"The Perils of Orphanhood" (continued 3)

“But you need not mind them,” added she, in a whisper. “They’ll go away directly, I daresay. Now the soldiers are ready to begin, and I will tell you what they do.”

And so she did. Standing on the seat where her sister sat, that she might see the better, she described in a low rapid voice the marching and countermarching, and all the movements of the men; and when she became silent, Tessie spoke, and the boys sometimes broke eagerly in. And through all, Selina listened and smiled with a face of such sweet content, such seeming unconsciousness of misfortune or loss, that tears came to the eyes of some that were looking on. Even her father saw her wonderful beauty and sweetness, and her affliction, with a new sense of surprise and pain, and sighed as he regarded her.

It grew tiresome at last to those who did not understand the movements of the soldiers, or the skill and drill needed to ensure success in all the wonderful evolutions through which they were put; and so, when at length a clear space was made near the carriage, they began to speak of going home.

“Mama will be getting anxious,” said Selina softly to one who urged them to stay longer.

“And there will be nothing more. It will be the same thing over and over again,” said Tessie. “There will be music, I suppose, and you will like that, Lina.”

“Still, if Hubert and Charlie are ready, I think we should go,” said Selina.

The boys were by no means ready to go, but their indignant outcry was interrupted by their father.

“Now that the way is clear you must go,” said he, “or you may get entangled among the carriages and be hurt.”

And then the misfortune of the day happened. Mrs Brandon, meaning to be very kind, and meaning also to gratify the curiosity of some of her friends, who had been expressing a wish to see more of her young sisters, invited them all to luncheon before they should return home. Frederica politely but promptly declined for them all.

“We said we should be home to dinner, and mama will be anxious,” said she.

“But the boys can tell her that you have stayed with me. Papa is coming, and several others. She will not care.”

“No, I suppose not, but we are tired, and it will be much nicer to visit you some time when you are alone. Excuse me. It is quite impossible,” added Frederica, as Mrs Brandon continued to urge her.

Her last words were spoken in an air and manner “not in the least like Fred,” her father said to himself, as he listened. But Mrs Brandon thought it was exactly like Fred—“the naughty little thing.” She had more than once noticed this disagreeable manner in her intercourse with her younger sister, and had spoken of it to her father, and to him she now turned her disapproving eyes. So Mr Vane interposed.

“Nonsense, Fred! What difference can it make? Stay of course—not you, Tessie, nor the boys! Dixen can come for you later. Now, Dixen, take care.”

Frederica was indignant, and said quite enough to her sisters on their way down, but to her father she only said, “Very well, papa,” with an air of offended dignity that made him laugh.

“However,” added she, when she had said all that was necessary, and a little more, “I may as well make the best of it, and amuse myself as well as I can.”

So when Mrs Brandon arrived a little while afterwards, they found her walking about on the lawn, quite ready to amuse, and to be amused. But her troubles were not over. It was Selina especially, it seemed, whom Mrs Brandon had wished to stay, and she had gone home. There were many regrets expressed by her and by the others. They had been so desirous to know Miss Vane, and to hear her sing, and so on.

“It is a pity you were not more explicit, Caroline,” said Frederica. “However, it would have made no difference. Selina’s staying was quite out of the question.”

“I am sure I can’t understand why,” said Mrs Brandon.

“Can you not? It is quite true, however.”

Mrs Brandon turned her eyes on her father, who had just entered the room. It must be acknowledged that Fred was not behaving well. Her manner was by no means respectful to her elder sister, and her tones and the flash of her eye showed that she was out of temper.

“What is the matter, Fred?” asked her father.

“We are all disappointed that Miss Vane did not stay,” said some one, with the kind intention of smoothing matters for Fred.

“Fred thinks Selina would not have enjoyed it,” said Mrs Brandon.

“Mama would not have wished it,” said Frederica, walking away, as though there was nothing more to be said.

Of course, it was all a failure after this, as far as Frederica was concerned. At another time she would have looked and listened, and amused herself with all that was going on. But she felt cross; and what was worse, she knew that all these people must be thinking her very rude and ill-bred. No one noticed her much nor spoke to her, and though she knew she deserved it, she was indignant at being treated like an ill-tempered child. Especially was she indignant with her sister for bringing all this upon her. So at the first possible moment she excused herself from the table, at which the rest seemed inclined to linger, and went out into the garden.

Her ill-temper and discomfort did not trouble her after that. She forgot it utterly; for here she found the nurse with her sister’s beautiful baby, and every trace of annoyance vanished at the sight. Here her sister found her in a little while. She had come in search of her, intending to speak a few serious words to her about her foolish conduct. But when she saw the girl’s bright face as she kneeled on the grass, clasping and kissing the pretty boy, she too forgot her vexation.

“O Caroline I was there ever so lovely a child before? How happy you must be?”

And then she wondered over him—his beauty, his murmuring and cooing, and pretty baby ways, and her delight was perfect, when he refused to go to his mother from her arms. Was there ever such a triumph? The baby was a very pretty baby, and the young girl’s delight over him was pretty too, and in the midst of it Dixen came for her, and Mrs Brandon had no time for the serious words which she felt it to be her duty to speak, “for poor papa’s sake.” But she set her conscience at rest by saying all the more to papa himself, and the immediate result of her advice was that Tessie was sent at once back to Mrs Glencairn’s, and Frederica was advised to prepare herself to be sent elsewhere very soon.

Poor Tessie thought it rather hard that she should be made to suffer for Fred’s faults. That was the way she put the matter to herself, but it was a very good thing for her to be sent to school again. She begged hard to go with her sister, wherever she should be sent, but this could not be; and her dissatisfaction did not continue long after she was fairly back at school, for Mrs Glencairn’s house was a very good place to be in, and Tessie was reasonable, and by-and-by content.

As for Frederica, it would have been as well for her if she had been sent to Mrs Glencairn’s too, for she and her mother and Selina made themselves unhappy in their uncertainty as to where she was to be sent. But when week after week passed, and nothing more was said on the subject, they began to take courage again, and to hope that she might not be sent away at all. And she was not, but it would have been much better for her if she had.

For this was not a profitable winter to Frederica. They had a happy month or two, she and her mother and Selina; they lived the same uneventful quiet life that the summer had brought them, and every little pleasure they enjoyed was doubled to Mrs Vane and Selina, because Frederica enjoyed it with them. They went on faithfully and regularly with their reading of the Bible, and for a time Frederica fulfilled her promise; and went over her old school lessons with her sister, and took great pride and pleasure in the progress that she made. They practised their music together, and a teacher came to give them lessons; and Frederica assured her father, that instead of losing her time, as Mrs Brandon had declared, she had never been so well and so happily employed as now. Whether he thought so too, or whether he was prevented by other reasons besides indolence from deciding on a proper school for her, could not be told, but the winter was nearly over before another word was said about her going away.

It was near Christmas time that Frederica began to be a good deal at the house of her half-sister, Mrs Brandon, and to go with her a good deal to other houses, and then the tenor of her life for a time was quite changed. It began very naturally and simply. There was a children’s party at Mrs Brandon’s house, to celebrate the first birthday of her little boy. Frederica was asked, and her brothers, and they all went and enjoyed it. Frederica threw herself into the pleasure of amusing the little people with all her heart. It was a delight to her, and her success was entire. The enjoyment was perfect to them all. The evening passed without one of the unfortunate incidents so likely to occur on such occasions, and no child enjoyed it better than Frederica.

It was called a children’s party, but there were many people there besides children, and it is not surprising that the bright young girl, “with the playfulness of a child and the sense of a woman,” should attract admiring attention. She threw herself so heartily and prettily into the amusement of the little ones, they said to one another and to Mrs Brandon. She was so clever and charming, and so unconscious of it. A great many foolish things were said, and some of them were said to Frederica. Of course she thought it all very agreeable, and showed herself equal to the entertainment of grown people as well as children, and enjoyed it all.

This “children’s party” led to others, and to parties of grown people as well, and by-and-by the character of these gay doings changed altogether. The simple dresses and ornaments that had at first been considered quite sufficient were laid aside for dresses of a different kind. Her mother’s long-neglected treasures of laces, and silks, and other fine things, were turned over in search of materials for her adornment, and even her jewel cases were examined, and certain of their contents appropriated for the same purpose.

Frederica had always taken pride in knowing that Mrs Glencairn spoke of her as “sensible” and as “a discreet young person,” and she had been very much in earnest to prove to her father and mother that Mrs Glencairn was right. But notwithstanding her sense and her discretion, no one will be surprised to hear that for a time she enjoyed greatly the excitement and gaiety of her life. For though it is quite true that no real and lasting happiness can be obtained in the pursuit of pleasures such as these, yet it cannot be denied that to a young girl like Frederica, the first experience of a life of this kind gives a delight which seems real, and sweet, and satisfying, and which, in a certain sense, is so while it lasts. And so she threw herself into all these things with all her heart, and enjoyed them, without a thought that she was in danger from such a life.

Her mother, remembering her own youth, her brief triumphs, and long disappointments, sent her thoughts after her into those gay scenes with vague but painful anxiety. But this always vanished in Frederica’s presence. If she made a feeble attempt now and then to remonstrate with her, or with her father, against such constant gaiety, it was only because the child was so young, and not at all because she thought such a life of pleasure wrong in itself. She knew of no other kind of life for the rich and well-born; and though she could not look forward to such a life for her daughters without anxiety, yet she was incapable of planning, or even of imagining, any other for them. If they all could have remained together content with the quiet enjoyments that had come to them in the past summer, while their father was away, she would have sought no other life for them. But that was quite impossible, she thought with a sigh.

There was no one to tell Frederica that she was in danger. All her mother’s fears were vague and indistinct. They seemed to her daughter, and even to herself, when she spoke of them, to be nervous fancies, natural enough in her state of illness and seclusion, a natural shrinking from any possible cause of change or pain. And so they both put away such thoughts, and the mother strove to take pleasure in the many costly and beautiful things brought for her approval for the adornment of her daughter.

Even Selina listened happily to her sister’s merry recitals of all she saw and heard and enjoyed, and offered her soft touch to the rich and delicate fabrics, to the laces and flowers and jewels that she wore, without a thought of trouble or danger to the sister whom she loved so well.

But Frederica was in danger all the same. She was in danger of losing that sweet naturalness and girlish simplicity which even to the worldly people with whom she mingled made her chief charm; she was in danger of growing vain and frivolous and foolish, of forgetting all the serious views of life that had so filled her thoughts, of ceasing to strive for, or to value, a knowledge of those truths which were to bring such peace and patience; such blessed hopes to her suffering mother, and such happiness to them all. Nay, she was in danger even of neglecting her mother and her blind sister, of giving up the sweet office so eagerly coveted and claimed, of being their comforter and guardian, and of living to herself and her own selfish enjoyment.

All this has happened to others who have given themselves up to a life of worldly pleasure, and this must have been the end to Frederica, if such a life had continued long.

Chapter Eleven.

In the beginning of March, there came a letter to Mr Vane, announcing the approaching marriage of his second daughter Cecilia, and begging him to be present at the ceremony, which was to take place at the end of April. Something had been said by Mr Vane, every year for the last ten, about going home to England; but sometimes for one reason, and sometimes for another, he had never carried out his design. This announcement and invitation induced him to take the matter into serious consideration this time, and Mrs Brandon’s suggestion that the opportunity would be a good one to take Frederica home for the completion of her education, decided him to make arrangements at once for going. Indeed, he by-and-by convinced himself, and endeavoured to convince others, that it was for Frederica’s sake, and not at all for his own pleasure, that the voyage was to be undertaken, and thus especially was it represented to Mr St. Cyr.

Frederica was not so pained by her father’s sudden determination as she would have been in the autumn. Of course, the thought of school was not quite agreeable to her after the winter she had spent, but there was the voyage, and possibly a gay wedding to come first; and if it had not been for the thought of leaving her mother and Selina, the prospect would not have been disagreeable. And she could not help thinking that they would miss her less than they would have done six months before.

But it did not seem so to them. The thought of losing her was almost more than her mother could bear. But there was nothing to be said: discussion would make no difference to Mr Vane’s decision. There was little time for discussion or preparation. All that Frederica needed, could be got as well in England, her father said, and there was no time to lose.

A suitable person to take charge of the home, and of all household matters during the year, had to be sought, and through the kind exertions of Mr Jerome St. Cyr, such a one was found, a very pleasing person she seemed, and she came highly recommended. She was a large fair woman, with a pale face that was very pleasing when she smiled, and her eyes were at the same time kind and searching. Her voice in speaking, and her manner and movements, were very soft and gentle, and she was, Frederica though the very opposite of Mrs Ascot in all respects.

But her gentleness did not give one the idea that she was weak. On the contrary, she was very strong and firm, as well as gentle, as they all had an opportunity of seeing, even the first day of her coming among them. For the two boys were ill when she came. They had taken cold, it was supposed, and little Hubert, from his persistent refusal to take his medicine, seemed to be becoming very ill indeed. But there was an end to all this, as soon as ever Miss Agnace understood the matter. In a moment the refractory little lad was placed in her lap, and by some extraordinary exertion of skill and will on her part, the bitter draught was swallowed by him, and he was laid quietly and comfortably in bed again. Frederica looked on with mingled astonishment and admiration.

“I have been accustomed to be with sick children,” said Miss Agnace quietly.

“I wonder if that is the way she would take with mama or Selina,” said Frederica to herself. “I can easily imagine her taking me up and dealing with me in that peremptory way; but mama, who must be so gently managed—oh! how can I ever go away, and leave her? oh! I cannot?” and though she knew her tears were vain, she wept bitterly for a long time.

She had an opportunity very soon of knowing how Miss Agnace would deal with her in little Hubert’s place. For the illness of her brothers proved to be not mere colds, as was at first supposed, but a severe form of one of those diseases of childhood, which generally pass through a whole household when one has been seized. In a few days Frederica was very ill, much more ill than either of the boys had been, and helpless, and miserable, she was entirely given up to the care of Miss Agnace; for neither her mother nor Selina was permitted to enter her room.

Gentle and firm. That exactly described her nurse’s treatment. She was taken entirely out of her own hands, which was indeed the very best thing that could have happened to her, and found herself yielding in all things to the firm and gentle rule of Miss Agnace. She was not always quite herself, and slept and woke, and tossed and murmured, with the vaguest possible idea of what was happening around her, or how the time was passing. She had the strangest dreams and fancies, and said things, and asked questions, which her nurse could only meet by her calm surprised look and silence.

Once she saw, just within the door of her room, some one whom she at first supposed was the doctor, but then it seemed to be Mr St. Cyr’s brother who was speaking with Miss Agnace, and she thought she heard him say that she must not go to England with her father, and that God had sent this sickness to keep her at home. She said to herself she was surely dreaming, and shut her eyes; and when she opened them again, there was only Miss Agnace offering her the bitter medicine with a smile.

And so one day passed after another, till the day fixed for their departure drew near. Nothing could be clearer, however, than that no departure was possible for Frederica. Nor was there much hope of her being so far recovered as to be able to leave at the latest day that would admit of their reaching England in time for the wedding. So Mr Vane spoke rather vaguely of making arrangements for her to go by some other opportunity, and set out alone. Frederica did not know whether she was glad or sorry at being left at home. She was too restless and weak to take pleasure in anything, and longed so for a change of some kind, that she could very easily have persuaded herself that she was disappointed at being left. But she had no thought to think about it or about anything for a time. She could only toss restlessly on her bed, or sit listlessly in the large easy-chair, when she was at last permitted to rise.

Her little brothers were well and strong by this time, and came to see her every day. They tried to wait upon her, and to amuse her gently and quietly, but they tired her inexpressibly, and she could not endure them long. Her mother came ice a day to see her, but she was only allowed to remain a few minutes with her, and Selina was not permitted to come near her, lest she also should take the disease. So she was left almost entirely with Miss Agnace, who was very kind to her, she told her mother, who never failed to ask the question when she came.

Yes, she was very kind; that did not prevent the days from being long and tedious; and Frederica, forgetting that she had been counted a young lady all the winter, grew childish, and petulant, and ill to please. But Miss Agnace never lost patience, and was never otherwise than gentle with her, even when she was most firm in making her do all that the doctor desired.

Books were entirely forbidden. The doctor said her eyes were quite too weak to be used, and that her sight might be permanently injured if she were to read much now. Miss Agnace in this matter obeyed the doctor to the letter, and carried every book—even little Hubert’s large-print Testament—away.

Now and then, as she grew stronger, Miss Agnace told her stories, to which she liked to listen. They were almost all about very good people who lived a great many years ago—wonderful stories some of them were, “If one only could believe them,” Frederica used to say to herself. One day she said it to Miss Agnace, and for the first time her fair still face lost its calm, and looked angry.

“Well, but that does sound rather like a fairy story, now doesn’t it?” said Frederica, moved from her usual indifference by the unwonted sight of the nurse’s indignation. “Of course it does not really mean that the loaves of bread all turned to roses in the lady’s lap, when her cruel husband made her afraid. It is an allegory, is it not? Not exactly to be received as having really happened. It is a very pretty story, and you must not be angry, because I did not mean to offend you.”

All this was not said at once, but with a pause now and then.

“Angry! no, why should I be angry? You know no better, poor child, poor unhappy child!”

Frederica did not consider herself particularly happy just at this time, but it was not at all for the reason that Miss Agnace seemed to intimate.

“Why do you say so? Why am I so unhappy?” asked she.

“Because you have no religion,” said Miss Agnace solemnly; “because you do not believe.”

It was perfectly true, and Frederica acknowledged in her heart, but not in the sense or for the reason that Miss Agnace seemed to imagine; so she said lightly,—

“A great many religious people refuse to believe such tales as these. They are very pretty, you know, and perhaps they have valuable lessons, but as for having, really happened! Such things don’t happen now.”

“That is not true. Such things do happen still. Not frequently, but when God has a purpose to accomplish, a blessing to convey.”

“Tell me something that has happened lately,” said Frederica, forgetting all else in her eagerness for a story.

And so she did, and sometimes Frederica was interested, and sometimes she was amused. She heard of lame people who had been made to walk, of pictures which had spoken, of images which had wept, and many more of the same kind.

“But I don’t quite see the good of it, even if these things were all true,” she said at last.

“My child,” said Miss Agnace gravely, “they are true. We have for their truth the authority of men to whom a lie is impossible. Do not say, ‘If they are true.’”

“And does it make you happy to believe these things?” asked Frederica.

“Happy?” repeated Miss Agnace; “can any one be happy who does not believe? Are you happy? Were you happy when you were so ill, when you thought you might die? Were you not afraid?”

“Was I so ill as that?” asked Frederica, startled. “I never thought of dying. If I had, I daresay I should have been afraid. Did mama think so, and Selina? How sorry they must have been! And papa went away all the same.”

She had no heart for any more wonderful stories that day. She lay quite silent for a long time after that, but she was not resting or at ease, for her face was flushed, and she grew restless and impatient; nothing pleased her, and she thought the day would never be done. She had all the impatience to herself, however, for Miss Agnace was as gentle and helpful as ever, and bathed her hot hands and head, and soothed her till she lost the sense of her troubles in sleep.

But another day came after that, and many days that had to be got through somehow. Her mother could not be much with her, and her brothers tired her. The cold March winds made it not safe for her to drive out, and poor Fred longed for Tessie, and would have given half her treasures to be transported to Mistress Campbell’s garret for a single day. And thus thinking of Eppie, and of “the days of her youth,” of which she used to tell her, it came into Frederica’s mind to wonder what had happened to Miss Agnace when she was a child. For though she had talked much with her, both by night and by day, she had a way of falling back on one theme—the good deeds which the saints had done, and which all people ought to strive to do: and all this grew tedious when it was repeated over and over again, and Frederica longed for something else, and so she asked her,—

“When were you born, Miss Agnace? Have you brothers and sisters? Tell me about the days when you were young, as Eppie used to do. Has anything wonderful ever happened to you?”

Miss Agnace looked at her in smiling surprise.

“I have nothing to tell. Nothing wonderful ever happened to me.”

“But still tell me about your childhood.”

Miss Agnace told her a good many things, but certainly nothing wonderful. She was one of a large family. She had been sent to a convent school at the age of nine, and remained a pupil till she was nearly seventeen. There had been no incidents in her school life. Everything went on quietly, and happily that was all. Yes, she had favourite companions. One died, and one married, and the best loved one of all was lost on a steamer on one of the great lakes. She could tell no more than that.

“And since you left school?” asked Frederica.

“Nothing has happened to me since then. I have had a busy life, and have been content with it,” said Miss Agnace, rising to leave the room. She was away a good while; but when she came back, carrying Frederica’s tea on a tray, the young girl said, as though there had been no pause,—

“Well, and what have you been busy about and content with since then?”

Miss Agnace did not answer immediately. It was evident that she did not wish to continue the conversation, only she did not know how to help it. She was not a clever person, and she could not “make up” an answer in a moment. So she said,—“I have been nursing sick people much of the time—sometimes in one place and sometimes in another. Yes, I have been a good deal in St. P.’s Hospital.”

“Oh!” said Frederica eagerly, “you are one of the sisters?”

“I am a nursing sister, yes.”

“And were they willing to let you come here? You do not wear the sisters’ dress. It was a very good thing you came here. What should we have done all this time? Was it Mr St. Cyr who sent you? Do you like to stay here, better than in the Hospital?”

Frederica could not expect that all her questions should be answered. Miss Agnace looked relieved as she listened to her.

“Yes, it was Mr St. Cyr who sent me. I like to stay here very well. I am glad to be of use.”

“You are very kind. I ought to call you Sister Agnace, ought I not? or ‘Ma tante,’ as the convent girls do? How odd that you should be here! And have you been nursing sick people all your life? You must have seen a great many sorrowful sights.”

“Yes, a great many sorrowful sights,” repeated Miss Agnace gravely; “but not all sorrowful. I have seen the joyful ending of many a troubled life, which is a happy thing to see.”

And she told her that night, and afterwards, about many sorrowful and joyful things, sickness and pain, grief and disappointment, and the blessed endings of all these; and a new view of life was presented to Frederica as she listened. She was getting better by this time, but not rapidly, and she did not grow cheerful and bright, as she ought to have done, when she was able to go out with her little brothers in the fine April days. Mrs Brandon came to see her, and would have taken her home with her for a few days, for a change, but because of baby it was not considered safe to do so, and she was obliged to content herself with the company of Miss Agnace and an hour’s reading now and then.

She was not very happy these days. She did not look back with much satisfaction on the winter. It had been agreeable enough in passing, and she had not been taught that such a life was wrong, or might lead to wrong—that “she who liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth.” But somehow she was not content with herself. She had a feeling that she had “been weighed in the balance, and found wanting;” that she had not proved herself wise, or sensible, or discreet, as she had sometimes been called; that she had been seeking her own pleasure rather than the comfort of her mother and Selina. She had even been able to look forward to the prospect of leaving them for a long time, not without pain, certainly, but still with a vague expectation of enjoying the change for herself. She had failed them, and thinking about it made her more unhappy than she had ever been in all her life before.

But the root of her trouble lay deeper than any of these things. A year ago she had pleased herself with the thought that she wished to become religious, to become a Christian, not in name merely, but in reality. She then wished this less for herself than for her mother. She had felt the need less for herself, because she was young, and strong, and happy. But she had been near death, they told her, since then; and now, as her thoughts went back to that time, she could not but ask herself, What if she had died? would it have been the end of all trouble to her, as Miss Agnace said it was to so many of the suffering poor creatures, whose eyes she had closed? She hoped so. She had never done anything very wrong. She wished to be good.

But she was not religious. At least, she had not the religion that would make her happy in the midst of suffering and in the prospect of death. And when she thought of it in this way, she was not so sure that it would have been well with her if she had died.

“But how am I to know?” said she, as she had many times said before. “People think so differently. Eppie said, If I asked Him, God would teach me, or send me a teacher. I have asked Him, though not so often as I might have done. But I will ask Him. Perhaps He has sent Miss Agnace.”

She sat up in the easy-chair in which she had been reclining.

“Miss Agnace, tell me about your religion. There are so many different sorts, you know; and I want to know about yours.”

Miss Agnace shook her head gravely.

“There is only one true religion—one true Church. There are many sects, but there is but one Church.”

“And that is yours? Eppie thought it was hers. But tell me about yours.”

She had plenty to tell her, such as it was. She told her about the only true Church, the only place of happiness and safety. She told her about its ceremonies, and worship, and sacraments. She told her about confession and penance, and of the blessedness of those who have their sins forgiven. She told her about Mary and the saints in heaven, and about our blessed Lord who may be approached through them. She said a great deal about the good works of all kinds that would win the favour of these. Above all, she insisted on the necessity of submitting implicitly to the requirements of the Church, of having no will of one’s own in such matters, and spoke severely of the pride and folly of those who ventured to take the law of God, and interpret it for themselves, without availing themselves of the teaching of those whom God had appointed for the work. She grew very earnest as she went on, but she did not speak very wisely. She certainly did not say anything that touched the heart, or gave light to the eyes of Frederica.

It is possible that if the Rev. Mr St. Cyr had known the state of Frederica’s mind, or if he could have contemplated the possibility of such an opportunity occurring for influencing her heart or her opinions, it would not have been Sister Agnace who would have been sent to Mrs Vane’s house. It would have been some one whose natural powers and acquirements better fitted her for the work of proselytism, which was, indeed, the work he had in view. But that was to come later, as time and events might permit. In the meantime Miss Agnace was a perfect instrument for the work he had given her to do. She was a born nurse, with strong nerves and a tender heart, gentle, patient, and firm. She was disciplined, experienced, and skilful, just the nurse to make life tolerable, even pleasant, to a confined invalid like Mrs Vane, and this was the office for which she was intended.

She was not clever, nor intelligent, nor very devout, but she had learned obedience. She was not her own. She had no will or judgment of her own on many matters. Her confessor was her conscience. Her idea of right was implicit obedience to him, and to the Superior of her order. Whatever they required her to do was right in her esteem, and hitherto nothing had been required of her likely to suggest questions to her mind. Her life had hitherto been so busy and so useful as to leave her no time for questioning; and in coming to Mrs Vane’s, she was conscious only of a wish to do her duty to her employer on the one hand, and to those who had sent her on the other, without an idea that it might be difficult to do both.

She grew very fond of Frederica during these days. Frederica was impatient often, and grew tired alike of her silence, and of her soft voice murmuring on about the blessed saints; but Miss Agnace never lost patience with her. She saw that the young girl was not at rest, and that she wished for something else, even more than she longed for health or society; and she longed to lead her into those paths where alone, she believed, true happiness could be found—the paths of entire submission of heart and will and judgment to the only true Church. But she did not succeed, and she was not surprised. She was a humble woman, with no wise words on her tongue, by which she might convince or teach one brought up in error, or bring her into the right way, and one day she told her so, and added,—

“But you should let me send for some one who is wise, and who has authority; and when you are well, you must go with me to church, and tell all your troubled thoughts to the blessed Mother. You should let me ask the Rev. Mr St. Cyr to come and talk with you.”

“I should like to see almost any one, it is so dull,” said Frederica with a sigh, “but I don’t like the Rev. Mr St. Cyr. Oh! I daresay he is very good and all that,” added she, as she saw that Miss Agnace looked displeased, “but I don’t know him, and he certainly has not a nice face.”

“But that is a small matter,” said Miss Agnace severely. “He is wise, and he has authority, and he would know what to say to you. He would show you the truth.”

Frederica was by no means sure that she cared about having the truth shown to her by Mr Jerome St. Cyr, or that her father would be pleased to have him visit her.

“I like you to teach me far better than I should like Mr Jerome St. Cyr,” said Frederica, “because, I know you believe what you say; and besides, I can trust you. And I always feel uncomfortable with Mr Jerome.”

“You may trust Mr Jerome. He loves you dearly,” said Miss Agnace, but she said no more at that time.

She quite believed that Mr Jerome loved them, and sought their good. Was he not interested in all that took place among them? It never came into her thoughts that she was betraying confidence, or acting in any way unworthily, by telling him every incident of their daily life. She was not always aware how much, in answer to his apparently careless questioning, she made known; for there was little to tell—trifling details of their daily life, incidents that had no significance, except as they tended to show the tastes or tempers of the children of the house, which could only interest one who loved them, as she was sure he did.

By-and-by he permitted her to see that he had a definite motive and plan in listening to all the details which seemed so trifling. He wished to gather from them some means of judging in what manner they might best be influenced in the right direction, should an opportunity to do so present itself at some future time.

Miss Agnace strongly desired for these children and their mother, that they should be brought to a knowledge of the truth, and she assented when the priest told her that it was a blessed thing for her to be permitted to aid, even indirectly, in this good work. She did not doubt the excellence of his motives, or his right to claim her help, and she never thought of refusing obedience to his lightest word. But when Frederica said, “I can trust you,” a painful sense of being not worthy of the girl’s confidence came upon her for a moment. It was only for a moment, however; at least, it was only till she spoke to Father Jerome about it—then she believed, as he told her, that it was a temptation of Satan to hinder her from doing God’s work, and she prayed and strove against it with success.

Soon after this Mr Jerome came to see Frederica, but he brought none of the strong arguments, none of the words of wisdom, that Miss Agnace had promised. He made himself very agreeable to the young girl, told her amusing tales of the lands in which he had travelled, and made an attempt at teaching her the interesting game of “Tric trac,” before he went away. Frederica acknowledged that he was agreeable, and that his face was not so bad when he was speaking and smiling, as when it was quite at rest. He came often after that; but Frederica was soon able to leave her room and become one of the family again, so that she only shared his visits with the rest. He made himself very agreeable to them all. He was a fine musician, and proposed to teach Selina to play, as he had seen the blind taught in Europe; and of course this gave pleasure to them all. He laid himself out especially to please the boys, Charles and Hubert, and succeeded. Even Tessie who was inclined to be critical and even rude to him at first, yielded to his determined attempts to please.

Frederica would have liked him too, if it had not come into her mind that he was taking all this pains for some other reason than the mere wish to be agreeable. And the same thought came into the mind of her mother. Mrs Vane had some unpleasant remembrances of him, in the days when she had known him better than she did now, and his visits did not give her unmingled satisfaction. But they did not speak to one another about him for a long time. They enjoyed Selina’s pleasure, and the pleasure of the little boys, who shared his attention, and went with him on expeditions of various kinds. They had a very quiet time till Tessie came home for the holidays. Frederica was not long in throwing off all invalid habits, and growing well and strong again, but she was quieter and graver than she used to be before her illness, and the summer did not, even after Tessie’s returning, promise to be so merry or so idle as the last had been.

Chapter Twelve.

Mr Vane’s first letter brought an account of the wedding, and of the gaieties attending it, and his next told them that he had made up his mind to pass the summer on the Continent, returning to spend a month in England in the autumn, before he went home. They heard afterwards from Paris, and then from Rome, but for a time nothing more was said about Frederica’s going to England.

As for Frederica, she said less than she used to do about being “grown up” and “sensible,” but she was more thoughtful and quiet than she had ever been before; and, with the advice and assistance of Miss Robina, laid out for herself a regular course of reading, which she pursued with praiseworthy diligence, considering all things. The reading of the Bible with her mother and Selina was commenced again, and nothing was permitted to interfere with it. She began also to take her little brothers regularly to church, and to listen and try to understand all that she heard there. She did not get discouraged, though there was not much to interest or to instruct in the sermons she often heard.

There was little hope of a happy summer to them, as the days went on. The heat which last year seemed to bring healing to Mrs Vane, brought this year weakness and nervous prostration painful to see. And something even worse than these came with them, to make the days and nights terrible to her—the fear of death,—death, which she knew to be drawing near. It had come to her in former illnesses, but never as it came now.

Mr Jerome. St. Cyr never spoke many words to her in private, but they had been strong words that she could not forget, about her godless marriage and her godless life, which had brought on her, he said, the double curse of ill-health and neglect, and which must end in still deeper misery. She could not forget them, and they woke terrible fears for the future. She told her fears to her children, hoping that they might chase them away as they had chased so many troubles of hers in past years, with playful or loving words, but they knew not what to say, for they too were afraid.

“God is good, and Christ died for us,” repeated Selina many times. “Surely that is enough, mama.”

They read the Testament daily to her still, and Frederica searched it carefully for her sake, bringing to her such sweet words as these:

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

“For the Son of man came to seek and to save that which was lost.

“God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

“Death is swallowed up in victory. O death! where is thy sting? O grave! where is thy victory? The sting of Death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

The clergyman of the church they attended came to see her, and read prayers solemnly and tenderly, and answered the appeal of her anxious eyes with vague words about God’s goodness and compassion, and how He would save all who came to Him. But his words did not comfort her.

“How can I come to Him? I do not know the way.”

“Mama, Jesus is the way—He says it,” said Selina, who never seemed to forget the words she heard.

“But I do not know Him; I have not thought about Him all my life; I have done nothing good, and it is too late now.”

“But the thief on the cross had done nothing good, even to the very last, and yet Jesus says to him, ‘To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise,’” said Selina.

“Yes; let me read it for you,” said Frederica eagerly.

“But he could do nothing, and Mr Jerome says I could give money to clothe the naked and feed the hungry, and that I could give my children to the Church, and then I should be safe. But I never trusted Mr Jerome; I am afraid of him; and yet he may be right.”

“Miss Agnace says something like that too,” said Tessie, “and I think we ought to ask Mr St. Cyr to give some money, if it would set mama’s mind at rest.”

“But it does not say that is the way in the Bible,” said Frederica gravely.

“Yes, it says something like that. Some one was told to sell all his goods to give to the poor. Don’t you remember?”

“But it says, ‘Thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory!’” said Selina. “And there must be some people so poor that they have nothing to give Him back.”

“Yes, and in another place He says, ‘I give unto my sheep eternal life,’” said Frederica. “It cannot be that one can buy it.”

“And in another place it says, ‘He that believeth shall be saved,’” said Selina.

The mother’s eyes turned eagerly from one to another. They knew little, but they knew far more than she did about that which she was so anxious to learn.

“Miss Agnace always says I must send for a priest, and confess to him, but my father hated all that, and your father would be very angry.”

“But mama, if it would make you happy, he need not be told,” said Tessie; “and we might send for some one else than Mr St. Cyr’s brother.”

“But that would be giving up what the Bible says; for it does not tell us to confess to priests, or that they can pardon us,” said Frederica.

“It says something, I think,” said Selina, “‘Whosesoever sins ye remit, they shall be remitted.’ Oh, if we only had some one to tell us what we ought to do?”

And was there no one among a whole cityful to tell these children and their mother how they might be saved? Doubtless there were many who would gladly have pointed them to Jesus as the only hope of the sinner, if they had made known their need to such. But it was quite true of those with whom they came in contact, the way was not clear to them.

“I spoke to Caroline about it,” said Frederica, “and she said we must be good, and say our prayers, and go to church, and do our duty always. But there must be some other way; for mama can do nothing now. She cannot even give money, unless Mr St. Cyr is willing; and it would do no good, if she could.”

“Miss Agnace says that she knows a sister who Is very good and wise, and who would gladly teach us. Mama, shall we send for Sister Magdalen?” asked Selina.

But Mrs Vane was less able to say what should or what should not be done, than the youngest child among them. No one sent for Sister Magdalen, unless Miss Agnace did, which was very likely; for she seemed always to know what they wished for, whether they told her or not; but she came. A very different woman she was from Miss Agnace. A thin, dark, thoughtful woman, with a face which was calm now, but which suggested thoughts of troubles passed through, and struggles encountered in past days.

She came to see Miss Agnace at first, or she said so; but she had some beautiful specimens of needlework which she wished the young ladies to see, and while they were admiring it she was speaking gentle and sympathising words to their mother.

She came a good many times after that, and by-and-by she had much to say to them all about the peace and rest that were to be found in the bosom of the true Church, and of the safety and happiness that were to be purchased by the performance of such good works as the Church commanded. She told them how, by penance, and prayer, and the confession of sin, pardon might be obtained, and how, through the intercession of Mary and the saints, they might hope to get safe to heaven.

She was a wiser woman than Miss Agnace, and knew how to put all these things in the fairest light, so as not to startle them. But she was as grieved and indignant as Miss Agnace had been at the pride and self-will of children who ventured to read, and who strove to understand, the Bible for themselves. It was just Miss Agnace’s teaching over again, except that all was more clearly and firmly announced, and more decidedly pressed home, by Sister Magdalen.

If Mrs Vane had been left a little while to her instructions and influence, she might have led her where she would, and induced her, in the hope of finding peace, to give herself altogether into the guidance of those who believe that they have the keys of heaven in their keeping. But her children never left her side when Sister Magdalen was there, and there was no assent in Frederica’s anxious watchful eyes, and Selina was always ready with some word from the Book, which even Sister Magdalen could not but acknowledge was the very word of God. Nor did it avail for her to say that God had other words than were written there, and other ways of teaching those who wished to know His will. If Frederica had learned little else from the Scriptural lessons of Mrs Glencairn and Miss Pardie, she had learned this, that the Bible is the only source of our knowledge of God as the Saviour of sinners, and to distrust all other teaching.

“What you say may be true, I cannot tell, but it is not here in the Gospels. And surely there is all here that is necessary, if we could only understand,” said Frederica gently. And Selina added,—

“I know we are very ignorant; but I do not think it is wrong in us to read and to try to understand God’s Word for ourselves, and I believe God will teach us, and mama too. We will not fear.”

In the meantime Mr Jerome had still been making frequent visits to Mrs Vane’s house, where he made himself very agreeable to the children. Selina’s music progressed rapidly, and she had increasing pleasure in it. The boys and even Tessie welcomed him with the indiscriminating liking which children bestow on those who take pains to please and win them. Frederica said to herself, that this liking and Selina’s progress ought to be sufficient reason for her liking him too. And it might have been so if the priest had been content to treat her as a child.

But she was not a child, and he touched with her on graver matters than a child could comprehend. He was aware of her reading the Bible with her mother and the rest, and of her anxious questionings of Sister Agnace, and her wish to be religious and do right, and he was more than willing to give counsel and direction with regard to these matters. But on these things Frederica would never enter with him. At first she could give no better reason for this, than that “he had not a nice face,” which she acknowledged was a very foolish reason. But afterwards she had a reason which was all-powerful with her: he made her mother unhappy. He spoke softly and soothingly to her, as far as words and manners went: but he never came but he said some words that left her anxious and troubled either for herself or her children. He intimated his belief that she had forsaken the true Church—the Church of her fathers—when she married Mr Vane, and that all her ill-health and unhappiness had come upon her as a punishment for this wrong step. He never said all this to her in words at one time; but he uttered a word now and then, breathed a sigh, spoke a soft regret, or as soft a warning, that left the poor soul never quite at ease. He never spoke thus to her in the presence of her children. Without them there is little doubt that he could easily have bent the poor broken-spirited woman to his will—brought her to repentance and a better mind, he would have called it. But Selina’s gentleness, and Frederica’s sense of her mother’s helplessness and dependence, were a strong defence to their mother. At this time Frederica saw that she was unhappy a good while before she knew that the priest had anything to do with it. When she did know it, she resented it angrily, and told him with more than sufficient warmth, that it was neither kind nor wise of him to come with his hard words and harder judgments, to unsettle and perplex the mind of one so tender and delicate.

“Perhaps you mean it kindly, but it is not real kindness to make poor mama unhappy and afraid. You have your religion, and we have ours. We will not interfere with each other,” said Frederica, with trembling dignity.

“Have you then any religion?” asked the priest. “Because it has been intimated to me that you are in search of one, and know not where it is to be found. Is your mother then happier than you?”

Frederica looked at him in amazement and anger, yet other feelings also were in her heart.

“Mama is good,” said she. “One does not need to be very wise, or to have fine words to offer, in order to be a Christian.”

“And you? are you a Christian, dear?”

“I am not good,” said Frederica humbly; “but I wish to be, and God will teach me, and mama also.”

“And how long will it take you to learn? a year? two years? And the chances are your mother will not live many months. Will it be well with her, do you think, when she shall go away into another world alone?”

Frederica turned upon him a white face and wide-open eyes of horror.

“Yes,” said Selina’s soft voice behind them, “it will be well. God is good, and Christ has died.”

Frederica uttered a glad cry, and clasped her sister in her arms.

“Yes,” said the priest, “God is good, and Christ has died. This is our only hope. But then all these years have you been thinking of this? You have been forgetting God, and even now you are trusting to your own wisdom to find Him. You are refusing counsel. You are walking in your own ways. Oh! poor ignorant erring children, it is because I love you so much, you and your mother, that I dare to make you unhappy by telling you the truth. I would gladly lead you in the right way.”

“Is mama so very ill?” said Frederica, forgetting everything else, in the misery that his words had suggested.

“Do you not see yourselves that she is very ill? Dear children, death is a happy change to those who have the care and blessing of the Church. Death is nothing of which a Christian need be afraid.”

He spoke gently and tenderly, and laid his hand softly on the blind girl’s head; but his eyes were hard and angry, and Frederica shrank from him with a repugnance which she did not try to conceal.

“I would so gladly help you,” said he again. “It is your happiness I seek, and the happiness of your dear mistaken mother.” And in a little he added, “God bless you with humble minds.” And then went silently away.

And he left two very unhappy girls behind him. Could it be that their mother was going to die; and that she had cause to be afraid?

“I never wish to see him again,” said Frederica. “He shall never see mama again, if I can prevent it.”

But her anger went away with the departure of the priest, and now she was very miserable.

“But, Fred, if it is true that we are all wrong, and that mama is going to die before—”

Selina shuddered.

“Selina! God is good, and Christ has died; you said it yourself.”

“Yes, God is good. He will teach us.”

“And He will take care of mama and all of us. And if mama does not go to heaven, I am sure I do not care to go there either,” said Frederica, with a great bout of weeping.

“God is good, and Christ has died,” repeated Selina softly. “He will teach us.”

“But I never wish to see Mr Jerome St. Cyr again,” said Frederica.

But he came again, just as usual, in a day or two. Mr St. Cyr was there with the mother and the children when he came in, and the brothers exchanged looks of surprise at the encounter, for they had never met in Mrs Vane’s house before. Mr St. Cyr looked on with a little amused curiosity to see how his brother would be received.

Very cordially by the young people it seemed, but he noticed a troubled look pass over the face of their mother; and Frederica rose and went over to her sofa, and took her seat beside her, with an air that seemed to say she needed protection, and she was there to give it. Mr Jerome took no notice of the movement, but occupied himself with Selina and her music, and with the little boys, who soon came in.

Mr St. Cyr asked Frederica about her illness, and her employments and amusements, and she told him about Miss Agnace, and how much nicer she was than Mrs Ascot used to be.

“And we all hope she will stay,” said Tessie. “But they don’t usually let the sisters stay long out of their convents. Do you think they will let her stay?” asked Tessie, addressing Mr Jerome. “Fred did not know she was a sister at first, but she found it out from something she said. She is very nice, however, and we all hope she may stay.”

Mr St. Cyr asked no questions about Miss Agnace; but when his brother rose to go, he rose also. He had something to say to him.

“Who is Sister Agnace? and why is she here?” asked he. “It is not wise in you to wish to make any change in Mrs Vane’s family affairs, my brother. You will not succeed.”

“I have succeeded already. Miss Agnace has made a great change for the better in this ill-regulated household, especially in the comfort of Mrs Vane. Your little friend is a clever child, but she cannot be expected to act with sense or judgment in certain affairs. She has not been complaining of Miss Agnace has she?”

“By no means. On the contrary, they seem to value her highly. But who is she? Why is she here?”

“Do you not know! Mr Vane advertised for a housekeeper, and she applied. She has excellent references, and he was fortunate in getting her.”

“Still you have not answered my question. The sisters are not permitted to answer advertisements, and take situations, without some special purpose in view. What was your motive in placing her among these children?”

“A desire to serve them would not seem to you a sufficient motive, I suppose?”

“No,” said Mr St. Cyr, with a shrug, “not in your case. You may wish to serve them, but you have another motive. Who is Sister Agnace?”

“A simple, pious, affectionate creature, just the nurse for a nervous invalid like Mrs Vane. See her, and satisfy yourself with regard to her.”

“I shall do so,” said Mr St. Cyr; “and, my brother, let me say one word to you. Nothing good will come of your trying to gain influence in this house. Mrs Vane has nothing in her power as to the disposal of her father’s wealth. All that is quite beyond her power.”

“Don’t you remember you told me all that long ago? Is it not conceivable that for other reasons I might wish to influence that unhappy woman, who is so near death, and who is so unprepared to meet it? What is her wealth to me, who am not permitted to possess aught beyond the necessaries of life? Why should I wish to influence her, except to turn her thoughts to the God whom she must soon meet, and of whom she knows nothing? And these poor neglected children! Brother Cyprien, it is terrible to me to see you so indifferent to their highest interests, and your own.”

“Let all that pass. What I wish to say is this—No influence that you may bring to bear on her can possibly make any change in the arrangement of her affairs. The guardians of her children’s interests are already chosen by my advice, and with her husband’s consent, and they are such men as will not please you. She might change them, it is true, but she will not without my advice. You have already made her unhappy, I think. It is cruel, and will avail you nothing. This is what I wish you to understand.”

“I clearly understand. You will not see that it is only their good I wish for. They have no religion. They are ignorant of the first principles of truth. These young girls are neither fit for this world nor the next. And St. Hubert’s grandsons are losing the best years of their life, under the foolish teaching of an ignorant woman.”

“That is your opinion,” said Mr St. Cyr coldly. “Well, you are not responsible, and need not interfere. No good can come of it to any one concerned.”

But he had no fault to find with Miss Agnace when he saw her. She was simple and affectionate, and as far as he could judge, faithful. She was eager for the spiritual good of Mrs Vane and her children, and prayed for them, and told them tales of the saints, and of miracles performed by their relics even at the present day. She took the children with her to mass, on high days and holidays, and evidently had full faith in the success of her efforts in their behalf at last. But of all this Mr St. Cyr had no fear. Indeed, he might have rejoiced over the prospect of the spiritual change, for which Sister Agnace and his brother were so anxious, in poor Mrs Vane and her children, provided it were a real change, and that no wrong influence were brought to bear upon them to bring it about.

But though Mr St. Cyr was looked upon as a very religious man, he was far more liberal in his opinions, and charitable in his judgments, than the greater number of those who admired his devotion. It did not seem impossible to him that beyond the pale of his own church there might be truth and safety. He knew that Mr Vane was not a religious man. He gave him no credit for religious motives, or even for conscientious motives, in the care with which, in the education of his daughters, he had tried to keep them away from Roman Catholic influence; and it would have troubled him very little on his account that they should leave their father’s church. He would not have pitied him, but he would have dreaded the pain to them, the discomfort which their father’s anger would bring upon them.

But he was not anxious for them to change. They were good little things, he thought, desirous to do right, and quite as likely to do right by themselves as they would be under such guidance as a change might involve,—such guidance, for instance, as that of his brother Jerome. He did not wish to be hard on his brother, even in his thoughts, but he did not trust him. He did not trust him, either as regarded the means he might use to influence the delicate nervous mother and her children towards a change of faith, or as regarded the end he had in view in desiring such a change.

He cared for their souls, doubtless, and believed them to be in danger, but he cared for something else more. He knew that he coveted some part of the wealth that Mr St. Hubert had left, and which had been accumulating since his death, for his own purposes; that is, for the purposes of the Church; and he feared that he would not be scrupulous as to the means he made use of to obtain it.

So he went oftener to see them than he had been accustomed to do, and assured himself of the good faith of Miss Agnace, and listened to the earnest talk of the sisters, and sometimes even to the reading of the Bible. He was amused sometimes, but oftener he was moved and interested, and in his heart prayed to Him whom he believed to be the God of all who sincerely sought to serve and honour Him, that He might guard, and guide, and keep safe from all evil, these children whom he was learning to love so well.

Chapter Thirteen.

September was not a pleasant month this year. There were not the usual clear, bright days, all the lovelier and more enjoyable that the frost in the morning air, and a tinge of brilliant colour here and there among the trees, gave warning that there could not be many more of them in the season. They were hot, oppressive days. The air was close, and the sky was hidden by a thick haze, which told of the coming of a storm.

It was no wonder, the children said, that their mother was worse than usual. Every one felt dull, and languid, and out of sorts. They would all feel better when the rain which had been gathering so many days should come, and it could not be long now. This was what Frederica said to her sister, Mrs Brandon, when she came to see them after her return from the seaside, where she had passed the summer. Mrs Brandon assented, and regretted for baby’s sake that she had returned home so soon. She regretted it for another reason. She did not know how to tell the business that had brought her to them that day. Their father had decided not to return home till spring, and had written to her to say that there would be an opportunity for Fred to travel with a Mrs Bury, who was about to return to England, and he wished her to hasten her preparations. Mrs Brandon was to tell Mrs Vane of the change of plan, and to help Fred in all necessary arrangements.

She did not like the task he had assigned her, and she liked it less when she saw the mother and her daughters together. She could not but feel that her father was exposing himself to remark—nay, to just censure—by remaining away so long in the circumstances of his family; and she felt the greatest unwillingness to say a word to Fred about leaving home. But Fred did not even take the matter into consideration. She dismissed the subject with a single word.

“I’m not going,” said she quietly. But an angry spot burned on her cheek. She would not say to Mrs Brandon, or even to Selina, that she thought it unkind of their father to ask such a thing—more than unkind to remain longer away. She checked the hasty words of blame that rose to. Tessie’s lips in Caroline’s presence. But she was grieved and vexed too.

“I am not going,” said she, “and nobody must tell mama that papa, wished it. He ought to know that—”

She stopped suddenly, not sure of her voice.

“She has been ill so long,” said Mrs Brandon. “I suppose papa thinks she is as she always has been, now a little better, now worse. He thinks you are over-anxious, and I am afraid he does not understand. What does Dr Gerard say?”

“If you were to tell him, Caroline, he might understand,” said Selina. “Will you not write and tell him how we all want him home?”

“I will write certainly, and I will also see Mrs Bury. It would make you too unhappy to leave now, though I trust your mother is not really worse.”

“Thank you. No, I could not go now. Even Mr St. Cyr is ill, and they have no one but me—” said Fred, speaking with difficulty.

“My darling,” said Mrs Brandon, moved to unwonted tenderness by the sight of Frederica’s tears, “you are not to be discouraged. Remember how often your mother has been worse than she is now; and papa will be sure to come when I write and tell him how much you all want him. And, dear, if you break down, what will become of the rest?”

“I am not going to break down,” said Fred, swallowing her tears, and trying to smile. “Be sure and bring baby next time, and hasten now, for the rain is near. Good-bye?”

She went to the gate, and stood looking after the carriage for a minute or two. Then, instead of going into the house, she walked round the garden several times, telling herself that there was no one but her to care for the rest, and that she must be strong and not discouraged for their sake. But for the moment she was utterly discouraged and afraid.

Though it was still early in the afternoon, it had grown very dark, and there was first the silence, and then the low sighing of the wind among the trees, that tells of the near approach of a storm; and the sudden recollection that her little brothers had not returned from their walk hastened Frederica’s footsteps again to the gate. A few large drops of rain fell before she reached it, and as she looked out a cloud of dust and leaves came whirling down the street, and a strong gust of wind made it necessary for her to cling for a moment to the gate, lest she should be thrown down.

There was nothing to be seen of her brothers; but, fighting against the wind, and shielding his eyes from the clouds of dust which it bore, came a slender bowed figure that made her forget them. For just a moment she thought it was Mr St. Cyr, but even before he came near, she saw it was not he, but an older man. His hair was snowy white, and he walked with a great effort, bowing his head low to meet the blast. Opposite the gate, a sudden gust nearly overthrew him. He let fall a book which he carried in his hand, and in stooping to recover it his cane slipped from his grasp. Frederica sprang forward to lift it for him; and when she met the sweet, grave smile that thanked her, she quite forgot that the face was the face of a stranger.

“Come in,” said she eagerly. “You are not strong enough to meet this terrible wind. And see, the rain has begun to fall already. Come in and rest.”

“I shall be glad to rest,” said the stranger; and so, at Frederica’s bidding, there passed over their threshold an angel unawares.

The brothers came home with a run and a shout, only in time to escape the rain that soon fell in torrents. In the house it grew as dark as night for a little while, and then the lightning flashed, and the thunder broke over the roof with a peal that seemed to shake the foundations. The servants of the house, awed and anxious, flocked into the hall where the stranger sat, and where the children had gathered. Their mother was there too, trembling and white with nervous terror. For a minute or two the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled continuously, and for a time not a word was spoken. Then that cloud passed, and it grew light.

“You are not afraid,” said Hubert, looking up into the face of the stranger.

“No,” said he gently, “I have no cause.”

“But we are afraid, except Selina,” said the boy, looking round on the terrified faces. “Selina does not see the lightning. But why are not you afraid?”

“‘God is our Refuge and Strength, a very present Help in trouble. Therefore shall not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.’ No, I am not afraid.”

“But the lightning might kill you.”

“Yes, it might kill me.”

“And yet you are not afraid! Why are you not afraid?”

“Because I hope—yes, I believe, that when death shall come to me, it will be as God’s messenger, not to hurt, but to take me beyond all reach of hurt for ever and for ever. Truly, my little lad, death is the last thing of which one whom God loves need be afraid.”

Another cloud was passing, and Hubert’s face was hidden in his sister’s lap as once more the thunder broke over them. But the worst of the storm was over. There were now longer pauses between the gradually receding peals, and in the silence of one of them Selina asked softly,—

“Frederica, who is he that is not afraid of death?”

And Frederica answered in the same tone, “One whom God loves, he says.”

“And surely He loves us all.”

Gradually the storm passed over. The servants went away to their duties, and Miss Agnace took the little boys to change their coats, which she only now discovered were quite wet. The girls helped their mother into her room again, and Tessie opened the window. There were clouds heavy and dark still in the sky, but beyond the clouds there was brightness, and the cool sweet air brought refreshment to them all. The stranger stood on the threshold, regarding with grave, compassionate eyes the group which the mother and daughters made.

“Mama,” said Frederica, answering her mother’s look of surprise, “I brought him in because of the rain.”

“Who is it?” said Selina eagerly. “Is it he whom God loves, and who has no cause to be afraid of death? Frederica, ask him why he is not afraid. And does not God love us all?”

“God is our Father. Truly He loves all His children.”

Drawn by his voice, Selina approached, and took in both hers his outstretched hand. Not once in a hundred times did the blind girl seek to get by the sense of touch a knowledge of strangers. But now she gently passed her hand over his, and over his face, and his soft white hair; and then she drew him gently into the room, and over towards her mother’s chair.

“Come and tell mama why you are not afraid.”

“Because ‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ No one need fear death, who has the promise of life everlasting.”

“No,” said Selina. “And have you that promise? And is it for us too? for mama, and all of us?”

For answer, the old man repeated the text again, “God so loved the world,” and so on to the end.

“It is the world He loves; and the promise is to whosoever believeth.”

“Do you hear, mama? It says, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ Are you listening, mama?” said Selina eagerly.

“My darling, I know not what to believe, or what to do,” said Mrs Vane sadly. “I have never in all my life thought about these things.”

“No,” said Selina, turning her eager face towards the stranger. “We have never thought about these things. Could we begin now, do you think? and what must we do?”

Frederica and Tessie looked and listened in amazement. It was so unlike Selina to have anything to say to a stranger. Their mother looked as eager as she did, and very anxious; and she said, before the stranger could reply,—

“Yes, the children might begin now. As for me, I can do nothing.”

“But,” said the old man gently, “it does not say do, but believe.”

“Surely, mama, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ And what are we to believe?”

“The text says, ‘Whosoever believeth in Him’.”

“Yes—that is Jesus. And what are we to believe?”

“All that the Bible says of Him. Have you heard about Him at all, my child?”

“Yes. In the New Testament. We believe all that. What is the first, Fred? Oh! I remember: ‘Thou shalt call His name Jesus; for He shall save His people from their sins.’”

And Frederica added, “‘And they shall call His name Emmanuel, which is, being interpreted, God with us.’”

“We are to believe that He saves His people from their sins,” said Selina. “Does that mean us too? Who are God’s people?”

“They who seek to know Him. They who love Him, and do His will. They whom He loves and will save.”

There was a pause of some minutes; then Selina said,—

“We seek to know Him, and—I love Him. I do not know how to do His will.”

“His will is written in His Word, and He Himself will teach you,” said the stranger.

Then Tessie broke in flippantly,—

“But how are we to know? Some say one thing, and some another. Father Jerome says it is the last thing we should do—to read the Bible for ourselves. And how are we to know?”

“But we do read it,” said Frederica. “And there is no use in asking what Mr Jerome St. Cyr would wish us to do.”

“But for my part, I think he is quite as likely to be right as those others,” said Tessie. “There are many more who are of his opinion than of ours. And it would be a shocking thing to say that all the crowds of people who go to his church are all wrong.”

“Hush, Tessie dear, and listen,” said Selina. “Mama dear, are you very tired? Would you like to hear more?”

If Selina could have seen her mother’s face, she would not have asked.

“Tell us more!” said she.

“Begin at the beginning,” said Fred, and she read, “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise.”

But the beginning was before that, he showed them. The beginning was when, because of sin, man’s need began—when the first promise was given, and God said “that the woman’s seed should bruise the head of the serpent.” He showed them how, the Divine law being broken, Divine justice required satisfaction, and how One had said, “Lo! I come to do Thy will, O God!” He went on from promise to promise, from prophecy to prophecy, showing how all that went before was but a preparation for the coming of Him who was promised, who was “to save His people from their sins.”

Much that had been mysterious, even meaningless, in the things which they had read—the sacrifices, the ceremonies, the prophecies—became significant and beautiful as types of Him who was both sacrifice and priest, dying that His people might live. The old man did not use many words, and almost all of them were words with which the reading of the Bible had made them familiar, but they came to them with new meaning and power from his lips.

He told them how the ages had been waiting for Him who was called “Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace;” and how, “when the fulness of the time was come, God sent forth His Son;” how “He bare our griefs, and carried our sorrows; He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was on Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”

He spoke to them of Him as the son of Mary, as the babe in Bethlehem, and yet the Leader and Commander of His people. He reminded them how He lived and suffered; how He spake wonderful words, and did wonderful works; how He pitied, and taught, and healed the people; how He loved them, and how He died for them at last.

At last? No, that was not the last. He told them how the grave, that had held in bonds all the generations that had passed away, had no power to hold Him; how He had broken the chains of death, nay, had slain death, and how He had ascended up to heaven, to be still the Priest of His people, and their King. He told them that it was His delight to pardon and receive sinners who came to Him; that He would not only pardon and save from the punishment of sin, but take away the power of sin over the heart; so that instead of loving it, and yielding to it, sin would become hateful to the forgiven child of God, because God hated it. He told them how God kept His people safe in the midst of a world at enmity with Him, and how all things were theirs, because they were Christ’s; and how nothing, “neither life, nor death, nor things present, nor things to come, can separate them from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

He told them that He was preparing a place for those who had loved Him, and that Death—no longer an enemy—was to come as His messenger to take them into His presence, there to dwell for evermore. And most wonderful, all this was God’s free gift. None were too sinful, or weak, or wayward, to be saved by Him, who asked only to be trusted and loved by those to whom He freely offered so much. Wonderful indeed, beyond the power of words to utter.

“Mama,” said Selina, touching her mother’s hand, “I think I see it now.”

The mother turned her eyes from the radiant face of the blind girl to the face of the stranger again.

“Will you trust Him?” asked he gently. “He is able and willing to save.”

“May I?” said she eagerly; “I, who can do nothing? I, who have never in all my life thought about these things? Ah! if it were possible!”

“Believe it. It is true.”

“But is there nothing we must do?” said Frederica doubtfully.

“There is nothing you need do to win His love. There is much you can do to prove your love to Him. ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments,’ He said. And ‘we love Him because He first loved us.’”

“And is there no good in all that Miss Agnace has told us?” said Tessie. “Indeed, Fred, it is not that I wish to be disagreeable. But Miss Agnace prays to the Virgin and to the saints, and she goes to confession. She says that is the only right way, and you know Miss Agnace is a good woman. And Mr Jerome—”

Mrs Vane’s eyes and Frederica’s were turned on the stranger; and Miss Agnace, who had been listening unseen, came forward at the sound of her name. The old man looked gravely from one to the other, and said,—

“‘He that believeth on the Son hath life.’ Of Him it is said, ‘Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is no other name given under heaven among men, whereby we can be saved.’ Of Him it is said, that He ‘hath redeemed us not with corruptible things, as silver and gold, but with His precious blood. Who His own self bore our sins in His own body on the tree.’ Of Him it is said, ‘In Whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.’ Truly He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto Him by faith. They who put their trust in Him need no other saviour. ‘Other foundation can no man lay, than is laid down, which is Jesus Christ.’

“This is God’s truth, taught us in His Word. I do not desire to judge those of whom you speak. It is through Christ, once offered for sins, that they too can be saved.”

Mrs Vane made a movement to enjoin silence when Miss Agnace would have spoken; and then the stranger, kneeling down, said, “Let us pray;” and Mrs Vane and Selina for the first time heard the pouring out of a good man’s heart to God. What he asked for them need hardly be told: that Christ might reveal Himself to them as one mighty to save; that He might dwell in them by His Spirit, to make them holy and happy, and ready for an entrance into “the inheritance which is incorruptible, and undefiled, and which fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for those who love Him;” that even now, believing in Him, they might have “joy unspeakable and full of glory.”

Every heart went up with his as he prayed. Even Miss Agnace listened and joined in supplication, wondering and moved.

“And shall we never see you again?” said Frederica, as he took her mother’s hand to say farewell.

“I cannot tell. I am only passing through the town, and but for the storm I should have been already on the way. I shall never forget you.”

“I think God sent you to us,” said Selina.

Once more the blind girl touched softly his hand, and his face, and his silver hair. Praying, “God bless all beneath this roof,” he went away.

But they never forgot him, nor the words he had spoken to them.

For Selina after that there was neither doubt nor fear. The way which God has opened for the return of sinners to Himself was clearly revealed to her. She had much to learn yet, with regard to His will and His dealings in providence; but this she knew and declared, “I love Him because He first loved me.”

There were for her no anxious questionings, no groping in the dark, after that. Day by day the light grew clearer and brighter to the eyes of her soul, and she saw “wondrous things out of His law.” She was at peace, and with all the power of her loving and gentle nature she set herself to help her mother toward the same peace. There was the daily reading still, and daily also, kneeling by her mother’s bed, Selina asked for the blessing of peace to her mother’s heart. And she did not ask in vain. As the days went on the blessing came—God gave His own answer of peace.

Peace with God! That which all those weary years of sickness and solitude this poor soul had needed came to her at last, and all was changed. Her waiting for the end, that was slowly, but surely drawing near, was peaceful, at times it was joyful. Even Miss Agnace saw the change, and thanked God for it. Sister Magdalen saw it, and doubted its reality and its sufficiency. But she was suffered to utter no word of doubt in Mrs Vane’s hearing. Indeed, she hardly wished to do so.

“God may have ways of dealing with sinners of which we do not know,” said she, in answer to Miss Agnace’s anxious looks, not knowing what to say.

“Yes, truly,” said Miss Agnace to herself, with a sigh of relief and comfort.

It had come to her many times of late, that the dying mother’s peace must be from God, even though it had not come to her through the Church or its ministers; but she had hardly dared to believe it possible. She needed Sister Magdalen’s confirming word, and took more comfort from it than Sister Magdalen had meant it to convey.

Chapter Fourteen.

Frederica was the least happy of them all at this time. They had heard nothing as yet about Mr Vane’s return; and, as must be the case in every household at every changing season, there were many things to be arranged, and some of them required a decision which Frederica was neither old enough nor wise enough to exercise; and she was troubled in various ways. She rejoiced in the new rest and peace that had come to her mother and Selina, and said to herself often, that all the rest mattered little, since it was well with them; but other things sometimes pressed on her heavily.

Tessie had grown impatient under the restraint of circumstances, and also under the control which Frederica, not always with the best judgment, sought to exercise over her for her good. She was wilful, and sought the companionship of young people whom her sister did not Know, or of whom she did not approve. Madame Precoe, who as Mrs Ascot had been Tessie’s pet aversion, invited her often; and she liked going there better than to the house of her sister, Mrs Brandon, who did not ask her very often.

Her little brothers, too, were getting beyond her control. The lady who had taught them daily for some years, being obliged, for family reasons, to leave them, her place was not found easy to supply, and it was decided that it was best to send them to school. Not to a day-school; that would not have answered in the circumstances. They were sent to a school which Mrs Brandon recommended, and which Frederica had heard her father mention with favour. It was a small private school in the village of T., at some distance from M. But the little lads went willingly enough, eager as children usually are for change, and for a time Frederica was quite at rest about them.

All this time she could not avail herself of the doubtful help which the telling of her troubles to Mr St. Cyr would have given her; for he was ill. She went to see him more than once, but they would not let her in, and Mr Jerome’s grave looks and assurances that the sight of her old friend would be no pleasure to her now, filled Frederica with sorrow, and with a dread of what might happen to them all when Mr St. Cyr should be no more.

But over the sea there were coming, even then, tidings that made all else seem of little moment to Frederica and them all. One mail brought word that Mr Vane was coming home; but the next brought word that made it doubtful whether he ever would come home again. At the first reading, the tidings of evil seemed scarcely to admit of hope. Still they tried to speak hopefully in their mother’s presence, and none more hopefully than Frederica. But enclosed in the letter of her English brother, telling them of the accident and danger of her father, were a few lines to Frederica written by his own hand, that left little room for hope in her heart.

“My darling,” he wrote, “they will have no one but you. I cannot recall the past. You must stand by your mother, and make her understand that I would like Colonel Bentham to be appointed your guardian in my stead. He is an honourable and upright man, and he is about to return to Canada to remain; and I do not think Mr St. Cyr, who knows him well, will object. Do not lose a day after you receive this. If I live, it need make no difference. I trust to you, Frederica, in all things. Lose no time. Oh, if I could only recall the past!”