sorry I've been cross to you, and have not welcomed you more kindly; will you forgive me?"

"Eh?" asked sleepy Lionel.

Alick said it again more clearly, though it was very hard to do it twice.

"Oh, all right!" answered Lionel. "Aren't you coming to bed? It's ever so late."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]

Chapter III.

_On The Surface._

THE next morning Alick rose with the sense of a clearer atmosphere around him.

He and Lionel did not exchange many words while dressing, but he saw that his cousin was still as cross as ever. This he felt hard; for had he not made a great effort last night? And ought not Lionel to have been ready to meet him half-way?

With a mental shake of himself, he threw off his thoughts, and went down to breakfast looking brighter than he had done for weeks. But he was conscious that all was not yet quite right with him, and that he was very ill-prepared for a battle, should any conflict come upon him.

His mother stood by the fire just lifting off the kettle, and as she glanced in his face, she saw something which made her heart rise in thankfulness.

He came up and kissed her, and she put her hand on his shoulder with a sweet look.

"Better to-day, my boy?" she asked lovingly.

"Rather," he answered, half smiling. "Why, mother, you see without being told."

"My eyes like sunshine," she answered quaintly; "so I am glad when it comes."

"Have you heard from Sunnyside yet, mother?"

"Not yet. Alick, cut the bread, will you? We shall be late, I fear."

"'I' am going to do that," said Marian, entering at the moment.

"You are not going to take 'my' duties, Miss Cousin," laughed Alick. "I'm quite willing that you should help mother mend the socks!"

"Oh, your lordship will condescend to allow me to use a thimble then!" she answered, watching him take the knife and begin upon the loaf.

"Yes, thimbles and looking pretty are the best use of girls."

"Then I can only have half a use," said Marian soberly. "But I consider, Alick, that you have very low ideas indeed."

"How?"

"I consider thimbles only a part of a girl's life."

"Of course. Her first finger is not her whole self."

"Her 'second' finger."

"Well, her second finger, if you like. But it is one of the chief ends of a woman to work well."

"You are speaking on the top of things?" asked Marian, looking up enquiringly.

Alick laughed a little. "I'm not going very far underneath, for certain. Like this bread, we are cutting off the outside; but crust is good."

"Well then," said Marian, who was all this time quietly setting the room in order, in a very different way from that which the little maid had considered perfect when she left it that morning, "I disagree with you entirely, Alick, about even the crust of girls."

"As how, Miss Cousin?"

"Partly about looking pretty. Of course, that must depend on how you are made."

"And on how you make yourselves."

"I don't see that."

"I do. Mother says—"

"Oh, 'I' say, do I?" laughed Mrs. Chantry. "Please, Alick, give out your own opinions in this serious conversation."

"Mother says," pursued Alick with a twinkle in his eye, "that if a girl has neat hair—"

Mrs. Chantry's glance rested for a moment on Marian's beautiful soft light braids, and she smiled.

"That is possible, at any rate," said the girl.

"And a gentle, cheerful, good face—"

"That is a thing to be earnestly desired, but, Alick, you are going below the 'crust' now—"

"And a truthful spirit that shines out of the eyes—" pursued he, not heeding.

"But all this does not make prettiness, and that is what you started with, Alick. You had better get back to the thimble; you know better what you are about there."

"Do I?" asked he, amused.

"You are quite right, Alick," interposed Mrs. Chantry; "I agree with you entirely. In my estimation, a girl who has a kind, cheerful face, neat hair, tidy, suitable dress, and a clean frill, is refreshing to look at. And whatever her face may happen to be, her friends do not think of that, but of the love that shines out through those familiar features. I have seen the homeliest face of an old woman made perfectly beautiful by the Christlike spirit that irradiated it."

"But then you get beneath the surface again," said simple Marian.

"And so we must," said Mrs. Chantry, "however our talk may begin. We cannot live 'on the top of things,' as Marian called it; at least, earnest people cannot. Alick, that pile of bread will last all day. Set the chairs, my dear, and ring the breakfast-bell."

At that sound, the rest came trooping in. Mrs. Chantry gave a tray, already prepared, into Alick's hand to take to his father, who seldom left his room so early, and then the business of breakfast began.

"I wish we could have heard," observed Mrs. Chantry, looking out of the window abstractedly.

"He'll be all right, Aunt Greta," said Lionel. "I never knew Claude turn up on the wrong side of anything; I cannot think why you are anxious. I only wish he'd have had sense not to catch it at such an inconvenient time."

Charlie looked up at Lionel with astonishment. "I do not see that it was his fault, and it makes me feel horrid to hear you."

His big cousin merely glanced at him, and disdained to answer.

But Mrs. Chantry, who had hardly been attending to what had gone before, now turned round, and said gravely:

"Lionel, my dear, I would prefer that you should keep all such observations and repinings to yourself. Your little brother's life is very precious to a great many of us, and I am sure you will be glad, however this illness may end, that you had taken my advice and been silent where we all must stand in awe, and learn how helpless we are when we are under the chastening hand of God."

Lionel had flushed and then paled under his aunt's rebuke. Never till yesterday had she rebuked him. What was this she said about "however the illness ended"? How should it end? Claude was always strong. Scarlet fever was not anything so very dreadful, was it? Plenty of people got well from that. Why did his heart sink like this?

He was very silent, and but little more was said all through the meal; for Alick had his own thoughts, Marian divided hers between annoyance with her brother and sober consideration of what they had been talking about before breakfast, and Charlie was rather dismayed at the silence of the others.

The moment breakfast was over, Mrs. Chantry gathered the household together for their morning reading. It had been a sore trial to her when her husband's continued ill-health had forced her to take up this duty by herself. But meeting it bravely, in strength which she sought and received from above, she went forward in her quiet way. And now daily, what had once been a trial, became a great blessing, and there were many among that little household who valued the few moments in which they stepped aside from the whirl of life, and took a peep into the unseen and eternal.

This day as they knelt together Alick heard his mother say,—

"May we feel ourselves to be poor in spirit, that Thou mayest be able to enrich us; and may we so mourn before Thee on account of our sinfulness, that Thou mayest be able to give us Thy blessed comfort."

Alick heard, and bent his head lower, acquiescing in the prayer from his heart, feeling that it was in some way connected with his thoughts last night, but yet conscious that a proud wilfulness lurked within him, and made him still feel injured by circumstances, which had somehow combined to rob him of peace. He was not yet poor in spirit.

Still he joined in praying his mother's prayer, and rose from his knees wondering how the answer would come. That an answer would come to every true prayer, sent up from a humble heart straight to the great Giver, he did not for a moment doubt.

Just as they were all separating, Marian, Lionel, and Alick, for their hats, ready to start for lessons at The Towers, the postman came up the path through the little front garden.

Alick was the first to see him, and sprang to the door. There was but one letter, and that was for him. Yes, truly an Indian letter, in Courtenay's bold, fair writing.

"Come along!" exclaimed Lionel impatiently. "You are never going to open that now, are you, Alick? We are already behind time, and you know how it upsets Fortescue."

"I never intended to open it," answered Alick, annoyed.

"Marian," called Lionel, "do hurry yourself. What a time you girls do take!"

"I am coming in a moment," answered his sister from above; "go on without me."

She was standing by Salome at the nursery-door. "I did so want to know about Claude before I went into school," she said in a low tone, looking wistfully into the dark, sympathetic face.

"He's in de 'Lord's' hands, dear missey."

"Yes, but I shall be thinking about him all lesson-time."

"Dear missey, you just 'member this. If de dear Lord wants you to know, He 'll send you word; if He wants you to wait, can't you do as He wants?"

"I'll try," she answered humbly, running down to join Alick, who stood on the path waiting for her, Lionel having gone on.

"Have you had a letter?" she asked, as they quickly walked down the garden behind the house, to the little stile which had been made in the hedge which separated the cottage from the house.

"Yes, from Courtenay, but I have not read it, and do not intend to, till I can do so in peace."

He spoke hardly, and Marian's eyes came back from his face disappointed.

"It is so difficult to learn to wait, is it not?" she said.

"Oh, that is not much waiting!" answered Alick lightly. "I know they are on their way home from the telegram; it will only probably be things personal to myself."

"Those are such nice letters."

"Yes; I don't care for descriptions of scenery."

Marian laughed.

"But you love scenery as much as any one, Alick."

"So I do, but not when you want to hear about those you love. One assurance that they are thinking about you, is worth a hundred lines of how beautiful the mountains looked this morning."

They had reached the steps of Courtenay's house—those wide, pleasant steps on which his grandmother used to stand in her white cap and black satin dress, the picture of a lovely old lady.

Alick saw it all now, as if it were yesterday; and he remembered in the same moment all that had come and gone when Courtenay had been his hero, and had stood out bravely for the right within these very walls.

The thought calmed him; and as he passed through the wide hall, he could greet Mr. Fortescue with his usual pleasant smile.

"No news yet from Sunnyside?" had been the tutor's first question. "So Lionel tells me."

And on the negative answer, the three settled down without another word to the business of the day.

Marian, by her steady perseverance, had kept up with her brother. But Alick, a year older still, had got far ahead, and now studied by himself, Mr. Fortescue finding no pressing needful, and only having to direct his thirst for knowledge.

They plodded on silently for an hour or two, and then a note was brought in to the tutor, which he immediately opened.

"From your mother," he said to Alick, as he took in the sense of the few lines. "She says she has seen Mrs. Malden in the garden, and Claude has passed a restless night, but there is no particularly bad symptom."

Marian gave a deep sigh, while Lionel exclaimed, with a sound of relief in his tone:

"That's all right then; I thought my aunt made it out too bad—"

Then, meeting Alick's eyes, he checked himself suddenly, and turned to his writing again.

Mr. Fortescue was a very quiet man, and made no remark on the letter, so again they went on with their tasks.

At one o'clock they put up, and prepared to go home.

Mr. Fortescue took leave, and the rest gathered near the window, looking over the broad green garden to the raised walk at the end under the elms, between which could be seen peeps of the sea, and the pretty roof and chimneys of Sunnyside.

"I was born to be a gentleman," said Lionel, with a sounding sort of sigh.

"I 'was' born one; not 'to be' one," said Alick, speaking in spite of himself; but his cousin's pompousness was too aggravating.

"Why?" asked Marian. "I do not see what made you give us the benefit of that sage remark, Lionel."

"Because I find this handsome house suits me a great deal better than Alick's house."

"My 'father's' house, you mean," answered Alick.

"Suiting you well depends on the end to be attained," said Marian.

"What end?"

"Just having what is best for us."

"That's what I say. I find this decidedly best for me. I have felt in a better temper ever since I entered it."

"That shows it is 'not' good for you," said Marian.

"You girls have no reasoning powers," said Lionel. "It's just the other way."

Marian only smiled.

"We must not keep auntie waiting for dinner. What a lovely day it is, Alick; just like Spring, isn't it?"

"Yes; shall we go for a walk on the shore this afternoon, when we have done our lessons?"

"'I' can't. I must stay and see if Aunt Greta wants me. Besides, I shall have to practise."

"I'll come!" volunteered Lionel. "It will be a change from that poky—"

Marian looked up anxiously.

"From being poked up so, I mean," stammered Lionel.

"I don't think I shall go," said Alick, hesitating.

"Why you proposed to a minute ago!" said Lionel.

Marian perfectly understood, and they walked in silence through the garden, Lionel again hurrying on before.

"We have only an hour," observed Alick, "to get back again. Mr. Fortescue is coming at two instead of half-past to-day."

"I wonder why that is?"

"He is going into Norwich. I fancy he has volunteered to get some things for your mother, Marian."

"I cannot help wishing I were at home helping her, Alick."

"I am sure you must. But it is so nice that you do not fuss about it, Marian."

"Fussing does no good."

"But that does not hinder people from doing it."

"No; I want to feel quite sure I am doing right in being here, and then I should be satisfied."

Alick paused an instant, looking into her gentle, fresh face consideringly.

"You feel it's right to do as your mother wishes, Marian?"

"Of course I do; but then suppose she wants me at this moment?"

The blue eyes filled slowly, and Alick's turned away.

"She did wish you to stay here, dear," he said very kindly; "she came over on purpose to ask it. I'm sure mother said so. It would have been an added care to have had you to think of."

"But there are the children and my father; she cannot be with them both."

"The little ones have Martha, have they not?"

"Yes—"

"And Aunt Ella goes in and out with Claude, and waits on Uncle Malden too. Because, don't you remember, she told mother it could not be helped, and there was not much risk to uncle?"

Marian nodded. Her tears were falling down, one after the other, as fast as they could.

"She could send for you if she needed you very much," suggested Alick again.

But this made Marian cry more than ever.

They had come to the cottage door, and poor Marian brushed away her tears and ran up to her room.

Alick stood at the bottom of the stairs looking after her, feeling he had been but a poor comforter.

She came down in a moment; and as he took hold of the dining-room door to open it for her, he whispered, "Marian, we must ask God about it. He will make it right for you, if you ought to go; there's nothing too hard for Him."

"Thank you," she murmured, nearly overcome again.

They were all seated at the early dinner—Mr. Chantry, and even the little ones. It was quite a tight fit to sit to the table, but Lionel had had enough of making disagreeables, and held his tongue.

"Did I hear you say you had a letter from Courtenay, Alick?" asked his mother.

"Yes, mother; one came this morning."

"What does he say? How is poor little Margaret? And is Mrs. Bruce any better?"

"I have not even had time to open it yet."

Mrs. Chantry looked a little surprised, but made no remark. When Alick's voice took that tone, she knew all was not quite well with him.

"It was too precious for our eyes to even rest on," said Lionel.

"I never thought of your wanting to hear the contents, mother, or I would have tried to make time to read it. Of course you would like to know about them; I forgot that."

"Not till you are ready to tell me, dear; I am in no hurry."

"Mother is never in a hurry," said Charlie.

The moment dinner was swallowed, the three were off again to their tutor.

And not a word was exchanged between them, except with reference to lessons, till the clock struck four.

Then Mr. Fortescue hurried off for his train, and Marian returned to see what she could do for her aunt.

Alick put on his hat and walked to the stile with her. Then, after he had helped her over, he turned back, saying with a smile:

"Now for my letter and a ramble on the shore, Marian. Tell mother, if I am not home to tea, she will know where I am; I won't be very late. Ask her, like a dear mother, to keep my tea under the cosy till I come."

Marian nodded, and he ran off down the road.

He was rejoicing inwardly at having escaped without Lionel, when, at a turn in the steep lane, he found him resting against a post waiting for him.

"I thought you had gone home," he said somewhat ungraciously.

"Why, you promised to come down with me to the beach. What a changeable fellow you are!"

"I never promised at all. However, we can go together, and when I come to my cave, you must continue your walk without me; for I want to have a little quiet."

"With your beloved letter?"

"With my beloved letter."

"Courtenay's only your cousin, and he's my brother; and yet I don't make a quarter the fuss over him you do."

"Perhaps not."

"Why do you?"

"Simply because he and I have been thrown together by circumstances, and suit each other."

"I should hope you did, but for my own part, I'd ten times sooner Courtenay had never been my brother; he was always getting in the way."

"Lionel!"

"I don't mean anything dreadful. Simply that if he were just a friend living in The Towers, instead of a brother, it would be nicer."

Alick was silent, too angry to be ready to bear with his cousin and explain the matter to him, which would have done the younger boy good.

"I suppose we shall squabble along like this for the rest of the two months," remarked Lionel comfortably, when their feet first crunched the shingle of the beach.

Alick roused himself. "Courtenay will be home in a fortnight—I hope we shall not indeed, Lionel; I cannot think what has come to us."

"It's you who are so disagreeable; I never saw you so obstinate before. Mother used always to hold you up as a perfect paragon."

"I'm not a paragon now," said Alick with an inward groan, "whatever I may have been then."

But he acknowledged to himself as he said the words that he had in those days considered himself somewhat of a paragon; one of those who knew his duty and did it.

"Is the tide going out or coming in?" asked Lionel. "You always know the tides."

"I forget," answered Alick, with a weary sound in his voice; "any way, it's a good way out, and we must be back in two hours or thereabouts. It will be dark soon after six."

He was walking rapidly towards his favourite cave.

"You'll let me come too?" asked Lionel. "I won't speak a word while you read your letter. Seriously, Alick, I won't quarrel, or anything; I will sit still and go to sleep, if you like. It is so dreary all alone, especially now Claude is ill. Do let me come."

"Oh, no," said Alick hastily; "I told you I wanted to be quiet. Good-bye; we shall meet at tea."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."]

Chapter IV.

_In The Cave._

LEAVING Leesworth on the left, and making their way under the overhanging cliffs, the boys reached the Point, about a mile to the right, which shut in the small bay in which the little fishing village nestled.

Some time before high-tide, the water reached the Point, and in consequence of this, the second bay on the other side of it, was but little frequented, and was a favourite resort of the Chantrys and Maidens, who liked to escape from the visitors who came to stay at Leesworth in the season.

Of course, a few visitors wandered along the shore, and were as pleased as they with the quiet little haven beyond the Point, where the clean, fresh sand was so firm to walk on, and the fallen rocks so interesting to climb over, washed as they were daily by the sea.

Among these rocks and openings in the cliff Alick and Courtenay long ago had chosen one particular cave, which they called their own. It was very secluded, and not easy to find by the unobservant, and for this cause was much prized by the boys.

Lionel was only allowed to enter it on invitation, and they expected him to be satisfied with his own cave, which was situated about half a mile further on, and immediately in front of a ledge of rocks which stretched far out into the sea, and were full of such marine treasures as young collectors love.

This cave of Lionel's was close to the sands, and was washed out at every high-tide by the waves. Indeed, every part of this piece of the beach was covered at high-water, though there were some broken pieces of cliff which, by a little climbing, would form a place of safety, should the unwary be overtaken by the tide. In this case, however, they would be imprisoned for some hours, as there was no way to reach the upper cliffs, and those thus caught must remain patiently watching for the subsidence of the waters.

Alick and the rest had once had this misfortune, and had considered themselves quite romantic when at length, hungry and weary, they had waded round the Point, unwilling to wait for the extra half-hour which would have left them dry ground to walk upon.

So this March afternoon, Alick turned away from Lionel, and climbed up the face of a pointed rock in certain footholds known to himself, and quickly reached his cave, which looked down upon the beach and bit of sea in front of him, just also taking in the very end of the reef jutting out far into the sea.

Sometimes he was sorry that he could see anything but sea and sky, though ever from to-day he was thankful that that bit of rock and beach had come into his horizon.

He sat down. His cousin's retreating footsteps were the only sound besides the gentle noise of the waves, to-day less distinct than usual, as it was very calm for the time of year.

"He's going to his cave, or to the rocks, I expect; and we can join company on his way back," he thought.

Alick's heart had smitten him a little at his cousin's forlorn tone, and he made up his mind he would call to him when he should see him pass the strip of sand which the mouth of his cave commanded.

He drew out his precious letter. It ran thus:

"DEAR OLD BOY,—We shall, I hope, soon be starting for home; and as the letters take as long to come as we shall, you will probably have a telegram to say we have started even before you receive this. But I daresay you will want more information than a telegram can give.

"Margaret has written to mother and father, so that my letter to you need not enter on plans and journeys and packings-up. I can write to you yourself, and tell you a little about me myself. For, Alick, since you and I parted, I have passed through a baptism of suffering, and I am afraid I shall not come back to you the same follow who went away. Perhaps I have been growing gradually unlike the same, ever since I have had my precious Margaret to take care of. But anyway, love and happiness do not alter one as sorrow and bereavement do.

"I have had to fight my battle alone, as all the great spiritual battles of our life have to be fought. Not that Margaret has not been everything any one could possibly be. She has been more to me and better to me than I could have believed possible; but even then, in spite of all that (for which I thank God inexpressibly), I have had to walk through the valley of the shadow of death 'alone.' Alone, did I say? That is just what I want to tell you. It was in that valley, when my little treasured child was lifted from my clasp, and buried beneath the waves, that I learned more fully than I had ever done before, '"Blessed" are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.'

"I said there was no comfort for me; I fainted, and did not believe to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. I felt cut off; I laid myself down (so to say) in the depths, never to rise again.

"Then, after a long time, as it seemed to me, I cried unto the Lord out of the depths, and He heard my cry. He put His hand under me, He brought me up; He put His strength into me, where I had none; He walked through the valley with me; He brought me out into His sunshine again. And He not only did this for me, but He so filled me with the assurance of His love and faithfulness that I could rejoice in His having done the very best in taking my darling safe home, from every pain and care, into His everlasting keeping.

"There, Alick; and if you have followed me through all this, you will perceive that your Courtenay who went away can never come back. Instead will come back one who has tasted that the Lord is beyond all things better than our best thoughts, and who is humbled at his own sinfulness, while he is lifted up by His great love.

"Alick, I would rather you should be aware of this. And how do I know but that you, dear boy, may also have had some spiritual conflict while I have been gone?

"I long to see you again; so does Margaret. Oh, Alick, you will like to see Margaret with her poor suffering mother! Her tenderness, her brightness, and forgetfulness of herself. No one would guess from Margaret's sweet, cheerful face that within four months she had lost her only child. But we know,—do we not?—that loving heart, which ever was ready to put away its own care in ministering to others.

"This is the last letter I shall send you. Between now and our sailing there will be nothing but boxes and packages.

"Alick, how shall I feel when I pass over the spot where our darling lies?

"But she is not there; Margaret will not have me for a moment say she is 'there.' 'She is safe with Jesus above,' she says to me whenever I look sadly at the great ocean; and then I smile at her, and say she is right. What can be better than to be safe with Jesus, Alick?

"Your ever affectionate step-cousin,

"Courtenay Malden."

Alick sat for a long time after he had finished the letter, gazing out upon the sea. His mind was in India, and he was living in his loved step-cousin's life. He was so absorbed in thought that he lost all sense of there being a place in the world called Leesworth, till a little moving black figure among the distant rocks out at sea brought him back, and with a start, he remembered there was such a person as Lionel Malden.

With that came an inward sense of repulsion, which suited ill with the peaceful thoughts which had been occupying him. How angry he had been with him for joining company, how unreasonably angry and annoyed; and then he looked over the feelings of the last few months, ever since Courtenay had gone away, since the time when Lionel had been more thrown into his company.

"I have almost hated him," groaned Alick half-aloud. "Though I asked him for this wretched birthday of mine, it was more to get my own way than because I wanted 'him;' and besides, Marian would not have been asked if he had not come, and Marian and I are always such friends.

"Yes, I have at times almost hated him; partly because he makes me feel bad. He stirs up all the bad in me and brings it out. Oh, dear! And this ought not to be so, must not be so.

"What was it my mother prayed this morning? 'That we might so mourn on account of our sin, that God might be able to give us His great comfort'?

"I haven't mourned; I am as proud, as angry, as indignant with him as ever. And yet—yet—God can't dwell with the proud heart, and I want Him to dwell with me; I must have Him dwell with me. That is why I have been so utterly wretched, because I have not got the humble heart in which He can condescend to dwell. I see it all now, and no wonder I have been cross and miserable and hateful!"

Alick buried his face in his arms. His sin swept over him like the waves of the sea; he saw himself and his un-Christlike behaviour in their true light; and as each fresh wave of remembrance washed up over his soul, his head sank lower and lower, and his spirit sank in deep mire, where there was no standing.

Then Courtenay's words, uttered with such a different sense, mourning in such a different way, stole over him: "Out of the depths I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me."

Alick took courage; he would cry unto the Lord too. Who was like the Lord, who was ready to pardon, and plenteous in mercy to all that call upon Him?

The conflict and despair were over; his foot was set upon a rock once more.

He raised his head, peace shining in his eyes, though a great humbleness filled his heart.

"'We love Him because He first loved us,'" he said with a deep sigh as he rose.

And then he found his sleeve wet with the tears he had shed. He was not ashamed of them, but then came another thought. Lionel! He must seek Lionel, and ask his forgiveness for all his hard thoughts and cross words. Forgiven himself, he must forgive.

He went outside on the ledge of rock and looked towards the reef. His cousin was not to be seen, but probably he had turned homewards, as it was already getting dusk.

"Perhaps I missed seeing him pass," thought Alick; "I might well have done so as I was sitting. I will try and overtake him before he gets into the house; he cannot have long passed."

He clambered down the rocks and hastened home. The tide had come up very much, but he could still pass the end of the Point. Before he turned it, he looked once more at the rocks, at least at so much of them as were yet uncovered, but they rose up still and distinct against the darkening sky. And then, only anxious to overtake his cousin, he sped homewards, his heart full of deep repentance.

That he had been so loved as to be brought back from such ingratitude, made him more humble than he had ever been in his life before.

The prayer had been answered. He had found the words true: "Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."]

Chapter V.

_On The Rocks._

"WHERE'S Lionel?" was Alick's first question as he entered the dining-room, and found he was not seated at tea with the rest.

"Is he not with you?" asked his mother, looking up. "We have seen nothing of him."

"He was on the rocks, but I supposed he had gone home."

"He will be in presently," said Mr. Chantry. "Sit down, Alick; we have almost finished tea."

Alick obeyed, but just as he was raising his cup to his lips, a thought struck him, a thought which, but for his unkindness and repentance, he would have dismissed as nonsense.

"Mother, I'll go and look after him, if you don't mind," he said, rising.

"My boy, he has taken care of himself hundreds of times; he will be in directly, I hope."

"But the tide is coming in fast, and he will not want to be round there all night; I doubt if he can pass the Point now."

"Do just as you like," said Mr. Chantry; "but he may have gone the other way."

"No, he was on the rocks, I know, for I saw him, and he had not time to get home before I came out on the beach. What I'm afraid of is, that he may have gone to sleep in his cave. He said something about going to sleep."

"Well, be off then," said Mr. Chantry, "for it is getting very dusk."

Alick was gone like the wind. How bitterly he felt now the careless words he had uttered when he had parted from his cousin, how grieved that he had disregarded his evident loneliness.

The mile along the sands had never seemed so long before. When he reached the Point, the waves were gurgling and washing gently between the stones at its base. In less than an hour it would be impassable.

He plashed through the water ruthlessly, regardless of boots or clothes.

Then his eye scanned the darkening line of white sand as it stretched before him, but no moving figure broke its expanse. He pressed on, half-angry with himself for being anxious, and yet conscious of that ever-deepening water at the Point, which made his own situation disagreeable enough, if not actually dangerous.

As he neared Lionel's cave, he called his name, hoping to save time. But while he waited for an answer, he felt he was losing more than if he had hurried on.

None came. The sea broke and fell, and ran back and came forward again; but no other sound struck the ear.

Alick intended, when he reached the cave, to run in and beg Lionel's forgiveness the first thing, but what was his dismay to find it desolate and empty. The sand, even in that dim light he could perceive, was untrodden—had not been touched that day, at any rate.

He went outside again, a chill fear creeping over him. He ran down to the sand near the beginning of the rocks, and there were Lionel's fresh footprints, in single row, leading direct on to the middle of the reef. But he could not see any returning marks.

"Lionel," he called, following them a little way, and looking round in every direction, "Lionel, are you there?"

Was it his fancy that made a voice seem to come back with the waves, a sort of cry of pain?

Nonsense; he had fancied heaps of times that the sea sent back such a sound. It was only that his nerves were out of order. Still, he would call once more.

"Lionel, are you there? Are you in any difficulty?"

Surely it was not only the sea that answered this time!

Alick and Courtenay had a particular call, which they had sometimes been annoyed with Lionel for using. It carried sound a long way, and was so peculiar, that no sea-music could be mistaken for it.

As Alick advanced cautiously on to the broad flat rocks which stretched in the middle of the reef, he bethought him of this call, and now he shouted it as loud as he could. Then he listened intently. He need not have done so.

Somewhere from the sea, as it seemed to him—around, beneath him, from "somewhere"—came the answer back, twice repeated, then instantly followed by, "Help, Alick! Help!"

"Where are you?" he called, standing as if turned to stone.

He had nearly reached the limit of the reef, and the water was dashing up in white spray against the broken rocks almost at his feet. Lionel could be nowhere on the reef, and yet—

"Here!" again came back to him with the rushing of the waves.

"Say where, Lionel," Alick called in despair. "I cannot see you, or even guess where you are."

"Here, to your left!" called the voice, almost beneath him.

And then he groped his way over the slippery rocks in the direction indicated, entreating, as he made his way over and round them, "Keep on calling, Lionel; the waves make such a roar! Am I coming near you yet? Are you hurt?"

Lionel called again and again, adding with terrible distinctness, "Make haste, Alick; for I'm drowning!"

At last, Alick reached the edge of the reef, and looking down in the direction of the voice, which seemed close beneath him, he could make out in the darkness Lionel's face and shoulders emerging from the waves; while one arm was raised high, holding a dripping white handkerchief.

Alick, as he stooped down hastily to try to see more clearly, breathed one earnest prayer for help half-aloud.

"Oh, help me!" he implored. "I don't deserve it, but don't let him perish for my fault."

"Is anyone else there?" asked Lionel. "Quick, Alick, the waves have taken me off my feet twice."

"One 'mighty to save,'" answered Alick solemnly. "We must look to Him; for I don't see what to do. Can't you swim round?" he asked suddenly.

"I'm hurt, or I should have done that long ago."

"I could pull you up by your hands. Raise them up, Lionel, and let your body float out."

"I can't; this hand is useless. Be quick, Alick!"

The entreaties for haste wrung Alick's heart.

"Be patient, dear boy," he said tenderly. "We shall have time, I believe, if we hit on the right way. If I pull you by one hand, can you clamber up with your feet?"

"My foot's crushed, that's just it."

"Foot and hand?" Alick groaned. "What are you standing on? For I suppose you 'are' standing."

"A large rock. Oh, Alick, here's a big wave!"

He stretched up his hand, and Alick grasped it. Only just in time; for the wave lifted him off his feet, and would have carried him away but for that grip of his cousin's.

"There is no time to be lost, I see," said Alick, and he began climbing over the edge of the reef.

"It's no use," said Lionel, "you'll never do anything, we shall both drown. Keep up there, Alick, and stay with me till the last. Give my love to mother. I wish I'd been better—"

But Alick was already clinging with both hands to the rock, and letting himself down cautiously into the sea close to his cousin's side.

"Guide me to the rock you're on, Lionel, if you can, and do not fear. Remember we've got a mighty Helper."

Lionel was so nearly off his feet with the height of the water that he had but little power to help his cousin. The stone on which he stood was however large, and by a little guiding with his one hand, Alick safely reached it.

"Now, dear boy, make up your mind to a hard fight for it, and plenty of pain, but you'll be saved yet if you can be brave. Lionel—I must say it—forgive me, if we never have time to say any more. Do you?"

"Yes, Alick," answered the boy, holding fast to Alick's taller shoulder, and feeling half-saved already.

"Now, Lionel, I'm going to lift you up and push you on to the reef, and you must not shrink if it hurts you. That can't be helped. Just let yourself go. Now for it."

He bent down till his face touched the water and grasped his cousin round the legs, and then with all his might hoisted him up and up, till he fell forwards on to the reef, his poor maimed hand under him.

"You're safe there for a few minutes till I can get up?" asked Alick from the darkness.

"Yes," said a faint voice. "My hand—"

"That will be better soon."

"No," said Lionel, exerting all his strength; "here's my good hand sticking out for you to take hold of—here—"

Alick caught it, and after a good many slips and plunges on the slimy rocks, he found foothold, and at last reached his cousin's side.

"Now, Lionel," he said, "we are not all right yet. Can you walk at all?"

"No, but if you can help me, I can hop. I was doing that when I had the second fall down there. Alick, I'm in such awful pain."

"Where?"

"My hand and my foot, but my hand the worst."

"We have not a moment to lose. Let me help you up; these rocks will be covered soon. Don't you remember how the end near the shore gets under water first?"

"I know."

"Can you walk so?"

"I'll try. Alick, you get me up on to the landslip, and there I'll lie till you can get help."

"It would be easier to get you to the Point. I doubt if I can haul you up the cliff."

"Is the water up at the Point?"

"It was, but only just there. I think we may get round."

They were hobbling along, but at every jump Lionel groaned with pain. And when they were safely off the reef, Alick pulled up.

"Thank God!" he said. "Now I think we may feel you will be saved."

Lionel leant against him in silence, taking long breaths, hardly able to repress his moans.

"Alick, I shall never reach the Point like this. Every shake of mine, every jump, wrings both my hand and foot. It's impossible. How long do you think it will be before the tide reaches the cliff up here?"

"Why?"

"Because you might get a boat."

"It runs in very quickly after it has reached the Point. I could not be back under an hour. No, Lionel, I must get you up on my back."

"I can't. Oh, Alick, can't you think of some other way?"

"No," answered Alick decidedly. "If we waste another moment, we may be lost. Let me get you up. See, here is a rock. Now, Lionel, however much it hurts you, bear it as inevitable. It would be worse to be drowned."

Lionel did as directed; he threw as much of his weight as he could round his cousin's shoulders, clinging on with his unhurt arm.

Alick bent bravely beneath the weight, and without any further delay beyond one or two halts for rest, actually reached the Point. There he set his cousin down. How he did that half mile he never could explain, but he only knew that at the end, he uttered his second "Thank God!" which was quite as heartfelt as the first had been.

"I'm going round first, Lionel; because if I can't, you can't; that's certain."

It was now quite dark, and Alick pushed into the water with a feeling of uncertainty. He kept close under the cliff, and found it not so deep as he had feared. When he went down between two rocks, it was up to his middle, but the average depth was not much above his knees.

He knew the place so well that he felt somewhat reassured, and when he saw they could get through turned back to his cousin.

"All right," he called. "Now, Lionel, can you help yourself a bit, or shall I carry you?"

"I had better try to walk," he answered, "but I doubt if we shall get over."

"Fear nothing. We cannot come to much harm if I have to carry you again. Come along."

This was the worst bit they had had. Lionel did his best, but his one foot got between rocks and in holes, and he plunged about sadly distressed, feeling as if he must give up all for lost.

But Alick had no idea of giving up, and by dint of encouragement, entreaties, and commands, he at last turned the corner of the Point, and could see the lights at Leesworth shining over the water.

"Look, dear boy," he said cheerfully, "we shall soon be quite safe, and then I hope your pain will be better."

Lionel clung to him.

"I'm going to faint or die or something," he said. "Alick, I'm—"

He happened to be on a rock just behind Alick at the moment. Alick seized the opportunity and grasped his hands—hurt or not—round his own neck, and with two or three desperate struggles and stumbles felt his feet greeted by the firm sand beneath, and then he found himself walking out of the water under the deep black shade of the overhanging cliffs.

He pushed on. That his cousin was either fainting or dying he believed, but hesitation now was disaster. He never paused till the change in the character of what he was treading made him aware that he had reached high-water mark. Still on he pushed, and was not satisfied till he laid his burden down close under the cliff, where even in winter storms he had never seen the waves come.

He placed the unconscious form as comfortably as he could, and bent down to feel his heart. Yes, it was beating. Overjoyed at this, Alick stayed one moment more.

"Lionel," he said softly, "can you hear me, dear boy?"

No answer.

"I am going to get help, Lionel; I shall not be long gone."

No answer.

Alick ran down to the edge of the sea, and filled his hands with water; for hat, he had none.

It was but little that reached the fainting boy; but that little dropping on his face revived him.

"Where am I?" he asked feebly.

"Safe, perfectly safe. I am going for something to carry you on."

"Don't leave me, Alick."

"I must. Dear Lionel, I shall not be long; you will not be afraid. You will be home all the sooner."

"Very well. Alick, would you give me one kiss?"

"Willingly, gladly."

He stooped down and kissed him, and Lionel pressed Alick's hand to his lips.

"Lionel, we'll never be anything but friends after this?"

"Yes," answered Lionel faintly. "Alick, you've done more for me than save my 'body!'"

But their suspense was over. As Alick turned to go away, lights were seen coming rapidly towards them, and several men, with Tom, the Towers' coachman, at their head, came up in another minute, having been sent in search of them.

Alick explained briefly what had happened, and two of the men ran back to the fishermen's cottages for a shutter.

"Take me to Salome," murmured Lionel. "She knows best what to do for me—as I can't go to mother."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."]

Chapter VI.

_Claude._

WHEN the doctor had pronounced Claude's illness to be scarlet fever, Mrs. Malden had gone to her husband for a brief consultation.

After the first dismayed explanations, she had said:

"I cannot leave you, my dear; that is one point settled, and I do not see how I can leave him."

"Then you must necessarily have us both in one room," answered her husband with one of his sweet, reassuring smiles.

She answered the smile with a very loving one, but shook her head.

"I shall have him left where he is."

"In the morning-room?"

"Yes. I put him on the sofa there because he was so feverish and miserable, to be out of the way of the other children, and to be with me. I am glad I did."

Mr. Malden thought for a few minutes. "It is the best plan," he said at last.

"And I shall go over to the cottage and ask Greta to keep Lionel and Marian."

"What shall you do without Marian?"

"I shall have to do," answered Mrs. Malden decidedly; "that is, dearest, if God spares me my strength and health."

She looked fondly in his face. To her, her health was most precious; for what would her invalid husband do without her, especially since Courtenay's marriage?

"We are all in God's hands," she said with a long-drawn sigh. "I ought not to be anxious."

"Was that sigh one of resting all the load on Him?" asked Mr. Malden, taking her hand, and looking up in her face.

"I think it was," she answered.

Mr. Malden had learned many a lesson during those eight years since his accident, and so had she.

"I must go," she said softly, bending to kiss his forehead. Then stopping suddenly, she added, "You do not think there is any undue risk to you?"

"None at all, my dear; I believe I have had it."

"I did when a child," she answered. "You know I could get a nurse, but there are so many difficulties, and I could not bear not to nurse him myself if I am able. The little ones will be quite safe with Martha. That girl is worth her weight in gold."

"We have many mercies, though we have some trials, my dear. Do not let us forget them in this blow."

She assented warmly, and then hurried through the window out into the garden, anxious to secure that her elder children should not return to the house before she had spoken to her sister.

Mr. Malden looked after her with a tender smile.

"Who would have thought she could ever have turned from that beautiful, fashionable girl into this lovely wife and mother, more beautiful than ever in my eyes?" he murmured to himself.

Mrs. Malden soon returned with her sister's answer, and then went to make up a bed for her boy.

Sunnyside had been built by Courtenay with every arrangement for his father's comfort, and thus it happened that the chief sitting-room had been appropriated to his use, its French windows opening on to a verandah, commanding one of the most beautiful views at Leesworth. Adjoining this, with a door made wide enough for his wheeled chair to pass through, was Mr. Malden's bedroom. And on the other side, a little morning-room had been planned where his wife could retire for the writing of letters, or to do necessary business, while she could still be within call of her husband, and watch over him with that vigilant care which had been her characteristic, ever since she had waked up to the knowledge that he would never be strong again.

And so she settled in to her new duties, and went backwards and forwards to Claude during the two first days.

There was no particular anxiety. His attack seemed of a mild nature. And after she had once accepted the fact of infectious illness being in the house, and of the necessary separation from her other children, she went about her nursing with a calm spirit, feeling not unhappy in the quiet and peace in which she found herself.

On the Tuesday evening, as she sat in the twilight with Claude, just as her eldest son (had she known it) was in such peril on the reef, he stretched out his little hot hand to her, looking up from a short doze.

"What did Dr. Smith say this morning, mother?"

"That you were doing as well as we could expect, dear."

"How soon does he think I shall be better?"

"He did not say; but I hope a few days may make a great difference."

"I wish my pillow were cool."

"Let me turn it, my darling."

"But it gets hot again."

He moved restlessly.

"It is very tiring for you, dear, but it helps us to be patient to remember that the Lord Jesus is with you, and is sorry for your pain."

The child's eyes quivered with a tear, and his lip trembled.

"I should like to get better soon," he said, laying his face down on his mother's hand.

"So should I like you to, dearie; but I am glad Jesus knows about it."

"Yes," said Claude assentingly.

He soon slept again, and then Mrs. Malden disengaged her hand gently, and went to her husband, closing the door behind her, as she always did, so as to keep the air as separate as she could.

She sat down by Mr. Malden's side very silently, and gazed out on the sea abstractedly.

"How is he now, my dear?"

"I thought he seemed a little low," she answered, hesitating.

"We have to expect ups and downs, my dear; we must not allow ourselves to go up and down with them."

"No—"

"Our feet must stand upon a Rock. What was it you read me in that old version the other day? How Christ says to His disciples, 'What dread ye?' Christ holds it all quite safely in His hand; it is only we who are uncertain."

She leaned her head against his chair for a long time without speaking.

"I think he loves Jesus," she said at last; "I have thought so for some time."

"I believe he does, my dear. I do not think you need to be anxious on that score."

"I should like to be sure," she answered with a sound of tears in her voice.

"We can ask Him to let us know, and to make it all right for us. It says, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord.'"

She knelt down by his side, his hand clasping hers. Many a prayer had gone up from those two, and many an answer of peace had come back. They had learned "to make their requests known," and the peace of God which passeth understanding came in answer, and "kept their hearts."

"I must go now," whispered Mrs. Malden when he had ceased praying. "Would you like lights?"

"No; I will sit so for a little longer. There will be no stars to-night."

She left him, entering the sick-room again softly. Claude still slept, but was tossing restlessly. She seated herself by him, and smoothed his forehead with her cool fingers.

"That is nice," he said, opening his eyes. "I do have such nasty dreams."

"I am so sorry, darling."

He nestled against her hand, but said no more, and again seemed to sleep. So the hours passed, and the night drew on. Mr. Malden went to bed, but she told him she intended to sit up all night.

"You will be worn out," said her husband.

"I had a fairly good night on the sofa there last night, but he is worse this evening. I shall get some sleep in the arm-chair I daresay."

Just as she was preparing the last things for the night, seeing that she had milk and all things ready for her invalid, a note was handed in by the maid who waited on her.

It was from her sister, Mrs. Chantry. Seeing that it contained news of some importance, she took it in to read with her husband, the few words her eye had caught alarming her very much. It ran:

"Do not be frightened, dearest Ella, for all is now going on well. I only tell you to-night, because we mutually promised to have no reservations whatever. Your dear Lionel has had a fall on the reef this evening, and has hurt his foot badly. He had some trouble to extricate his leg from between two rocks, and then, alarmed at the rising tide, he attempted to get home on his one foot. He thinks he hurried too much; at any rate, he slipped again, this time falling on to a lower ridge nearer the water, straining his hand very seriously, I fear. He thinks he fainted, but, at any rate the first thing he remembers was the sea washing over him. He managed to get up and stand; but there was no means in his wounded condition of climbing up the steep rock behind him, or of swimming to shore. He says he did his utmost, but every movement of his hand made him so faint that he feared he would fall down into the sea; he therefore stood still, and waved his handkerchief, hoping to attract the notice of some of the fishermen. None saw his signal of distress, however, not even Alick, who was anxious about him, and had gone out to look for him.

"By the merciful providence of God, however, Alick went right on to the reef after him, and was able to rescue him just before the water had risen so high as to have carried him away. It is too long to tell you all about how he saved him, and got him home; it is sufficient now to say that when he was brought in, he asked to be put into Salome's care, and we have placed him in the nursery, and I hope in a few days he will be quite himself again.

"Salome and I are both clever with wounds and bruises, and already he looks relieved by our cold applications. I am writing by his side, and he sends his love, and says he is 'so comfortable now.'

"I ought perhaps to say that he did not tell us this long story word for word, but that I have gathered it from Alick's account, to which Lionel has added a few sentences. But I do not encourage him to talk, as I think quietness is essential to recovery. I will let you know how he is in the morning. I do not think you have need to be in the least anxious, but be as 'thankful' as you like, Ella.

"Your loving sister,

"Greta Chantry."

Mrs. Malden read every word, and then sat as if stunned. Her husband touched her hand.

"Let us thank God for his preservation; he has been in great danger, Ella, or she would not have written such a letter."

"We promised each other—"

"But for a fall or a sprain, she would not have filled two sheets. Our boy has been close to the gates of death."

"And I never knew—"

"How few things we know, love? We walk along day after day, and danger and death may come close alongside of us, and we be as unconscious as a newborn babe of it; and yet our Father knows. He only allows what He sees best for our eternal interests, and holds back all that would injure us—I mean in the true sense. It may be the valley of the shadow of death to us, but 'He' is with us, He will comfort us through all."

"Yes, yes, I know it. I am glad to know it."

She was forced to hasten back to her child. But though she wrapped herself up in a warm cloak, and prepared herself to rest, sleep forsook her eyes. She lived over and over again the scenes pictured in her sister's letter, and thought she could see every stone in the way over which her poor, wounded boy had had to pass. How she longed to hear all the particulars.

Soon after the clock struck one, she was rising softly to make up the fire, when Claude raised his head with a woebegone look in his face.

"Oh," he exclaimed, shrinking away from something in horror. "Oh, don't let it come! Oh, I'm so frightened!"

His voice sank to a whisper of intense fear, and his face was so utterly wretched that Mrs. Malden threw herself on her knees by his side, and clasped her arms round him protectingly, hiding the wide-open eyes in her neck.

"Mother is here," she said tenderly; "do not be afraid, darling. Nothing can really hurt you. It is only a bad dream."

He continued to clasp her convulsively, whispering in terror, "I'm so frightened, mother; don't let it come."

"Remember Jesus is here," she entreated, her heart broken by her inability to soothe him; "He will take care of you."

"Ask Him," murmured Claude, shuddering.

His mother whispered their request.

And then with a long-drawn breath, the boy's arms relaxed, and he sank back on to his pillow.

"It's so nice to have you, mother," he said gratefully.

"And so nice to have Jesus to go to," she added, looking in his weary little face for a response.

"Yes," he answered softly. "He made it go away."

"If it comes again, you must try to remember His mighty power, Claude, and His mighty love."

He did not answer, but closed his eyes as if satisfied.

And then his mother rose from her knees and sat down by him again, pondering on what he had said, and thanking God that so far her prayer had been answered.

Towards morning, he slept more quietly, and Mrs. Malden had some sleep.

Thus, a few days passed away; sometimes better, sometimes worse, till on Sunday evening, the doctor coming in unexpectedly, Mrs. Malden looked up surprised.

"I thought I would have a look at him again to-night," he explained, and though his tone was cheerful, the mother's heart sank.

He came over and felt his pulse, and looked at his tongue.

"You do not think him quite so well?" said Mrs. Malden in a low voice.

"Not quite, his pulse is not so good as it was this morning, and much quicker than last night."

"I hoped we had turned the corner."

"These things are very treacherous. Now, my little man, that's all I want of you to-night. You have been a very patient boy."

Claude did not respond in words, but he gave a very sweet smile.

"Keep him up all you can. Feed him every few minutes. I'll come in again the first thing in the morning."

Then turning at the door, he beckoned Mrs. Malden outside.

"I do not like the look of him to-night. Keep his spirits up. Do not let him know you are anxious. Feed him well; nearly everything depends on that."

Mrs. Malden went back. She bent and kissed her boy's face tenderly.

"Claude, darling, you must eat all you can. Dr. Smith wants you to get stronger."

"I do not so much care about that now," he answered, his heavy eyes glancing in her face, she fancied, to see the effect of his words.

"Do you not, dear? Why?"

"I've been talking to Jesus."

He said it very tenderly and softly, and she held her breath to hear.

"You love Him then, darling? He is your own Saviour?"

"Yes, mother."

"And what did you talk to Him about?"

"I asked Him to do as He likes."

"That is the best, darling," she said, quietly swallowing down the tears which would force themselves into her eyes. She managed to keep them out of her voice she thought.

"I'm quite willing, only I'm so tired. Do you think people get tired in heaven?"

"I am sure they do not."

He seemed to think for awhile and then he fell asleep, and she could do nothing but wait.

When she felt she must rouse him for food, his increased inability to take it alarmed her greatly. He besought her more with his eyes than with his voice not to press him. But remembering Dr. Smith's commands, she entreated him to be patient and take what she thought necessary.

He yielded, but by-and-by, though seemingly unable to speak, with his little weak fingers he pushed the spoon away, holding her hand down with a beseeching touch that wrung her heart.

"I 'can't,'" he whispered when she made another effort; "my throat—"

Then she sat still and knew all hope was over.

He slept quietly hour after hour, and she moistened his lips from time to time, but she could not get him to take even a half-spoonful.

About an hour before dawn, he suddenly opened his eyes and raised himself in bed, looking eagerly upwards, while a smile hovered round his lips.

"Mother, look! White babies."

She gazed where he gazed, but the spirit world, though it was visible to him, was hidden from her.

"Oh, Claude!" she said, laying her cheek against his. "I wish I could see Jesus as soon as you will."

He put his weak arms round her neck, and said in a little tone that seemed only a murmur, "It's so nice—Jesus."

She loosened his clasp, thinking he would be tired, and he seemed satisfied to hold her hand. And so they sat for another half-hour, when he gave one gentle sigh and so passed home.

Mrs. Malden's first thought was that he saw his Saviour's face now. She kissed him and laid him down tenderly, crossing his hands on his breast, and then she went through to her husband's room.

He was sleeping quietly, and though she spoke a few low words, he did not hear. She turned away and came back again into the chamber of death.

Yes, no longer Claude's room—no longer her own loved little boy lying in the bed—but something which made her shrink and tremble, and feel herself unutterably alone.

She sat down for a moment to think, and then there swept over her one of those fierce assaults of the Evil One which left her no power to extricate herself from his clutches.

Doubt after doubt sent cruel blows against her soul, and for awhile she felt as if everything on which she had trusted in heaven and earth were swept away from her.

But One mighty to save was with her, though she knew it not. The Holy Comforter drew near and spoke to her,—

"Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."

"Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him."

She looked up; a light was shining in the midst of the darkness. In her overwhelming desolation, she hardly had strength even to cry for help, but watchful, everlasting love had sent it just in her hour of sorest need.

"God will bring him with Jesus," she murmured; "my darling 'is' asleep in Him."

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."]

Chapter VII.

_Salome'S Slate._

"HOW'S that, dearie?"

"Very nice, very comfortable, thank you, Salome."

We must return to the evening of Lionel's accident. He had but a short while ago been carried into the nursery at the cottage, where in the ordinary way the little ones slept, as there were but few bedrooms at the disposal of the somewhat large family. The children were just putting away their toys for bed when the cavalcade arrived, and had been hurried to the dining-room, where they had since been kept amused by Alick and Marian, while Mrs. Chantry and Salome attended to the poor boy, whose discomfort and suffering were very great in his soaking condition.

He was at last got to bed, and Mrs. Chantry had sat down by him to write her note to her sister. Now she had gone to see after the little ones, and Salome and he were left alone.

"Very comfortable, thank you, Salome," he had answered gratefully, to her inquiry as to the position of his pillows.

"You'll be better by-and-by, dearie; that is, if de dear Lord sees best."

Lionel did not dissent by word or sign, but closed his eyes.

"Is de pain very bad, dearie?"

"Not so bad as it was before you put on this stuff. What time can it be, Salome?"

"I should say it's nigh on ten o'clock by now."

"I thought it must be the middle of the night."

"I hope you'll be asleep, dearie, long 'fore that. Master Lionel, you mustn't mind me callin' you by my pet names, 'cause when I'm waitin' on my child'en, I always call 'em so."

"And I'm one of your children now," answered Lionel, smiling.

"Jest that, dearie. Now you mus' do jest what I say, and we'll get on first-rate."

"I mean to," he answered, looking up in her face.

"That all settled den, dearie. Now you go 'sleep."

Lionel obeyed, at least in so far as closing his eyes again, but the pain in his hand was too severe to allow of sleep.

Salome went quietly about, arranging all things for the comfort of her children, who were turned out of their room by Lionel's presence.

And he watched her handsome form going here and there, sorting out clothes, putting up toys, carrying out night-clothes, till in spite of pain and everything, his eyelids got heavy, and before he thought it possible, he was fast asleep.

Then Salome, quiet as she had been, grew quieter. She took off her shoes and pinned her skirts close round her, and stepped about noiselessly.

Mrs. Chantry was in the next room arranging for beds for her little ones. Charlie was put with Alick, and the others stowed in corners where they would be perfectly happy.

Salome crept out to help her mistress.

"He's sleepin' like a baby, dear missis; he could not be doin' better. There's nothing like sleep for healin'. Now, child'en, you must not make 'noise for all de world. Master Lionel get better if he have dis sleep out. He perhaps not wake till half de night over."

The children were quite ready to fall in with their dear Salome's wishes. They were, however, tired and sleepy—being up for two hours longer than usual, great as the excitement had been, had left them very weary, and they gladly viewed the little impromptu beds prepared for their use.

"That is awfully comfortable," said Ruth, as she laid her little curly head on the white pillow. "I like being turned out; I wish we were every day!"

"Do you?" asked their mother, smiling.

Marian was busy undressing Sydney, "the baby," as he was sometimes called.

"Aunt Greta," she said, as she raised her head from kissing the fat shoulders, "how is it that children in their petticoats are so exquisite?"

"To baby-lovers!"

"Well, I suppose so; but I perfectly love to undress Sydney."

Mrs. Chantry smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Now he is ready for bed, Aunt Greta, is he not like the pictures of 'little Samuel'?"

Salome smiled brightly.

"I' seen them too," she said. "I'd like him to hear de dear Lord speak 'any rate."

"I hope he will," said Marian, kissing him.

"Well, if you have had enough for to-night, Marian, shall we put him into bed?" said Mrs. Chantry, smiling.

"I love Marian," said Sydney; "she's a kind gell."

They all laughed.

"Well, Marian is going to stay with you for ever so long, and you'll have plenty of her," she said coaxingly. "Will you always love me, Sydney?"

Sydney nodded, and then, his bed being ready, he was laid in it, and his mother knelt down by him and whispered his evening prayer.

"I do love Jesus," he said comfortably, stroking his mother's face softly; "and I love everybody too."

So they darkened the room and went down to supper.

"Alick, my boy, you look tired," said his mother.

"I feel tired, mother."

"I hope carrying him was not too much for you—has not hurt you."

"Oh, no. I shall be all right in the morning. Mother, I feel so thankful I hardly know what to do."

Soon the excited household were in bed; and the sleep, so much needed by all, came a gift from an overruling Father's love, and refreshed and strengthened them.

The next morning, Salome reported Lionel to have passed quite as good a night as she had expected, but that he was suffering, and must be kept very quiet.

"You do not think there is anything serious?" asked Mrs. Chantry anxiously.

"Oh dear, no, misses, my dear. But, after all he went through, we can't 'spect him to be well. He feel as if he's bruised all over."

Mrs. Chantry went in to see him.

"I am sorry you are in so much pain, my dear," she said kindly.

But she remembered all his annoyance and restlessness since he became her guest, and she felt it hard to make her tone such as she would like it to be to her own child were he hurt.

"Thank you, auntie," he replied, turning away his eyes. He wanted to say something, but he could not get it out.

"Have you all you want, my dear? Is Salome nursing you as you would like?"

She would not have asked her own child that. But Lionel should have no reason to complain of her care of him.

"Oh, yes, thank you—everything," he answered heartily. "I am only sorry to give you all so much trouble."

It was said so humbly, so unlike proud Lionel, that his aunt was touched.

"Never mind that, dear, so long as you get better. But I must not let you talk."

"Aunt Greta!"—he paused, taking her hand with his unhurt one, though he felt hers slightly unwilling. "Aunt Greta, I am so sorry I was so cross and unbearable since I came. It seems funny now I am helpless to ask you to forgive me, but I do. I could not be happy till I had told you."

Mrs. Chantry's eyes filled with tears.

"My dear boy, you are freely forgiven; do not think of the matter again."

She kissed him warmly, and left the room with a happier heart than she had had ever since he came into the house on the Saturday before.

When Salome came back to him, Lionel was very silent, and she gave him his breakfast without much remark, though her observant eyes had seen a great deal more than he guessed.

"Salome," he said presently, when she was getting the things ready to dress his wounds, "have you heard anything from Sunnyside this morning?"

For an instant Salome hesitated, then she said, quietly and firmly:

"Don't you think, dearie, as you'd better not be asking 'bout them all day, till your pain gets little better?"

"If you knew—" he answered brokenly.

"What should I know?" she asked kindly.

Lionel was silent. It seemed as if he could not tell her.

"I do want to hear," he said at last, "but if you say I am not to ask, I shall submit."

"You are very good, dearie. I'm only wantin' you to get well, and if you go frettin', you won't get strong."

Lionel did not press the matter, but silently prepared to have his hand dressed.

"It seems worse than ever," he said, as he tried to lift it towards her and failed.

"That's to be 'spected," she said. "My! How it is swollen. My 'pinion is, dearie, that this is different from a sprain. I b'lieve it's out of joint; that's what it is."

"Is that worse than a sprain?" asked Lionel, wincing as she began to bathe it.

"Not if you get a bone-setter, dearie. We'll see 'bout that. You got nofing to do, dear, jest yet, but be patient, and let me see to you. Salome don't hurt you more than you 'spected, does she?"

"You are 'very' good to me," he answered; "much better than I deserved."

"If I am, I'm only follerin' in de dear Lord's ways, dearie. He's better than ever we deserve in all things."

"I know that," he said softly.

As the day passed on, though Lionel did not ask again for news of his brother, Salome noticed an anxious, melancholy look settling down upon his face. She went out and consulted Mrs. Chantry as to what she would wish.

"You told me to say nofing, misses, my dear; but I'm thinkin' as it will be quickest in the end to keep no secrets."

Mrs. Chantry thought for a minute, then she said:

"You can do just as you think best at the moment, Salome. I may well trust it to you. I know what would make 'me' better if I were ill—that would be to have nothing kept from me."

Salome went back to her charge.

He looked earnestly in her face, but made no remark.

"The dear misses says as you may ask what you like, Master Lionel, about your little brother."

"Oh, 'thank' you, Salome; how kind of Aunt Greta."

"But you won't go vexing yerself all the time, will you now, dearie? 'Cause de dear misses only 'low me to tell you, 'cause I know you will be better for not keepin' anythin' in."

"I'm sure I shall, Salome. It is very kind of you."

He was silent for a little while, then he said hesitatingly, "Have you heard to-day?"

"We did this morning. He was not quite so comfortable then, dearie."

"Do you think there is any danger, Salome?"

"I never heard that, dear. I'm so sure that de dear Lord holds it all in His hand that I don't ask if dere's danger, but I say to myself, 'De Lord knows,' and that make me quite peaceful."

Lionel pondered. In his helpless condition, he had time to listen to the heavenly music which would have been too low to hear in the turmoil of life.

"Salome, why do you suppose I have had this accident?"

"I don't pretend know all de Lord's ways, dearie."

"I know, Salome."

"Do you?"

"I was so headstrong that He could do nothing with me, so He had to knock me down before He could teach me."

Salome smiled at the boy's way of putting it, and she answered, "It's a good thing to have found that out anyway, dearie."

"I've found out a great deal more than that," he replied.

But he did not explain, and Salome came over to him, and smoothed his bedclothes, telling him to go to sleep now, and not talk any more.

"Salome, you must be like my mother, and give me a good-night kiss. Will you? Then I shall know you have forgiven me."

"I have not got 'nofing to forgive dearie. I always ask de dear Lord to wash de slate clean every night."

"The slate?" questioned Lionel.

"Where it's all put down on. If dere's any stain on my heart, either from my sin or from other people, I say to de dear Lord,—

"'I don't want to tink of it no more, dear Lord, wash it all 'way. Wash mine 'way from thy holy sight, and wash deres 'way from my unkind sight, and den we'll start quite clean 'gain, and I'll be happy.'"

"Oh, Salome, how nice!"

"Don't you see, dearie, He can't dwell where 't isn't all fresh and clean? So I'd better ask Him to wash it, and make it ready for Himself; 'cause I 'spect Him to dwell with me."

"Haven't 'we' anything to do then?" asked the boy, looking up earnestly.

"We've got to ask Him to do it, dearie, and believe He'll keep His promise to hear us."

Lionel turned his face to the wall, and Salome went about her work.

After this, one day was like another all the week till Sunday. Lionel's foot got gradually better, but his hand remained helpless and painful, so that Salome earnestly advised him to stay in bed for the sake of both foot and hand.

Marian came to read to him, Alick played chess with him, and he was so happy in the cheerful room and Salome's company that he took her advice to stay where he was. Privately, he dreaded to return to ordinary life, even had his hand permitted it, while his little brother's life hung in the balance. That it did hang in the balance he began to understand.

Salome did not express it in so many words, but he could see from the soberness of the faces that greeted him after the general early bulletin, that the news did not get any better.

He noticed on the Monday morning that Marian did not come up to bring him a flower to grace his breakfast, but that Salome busied herself in unusual silence, and there was a sort of feeling of something wrong in the air. He tried to shake it off as a bad dream.

"I shall get up to-day, if you'll let me, Salome," he said, as he pushed away his tray. "My foot is ever so much better, and though my hand is so bad still, I have lain here long enough; don't you think so?"

"So you have, dearie, but I had better bathe your hand 'fore you do. See, I've got all your clothes as dry as bones for you, and 'dere 'dey are all ready on a chair when you like to dress. We did cut your sleeve, but if we had not, you'd not have been able to get your arm into your coat, I'm afraid."

Lionel shook his head. His hand was bathed and bound up again, and then Salome said gently:

"I wouldn't get up for half an hour if I was you, dearie. Lie still a bit."

"Have you any particular reason why I should?"

"Only I have a message from your mother for you, and I thought we talk about that first."

"A message," echoed Lionel, surprised.

"Your dear little brother was much worse after they sent in last night—"

"Is that mother's message?" he asked, his heart sinking down to an unknown depth.

"No, dearie; she sent jest these words to you, to you particularly, dear Master Lionel. Can you bear me to say dem to you now, dearie?"

"Yes," answered Lionel slowly. He knew the purport of the message without any more words.

"She said, 'Tell him to be comforted, for Claude has gone to be with Jesus.'"

The boy's eyes were fixed on Salome's face with unutterable yearning. And then as her tender voice and touch helped him to take in the reality of the news, he turned away, and hid his face under the bedclothes.

"Oh, if I could only have seen him once more," he moaned, "just for one single minute!"

Salome understood such words as she heard, but she knew it was useless to offer consolation yet. She went to her place at the window and took up her work, her heart sending up many a prayer that the mourning one might be comforted.

At last she heard herself called, and she hastened to his side.

"Oh, Salome," said the boy, flinging his one arm round her neck, and burying his face against her, "I've got no mother to go to, and I am so dreadfully miserable! May I tell you about it?"

"I'd be very glad, dearie. But you must 'member there's One as is better 'ner any mother; He'll comfort you better 'ner I can."

"I was so angry with him for being ill—," whispered Lionel.

"I know, dearie, and de dear Lord knows."

"And I said he would be sure to get well."

"And so he has, dearie; he's well up dere."

"But—and I said 'he always came up the right side,' and here—he is dead—and I—I have been saved. Oh, Salome, I'd give my life for his at this very minute."

"Yes, dearie, I know as you would; but you're thinkin' of all your sins, and not of the de Lord's mercy. Hasn't He washed your slate clean?"

"But that doesn't make it any better that I was so cruel and thoughtless to say such things."

"It makes it better now. He says,—

"'I am He dat blotteth out thy transgressions, and will not 'member thy sins.'"

"But even that will not bring Claude back."

And then at the sound of his brother's name, he wept bitter tears.

"But, dearie," said Salome with the greatest tenderness, "you jest listen what I say to you. Don't you think as de dear Lord has got a lot of good things for the darlin' boy as will be far, far better than livin' down here? And don't you think as He's cared for him far better than anyone here could do, if you had your wish to give your life for his to-day?"

Lionel listened, still his head was buried on that motherly bosom.

"Oh, Salome," he said, "how dreadful it is to mourn!"

"My dear Lord says how 'blessed' it is to mourn, and He can't be wrong, dearie."

"How 'can' it be blessed to mourn?"

"Jest this very fing, dearie. He says it is blessed to mourn in order that you may be 'comforted;' He means to give more dan He takes away."

"But how, Salome?" he asked. "How can He comfort me?"

"That's the very fing, dearie. 'He' is our comfort, He Himself. If He draws near to you, and comes and takes you into His arms, and wraps you up in dem, you'll say wid great joy, 'It was 'deed blessed to mourn, 'cause "He" has comforted me.'"

"And will that be better than having Claude back?" asked Lionel.

"He'll make it better dan dat even, dearie; He'll say to you, 'I know what's best for you.'"

"And then—Oh, Salome, how will He make me not mourn for those horrid things I said?"

"He won't make you not mourn for dem, dearie, but He'll comfort you 'bout dem. He'll say to you (I mean when you safe in His arms, and leanin' on His bosom), He 'll say to you, 'I've blotted out your transgressions, and now all things work together for your "good."' Dat's de way de dear Lord speaks to me anyway, dearie. It 'pears to me as if 'comforted' jest means having Jesus Himself."

Lionel kissed her dark cheek, and laid himself down on his bed. He turned over on his side, away from the light, and did not speak again for hours. There was no more talk of getting up.

She brought him food from time to time, but beyond a grateful "thank you," he said not a word.

Salome knew all was well with him, and when Marian met her on the stairs, and asked anxiously after her brother, she answered:

"De dear Lord's got him in hand, and you need have no 'xiety 'bout him, child."

"It's worse for him than for any of us," said Marian, wiping away her tears.

"Perhaps not, lovey. When de Lord ploughs down deep, de gentle rain goes in deep too. I never saw de Lord's work more plain. Dere's joy amongst de angels of God dis week I'm thinkin'."

"Then I don't so much mind, Salome. Would he like me to come and see him?"

"I'd leave him 'lone wid de Lord, lovey, till he ask for someone else."

She went back to her charge, and Marian sought for her aunt to cheer her with Salome's report.

In the evening the sunset happened to be very lovely, and Salome pulled up the blind, without however speaking about it. The glory streamed along the floor, and rested on Lionel's bed. He turned round when he felt the warmth on his face, and appreciated her action in a moment; he knew it was done to cheer him.

"Salome," he said, "is Alick at home, do you think?"

"Yes, dearie; he is walkin' in the garden with Miss Marian, and de dear misses. There he is, turnin' de corner now."

"I wanted him to write a letter for me to mother. Dear Salome, ask Aunt Greta if she minds my sending one. I can't write well with my left hand myself."

"I'll go at once, dearie. Your dear mother like to get 'letter from you."

Alick came directly, and willingly undertook to be his cousin's amanuensis.

Salome said she had "something to do for her child'en," and left the two boys together.

Lionel greeted Alick with a smile, and then said:

"You don't mind, Alick?"

"Not a bit. I am delighted to do anything for you."

"I'd rather you should see what I say than anyone else. Even Salome could not understand this as well as you."

Alick was silent, his hand holding the pen ready to begin.

"I shan't write much, Alick; but I think I ought not to hold it back when she's in such trouble."

Alick hoped he understood, but he let his cousin proceed in his own way.

"So will you begin now, Alick?"

"DEAREST MOTHER,—Alick is writing for me because I can't use my hand yet.

"I cannot attempt to explain to you in writing all I have felt this day in the loss of dear Claude, but I just want to tell you one thing which I know will make you rejoice even in your sorrow.

"While one of your little lambs has been taken, into the fold in heaven, another big lamb has been sought by the Great Shepherd and brought into His fold on earth. Mother, on that rock, with the water ready to swallow me up, I learned what it was to be a sinner. I thought before that I was a very good fellow on the whole, and could not imagine why you were anxious for me to have a Saviour. Then I understood it in its awful meaning, and unless Alick had come, it would have been all over with me for this world and the next. At least I suppose it would, but perhaps God would have thought of some other way of saving me. At any rate, while I was despairing on account of my sins, which were ten times more dreadful to me than drowning, Alick whispered these words, 'Mighty to save.'

"'Mighty to save!' I repeated to myself. 'Then He's mighty to save me.' All at once, while Alick was climbing down, risking his life to rescue me, I saw Jesus on the cross giving His life, shedding His blood, for me. Mighty to save! And then I remembered that text on our nursery wall at home, 'Look unto me, and be ye saved.'

"Before Alick had got down to me, the deed was done. I had looked, and I was saved.

"Mother dear, will this do you good? Such a week as I have passed no words can say.

"Because I have been very far off, I must come very near. Because He has given His life's-blood for me, I must henceforth give my life to Him. There must be no half-and-half with me.

"Salome has been so good to me.

"Now, darling mother, you can't write to me I know, but you can send me a message.

"I'll tell you what I've found God this week, 'The God of "all" comfort,' and He will be that to you and my dear father too.

"Your loving son,

"Lionel Malden."

Lionel had taken the pen and had scratched his own name with his left hand at the bottom of the page.

"Thank you, Alick," he said.

"Thank you for letting me know," answered Alick earnestly.

"I don't mind your telling Marian about it, Alick. I can't talk of it yet to anyone. I have got so much to learn."

"You've learnt the greatest thing at any rate," said Alick.

"It's only the 'beginning,' I'm thinking, Alick. One step up a very tall ladder."

"Whose top reacheth unto heaven," said Alick, smiling.

"Yes," answered Lionel.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth."]

Chapter VIII.

_Marian'S Sunshine._

"AUNT GRETA," said Marian, putting her head in at the dining-room door.

"She isn't here," said Charlie, looking up from the floor, where he was building bricks with Sydney; "I think she went into the drawing-room."

The drawing-room was across the narrow passage, and looked out as the dining-room did on the little front garden, and thence to the lane. But Courtenay in his alterations had thrown out a bay window at the side, commanding a view, first of the pretty lawn belonging to the cottage, and then of sloping fields down to the bottom of the valley.

Marian found her aunt sitting at this window with the rays of the western sun falling on her rippling brown hair—a beautiful picture she thought in her quiet little heart.

"Aunt Greta, shall you not be cold in here?" she asked.

"I don't know, dear; the sun makes it warm."

The tone was dejected. Marian recognised it in a moment.

"There is a fire in the other room."

"The children's bricks make such a noise; I thought I should be quieter here."

"So you will be, but I must get you something."

She ran off, and in a moment brought a Shetland shawl, warm and light, which her aunt generally used in the garden.

"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Chantry; "I could not find it."

"Lie down on the sofa, and I will tuck you up, auntie."

"Oh, no, dear!" answered Mrs. Chantry, rousing herself. "I must go and see after the little ones, only my head felt all in a whirl."

"I shall go in there directly. There is no need for you to move for ever so long. I am afraid the children being turned out for Lionel has come very hard on you, Aunt Greta."

"My head is not so very strong," answered Mrs. Chantry apologetically. "You see, Marian, Salome generally takes every care away from me with regard to them."

"Yes," said Marian. "Salome says, 'I got no head like de dear missus; I just as strong as can be.'"

Mrs. Chantry smiled, but soon looked sorrowful again.

"Now, auntie," said Marian, "you do as I say. Lay yourself on this sofa, and I will come back in five minutes. And if you are not asleep, which you ought to be, I'll 'report progress,' and tell you how your three bairns are getting on."

Mrs. Chantry's eyes filled with tears. Marian did not appear to see them, but covered her aunt up, and with a kiss left her.

She hurried to the kitchen, which was out at the back under the nursery, and gave a direction to the little maid, and then hastened to the children in the dining-room.

"I've got nothing to do, Marian," said Ruth, coming to her, and rubbing up against her like a little kitten. "I will see what we can find, Ruthie."

"It's so dark with these blinds down. Does it do dear Claude any good to have the blinds down?"

"No, dearie, not the least; it's because of other people we pull them down."

"I don't see that it does other people any good either," said Ruth.

"Lest they should think we forget," said Marian gently. "But look here, Ruthie, I can put this blind so that you can see nicely. There, how does that do?"

"Very much better," answered Ruth. "Now I want something to do."

"I can see beautiful now," said Sydney. "Marian, I'm glad you've come to stay."

"So am I," said Ruth; "we've got no big sister."

She was searching in her aunt's basket for a pair of scissors.

"Now, Ruthie, sit up to the table, and cut this letter-paper into strips. Look here, about half an inch wide, and curl them so with this paper-knife, or with one edge of the scissors. I'll teach you to make a cushion."

"A cushion!" echoed Charlie, getting up from his knees.

"Yes; and you, too, if you could find some more paper."

"There is some here. Mother put these sheets by for Ruth to make spills of."

"I'm tired of making spills," said Ruth, fearing she should be set to that task again. "I'd rather make a cushion."

"Of course you would," said Marian, smiling, "because we always like to do something fresh."

"I'm going to build a 'very' high castle," said Sydney, "as high as this table."

"Very well, do, dear," answered Marian. "Charlie, have an eye on him while I do something for Aunt Greta, will you? And see that he comes to no harm."

Charlie nodded. "Isn't mother well, Marian?"

"She is tired—and sad, I think," added Marian with a little break in her voice; for she had lost her own favourite brother that day, and her own heart was very sad too.

"Yes," answered Charlie, quite comprehending; "and besides it's very tiring having these children down all day long. It's different to have me, because I employ myself if she's busy, but Ruth keeps on all the time, 'Mother, mother, dear."

"I don't," said Ruth, looking aggrieved.

"Well," interposed Marian, "you must all be as thoughtful as you can. Ruth will be pleased to show auntie a box full of paper curls, shall you not, Ruthie?"

Ruth was in the act of curling a particularly hard one, and was too busy to answer. So with another glance to Charlie to be careful of his little brother, Marian left them, and ran back to the kitchen.

"Is it ready, Molly?"

"Yes, miss," answered the little maid, delighted with her own promptness. "Don't you think I've been quick, miss?"

"Indeed you have, and you've cut that bread and butter very nicely too, Molly. Thank you."

She went off with the tray, leaving Molly smiling. Her aunt was not asleep, but lay quietly looking at the sunset. She turned round on Marian's entrance.

"Here's a cup of tea for someone," said Marian, "for someone who did not eat half a dozen mouthfuls when the others had theirs."

"My dear, you are very thoughtful, but—"

"Now, Aunt Greta, just try this cup. Is not that refreshing?"

"Very refreshing."

"And is not this glorious sunset refreshing?"

Mrs. Chantry did not answer to that; she looked at it for a moment, and then her eyes turned to her cup.

"It makes me think of my little ones whom I lost in India," she said at last.

"I should like it to remind me of seeing them again," answered Marian softly.

"And then I think of your dear mother, Marian, and know she is passing through what I did then, and that makes me sorrowful."

Marian had much ado to go on quietly, but she resolutely gulped down her tears and whispered, for she could not force her voice to its usual tone: "But she is comforted; she did say so this morning when she saw Uncle Chantry. Aunt Greta, dear, do try to let in the sunshine into your heart."

Mrs. Chantry was silent, and then after a while, she said tenderly, turning round to kiss the soft, round cheek which was bending so near her:

"Marian, darling, tell me, what has made you so peaceful to-day?"

"Just this, auntie: that He knows best. I'm so satisfied that He is doing right for us all that I feel lifted above all the difficulties and turmoil, and am resting in His presence."

Marian said it very humbly. If it had not been that she saw her aunt in such great need of comfort, she would never have said so much.

"It is the 'meek' who shall inherit the earth," said Mrs. Chantry musingly. "When we are willing, He can work. It is the unwilling who hinder."

"Do you not remember," pursued Marian, "how we felt everything was wrong when dear Claude got ill, and we had to come and fill up your house, auntie?"

"Well, dear."

"And then came Lionel's accident, and then it seemed worse than ever, and yet all the time God was working round for the very best for us. He was teaching us lessons we could never have learned in prosperity."

"What lessons have you learned, darling?"

"I had to learn to give up my own will about being at home to help mother," said Marian, her voice quivering as she thought of all it had cost her.

"And you did?"

"Yes, auntie; He helped me. And then when I thought it was all wrong about Lionel, He's turned it all round till it's the very best that could be."

"How do you mean, darling?" Mrs. Chantry raised her eyes to the glowing face.

"Salome says that there's joy in the presence of the angels of God over him, and we know what that means, auntie. Isn't that enough to lift us above the clouds?"

"Indeed, it is darling. I have been very wrong to be so desponding."

"You are tired and overdone, auntie. Now will you let me put those two little ones to bed, and you lie still for an hour? By that time, you will feel better I hope, and uncle will be in from the garden."

She kissed her aunt once more, and left her alone.

Mrs. Chantry put down her cup and wept excessively for a few minutes. She wanted to be willing to be led, but she felt as if she could not make herself willing. Then those words stole over her with their healing balm—

"'Come unto "Me" . . . I will give you rest . . . learn of "Me:" for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"

"Yes, it is the meek," she murmured, "those who learn of Him, who shall inherit all things. It is the meek who shall be satisfied with His goodness; it is the meek who leave all in His hands, who receive in return 'exceeding abundantly above all that they can ask or think.'"

Before the hour was over, she felt she had been strengthened with a new strength. And when she heard the little footsteps cease to patter overhead, she rose up and went into the other room. Charlie was lighting the lamp and setting the room in order.

"Mother, Marian is putting the little ones to bed. Salome says Lionel will soon be well enough to sleep in Alick's room, and then the children can go back to the nursery; she's been in saying so to Marian."

"I am very glad of that; I shall go up now to wish them good-night."

"Are you more rested, mother?" he asked wistfully.

"God has rested me," she answered softly.

She went first to the children, and after she had heard all about the paper cushion, and how kind Marian was, and had said their evening prayer with them, she went to the nursery and tapped at the door.

"Come in," said Alick. "Oh, mother, is it you? I was just going down."

"I shall follow you in a minute." Then, advancing into the room, she went over to Lionel's side.

"My dear boy, I have not been to see you to-day because I did not want to make you increasingly sad with my sadness, but I feel better now. There is such a thing, Lionel, as finding a hand come down from the skies, which lifts a burden under which you are fainting right off your shoulders. It is so with many sorts of burdens; and as you walk along the path towards the heavenly home, you will find it so over and over again. When we will let Him help us, He can; but while we think it too hard for Him, He has to let us find out that it is only too hard for us."

She kissed him warmly. "It has done me worlds of good to think He has been seeking you, dear."

"It's more than seeking, auntie," he said gently.

And she understood and gave a bright smile in return.

"Now, missis, my dear, Master Lionel has had quite enough talkin' for one night. To-morrow, if de dear Lord is willin', he's going to get up, and the child'en is coming back 'gain in here. I shall be mighty glad 'see my child'en."

"I'm a dreadful bother," said Lionel.

"You not talk like that, dearie," she answered. "You've been nothin' but pleasure to me; but, all 'same for that, I'll be mighty glad to have my child'en back."

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth."]

Chapter IX.

_On The Hillside._

IT was breakfast-time on the morning after Claude went "home."

Mr. and Mrs. Malden were sitting together in the library, with the sea gleaming and flashing in the sun, which shone directly in at the front windows.

The blinds were partly lowered, but more to keep the dazzling rays off, than because of the conventional custom. Mrs. Malden had instantly decided that her loved invalid must not be kept for days in darkness for any such reason.

They sat almost in silence hand in hand. To have no child with them, no child to care for and nurse even, came down on Mrs. Malden's loving heart with a great blank of loneliness—a sense of an empty lap, which somehow made her feel forlorn. She did not cry, for no tears had come since the little spirit had fled, but she went about her usual morning duties to her husband, with a quiet sort of patience which surprised herself.

"Not here—with Jesus," she kept on repeating softly, when the thought of that closed room came over her.

So the husband and wife sat hand in hand, eating but little, but feeling refreshed by the quiet meal.

"How peaceful it is," said Mr. Malden, glancing out on the sparkling sea.

"Yes, very."

"Have you telegraphed to Norwich?"

"Yes, that is all done. Uncle Chantry has been very kind to come over so early to help us."

"Very kind."

"Everyone has been so good to us."

"Yet you seem, my love, as if you were still perplexed."

"So I am," she answered, turning towards him. "I cannot see my way to arrange about the children, and all that must be done when the funeral is over."

"There is no hurry for that, love."

"No, no, but one cannot help thinking."

"'The meek will He guide in judgment,'" he said softly.

"I am sure of that, but I am so afraid of making up plans of my own, and dwelling on them, till I think them the very best that can be done."

"Yes; energetic people are apt to do that. But I often think Moses was energetic enough, and yet God said of him that he was the most teachable man on earth."

"Teachable?"

"Ready to do as he was told, not one who put up the shoulder when a direction was given. And so, being teachable, the Lord could come and speak face to face with him."

Mrs. Malden pondered, resting her chin on her hand, looking out over the sea.

"We must ask to be guided," she said at length. "It all seems very complicated to me. There are the children to be got out of the house while it is fumigated; you and I must go somewhere too."

"One step at a time," he answered, stroking her hand tenderly. "We have not that to do to-day, nor for many days. As all that becomes necessary, we shall be shown how to do it. People often make mistakes by stepping before the time."

"I know it," she answered. "I will wait."

Just as they had finished breakfast, the maid knocked at the door.

When Mrs. Malden opened it, on a dish before her lay a beautiful little wreath of ivy, with one single white hyacinth lying across the middle.

"With Mrs. Chantry's love, ma'am," said the servant.

And Mrs. Malden took it from her hand and brought it to her husband's side.

By the hyacinth was a card, on which was written,—

"It is well with the child."

One glance at the words was enough; the bereaved mother burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. The child that since she was "comforted" last night she had thought of as being with Jesus, triumphant over death and pain, was by these simple words brought back, as it were, to her arms, and now lay in them as the tiny babe, as the tender little child, as the bright boy, as the dying little son.

"It is well with the child! Oh, yes, it is well," she acknowledged, "but—but I have not got him here."

She wept very much for a few minutes, and then again patience and trust reasserted themselves. She began once more to think of the victory gained, the strife over, the goal reached. "It is well with the child."

She dried her eyes, and laid her cheek against her husband's without speaking.

"You will be better now, Ella, my love," he whispered tenderly. "Take this in and lay it at his feet. It was very loving of Greta to think of it."

Thus, the days passed away, till on the Thursday, Claude's small coffin was carried away to its resting-place under the trees by the old church.

There the sea breezes swept over the new turf, and made solemn music between the branches of the spreading fir-trees which hung overhead.

Mrs. Malden had sent in to the cottage an earnest request that no one would come to the house, or follow her darling's funeral carriage.

Mrs. Chantry had answered that she at any rate should be in the churchyard, but would not, for the sake of her children, come near the grave. She would turn homewards, she said, when the service was over.

So when Mrs. Malden stood alone on the breezy hill, by the newly-turned mould, she saw advancing from the other side of the churchyard her sister Greta and Alick. She saw them without looking; for her eyes were resting on the flower-covered casket which had already been lowered, thinking of the precious body within, which was to wait there till the resurrection.

When she raised her eyes again, some one tall had come round and taken his place by her side, and with a start, she looked up at her step-son, Courtenay Malden.

He only whispered:

"Let me, mother. Margaret sent me."

And she felt inexpressibly relieved to think they had got him home again.

The blessed service—blessed when read over those who sleep in Jesus—was over.

Mrs. Chantry and Alick, as agreed, turned homewards, with only one wave of the hand as adieu, and then Courtenay and Mrs. Malden waited in silence till all was completed.

After that, they slowly walked along the path and left the place, which ever after to her seemed as a part of her self.

"Courtenay dear, ought you?" she said gently, as they turned into the lane.

"There could be but little risk in the open air, mother."

"Perhaps not, but I would not have you run any for the world."

"It has been a comfort to me, mother."

"Dear boy," she answered in her old phrase, "we both understand now, as neither of us could six months ago."

"Yes, Margaret wished me particularly to come. She would have been here herself, but that I laid my commands upon her. She is not very strong."

"When did you come home, Courtenay? I had no idea—"

"This morning, an hour ago. I drove straight here."

"How did you hear? My dear boy, my heart is lighter since I saw you."

"Dear mother, I am so thankful I was in time. I had written to Alick to prepare him for our arrival; because a telegram at Gibraltar had informed us about dear little Claude, and I told him what hotel we would call at on our way through. Aunt Greta wrote to us there, to bring us home quickly. We arrived in London last night, and came on by the first train this morning."

"God is very good to me. Oh, Courtenay, I wish you could come in and see your father, but that is impossible!"

"We shall soon arrange that. Mother, as we have so little time to talk, would it distress you to-day to discuss plans?"

"Not in the least, my dear boy."

"I would not, only that we cannot so well meet now, and here we are together."

"It will not cause me a pang. Why should it? I am thanking my heavenly Father at every step that He has brought you back to us."

"Well then, mother, Margaret and I have thought about it all, and we want you all to come at once to The Towers, while Sunnyside is made right."

"But the risk—oh, no, dear Courtenay."

"There is not much to risk now, mother. There are no children—" He stopped, a spasm passing over his face. Then he went on, more softly:

"The little ones, Alick tells me, have never been near the infection, have been out in the air with Martha from morning till night, have never even entered the passages, but have gone up and down by the back staircase."

"Yes, that is all true."

"Then they can come without an instant's thought?"

"But your father and I are different."

"Yes, but not to be left out, mother."

He looked in her face, smiling one of his old smiles. "I do not see how," she said, her eyes filling at that look.

"But we do. We propose that you should put on fresh clothes, or whatever disinfecting is considered necessary nowadays, and go into the children's part of your house for a few days. Then you can migrate over to The Towers for a long visit, while I have Sunnyside done up from top to bottom."

"Oh, Courtenay!"

"We have thought it all over."

"Indeed you have. But, dear boy, supposing either of the children gets it, in spite of all our precautions?"

"Then that's in God's hands. We are only doing our obvious duty, we can trust Him for the rest."

Mrs. Malden walked on, thinking it all over. That her heart was filled with grateful love, she knew, but felt that she must not let her feelings blind her judgment.

"Come, mother," he said at last, "have not you and my dear father asked to be guided about all this?"

"Indeed we have."

"And have you not asked that some way might be found in this difficulty?"

"How did you know?" she asked, surprised.

"Do you not always?"

"Yes, you know we do."

"Then you have not omitted it this time, I expect."

"Courtenay, I was able to leave it with Him. Your father reminded me that it was the meek He would guide in judgment, and the meek He would teach His way. And so I asked Him to make me meek and teachable, so that He might act for me."

"Oh, mother," he answered, "when you tell me that, it makes me more happy than ever in our plan! Do try to be, too."

"Your father and I must think it over, dear boy, but it seems everything that could be wished. Dear Courtenay, you must let me thank you, even if—"

"You can thank me best by coming, mother."

"I will be at the stile at six o'clock this evening if I can. Will you come there to speak to me, dear?"

They had by this time reached the gate at Sunnyside. Courtenay opened it for her to pass through, saying, "I will be there, mother; and tell my dear father that I know how to make him comfortable, do I not? He must not be afraid to come."

"It would not be that—"

"Mother dear, just ask to be guided about this, as you did about the other, and then, if it is His plan, you will see your way to accept it."

She raised her eyes to his face. "I will, Courtenay," she answered.

And then turned homewards to her husband, remembering suddenly, with thankfulness, what a joy to him it would be on this sorrowful day to hear that his beloved son, Courtenay, had returned to them.

"Why was I anxious?" she asked herself. "He has made the meek to inherit the earth to-day.

"'All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's.'"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled."]

Chapter X.

_Margaret'S Legacy._

ALICK and Mrs. Chantry drove home in Courtenay's carriage, which had waited for them while the service was read. And after Alick had accompanied his mother to the cottage door, he went in to The Towers to enquire if Margaret wanted any help in her unpacking.

He found her, however, sitting quietly in the dining-room doing nothing, her work-basket by her side, but her hands folded in her lap.

One glance at her face showed him that she had been crying.

He came in and sat down near her. "It was very nice," he said gently, "so peaceful and still!"

"Did mother seem pleased to see Courtenay?" she asked without raising her eyes, hoping Alick would not notice the traces of tears.

"Very pleased indeed. I never saw such a change in anyone's face in a moment."

"Ah! He is good—" said Margaret, but she could not finish her sentence.

"Alick," she exclaimed at last, "it is of no use pretending. You must forgive me for being foolish, but I've been upset by something—"

"Dear Margaret, what?"

"I ought not to have been, but I was alone, and he was not here to be hurt by it. But when I opened my work-basket that I left at home, you know, this was the first thing I found."

She drew out the unfinished body of a delicate little white dress which she had been making for her tiny daughter before she started on their hurried journey to India.

"Dear Margaret," he said sympathizingly, "I wish I knew what to say to you."

"You cannot say anything, Alick. I know it all. Only to-day, coming back to the empty house where every corner was associated with her little presence, I have realized more keenly than ever before that—that I am childless."

Alick was silent; he was turning over the little dress almost reverently.

"They have whiter robes than these there," he murmured softly.

"Yes," answered Margaret.

She took it in her hand, folding it up, and placing it in her work-table drawer.

"I know it well, but to-day the sorrow has come fresh, and the joy has faded for a little while."

Then, closing the drawer, and turning round suddenly, she said with a hesitation in her tone very unlike herself, "Alick, how do you think he is looking?"

"Courtenay?" But Alick knew she meant no one else. "I hope he will be better now he is at home."

He had not answered her in words, but she saw well enough what he thought.

"It has been a very sad time for him," she said.

"And for you too," said Alick.

"Yes, but I have had so much to make up. He has been so very good to me, and then his generous welcome to my dear mother has made me so happy and grateful."

"Was he so kind over that?"

"Ah! If you could have seen. But no one but myself will ever know all about that; for, Alick, it is not a light care to take up, and some men would have grudged it even if they had thought it their duty to do it."

"And he did not grudge it?"

"Grudge it? But you know him better than that, Alick. What he does, he does freely always. He said my cares were his, and that I was never to imagine he had taken back his words, whatever anxiety and trouble we might be allowed in connection with it."

"That is just like Courtenay," said Alick.

"Is it not? And then he said what I shall never forget.—

"'If she had only been left to us as your mother, Margaret, it would have been our duty to care for her while life lasts, but our God has added to that a great privilege. He has sent us one of His redeemed ones, weak, and needing constant tending, who is hungering and thirsting after righteousness; and He gives into our hands His blessed command to carry out "that she may be filled." I count it a great honour, Margaret.'

"Alick, ought not all that to make me happy?"

At this moment, Mrs. Bruce's slow step was heard in the passage. Alick hastened to open the door for her, and she bowed her head in acknowledgment, but did not appear to recognize him. He took her hand, and led her to the arm-chair by the fire.

"Dear mother," said Margaret rising, "this is Alick Chantry."

"I do not remember, my dear, but I am pleased to make his acquaintance."

Alick felt startled, but Margaret took it quite calmly.

"He used to be very kind to me years ago, and I love him very much," she said quietly.

"Then I shall love him too," answered Mrs. Bruce. "Your friends are always my friends, Margaret."

"Yes, mother," she answered. "Alick, mother is very fond of being read to, and you have such a nice voice. I daresay you will come in and see her sometimes."

"I shall be very glad to do so," answered Alick, feeling rather confused; for Mrs. Bruce looked so exactly like her old self in her handsome clothes and well-to-do air, that he could hardly divest himself of his old feelings, which had been somewhat of a distrustful kind, though he was hardly aware of the fact.

She went on again simply, in a strangely altered voice from the prompt, rather imperious tones he recalled so well, "But you must not be surprised if I forget what you read to me, Mr.—What did you say his name was, my dear?"

"Alick," answered Margaret tenderly.

"I thought you said another name. But you must not mind my forgetting what you read to me—Alick—for I do not remember anything now very well. I fancy I used to be proud to know a great many things, but now I am glad to know only one thing. I do not forget 'Jesus,' and He remembers 'me.'"

Alick took her hand in his, with the first feeling of love towards her he had ever had; in it his awe passed away, and he felt a great tenderness supplant it.

"I should like to read to you about Jesus very much," he said, "if you will let me."

She looked earnestly in his face as if some floating memory haunted her, but she did not say anything more.

"Alick," said Margaret, "is not that Courtenay coming in at the gate?"

"Yes," answered Alick, springing up; "and, Margaret, it must be our dinner-time at home."

"Stay here and have it with us to-day?" she asked; he thought wistfully.

"Margaret, I would; only that—"

"Ought you not, dear?"

"I must not forsake mother. Oh, Margaret, I have had to learn while you were away that I was too bound up in Courtenay!"

"Alick!"

He nodded.

"Who is bound up in Courtenay?" asked another voice.

Margaret smiled, and Alick looked up with more feeling in his eyes than he knew.

"Courtenay," he said, "you must help me to be watchful about it. From the day you went away, till the day of Lionel's accident, I was never in a decent humour. I should be ashamed to remember it, only that it is forgiven."

"We'll try to be more careful, dear boy," he answered earnestly.

And then he went over to his wife's side and put his arm round her shoulders, looking down in her upturned face.

"What have you been doing while I have been away, love?" he asked, seeing something unusual in her eyes.

"I have been talking to Alick part of the time. He has been so kind to me."

But she said nothing about the little frock, and Alick guessed she never would, not for years perhaps, till the poignancy of her husband's grief should have passed away.

When Alick got home, his mother was standing in the garden, holding seeds for Mr. Chantry, who was sowing busily.

"Let me do that, mother," he said, noticing that she looked tired.

"It is just dinner-time. These are the last," she said, giving them into Mr. Chantry's hand, and then she turned indoors.

"I thought perhaps Courtenay would have wanted you, Alick," she said, as he hung his hat up in the passage.

"Margaret did ask me, mother, but I am not going to run away from you so much."

Mrs. Chantry was touched at his tone. "My boy, I only want your good."

"I know that, mother, but I have seen lately that I was too much over there—did not enough make my pleasure at home."

"I saw it too, dear, but I did not know how to remedy it."

"I daresay you took the best way?" he asked archly.

She smiled. "Yes, Alick, but do not think, dear, that I do not wish you to be with them as often as ever you like. I have no such thought."

"I quite understand, mother. I shall try to be more watchful over myself."

A few mornings after this, Salome called Mrs. Chantry up to see Lionel's hand dressed.

It had not improved as quickly as his foot. The swelling had gone down, but it remained stiff and useless.

"And 't was not likely it should get better," Salome observed, as she and Mrs. Chantry stood looking at it.

"But why, Salome?" asked her mistress.

"'Cause it's my 'pinion as it's out of joint, misses, my dear. I've seen 'em like this in India. There was a bone doctor there, and he set 'em right in five minutes."

"I wish we had called in Dr. Smith, Salome."

Salome shook her head.

"You and me was best for him, misses, my dear. If this had been a sprain, he'd have been well almost by now. But as it isn't, we'd better take him to a bone-setter."

Mrs. Chantry quite agreed. But she said she should like to have Mrs. Malden's consent before they took any further steps.

Lionel had some time ago taken up his quarters in Alick's room. But on account of his still tender foot, he kept upstairs, living by day in the nursery, and limping about through the few little rooms, which he called taking change of air.

"To think," he said to Alick, "that I could ever have called this a poky hole! Why, it's been a palace of blessing to me. And this nursery, which I so despised—"

Alick smiled.

"We all love it, but places so depend on association."

"I think it's the most beautiful room I ever was in. But then, you see, Alick, it's been the gate of heaven to me, and that makes everything bright."

"Do you mind the children playing about?"

"Not a bit; I rather like it. Alick, I say, do you think Aunt Greta will let you go to Norwich with me about my wrist? Did you ever see such deformity?"

"You must have fallen smash upon it."

"I did; I know that much. It's the greatest wonder I did not roll off that rock into deep water. I should have gone like a stone to the bottom."

"Things are very wonderful."

"Alick, I wish you could help me downstairs into the garden presently. It's such a lovely spring day and I believe I have seen mother walking about in The Towers garden. Do you think it possible? It looked just like her."

"I daresay it was; for she and Uncle Malden were to move in there this morning; I heard so at breakfast."

"What a change it will be for them. Won't she be glad to see Muriel and Leslie again? And then there's Margaret and Mrs. Bruce."

"You will like to see Margaret, Lionel; she is so sweet."

"Is Mrs. Bruce very changed? But I have only seen her once, at Courtenay's marriage. I do not know her well."

"You would not think she was the same person, except in look."

"Well, Alick, now do see if I can hobble downstairs. Will not my dear mother be pleased to see me come walking along the path?"

"She will indeed."

"Did I ever tell you the message she sent to me, Alick?"

"No."

"She gave it to Salome one day in the garden.

"'Tell my boy,' she said, 'that his letter gave me greater happiness than I have known for years; and that I am sure of one thing, that if he wants to get "near," as he says; and hungers and thirsts after righteousness, he will know the blessedness of being "filled."'"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled."]

Chapter XI.

_At The Towers._

"WELL, Lionel," said Charlie, looking up from his lessons one afternoon, "has he done it?"

"I should just think so," answered Lionel, walking into the room, looking very bright.

"Really put it in joint?"

"Done everything, but didn't he give me a pulling about!"

"Yes," said Alick, following him in. "I should think he did. Where's mother?"

"She did not expect you so soon," said Charlie, "and she has gone in to see Aunt Ella."

"Has she?" said Alick. "I am very glad of that."

"Then she will ask mother if I may come to see them too," said Lionel.

"Dr. Smith thinks it is quite safe now," answered Alick; "and if Aunt Ella approves, we are all to be allowed to run in and out as we used."

"We must not go too often at first," said Charlie, "or Margaret will think we are going to overrun her house like a horde of savages."

"I do not see that we need be 'savages,'" said Marian, looking up from behind the window curtain, where she was working industriously.

"I did not know you were there," exclaimed Alick, coming to her side. "Why did you not speak?"

"I thought there were plenty to talk," said Marian.

"But is not this jolly about Lionel's hand?"

"Oh, it is indeed! Alick, Aunt Greta will be so sorry to have been away when you arrived. We did not think you could possibly catch this early train, so we have ordered tea an hour later than usual."

"And we are particularly hungry," said Alick, making a face. "Father did not wait for anything when he found we could get back; and not to have something to eat for another hour and a half—