"The Perils of Orphanhood" (continued 2)

“But I hope there are good people among all kinds,” said Eppie, not knowing very well what to say.

“Yes. Mr St. Cyr is good, though Mrs Ascot is not. That is true. And it does not matter so much, so that we have a religion of some kind. Though, of course, one would wish to have the best.”

“You are wrong there, missy. It matters much. And you should be thankful that you were sent here to the school, where the Bible is read, and where you may learn your duty to God and man. That is the best religion.”

“But I have not learned it very well,” I fear.

“Maybe that is your own fault. I have heard you say that you are not very fond of going to the kirk and reading your Bible.”

“That is quite true. And that is the right way, is it? Were you fond of going to the kirk when you were young? We go to the church, you know.”

“I would be very thankful to be able to go to the kirk,” said Eppie evasively:

“And is your religion just like Miss Baines’? Hers must have been right, because it made her happy when she was in great trouble, and it made her not afraid to die. Is yours the same, Mistress Campbell?”

Eppie looked at her, wondering a little at her persistency, and then she said, “Ay is it—the very same. The same in kind, though not in degree. Miss Baines was a good woman, a far better woman than the like of me.”

“Tell me about it,” said Frederica.

Mistress Campbell looked sadly at a loss.

“How did they teach you to be religious when you were young?”

“We were taught to read our Bibles and to say the catechism, and to go to the kirk. And my father had worship morning and evening, and we were bidden do our duty, and be content with our lot.”

Eppie hesitated, by no means satisfied with her attempt to make the matter clear, and then she said,—

“To be religious is to be good, and to do our duty to God and our fellow-creatures. Don’t you mind what the Bible says? ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbour as thyself.’ And in another place it says, ‘Pure religion and undefiled is this, to visit the fatherless and the widow in their affliction.’ That is religion,” said Eppie, with a pleased sense of having got well out of a difficulty.

Frederica nodded.

“Yes, I have read that. That is the way is it? Do good people all do that? But then they must begin at the very beginning of their lives.”

Eppie shook her head.

“We are poor imperfect creatures at the best,” said she. “But God’s ways are not our ways, nor His thoughts our thoughts. We are unprofitable servants. If we got what we deserve, it would go ill with us. But He is merciful and gracious, and full of compassion, and of tender mercy.”

Frederica considered gravely for a little while.

“And is that all? I think I could manage to do all that, except perhaps to love my neighbour as myself,” said she, thinking of Prickly Polly.

“But you would need to do that too, I doubt,” said Eppie, not wishing to make religion seem a thing too easy. “And you would need to say your prayers, for the best of us need to be forgiven, and the strongest and wisest need to be helped and guided, and the Lord is good.”

“And if I don’t know very well at first. He will help me. But, Eppie dear, I think Miss Baines must have had something more than this. I wish I had asked her about it,” said Frederica, regarding the old woman with wistful eyes.

“Dear me, lassie,” said Eppie, at a loss what to say to her; “what has putten such like thoughts into your head? you are not an ill bairn, and you will learn as you grow older. You have no call to vex yourself with such thoughts more than usual.”

“But, Eppie, it is for mama. She is ill, and suffers a great deal, and she has only Selina with her; and if I only knew what made Miss Baines so happy, I could tell mama. But mama could not begin at the beginning, and go to church, and visit poor and sick people. There must be some other away for her. For, Eppie, I am almost sure that mama would be afraid to die.”

There were no tears in the great wistful eyes turned towards her, but there was something which the old woman found it quite as hard to meet.

“Poor body,” murmured she; “the Lord help her!”

“And, Eppie, Miss Baines said something about the Lord Jesus caring for her. And He died, you know. It is in the service, ‘Crucified, dead, and buried,’ and in the Bible there is something about it.”

“Surely,” said Eppie, eagerly, “that is just it. We are sinners, both by Adam’s fall and by actual transgression. And God sent His Son to die in our room and stead. And we must lippen to Him. He will save us.”

“And it would not make any difference because mama is a Jewess, would it?”

“Preserve us a’! What will the lassie say next?” muttered the bewildered Eppie. “No difference but what would be in her favour, I would think. In Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, the Word says, and the apostles were bidden begin at Jerusalem,” said she, the long-forgotten words coming back to her in the exigency of the moment. “And they are all to be gathered in, Paul says. I mind weel my father and our minister ay used to pray for the ingathering of the Jews. No, I’m sure it would be in her favour rather than the contrary,” repeated Eppie confidently, growing more assured as she went on. “They were a grand people, the Jews—God’s own chosen people. They did ill things. They killed our Lord, and I canna just reconcile it all, but I’m sure the Lord loves them yet.”

Frederica did not reply, but sat gazing in among the dying embers in the grate. As she sat watching her abashed but anxious face, a great longing to help and counsel her came over the poor old woman’s kind heart, but there came also sharply a sense of her utter inability to do so, a vague but painful doubt whether she had ever seen clearly the way of safety herself.

“I’m but a poor ignorant sinfu’ woman, my dear bairn,” said she humbly; “I havna lived up to the little light I have, and it’s no for me to teach you. But one thing I can tell you: read your Bible, and ask the Lord Himself to teach you, and you’ll need no other teaching, or if you do He’ll provide it. But see, the fire’s near out, and it’s more than time you were down the stair, and I must go to my bed. So good night to you, and mind your prayers.”

“Good night,” said Frederica, and she went downstairs pondering many things.

Chapter Seven.

Attached to the large old-fashioned house in which Mrs Glencairn lived were a garden and orchard of very large old apple trees, which now in the spring time were full of wonderful possibilities for enjoyment and amusement to children who had for the most part been obliged to find amusement within doors during the long winter. And so no wonder that Frederica, without whom no game was complete, should forget her serious thoughts, and her troubles, and even her mother’s doubtful state, unless something particularly recalled them to her mind. She was such a little creature, that, though she led the elder girls in their lessons, and was indeed far before them, she did not seem to be at all out of place when she led the plays and games of the little girls too.

Even in her visits to the garret, with her “Animated Nature” in her hand, she and Eppie kept to the safe subject of beasts and birds and creeping things, in the discussions into which they fell. She had taken up botany, too, in a less elementary form than had been given her before, and her interest was greatly quickened, and her attention happily given to it. And strange to say, Eppie, the recluse of the garret, who had not set her foot on a green thing growing beyond the orchard for many a year and day, even she gave eager interest and stimulus to the girl’s pursuit, and with spectacles on nose peered into triticums and anemones brought from the mountain, and into apple blossoms, and even into dandelions and buttercups gathered in the orchard, for want of rarer flowers.

“And what for no,” said Eppie, “when Solomon himself, the wisest of kings and men, spoke about green growing things from the cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop on the wall? And God made them a’. They mind me of my father’s house and the fir belting, and the heather hills beyond. And they mind me o’ the days o’ my youth, that are gone like a blink,” added she with a sigh.

“Yes,” said Frederica, turning compassionate eyes on the kindly wrinkled old face.

“I’m no complainin’ you’ll understand. I hae had my day as you’ll have,” said Eppie, nodding her head gently a great many times. “But I was ay fond o’ flowers. I liked to notice their likeness, and their difference, though I didna ken that they were a’ written down in books. Eh! it’s just wonderful how true nature is to herself. That bonny yellow flower might be the one that grew on the bush beside my father’s door, and yon rosebush that Miss Robina brought up the stairs to-day is the very marrow o’ the one that Sandy Gow the laird’s gardener brought down and gave to my sister Annie more than fifty years ago. It’s like a dream to look back upon.”

“But, Eppie, I have often wondered that you only care for one or two flowers at a time, when you are so fond of them; you could have quite a greenhouse of them in this south window. I could bring you dozens of them,” said Frederica.

But Eppie shook her head.

“I tried it, my dear, when sore against my will I had to betake myself to this place—a dismal place it seemed for a while. I tried having many flowers. Miss Isabel was here then, and she and Miss Robina took great pains to get me the best and the bonniest. But I soon saw that it wouldna do. I couldna get them kepit to my mind without troubling somebody. They were ay needing something done, and I couldna even get a spadeful of earth without another pair of hands. I was more helpless then than I am now, and even the bringing of water for them up the stairs was more than I could ay manage; so I just gave them up; for unless a body can do justice to the bonny things, they are more pain than pleasure. And I couldna bide to fash other folk. So now Miss Robina brings me one as it blooms, and I hae been few days without a flower all the seven years I have been in this room. I aye hae my wallflowers, and once I had heather, but it didna thrive, and I thought a pity to have it dying before my eyes, so I got no more.”

It was growing too dark by this time to pore over either books or flowers. Eppie had had her tea, Frederica knew, because she saw the tray with the dishes standing near the door, and she knew that she would be welcome to stay till the school bell rang again for prayers. So she sat in the window watching the clouds that were still bright, though the sun had disappeared. By-and-by she said,—

“Tell me something that happened when you were young, something that you never told me before.”

Eppie took up the stocking on which she could work as well in the dark as in the light.

“There was many a thing happened to me when I was young that I never told anybody, but I might happen on an old story that you have heard before, as is the way with old bodies like me. And I hae no feast o’ tellin’ bits out o’ my own life just for folk’s diversion.”

But Frederica knew that she would have a story for all that; she was not so sure that it would be a new one.

“Were there many flowers in your garden when you were a little girl?” asked she after a pause.

“Weel! there were na just so many, but eh, missy! they were awfu’ bonny flowers. But I mind the flowers among the hills, and by the burn sides best. The names of them? I canna mind a’ the names, and if I could they would seem like common flowers to you, but they gave us just a wonderful delight. And there were other things besides the flowers. We got many a day’s pleasure out of the rushes by the burn, and the brackens in the wood, and we ay had the heather. And, oh! wasna it a bonny sight to see when the summer began to wear over! Flowers! High above the glen where my father’s house stood, there whiles were miles and miles o’ the purple blossom. I can see it now when I shut my eyes,” said Eppie, leaning back in her chair, and letting her stocking fall upon her lap.

“And then there were the daisies that you told me about,” suggested Frederica in the pause that followed.

“Yes, the gowan, and the blue bell, and many a one beside. And I hae seen the hills in a bleeze o’ gold with the yellow broom. Though a broom bush is no’ to call a bonny thing, except a bit away. But a’ things are bonny to young happy eyes, and I daresay they are bonnier to me now, looking back to them over all the long years.”

And on she rambled, as she had done many a time before, on the very same theme, and if there had been an hour to spare, or if Frederica had been inclined, this was the time when she would have asked for a song, and the chances were she would have got ten of them chanted in a voice that had once been sweet, but which failed now both in sweetness and in power. Frederica always liked the songs, though she did not always like the singing, but there was something else in store for her tonight—something which she had ceased to expect, a bit out of Eppie’s life. She knew it was coming when the old woman went on to speak about the hills, and the grassy nooks hidden between them, and the days when she used to go out with her father, who was a shepherd, among them.

“And I mind one day we were sitting on the lowne side o’ a hill, and there came over it and down upon us, two lads with packs on their backs, and one of them with a book in his hand. When they saw us, they stopped to ask the road to the next town, for they had got in among the morning mists, having risen early for their journey, and so had lost their way. I mind how they both looked, as well as if I had seen them yesterday, and maybe better. One of them was shame-faced about having lost the way, which he said he had been over many a time before; but the other only laughed and said it was a good thing to be mistaken whiles, and for his part he was glad to lie down and rest. And so he lay down among the heather, and turned a thin fair face to the sky. He was an English lad, I think. His tongue was English any way. My father bade me take a plaid I had brought with me, and spread it over him, for there was a cold breath creeping now and then round the hill; and when I went and did what I was bidden, the lad gave me first a surprised look, and then a smile that made his eyes and his whole face beautiful. I see it now, though I have hardly thought of it these thirty years,” said Eppie with a sigh. “And I mind his deep sweet voice, and the sound of the smooth English words he used when he thanked me, and bade me sit down beside him, and tell him my name. I sat down as he bade me, but he took little heed of me for a while. For he looked sore weary and spent with more than just the tramp over the hills, and his eyes had a look as if they were seeing things far, far away.

“The other was a fine lad too, I daresay, though o’ a commoner nature. He and my father got very friendly together, he telling and my father listening to all they were doing out in the great world, whose voice came to our glen, not like a real voice, but like an echo casten back from the hills. And by-and-by the English lad’s eyes came back to mine, and what he saw in them I canna say, but he gave me the same smile that lighted his face in a way that was just wonderful—I can see it now—and he bade me look up to the sky, and see a ship that was sailin’, sailin’ away to the west, and what did I think it was carrying there? There was nothing in the sky that I could see, but a long trail of grey cloud, with here and there an edge of light upon it, and he only gave a bit laugh when I looked back at him again wondering. And then he plucked a wee curled head o’ the bracken that grew at his hand, and bade me look at it. Naught could I see but just a bit o’ bracken. I said not a word, only looked from it to his fair smiling face. But then he took out of his pouch a case, and out of the case a glass, and put it between the bracken and my eyes. And I thought, surely a great magician had come to our hills, for it was a bit o’ bracken no longer, but a wonderful network of cells, and veins, and feathery fringes, like nothing I had ever seen before. And next it was a bit of brown heather he took, and then a nodding bluebell, and then the wing of a May fly that had lighted on his hand.

“I looked and looked, and at last I cried out to my father to come and see. Even my father wondered. Ilken leaf and blade o’ grass, and even the wee stones that we took from the path were wonderful to see. And then he put the glass on my mother’s plaid, and on his own fine kerchief of lawn, and bade us see the difference between God’s works and man’s—how poor, and coarse, and common was the best that man could do, and how the more and the closer we looked into the works of God, the more worthy of admiration we should see them to be.

“And then him, and my father, and the other lad had things to say that I couldna make much of. He was a man of excellent understanding, my father. But just one thing I mind. It was the English lad that said it with a smile, and a great longing in his bonny een. ‘It may be,’ he said, ‘that when we get home to heaven, our glorified eyes shall see the mysteries of beauty hidden in even the least of the things that God has made without a glass between.’ And when my father shook his head, saying that there was no such word in the Bible, and that there was such a thing as being wise above what is written, he smiled, and ‘Ah well!’ he said, ‘our eyes will be opened to see the wonders of grace and the beauty of holiness, for we shall see our Lord Himself, and that will be enough.’

“I mind the words, because I heard my father telling them to my mother that night as they were sitting by the fireside. They come back to me now, as other words come, that I havena thought of for many a year and day, a sure sign that I am no’ far from the foot o’ the brae.”

“And was that all?” asked Frederica softly, after a long pause, in which Eppie had taken up her knitting again.

“That was all, except that they wouldna go to my father’s to bide all night, because they were expected elsewhere, they said; and then I ran home as my father bade me, and brought them milk and oaten cakes, which they ate to their refreshment, doubtless, and to our pleasure, and then they went away.”

“And who were they? And did you never see them again?”

“We never saw nor heard of them, though doubtless they crossed our hills again. They were just two lads on their way home from the college in the north. We used whiles to see such, though our glen was a bit out of the way for most of them. But we never saw them again. It must be fifty years and more since then. It had gone clean out of my head, till your flowers and your pleasure in them brought it all back again.”

There was nothing heard for a while but the “click, click,” of Mistress Campbell’s “wires,” as she went on with her knitting. The old woman and the little girl were thinking their own thoughts.

“Eppie, dear,” said Frederica, as she slipped from her high seat to the floor, “I like that about ‘glorified eyes,’ and one seeing hidden things; I mean things that are hidden from us now.”

“Ay, the eyes o’ man are never satisfied with seeing, nor his ears with hearing,” said Eppie: “I doubt that is but a carnal notion o’ heaven. This is what David says about it—

“‘But as for me, I Thine own face In righteousness shall see; And with Thy likeness when I wake, I satisfied shall be.’”

“Satisfied!” repeated she; “ay, doubtless, they’ll be satisfied that win there. But, eh me! ‘Strait is the gate, and narrow the way, that leads to life,’ and I doubt there will be some awfu’ disappointments at that day.”

“If one only knew just what to do,” said Frederica gravely.

“Be a good bairn, and ay read your Bible, and mind your prayers,” said Eppie. “But there’s your bell, and you will need to go.”

And so Frederica went downstairs with the grave thoughts that Eppie’s words had awakened, stirring at her heart again. She read her Bible as Eppie had bidden her, and sometimes she read it with delight, because of the elevation of the thoughts and the beauty of the language; but she came upon nothing in these readings that touched her heart, or that she felt to be suited to her. She read the Old Testament, as the history of her mother’s people. She had been often told of late that she was a Jewess in appearance, like her mother, and she took a real interest in the history of her people, and began to feel pride in being descended from a “nation of heroes.” But pre-occupied with thoughts of this kind, she read on from day to day, seeing nothing in the wonderful words she read to enlighten her on all that she so much needed, and which she believed she so much desired to know.

She listened now with attention to such Bible lessons and readings as entered into the regular routine of school work, but the instructions connected with them were often of a kind to influence the reason and affect the imagination, rather than to touch the heart; and though her attention and interest enlarged her knowledge of the letter of Scripture, and won her many good marks and the chance of a prize at the end of the year, the lessons brought her no answer to the question as to which was the right religion, or how one was to get the good of it in the time of trouble, as Miss Baines had done.

Indeed, if it had not been for one thing, the grave and anxious thoughts that had been for some time occupying her mind might have passed away, as they pass from the mind and heart of so many of the young and thoughtless, leaving no trace in her life, no influence for good, either to herself or to others. If her mother had been well and happy, if there had been no shadow of dark days and painful nights hanging over her future, if she had not longed so earnestly to learn for her sake the secret of peace and joy, over which these have no power, she might have put all anxious thoughts away from her. But all her thoughts of her mother were anxious thoughts now; for in the only visit they had made since Easter, they had found her no better, but rather worse.

Chapter Eight.

Spring was passing into the loveliest part of summer. The school girls were beginning to count the days that must pass before the midsummer holidays; and none counted them more earnestly than did Frederica and her sister. What was to follow the holidays they did not know. There had been nothing more said about sending them to England. But whether they were to be sent there, or to come back again to Mrs Glencairn’s, there were two months of holidays on which they might safely count, and no one knew what might happen before they were over.

Their one short visit since Easter had not been a very successful one. Their mother had been ill and Mrs Ascot had been cross, and there was to be no other visit till holiday time. Dixen had come once or twice with a message from Selina, but the tidings he brought were neither very cheerful nor very definite; and no wonder that Frederica longed for more, and would not lose a chance to get them.

And so one morning, as Mr Vane and some of his friends were riding through one of the wide upper streets, which at that time looked more like the country than the town, they were startled by a voice calling, “Papa, papa,” and out from a straggling line of school girls there sprang a little figure gesticulating eagerly. Mr Vane turned round, and so did the others.

“It is you, Fred, is it?” said he in surprise.

“Yes, papa, I beg your pardon for calling you, but it is so stupid walking along all in a row, and I want to ask you how mama is, and Selina.”

“Oh! they are very well—just as usual. But what will madame the schoolmistress say to your escapade?”

“I am very naughty I know, papa, but I did so want to hear about mama. Is she really better? Why! here she is,” said Frederica in surprise. “Here are Jack and Jill at any rate.”

Yes, there were Jack and Jill, but there was not Mrs Vane nor Selina. A very pretty lady—two of them indeed—leaned back in the carriage. Frederica turned astonished and indignant eyes from them to her father as the carriage stopped.

“Your mama gave herself the pleasure of lending her carriage to Mrs Clifford to-day,” said Mr Vane, and Frederica knew by his tone and manner that he was annoyed, though it would not have done to show it to the rest of the party.

“Let Miss Vane come with us,” said one of the ladies. “We can easily make room for her, can we not, Mrs Clifford?”

Mrs Clifford was not quite sure, but Frederica declined the invitation with a stately little curtsey, and turned to her father again.

“Do come with us, Miss Frederica,” said Major Hargrave, a gentleman whom Frederica had several times seen before: “the day is lovely, and you will enjoy it.”

“Is it a pic-nic? Thank you. It would be very nice, I daresay, but I would rather not. Good-bye, papa; I am afraid Miss Pardie will be very angry with me.”

“And no wonder,” said her father, laughing. The admiring glances which he saw exchanged quite dispelled his momentary vexation.

“We could manage to soothe her, I think,” said he. “Would you like to go, Fred? Where is Tessie?”

“Tessie is not walking to-day. She was naughty, and remained at home. No, I thank you, papa. If there were no other reason, I could not go because of Tessie. It would be too cruel to go and leave her.”

“Naughty! what has she done? It would serve her right to leave her if she has been naughty.”

“Oh! as to that, yes. She was very wrong. She was playing Madame Bulbat for the girls, and Madame heard her, and was in a rage of course. And Miss Robina was obliged to be very severe with the child to keep the peace. I cannot go, papa; but I daresay, if you were to ask her, Miss Pardie would let me go and see mama for a little while.”

But Mr Vane shook his head with sufficient decision.

“No: mama is all right. You are far better at school. She does not need you.”

But pleased with the whispered admiration of the foolish people who were with him, and willing to prolong the pleasure, he moved away with his little daughter in the direction of the line of returning school girls, saying he must make the child’s peace with her teacher; and he quite won Miss Pardie’s heart by his manner of entreating it at her hands.

“Was that your mama in the carriage, and your sister?” asked one of her companions, as they went on together. “I think they might have asked you to go with them.”

“My mama, indeed! That great red woman!” said Frederica scornfully.

“She was very pretty,” said her friend. “That is because she did not ask you to go with them.”

“She did ask me. I did not choose to go.”

“Because of your print dress? Of course you could not have gone in that.”

Thus her friend chattered on, and Frederica answered at random or not at all, thinking of other things. For it did not make her sure that her mother was well again, that her father had said so. And though it was no new thing to her knowledge that her father should seek his own pleasure, without giving a thought to her mother in her enforced retirement, it struck her with new and sharp pain to-day, and her anxious and unhappy thoughts came back again with double force.

“I have a great mind to go home without asking anybody,” she said to herself. But she knew she must not.

She was, for the moment, very unhappy, and it was with a slow step and a sad face that she went to make her confession to Miss Robina. For though Miss Pardie had graciously accepted Mr Vane’s apologies for his daughter’s behaviour, that was only as far as he was concerned. She had her confession to make to Miss Robina all the same; and it is possible that Miss Pardie was not without hope that, for the moral effect of the thing, she would not be permitted to escape without punishment, or at least without reproof. She got no punishment, however, and Miss Robina’s reproof was of the gentlest, when it was explained to her that “she had been so anxious to hear about mama.”

“And I am afraid it was not good news you heard, from the sad face I see,” said Miss Robina, kissing her.

“Papa said she was well, so I suppose she is at least not worse. Am I to be punished, Miss Robina? I think Miss Pardie expects it.”

“You mean you think you deserve it. Well, you must be sent upstairs for a while. Take these strawberries to Eppie, and save me the stairs, and you need not hasten down again.”

So Frederica went slowly upstairs, believing herself to be very unhappy, little thinking how much more unhappy she was to be before she came down again. Eppie was not in her room, which was an unusual circumstance at that hour of the afternoon, and Frederica set down the tiny basket of strawberries on the table, and went to her favourite seat in the west window, with her lesson-book in her hand. In a little while she heard the slow, unequal steps of Eppie on the stairs, and saw her come in with a great bundle in her arms, and watched her as she carefully laid each garment in its place. She did not speak, and in a minute there were other footsteps on the stairs, and Mrs Glencairn came into the room.

Frederica ought to have spoken then. She ought to have made them aware of her presence in the room. But almost the first words she heard startled her so much, as to take away her power of speech, and to make her forget how wrong it was for her to listen to that which was not meant for her ears.

She did not hear all that was said, nor did she know how long it had taken to say it, but when she saw the door close, and heard Mrs Glencairn’s footsteps going slowly down the stairs, she slid from her seat on the window, and confronted Eppie with a white face and angry eyes. The old woman uttered an exclamation, and drew back with uplifted hands.

“Tell me what she meant, Eppie.”

“Miss Frederica! Who would think that you would come and frighten a body out of their wits in that wild way? You have given me a turn that I winna get over this while.”

“Tell me what she said,” repeated Frederica.

But Eppie, hoping that she might have heard little, had no mind to tell her what her mistress had said.

“I would hae thought it o’ any o’ our young leddies rather than of you, pussy. Eh, fie! to be hearkening to what other folk are saying! What think you Miss Robina would say gin I were to tell her?”

But Frederica put her words aside with an impatient gesture.

“Tell me, or I will go to Mrs Glencairn.”

“’Deed you’ll do nothing of the kind. She has had trouble enew already, and it just needs you to go with thae bleezing een o’ yours to upset her altogether. Bide still where you are, like a good bairn.”

Frederica sat down, and neither of them spoke for a while.

“Eppie,” said she at last, “I think I understand, but I am not quite sure. Tell me, so that I need not make a mistake, or bring any one into trouble.”

“Whisht, lassie! It’s a matter you hae nothing to do with, and I counsel you no’ to make nor meddle in it.”

“You are mistaken, Eppie; there is no one but me to put this right, unless mama is to be troubled. And she shall not be troubled. Is this it? For more than a year and a half Mrs Glencairn has received nothing—absolutely nothing—for all that she has done for Tessie and me. She has asked for it more than once, but she has received nothing. I wish to understand.”

Eppie looked at her, but did not answer. The shrewd old woman had seldom been so utterly at a loss before.

“My dear,” said she, “it might have happened to anybody.”

“And we have been living on charity—Tessie and I?”

“Hoot, lassie! dinna speak nonsense. It is all to the fore. And it is a good thing, for it might have been spent, and now it is waiting for Miss Robina to do what she likes with; to go and see her sister, maybe. It’s a good thing that it’s to the fore.”

Frederica looked at her without a word.

“I would advise you no’ to meddle in the matter. It will be all settled as it ought to be, and Miss Robina would be ill pleased that you should ken. And it will be all right, you may be sure,” said Eppie cheerfully.

“It would do no good to go to-day, because papa Is away, and mama is not to be troubled. But to-morrow—Has Mrs Glencairn been very much in need of it; Eppie? Why did they not send us away?”

“My dear, that’s nonsense! What difference would one, or even two, make in a family like this? She would rather have you here than not, though she were never to see the colour of your father’s money. And as for Miss Robina! But the money is safe enough; so just you sit down, and put the thought of it out of your head.”

There was not another word said about it, and Mistress Campbell rejoiced in the readiness with which her counsel had been taken. But Frederica had no thought of “putting it out of her head” in the sense that Eppie hoped. The first sudden shock of anger and shame passed, but it was followed by a pain and doubt not more easily borne. She had only just been able to shut her lips closely, when the name of Mrs Ascot had risen to them; but as she sat there in silence, seeming to read quietly, her thoughts went beyond Mrs Ascot. They followed her father and his gay friends; away into the sunshine of the pleasant fields, and they went to her mother left solitary and suffering, with only Selina to comfort her, and with Mrs Ascot to vex her with cares which she ought never to know.

“It is not kind of papa,” she said, over and over again.

She did not get further than this; for hitherto she had looked at their life and their household ways and cares with the unreasoning eyes of a child. Her father was gay and careless, and apt to forget about things that did not specially concern himself, even a child could see that; but she had never regarded all this as worthy of blame. She had not thought about it in that way at all. But she thought about a great many painful things as she sat with her head bent over her book in Eppie’s garret that night.

There was nothing to be said by anybody. Frederica did not even tell Tessie, as she was almost sure to tell anything that vexed her, in the few minutes that were allowed them for talk before silence was commanded for the night. Tessie could not help her to do as she had determined to do, and Tessie was rather apt to exclaim about things, and to take other girls into her confidence, and such a thing was not to be thought of now.

It would not be easy for her to obtain permission to go home next day, she knew, but she determined to go all the same, whether she got permission or not. But something in the girl’s face made Robina pause before she answered her in one way or the other.

“Has anything happened, love? You have heard no bad news, I hope,” said she kindly.

Frederica did not find it easy to answer.

“Your mama is not worse, I hope.”

“She is not better,” said Frederica huskily. “Won’t you let me go home, Miss Robina? I might go with Nora when she goes to the market, and Dixen will bring me back. Please do, dear Miss Robina, for a little while.”

“I am by no means sure that I ought to say ‘yes,’” said she; but she kissed the sweet pleading face and said it, notwithstanding.

Frederica did not go home first. She took Nora some distance out of her way to her father’s office, and bade her good-bye at the door.

“Thank you, Nora, don’t wait. Papa will take care of me now.”

Her father looked surprised, and not very well pleased to see her. Not that she was interrupting his business, for she saw that he was only reading the newspaper. She did not give him time to express his surprise in words, nor did she greet him in her usual fashion, but said hurriedly, “I came on business, papa.” She did not find it easy to say more for a minute; and something which he saw in her face kept her father silent also.

“Papa, do you know that Mrs Glencairn has not been paid for more than a year and a half? for Tessie and me, I mean.”

Her father stared at her in astonishment, not understanding for the moment what she meant.

“What nonsense, Frederica!” said he: “and what have you to do with it?”

“It is quite true, papa, and of course I have to do with it. Mrs Glencairn must be paid.”

“And did she send you here to say that to me? She has been paid. I cannot say that I admire either her taste or her judgment. I think we have had almost enough of madam the schoolmistress.”

“I think she must have had quite enough of us, papa. But she did not send me. She is not aware that I know about it. I overheard her speaking about it to Mistress Campbell.”

“Overheard! and you have been suffering the usual penalty of listeners.”

“No, papa, and I did not mean to listen. But I was so shocked. Mrs Glencairn and Miss Robina have been very kind to us, papa, and they must be paid.”

“I have not the least doubt that they have been paid, over and over again. Let them alone for that!”

“Did you pay them, papa?”

“No. I did not give the money to them, but I have a distinct recollection of its being provided.”

“So have I, papa. Mama was obliged to ask Mr St. Cyr for more money, and she said it was very painful, and she could not do it again.”

“All that relates to Mr St. Cyr’s connection with our affairs is painful. You are old enough now, Frederica, to understand that it was never with my consent that he had to do with—with our affairs—with your grandfather’s property. I can do nothing. If things go wrong, it is not my fault. I protested against such an arrangement at the time, and—and washed my hands of them. And it is a matter with which you can have nothing to do.”

“Except about Mrs Glencairn’s money, papa. I must have to do with that, you know. Tell me what I must do, papa.”

“You can do nothing. There must be some mistake. A year and a half! It would be a large sum.”

“Yes, indeed! But, papa, don’t you think it possible that—that Mrs Ascot may have made some mistake?”

“She may certainly have made a mistake. I will see that it is put right. But you can do nothing, and you must not try. You will only make matters worse.”

There was silence for some time, and then Frederica said hesitatingly,—

“I am afraid, papa—that Mrs Ascot is not a very good woman.”

Mr Vane looked at her without speaking.

“I mean that she is too clever to make mistakes—that she must know if—if there is anything wrong about the money.”

“She is clever, but she is not too clever to make mistakes. She has made one now—she will find.”

“I think so, papa. Mrs Glencairn could not have been mistaken. She must know, of course. And, papa—it is not pleasant to speak about—but I don’t think Mrs Ascot is nice with mama and Lina. I mean she is not considerate.”

“That will do, Fred. We won’t discuss Madame Ascot. It was not by my will that she was brought into the house. Your grandfather—but I can’t speak to you about all that. Go home, or go back to your school. This matter shall be cleared up and put right.”

“To-day, papa? Papa, I shall be ashamed to look at Miss Robina till this money is paid. Can you not give it to me to take back to-day? Please do, dear papa.”

Mr Vane laughed a very unpleasant laugh.

“Don’t be foolish, Fred. I have not the money to give you to-day, or any day. I must speak to Mrs Ascot: there must be some mistake. She and your mother have always managed these things, with Mr St. Cyr’s help. I can do nothing.”

“But, papa—” entreated Frederica.

“Hush, say nothing more. As Mrs Glencairn said nothing to you, you are not supposed to know anything about the matter. Go back to school at once. Or are you going home for the day?”

“I meant to do so, but I don’t wish to trouble mama. I might speak to Mrs Ascot.”

“Much good that would do,” said her father, with his unpleasant laugh. “No, I will speak to her. Go now, there are people coming in.”

As the door opened to admit some one, Frederica passed out, but she did not turn her face towards home, nor towards school.

“I will go to Cousin Cyprien,” said she to herself. “I cannot trouble mama, and I cannot go back to Mrs Glencairn’s without some hope that it will all be set right. Papa so soon forgets.”

And not giving herself time to lose courage by thinking about the difficulties before her, she hastened away. But when she found herself in the dismal hall into which Mr St. Cyr’s office opened, and from which the staircase to his house led, she wished herself well away again. It was late in the morning by this time, but Mr St. Cyr had not come down to his office, the man who opened the door told her, and Frederica went upstairs with a beating heart. She thought she had come at a wrong time, when she opened the door, and found that Mr St. Cyr was not alone. But her friend hastened to welcome her, and though he expressed some surprise at the sight of her, he expressed pleasure also.

“Only I fear you must be in trouble again,” said he, kindly. “Is it something very serious this time? Ah! yes, your face says so. It is not—is it Prickly Polly? But first let me introduce my brother to you, whom you ought to know. Jerome, this is Theresa’s daughter—Mr St. Hubert’s grandchild.”

“It must be Theresa herself, I think,” said the dark man, who rose and held out his hand.

“No, I am Frederica. Theresa is younger than I.”

“She is very like her, is she not? Just the same bright little creature. But she is not bright to-day. Tell me what is the matter, my little cousin.”

Frederica hesitated. She did not like to speak before Mr St. Cyr’s brother. She would not have liked to speak before anyone, but, as she told Tessie afterwards, the Reverend Mr St. Cyr had not a nice face. It was a face that somehow made her think of a mask, and she looked with a little startled curiosity at him, wondering what might be behind it.

“It brings back your youth, does it not? She is very like what her mother was in those days. But her mother is changed. Ah! so sadly changed,” said Mr St. Cyr, with a sigh.

But the priest did not answer a word.

“Well, what can I do for you?” said Mr St. Cyr, turning to Frederica. “Who has been troubling you this time? Not Prickly Polly, sorely? I thought I had settled her affairs the other day. What is it now?”

“Did you?” said Frederica, eagerly. “And was it very disagreeable?”

“Well, for her, rather so, I fancy. What is it now? Is it a secret? And does Madame the Schoolmistress let you go here and there about the city by yourself? She thinks you ‘sensible,’ I suppose?”

Frederica shook her head.

“I was not alone. Nora took me to papa’s office, and then I came here. It is not a secret, but—”

The Rev. Mr St. Cyr sat down, and took up a book.

“Regard him as if he were made of wood,” said Cousin Cyprien, laughing; “and now tell me all your trouble.”

“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you, but I don’t know what else to do.”

And then she told him all her trouble; how she had heard by accident that Mrs Glencairn had received nothing for their board and education for a long time, and how she had gone to her father, and he had been angry, and said he could do nothing, and then she added,—

“I think Mrs Ascot, must know. Do you think Madame Ascot is a trustworthy person, Cousin Cyprien? Of course she is disagreeable, and cross, and all that; but not to be trustworthy is something quite different. And papa says it was not his fault that she came to our house. Do you think her a good woman. Mr St. Cyr? Is she trustworthy?”

He listened to her story without a word, only smiling and nodding now and then till she came to the end and asked those questions about Mrs Ascot. Then he looked uneasily towards his brother, but his brother never lifted his eyes from his book, nor seemed to hear a word.

“We must not speak evil of her, nor accuse her without sufficient grounds,” said he gravely.

“No,” said Frederica faintly. “But I do not mean because of this altogether. She is not always considerate towards mama, I am afraid, and mama is ill, and—alone. But I need not trouble you about it. Pardon me if I ought not to have come to you.”

“You did right to come to me. I can set right all this mysterious affair. You shall not hear of it again. Of course you are to come to me.”

“But, Cousin Cyprien,” said Frederica, taking courage from his kindness, “ought I to need to come to you always? Is there not something wrong that might be remedied?”

“My dear child, almost everything in the world is wrong, and I very much fear must always remain so. But this can be remedied, and it shall be on one condition. You are not to trouble yourself about it. Are you the little girl who the other day nearly overturned me? You look like an old woman with that naughty wrinkle in your forehead.”

Frederica laughed.

“What should I do, if I might not come to you? And yet I ought not to need to come. There must be something wrong,” added she, the naughty wrinkle coming to her forehead again. “Was it grandpapa who put it all wrong, as papa says? or is it Madame Ascot? or perhaps papa himself?” added she, with some hesitation.

Mr St. Cyr answered her gravely.

“My little girl, we will not ask. I will set this matter right—no, not to-day, but soon, and you must not think of it any more.”

His promise sounded very different in Frederica’s ears, from the promise her father had made. Mr St. Cyr did not forget. Still she lingered as if she had more to say, and as if she were not quite sure whether she ought to say it.

“Do you wish Mrs Ascot to stay in our house, Cousin Cyprien? Papa said to-day it was not by his wish that she ever came. Do you like her, Mr St. Cyr? Have you confidence in her? I am quite sure I could make mama and Selina much happier than she makes them.”

“This terrible Madame Ascot!” said Mr St. Cyr with a shrug. “No, I don’t think I like her very much, or have much confidence in her. But we will not speak of her. When you are old enough and wise enough to take care of your mama and your sister, and the housekeeping, and all that, we shall dispense with madame altogether, I fancy. But this must be a secret till the right time comes, and we shall say no more about it.”

“I am almost old enough, am I not? Well, I will wait patiently.”

“Good child! that will be best,” said Mr St. Cyr.

Then he showed her several curious things that were in the cabinet, and a fine picture he had lately purchased, and then he rang for some fruit, and was very attentive and full of ceremony in serving her; and then he went downstairs with her, when she went away.

“Good day, my little cousin,” said he. “Be sure you come to me always. I wish I could put aside all trouble from you as easily as I can put aside this one. Though, indeed, I may have vexation more than enough, before I am done with it,” he muttered, as he went upstairs to his brother again.

And he did have vexation, and so had Mrs Ascot, and Mr Vane did not escape without his share. But Frederica had no more. In a day or two she gathered from various sources that Mrs Glencairn had been paid in full, and with interest, and that was enough for her. She never heard another word more about the matter.

Chapter Nine.

Mr St. Cyr’s vexation began the moment he went upstairs again into the room where his brother was sitting. A good many years before this time, Mr Jerome St. Cyr had known the St. Huberts, and had looked upon Theresa’s marriage with Mr Vane, as almost all her friends had done, as a terrible sacrifice. He had been a young man then, he was much younger than his brother. He had gone to Europe to pursue his studies soon after that, and had remained there after they were finished. His correspondence with his brother had not been very regular or frequent, and he knew little of what was passing among his friends all that time. He had only lately returned home, and he showed great interest in the Vane family, and asked his brother many questions concerning them. Mr St. Cyr gave him some particulars of them and their manner of life; of Mrs Vane’s ill-health, and the quiet way in which she and her blind daughter lived together.

“But, my brother,” said Jerome St. Cyr, “I do not understand how you should have permitted affairs to take such a course, you who have so long had the power in your own hand. Why should these girls be losing their time at a second or third-rate school, as seems to be the case? Why have they not been all these years with the Sisters of the Sacred Heart? And the boys, too! Think of them wasting their time with some foolish young person who goes to them daily! It is little less than disgraceful.”

“You mistake,” said Mr St. Cyr quietly. “I have had the management of their grandfathers property for their mother’s use, but I have had no power—no, nor the shadow of power, nor of influence, where Mr Vane’s children are concerned.”

“Then permit me to say that you have been very culpable in this matter, I should have obtained influence and power too.”

Mr St. Cyr shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

“And all this immense property that has been accumulating since Mr St. Hubert’s death, this rascally Englishman is to have?”

“No, his children are to have it—Theresa St. Hubert’s children. It has made the Englishman sufficiently miserable thus far—the sight of I mean, without the power to use it. Not but that he has had some good of it too.”

“But to think of these poor children growing up without Christian instruction! Did Mr St. Hubert make no condition as to their education—their religion? I cannot imagine how you and Pauline Precoe can reconcile it to your sense of duty, to your conscience, that it should be as it is with them. With Pauline Precoe’s help, I should have made it quite otherwise.”

Mr St. Cyr laughed in a way which was not pleasant to hear.

“You have not forgotten Pauline Precoe, it seems,” said he.

“I must see her,” said Jerome. “It may not be too late yet. These children must be saved.”

“It is too late to think of availing yourself of Pauline Precoe’s help in your good work, however. She is now in Mrs Vane’s house, but she shall not be there long. I have no influence with Mr Vane—he hates me like poison; but I think he may be made to see that it will not be for his interest that Madame Ascot should stay much longer in his family.”

“Why? What has she done, poor Pauline? You did not use to hate her so.”

“I never respected her. She was never worthy of respect. She was and is an utterly unscrupulous person. I say to you what I mean to say to her soon—she is a dishonest person. I might even say worse than that.”

“She has not been under right direction,” said his brother.

“And you would like to be her director henceforth. I wish you joy of the office. But you must not hope through her to gain influence over Theresa St. Hubert and her children.”

“And they and their wealth must be lost to the Church? You are not so good a Christian as you once were, Cyprien,” said his brother.

“That is as may be. I do not think it is my Christian duty, or yours, to seek to obtain possession of Mr St. Hubert’s wealth, or any part of it, by any means, or for any purpose whatever.”

“I seek nothing for myself,” said his brother; “and we will discuss the subject no more.”

“There is just this to be said more,” said Mr St. Cyr, gravely and firmly: “Do not meddle with their affairs, my brother. No good can come of it, to you or to any one. You wish none of it for yourself? To wish for it for any purpose—yes, even to build churches, or to feed and clothe your orphans—is covetousness. To obtain possession of it would be dishonesty. Put it altogether from your thoughts.”

There was a silence of several minutes, and Mr St. Cyr rose to leave the room.

“Brother,” said Jerome, meekly, “I had hoped that after all these years of separation we might at least have lived in peace together—the last of our race as we are.”

“With all my heart, let it be peace. Only there must be no meddling with this matter, or with any matter in which my honour as a gentleman and a man of business is involved. That must be clearly understood.”

“I must be faithful with you,” said Jerome, still speaking softly: “I consider that you have been Culpably negligent with regard to these children. It is their souls for which I am anxious, not their wealth. It is for you to render an account of them—not me.”

“So be it! I will answer,” said Mr St. Cyr. After a moment he added, “Do not, my brother, let us become unfriendly over this matter. When Mr St. Hubert left his property to me, in trust for his daughter and her children, I did all that was permitted me to do to have these children placed under Christian influence and teaching. In fact, I would have confided them to the care of the ladies of the Sacred Heart, as you suggest, if I had been consulted. Mr Vane had other plans, and I had no right to interfere. I cannot say that I now regret that my plans for them failed. They are good and sweet children, frank and loving, and conscientious, with far more strength of character and truthfulness, than would have been developed in them had they been educated within convent walls. And they will need these qualities, poor children.”

“All that sounds strangely from the lips of one who has the reputation of being a religious man,” said his brother gravely.

“Have I that reputation? Well, we will say no more, lest your next word be not so flattering. And now I must leave you to amuse yourself, while I without loss of time attend to this unpleasant business. We shall see each other again soon.”

It truly was an unpleasant business to all concerned; and all the more so, that instead of shutting his eyes, and seeming not to see what was wrong, as he had often done before, in matters where Mr Vane was concerned, he was determined to search to the bottom the affair of the misappropriated money. He had no expectation that it would be restored; he did not care about that: the result he desired to bring about was the departure of Mrs Ascot from the house. She would have been sent away long before, if Mrs Vane in her ill-health could have found courage to dissent from the will of her dead father who had placed her there, or to oppose the expressed will of her husband, whose ease and interest Mrs Ascot in all things studied.

So Mr St. Cyr did his best to make it unpleasant business to both Mrs Ascot and Mr Vane, and they did the same for each other. With the details our story has nothing to do, but the result was matter of rejoicing to the Vanes. The very first thing that Fred and Tessie heard when they came home for the holidays was that Madame Ascot was going to be married! It was madame herself who told them. She was to many her own cousin, Mr Joseph Precoe, who was a merchant in the city. It would have happened long ago, only she had never been able to induce herself to forsake dear Mrs Vane, who had been so much in need of her. But now in justice to Mr Precoe, who had waited so long, she must wait no longer.

Madame was determined to part in friendship with everybody, it seemed, and she would not see the joyful looks the girls exchanged, nor any other indications of delight at the prospect of her departure. She not only did not resent these things, but took the utmost pains to conciliate the young people and their mother as well. There was to be a fine wedding, and Mrs Ascot’s earnest wish was that she should go directly from Mrs Vane’s house to the church, and that her dear little cousins should go with her as bridesmaids; and she had so much to say about the charming dresses and ornaments that would be required, that they desired it too.

Their mother did not desire it and their father, with more decision than he usually displayed in matters that did not particularly affect his own comfort, put an end to the discussion of the subject at once. Madame Ascot, an inmate of their house, had been a person of some importance, but Madame Precoe would be like any other common person with whom they had nothing at all to do. This was made quite clear to the children by him, and there was no reason, except the pretty bridesmaids’ dresses, why they should regret his decision. Madame was disappointed and angry. She showed her disappointment, but she did not show her anger. She was determined to part in friendship with them all, and she promised to come and see them often, and to render them assistance in all matters where assistance was needed.

“There must be none of that, however,” said Mr Vane, when Frederica told him of Mrs Ascot’s kindness. “It would suit her purpose, I daresay, to make good her position here, and it would suit other people’s also; but it will not suit me; and she is not to be encouraged; remember that, Fred.”

Frederica opened her eyes in astonishment at her father’s unwonted warmth.

“It would not suit mama, if that is what you mean, papa—nor any of us. We are very glad to part with her, and Mr St. Cyr does not like her at all, I am sure.”

“He may wish to make use of her, though he does not like her. But she is not to be encouraged to come here.”

“Very well, papa,” said Frederica: but she by no means understood what her father meant, nor did it matter much that she did not.

The girls saw the wedding after all. They went to the church in the early morning, and saw madame in her fine dress and veil, and her bridesmaids, who were much better suited to the office than they would have been. Madame did not see them. They kept out of sight, and watched the ceremony with great interest, rather pitying the good-natured-looking bridegroom, and exchanging serious doubts as to his chances of good times in madame’s hands. The usual carriages drawn by white horses awaited them at the door; and as they watched them driving away, Tessie said,—

“There! she has really gone at last. I have been afraid all along that Mr Precoe would repent, or that somebody would do something to put a stop to it, and that we should have Prickly Polly back again. I should like to dance and sing for thankfulness.”

But Frederica had no thought of dancing and singing.

“There is always, some drawback,” said she gravely. “If everything does not go on well in the house,—dinners, and servants, and all that,—papa will not be pleased.”

“Oh, well! Why should they not go on well? You are so sensible, you know,” said Tessie, laughing. “You are equal to Mrs Ascot, surely.”

“I mean to be good, and try to do everything right, and then all will go well. That is what Miss Robina said to me—at least, she said I must always try to do right, whatever happened. If one could always know what is right!”

Tessie laughed.

“I wonder if it was right for us to come and see the last of Madame Ascot, after what papa said.”

“Oh! our coming in this way was quite different. We were not guests, and she did not see us. And after the first moment I daresay papa did not think about it.”

“That is true. Papa does not mind about things.”

“But he minds about his dinner, and about everything being right when his friends come to the house, and all that; and perhaps he might mind about our coming here too. I think I shall tell him that we were in the church.”

Tessie said he would be sure not to care, and Frederica thought so too, or perhaps she would not have been so ready to tell him about it. It is possible he did not care very much; but he was rather cross about it, Frederica confessed, when she told Tessie afterward. His comfort had already been interfered with since Mrs Ascot’s departure, for the affairs of the house did not go on very well for a while, and he had other causes for embarrassment which he could not tell to her. He only said it was not a proper thing for her to be going about the streets alone, or with no one but Tessie, and insisted that an end should be put to it.

“You are no longer a child,” said he; “you are almost a woman.”

“But surely, papa, I should be all the fitter to go about for that,” said she, laughing.

“That is your idea, is it? Well, it is not mine. You must amuse yourselves within the bounds of the garden, while your vacation lasts.”

“But, papa,” said Frederica, with dignity, “it is not a question of amusement: you forget that I am housekeeper.”

“No, I am not likely to forget that,” said her father drily. “If you must go out, you must go in the carriage, or take Dixen with you. I cannot have you going here and there by yourself.”

“Very well, papa: I will remember.”

It was very agreeable to her that her father should acknowledge that she was no longer a child, but she was by no means sure that all the consequences of being almost a woman would be agreeable. However, she was determined to make the best of it.

“I am going to be very busy,” said she. “You shall see what a housekeeper I shall be. I shall have no time to be going here and there. I shall like it, I am quite sure, better than school.”

But Frederica had all her housekeeping to learn yet. She did not know what she was saying when she was speaking in this way to her father. It is not to be supposed that an inexperienced young girl like her could at once have rightly governed and guided so large a household, even had she set herself to the work with a full sense of its responsibility and difficulty. She had some misgivings in the direction of “papa,” but all the rest seemed easy and pleasant. Indeed, she considered it “great fun” to keep the keys, and order dinner, and hold consultations with the cook over courses, and dishes, and sauces, of which she knew nothing at all.

It was “great fun” to the cook too, but she tired of it after a while, and so did Frederica. As a general thing, the cook heard the orders and took her own way about obeying them, which, on the whole, answered everybody’s purpose best. But sometimes the young mistress forgot her orders, or did what was worse, issued orders which were contradictory or impossible to obey. And sometimes, in her ignorance, she was arbitrary and unreasonable, and assumed dignified “airs,” and asserted her authority at wrong times, and made “no end” of trouble. “And as for standing the like of that from a child that didn’t know white sauce from butter, it was not to be thought of for a minute,” cook said, with sufficient emphasis.

It was the cook who was Frederica’s greatest trouble, because she was the only servant in the house, except Dixen, who could in any measure interfere with the comfort or temper of her father; and in trying to keep things right for him, she put them often woefully wrong. So domestic affairs were in rather a troubled state for a while. Tessie was not altogether wrong, when she asserted that it would have been much more comfortable for everybody if she had left the servants of the house to do things in their own way, and of course it came to that at last.

Frederica grew tired of being anxious, and dignified, and out of temper, and by-and-by let the cook and all the rest of them take their own plans, and fell into the usual holiday ways, and devoted herself to her mother and Selina. She kept the keys still, and ordered dinner; but very often the store-room door was open, while the keys were safe in her little basket, and her orders for dinner were very apt to degenerate into amiable and undignified coaxings for certain favourite dishes at the cook’s hands. This was a great deal more agreeable for all concerned, and was quite as well every way. For the servants had been well trained by Mrs Ascot, and they sufficiently appreciated the advantages of a good place and good wages, to be reasonably faithful in the performance of their duties. And besides, in a little time they grew quite fond and proud of their merry and pretty young mistress, and took pains to please her, when it did not involve too much trouble to themselves.

And so Mrs Ascot was less missed in the house than she would have believed possible. Even “papa” ceased to be critical and vexatious when he found that his dinner, and his boots, and his fine linen seemed to make their appearance at proper times with no trouble to himself. Household affairs settled into their new grooves quietly and regularly, and the young housekeeper gave herself not much trouble about them for a while. She had enough to do without them. Even in the busiest of housekeeping times, the sisters had never neglected their mother and Selina.

The presence of the girls in the house made a joyful difference to them. The sound of their voices, as they danced out and in the rooms, usually so silent and lonely, was music and medicine to their mother. She grew better and stronger in these weeks, and made efforts that she would have believed impossible before they came home.

Mr Vane’s desire that the girls should confine themselves to the garden for their walks and amusements was not so disagreeable to them as it might have been. For the summer proved to be hot and dry, and the streets were dusty and close, and the large and beautiful garden, with its walks, and soft green turf and shady trees, was as pleasant a place as could well be imagined in which to pass the sultry days.

From the first day of her return home Frederica had been faithful with regard to the reading of the Bible with her mother and Selina. Eppie had said that this was one of the ways by which she had been taught to be religious. She knew that other good people valued the Bible for the wisdom it contained, or for the comfort it could give. She had heard it spoken of as the rule of life, and as the guide to heaven, and she determined to know what it contained, and to get the good of it for herself and for those she loved. So, beginning at the beginning, she read regularly a portion every day. She might have grown tired of it after a while, for though she found some of it full of interest, it was not all so, and she did not find in it what she had hoped to find. It did not tell her directly and plainly what she must do. She did not see the way to be good and serve God pointed out in words that she could understand, and she might have been tempted to betake herself to other books for instruction and amusement, if it had not been for Selina. But there was no doubt about her interest in what she heard.

Selina’s life had been quiet and untroubled. There had been her mother’s ill-health, and the occasional irritability and despondency consequent upon it, and there had been the vexations that from time to time had come on them through the agency, direct or indirect, of Mrs Ascot. But there had been nothing else to disturb in any painful way the uneventful days to her. And there had been as little to heighten beyond its usual quiet flow the contented current of daily occupation and pleasure. There had been her little brothers’ daily visit to their mother’s room, and the infrequent joyful holidays of her sisters, but her life had been still and monotonous. Her interests and occupations had not been of a kind to take her thoughts out of the house where she had always lived. Their few visitors brought little to her but the usual commonplace talk and superficial sympathy, and even the books that were read, and the tales that were told her, were not of a kind to move the unawakened heart and mind of one withdrawn by her blindness and isolation from a young girl’s interest in the world around her.

And so when Frederica came with her eager interest in the reading, and her vague but joyful hopes of all that might spring out of it, Selina did not know what it meant, but prepared herself to take pleasure in the pleasure of her sisters, as she had often done before. But this state of mind did not survive even the first day’s reading. All the wonderful new things to which she listened were for her, as well as for Frederica and the rest. They were not new to Frederica. She had often read before how in the beginning the heavens and the earth were made. The mother, too, had some vague remembrance of what the Book contained, for during the first years of her married life she had gone to church with her husband. But strange as it may seem, all was new to Selina, and to all that her sister read she listened eagerly, and thought and spoke of it afterwards with a wonder and delight that encouraged her sister to persevere in the reading; and whatever else was neglected or hurried over, to the reading was always given its full share of time and attention.

This was the beginning of a new life to Selina. If her beautiful blind eyes had been suddenly opened on the world around her, it could hardly have made a more entire change in her thoughts and feelings and enjoyments, than did this daily reading of the Bible. She did not say much about it. It had always been her way to listen to the others rather than to speak, and it was her way still. But a great many new thoughts came to her, and the knowledge of many wonderful truths. Her thoughts were often confused, and her reception of truth partial and imperfect, but her interest and enjoyment were real and deep. All that came to her through the reading did not come at once, and the best did not come first. The blessing for which Frederica hoped, and looked, and sometimes prayed, did not come in its fulness to any of them for a good while after that, but from the first the reading was a source of happiness to them, and most of all to Selina.

Mrs Vane’s enjoyment of it was in the enjoyment of her children. To be sitting, free from pain, in the garden, where she had played as a child, with her own children around her, and with no care or fear pressing immediately upon her, was enough to satisfy her. Their delight in the reading, and in the talk that often grew out of it, she did not share. She did not understand it, nor cared to do so at first. To watch her blind darling’s bright absorbed face, and to see her sisters’ tender affection, and their desire to give her a part in the pleasure from which her affliction tended to debar her, was happiness to the mother, who had grieved so much over her in the past.

Mrs Vane was not a very wise mother, nor indeed a very wise woman in any relation of life, and she wished nothing more for herself nor for her children than a continuation of just such days as these. She felt so safe and at rest in the sunshine of the dear old garden, shut in from the world, where trouble was, and danger. It was a new experience to her to have them all around her, with no one to interfere with their plans and pleasures, and she desired nothing beyond.

Mr Vane had gone away, as he always did for a month or two in the summer, and there were few interruptions in the quiet of their lives. Once or twice Frederica and Tessie went to visit their half-sister Mrs Brandon, who lived in a pretty house near the mountain. They went because they knew their father wished them to go, but they did not enjoy going very much. Their sister Caroline was very pretty and good, they thought, and she meant to be very kind to them; but she had a way of looking at them and listening to them as though she thought them odd little creatures, different from other young girls, which was not agreeable to them; and she had a way of speaking of their father as “poor papa” or “poor dear papa,” which was especially distasteful to Frederica, and which she resented, not for her father’s sake, but for her mother’s, and she did not always conceal her displeasure. So they did not go often, nor stay long.

They drove out in the carriage when the days were clear and cool, and once or twice they had a visit from Madame Precoe. Mr St. Cyr’s brother came several times; but for the most part they were alone, and the days passed quietly away. They read other books as well as the Bible. Selina took pleasure in them all, and Frederica promised, when her holidays were over, seriously to attend to her sister’s neglected education, and even now favoured her with scraps of information remembered from her own lessons, historical and geographical facts, and bits of botany, and even grammatical rules. Selina declared herself ready to be taught all that her sister knew, but in the meantime it was the reading of the Bible about which she cared most.

Many grave discussions grew out of the reading. They made mistakes often, and said foolish things, and any one listening to them must have been sometimes amused and sometimes pained by the ignorance they displayed, and by the opinions they expressed; but no one could have failed to discern in them an eager desire to know the truth and to obey it. And they who earnestly desire to know the truth have an infallible teacher and guide, and it is certain of such, for He says it, that “they shall know the truth, and the truth shall make them free.”

“I have heard that before, more than once,” said Selina one day, when Frederica had read the promise of God to Isaac in Gerar: “And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy seed all these countries; and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed.”

“Yes, we have had it before,” said Frederica. “The same promise was given to Abraham, you know.”

“What does it mean, I wonder?” asked Selina. “Oh! it means that the children of Abraham were to become a great people, as they did afterwards. They were God’s own chosen people. All the Bible is written about them, you know.”

“Yes, but how are all the nations of the earth to be blessed through them?”

“I have heard something about it,” said Frederica meditatively. “Let me think a minute. Oh, yes! it was because the Saviour was to come among them. The Bible is all about the Jewish people, because Jesus was a Jew.”

“Was He?” said Selina wistfully.

“Yes, and of course that is what it means. Jesus died for all men. Jesus is the Son of God, and the son of Mary, you know.”

“No,” said Selina gravely; “I don’t know.”

“Well, never mind, we can read about it,” said Frederica, turning the leaves of the Bible till she came to the first chapter of Matthew. “It is all here, and we will read it.”

Going rapidly over the first verses to herself, till she came to the eighteenth, she then read, “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise,” and so on. “Thou shalt call His name Jesus; for He shall save His people from their sins. And they shall call His name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.”

Frederica lingered over these passages, reading them many times, and trying to remember all that she had heard about them.

“Jesus is God, you know, and He became man that He might die for us, and save us from our sins, as the verse says; and we ought to love Him, and obey Him, and serve Him.”

“Yes,” said Selina, “if we only knew the way. If we had any one to teach us.”

“We are going to learn the way. It is all here; in the Bible, I mean,” said Frederica.

“They all say that—Miss Robina, and Miss Pardie, and all of them. And the clergymen say it in church. And Mrs Glencairn said always that we must not mind what people say about religion, unless it is in the Bible. And Eppie told me once that God Himself would teach us.”

“And do you think He will?”

“Yes, if we ask Him—when we say our prayers, you know.”

“When we say ‘Our Father,’ you mean?”

Every night and morning since she was a little child, Selina had said “Our Father.”

“Yes, and we may ask for other things, and God will give them. We learned texts about it once, only I can’t quite remember them. This is one—‘Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My name, He will give it you.’ Jesus Himself says that.”

“And will He?” asked Selina.

“Yes,” said Frederica, with a little hesitation, “if we ask right things, I suppose.”

“And would He make me see, if I were to ask Him? Oh, mama I only think if He would!”

Mrs Vane clasped the eager little hand that touched hers, and sighed.

“But, mama, He could do it. He opened blind eyes many times while He was on earth, and His being in heaven now would make no difference. He could do it, I suppose,” said Frederica, not knowing very well what to say.

“And will He, do you think, if I ask Him? Mama will ask Him too, and you and Tessie.”

“He could do it if He chose. But perhaps it means not such things we are to ask for, but that He would teach us, and make us wise and good, and forgive us our sins, and take us to heaven when we die,” said Frederica. “And you are very happy as you are, dear! You don’t care very much about it, do you?” said she, kissing softly the beautiful blind eyes that were wet, though they were smiling, too.

“Frederica, love, you are making your sister unhappy, I fear,” said her mother anxiously. “My darling, come to me!”

Selina kissed her mother gently two or three times. “Unhappy! no, mama. It was only for a moment, and it was for you that I wished it, mama, more than for myself.”

Her mother could only murmur fond words over her, as she caressed her tenderly.

“But it cannot be true, all that Fred has been saying,” broke in Tessie. “It is a pity. But it is only one of Fred’s ideas.”

“But it must be true, because Jesus said those very words, only I suppose we do not understand it yet,” said Frederica. “We will read more. And, mama, Selina will see when she gets to heaven.”

Mrs Vane uttered an exclamation of impatience and astonishment.

“Frederica! why do you say such things?”

“Let us read more,” said Selina, for she saw that her mother was troubled at the discussion.

And so they read on. Not in the Old Testament, but in the New. They read of the wonderful words and deeds of our Lord, and Selina drank in the strange glad tidings with awe and delight. She never in her mother’s presence said anything more about her wish to see. She spoke of it to her sisters, and for a little while the desire disturbed the gentle current of her thoughts and enjoyments. But it passed away, and the sweet content that had brightened all these years to her mother came back again. She listened, and mused, and wondered at all she heard, and by-and-by, as her mind opened, and she understood better the nature of those things that are promised without reserve to those who ask for them aright, she never ceased to ask humbly yet undoubtingly that to her and to those whom she loved, they might be given in due time.

Chapter Ten.

And so the untroubled days passed, till Mr Vane came home again. They were glad to see him, and indeed made a jubilee of the day of his return. But there was an unconfessed fear in the heart of each that a change was at hand, and that their untroubled days were at an end.

But the holidays were over, and nothing was said about the girls’ return to Mrs Glencairn’s. If Mrs Ascot had been among them, that would have been settled long ago, but there was no one now eager to get them away, and no one to make the necessary arrangements, except their father, and so Tessie comforted herself with the thought that “there was always a chance that he would forget all about it.” Still she rejoiced with trembling, and went softly through the house, and kept out of sight, that he might not be unpleasantly reminded of his neglected duty. This was not difficult to do, for their early breakfast was over before he came down in the morning, and he did not return to dinner till the hour at which the children took tea in their mother’s parlour, and except during his brief visit after dinner, there was little chance of his seeing any of them. And when one week was safely passed, and then another, Tessie began to think the danger of going back to school was over.

Frederica had not shared her anxiety as far as being sent to Mrs Glencairn’s was concerned, and the possibility of going to England involved so much more that would need consideration, and care, and expense, that she was not much afraid that her father would decide upon it at present. So she took no pains to keep out of the way, but, on the contrary, assumed again the responsibility and dignity of housekeeper, and wore her key-basket at her waist, and made grave suggestions about housekeeping matters for his benefit. She tried to amuse him, too, on such evenings as he did not go out after dinner, and had no one with him, and she succeeded so well that he missed her greatly when she did not come to him; and if it had not been for one unfortunate circumstance, a quiet winter might have followed the pleasant summer, and they might have all been at home together for a little longer.

One night Mr Vane told Frederica that there was on the next day to be a grand review of troops at L— farm, and to her delight he promised to take her with him. Unfortunately, however, as had happened before, the promise of the night was forgotten in the morning. Frederica was disappointed of course, and a little angry, but she recovered her good temper immediately when Tessie suggested that she might go still, and take them all with her. To be sure she could, and she congratulated herself on her father’s forgetfulness; for now the pleasure would be doubled, and more than doubled; for not only Tessie and Selina could go, but their little brothers as well. So Dixen, nothing loth, had the carriage at the door in less time than usual. They did not even have the thought of leaving their mother alone to mar the prospect of their enjoyment; for Miss Grant, having given the boys a holiday, kindly offered to stay with Mrs Vane till they all came home again.

It never came into their minds that they might be doing wrong, or that their father might be displeased with them for venturing into such a crowd, or they might have placed themselves in a less conspicuous position, and at a greater distance from that part of the grounds where many of the fashionable people of the town had stationed themselves. It never occurred to them either, that while they found so much interest and amusement in watching and commenting upon the people and the equipages crowded so closely round them, others might find the same interest in regarding them. Indeed, they made rather a remarkable group, the young girls and their brothers, and old Dixen, and Jack and Jill together, and it is not likely that Mr Vane and his daughter Mrs Brandon, or the party of equestrians who were with them, would have passed without observing them, even if little Hubert had not at the sight of them called out,—

“Papa, papa, here we are! come this way, papa.”

The little boy had clambered up on the high seat of the carriage beside Dixen. Tessie was leaning over them, and Frederica was standing on the low step of the carriage, eagerly describing to Selina all that was going on around them. But it was Selina who was the central figure of the group, to which all eyes turned. The younger girls were simply and quietly dressed in proper school-girl fashion, but they had decked their fair blind sister in beautiful and costly things; and her bright serene face, and her long golden curls shading it, made a very lovely picture. No one would have imagined that those clear sweet eyes were blind, except that she sat so still and so unconscious of the looks that were bent upon her.

“Hush, Hubert?” whispered Tessie. “Do not call again. Papa does not look pleased.”

He looked by no means pleased. Unfortunately for his good temper, he did not hear the murmur of surprise and admiration that rose from some of the party, because he was listening to Mrs Brandon, who was saying,—

“How foolish and wrong, and what bad taste, for these girls to be here alone! Papa, I am surprised that you should allow it! The horses are not taken from the carriage. There will be an accident certainly.”

Mr Vane laughed.

“With Jack and Jill! Hardly, while old Dixen is by them.”

“But they ought not to have come without a gentleman to take care of them. You should send them home.”

“Through this crowd? They are safer where they are at present.”

A movement in the throng of people permitted a nearer approach to the carriage. Tessie, who had seen her father’s face, seated herself to watch him as he came near, but Frederica was still talking rapidly and eagerly to Selina. She started as he touched her on the shoulder with the end of his riding-whip, but she did not look at all as if she expected to be reproved. She smiled and nodded gaily to him and Mrs Brandon.

“You see we are all here, papa. I wish they would begin.”

There was some delay in the bringing up of the soldiers. The crowd was getting impatient, and moved to and fro about them; and in the movement, some of Mr Vane’s friends, having dismounted and given their horses into safe keeping, came round the carriage, and, as Mr Vane whispered to Mrs Brandon, there were soon gentlemen enough about them. Frederica had seen most of them before, but they were not people that she cared for, and she whispered to Selina that she was sadly afraid their pleasure was to be spoiled. She greeted them politely, however, and mentioned their names to Selina.