"The Perils of Orphanhood" (continued 4)

That was all. Not even his name was written after it.

“Oh! papa! papa!” sobbed the girl, as she lay alone in the darkness. “Shall I never see you any more? And how shall I ever tell mama?”

Mrs Vane was at first only told that an accident had happened to her husband, which would probably delay his return for a little while. He had been thrown from his horse while riding. They could only wait for another mail to hear more, and the first telling alarmed her less than they had feared it might do.

One good thing came out of this sad event to Tessie. Startled by Frederica’s giving way so utterly at the news of their father’s danger, and conscience-stricken at the knowledge that she had been disobeying his known wishes all these weeks she at once proposed to return to Mrs Glencairn’s, and all agreed that there was no better thing for her to do. So that anxiety was set at rest.

To no one, not even to Mrs Brandon, did Frederica show her father’s letter. Moved by a fear which she could not put in words, she kept secret the commission he had given her, and at the first moment that it was possible for her to do so, took her way to Mr St. Cyr’s house. She had not seen him for a long time. He was not well enough to see any one, she had always been told whenever she had called to enquire for him, and yet she had heard by chance of others who had been allowed to enter his room. Miss Agnace had been there, and Sister Magdalen; and she had heard indirectly of his being able to transact business of importance, and she went determined to see him, if it were possible to do so.

She entered the outer door with some one who was going into the office, and went upstairs unquestioned. She opened one door, and then another, and there sat Mr St. Cyr, looking ill and changed certainly, but with his papers about him, not at all as though he were unequal to any work. He greeted her with a pleased exclamation, and then playfully reproached her with having forgotten him in his illness.

“But I have been here often, Cousin Cyprien,” said she, eagerly; “and they would not let me come up to you. Did they not tell you? Mr Jerome always said you were too ill to be disturbed. Are you better, Cousin Cyprien?”

“Yes, I am better. And did they let you come up now?”

“I did not ask. I came up and opened the door. I left Mr Jerome at our house.”

“Ah, my dear! I fear your trouble is beyond my power to remove this time. I have heard of your father. Let us hope the accident to him was not so serious as was feared.”

“It is very serious, I am afraid. But, Mr St. Cyr, you can help me, and him;” and she offered him her father’s letter.

“Is it so bad?” said he, when he had read it, and he said nothing more for a long time.

“I have not told mama yet,” said Frederica.

“Will you do as papa wishes, Cousin Cyprien? Is it necessary?”

“Since he wishes it, the change may be made. It will be better.”

“But whoever may be appointed, you will always take care of mama and us all?”

“While I live, dear child, yes; so help me God. But I have had a warning, too; and I must leave you in good hands. There is no time to lose.”

No time was lost. The proper steps were at once taken, and the necessary papers prepared in the shortest time possible. At some risk to himself, Mr St. Cyr went to Mrs Vane’s house, and the whole affair was arranged to his satisfaction. It was all done during a temporary absence of Mr Jerome from the city, and Mr St. Cyr did not see it necessary to intimate to him that any change had been made in regard to Mrs Vane’s children. But one night Mr Jerome found on the table, among other papers, one which he did not think it beneath him to glance at—a paper properly drawn, and signed, and witnessed, by which Mrs Vane and Mr St. Cyr had appointed three trustees, who were to have the oversight of the property left to Mr St. Hubert’s grandchildren till they should come of age. But it was torn across. It was dated several years back; and seeing it, Mr Jerome said to himself, “There is another to be prepared.”

Strangely enough, it never occurred to him that this had been already done. He did not speak to his brother about it; but he kept the matter in his thoughts, and watched the course of events. It was a matter in which he took much interest; and when his brother grew worse, and day after day passed without anything being done or even said with regard to it, he was surprised; but he was not sorry at the delay. He had by this time become convinced that no influence of his could move Mr St. Cyr in the arrangement of the Vanes’ affairs, and he wisely refrained from attempting it. If trustees were not appointed for carrying out the will of Mr St. Hubert in the manner specified by himself, there must still be guardians appointed for the Vane children, should they be left orphans, and it must be done by a power possibly more open to such influence as his, and it would be far better to say no word to remind his brother, but, let things take their course. He brooded over this in his silent way, till something like a plan for changing all the future relations of these children wrought itself out in his mind, and he prepared himself, and, as far as he could venture to do so, endeavoured to prepare others, to act on this plan when the right time should come.

The next mail brought no good news from England. Colonel Bentham wrote to Mrs Vane, telling her of her husband’s wishes with regard to their children, and saying that, should she see fit to name him as one of their guardians, he would faithfully fulfil the duties of the trust. This letter, through means of Miss Agnace, Mr Jerome read, and it confirmed him in the opinion that nothing had been done to supply the place of the legal document which had been destroyed.

Frederica also received a letter from her sister Cecilia, who had married Colonel Bentham’s son. It was a very kind letter, but over it Frederica shed many tears. It told her how her father longed for them all; and the poor girl blamed herself that she had not obeyed his wish, and gone home with Mrs Bury, so that she might have been with him now. But for the sake of her mother and the rest, Frederica had done well to stay at home.

For every day made it more plain to them all that Mrs Vane’s death was near. Sorrowful days they were; but joy mingled with their sorrow; for her peace flowed still and deep.

She had never been a person of strong mind, and the training of her early days had not been of a kind to strengthen her mentally or morally. Out of the pain and weariness of these last years there had come no strength, but a great longing for rest, and a fear, vague but horrible, of death, and the unknown future beyond.

And so the words of peace, spoken by the old man whom Frederica had brought in for shelter, had come as a message from God to her soul. To the trembling hope of a Saviour which it awakened she clung, as a child in the dark clings to the unseen hand that holds it; and by-and-by, as the light of truth grew clearer to her eyes, she knew the hand she held was the hand of Jesus, strong and tender, with power to hold her safe for ever, and then she was at rest.

From the very first the light had been clear to Selina, and she was never weary of telling the wondrous story of Christ’s love and life and death to her mother. Over and over daily, sometimes hourly, the same words were repeated with patient, nay, with joyful iteration, and Selina became God’s messenger to her mother. He spake to the dying woman through her child’s voice; and peace, beyond all power of earthly things to trouble, rested on her. In her state of weakness she was less capable than ever of continued thought on any subject; but she saw clearly, and held firmly to this, “He loved me, and gave Himself for me” and His promise was made good to her, “My peace I leave with you.”

What strange, still, dream-like days they were which followed till the end came! Frederica, standing, in her care for them all, a little apart from her mother and sister, looked on with wonder. Selina was doing for her mother all that she used to dream of doing. She was comforting, sustaining, and showing her the way to heaven, which was drawing near. She did not grudge Selina this joy. Far from that! Seeing their mother’s constant peace; seeing the sudden sweet gleams of something that was more than peace that shone sometimes in the beautiful wasted face, Frederica was ready to say that nothing else mattered much. In the certainty of her mother’s blessedness, she wished to forget—she did forget at times—all else that could trouble her.

“If only papa could come home,” she said a hundred times a day to herself. To her mother she spoke hopefully and cheerfully of his return. The tidings that came mail by mail varied. Sometimes he was better, and sometimes worse, and the time seemed long to them all.

“We shall meet again,” said his wife often; and once she added, “and we shall not misunderstand or vex one another any more.” But whether she meant in this world or in heaven, her children did not know.

So day after day they waited. Miss Agnace, strong, and gentle, and patient, with watchful eyes and silent lips, went in and out among them—an angel of help and kindness. To her, even more than to Frederica, the change that had come over the dying woman was wonderful.

“She is no longer the same,” said she, in one of her many confidences to Father Jerome. “They were reading about ‘a new creature’ the other day. That is what she has become. ‘Old things have passed away, all things have become new.’ I do not understand it. Is it well with her, think you, father? If at the end you are with her, to lay hands on her and touch her with the oil of blessing, do you not think it may be well with her? It is Jesus on whom she relies. Is that enough, father?”

“Let us wait until the end,” said Father Jerome gravely, and to Sister Agnace he would say no more.

Nor did he say a word now to disturb the peace of the dying woman. He could hardly have done so; for whenever he came he found one or both of the girls sitting by her side, and they would suffer no word to be uttered to trouble her. Indeed, he seemed to have no wish to utter any such word, and he came but seldom as the end drew near.

His brother was ill again, “failing fast,” he told Frederica, when she enquired. It was Mr Jerome who did for them all that Mr St. Cyr would have done, had he been well. He sent for their brothers when their mother grew worse. He was kind and thoughtful for them in many ways, and said never a word to remind them that he believed them to be all wrong, or that their mother, dying out of the true Church, was going to no certainty of rest or happiness.

Did he doubt it? Who can tell? He stood beside the dying bed in wonder. “A new creature!” Yes, there was no better word for it than that. She was changed. Instead of the fears, and cares, and anxious questionings of former days, there was in her heart and in her face “the peace that passeth understanding,” “the joy unspeakable,” which is theirs whom God loves.

“I am not afraid. ‘He loved me, and gave Himself for me,’” she said with difficulty, as he stooped for a moment over her.

Afraid! No. There was no shadow of fear on the radiant face turned towards him, and in his heart, for the moment at least, he acknowledged that she had no cause for fear. That there was need or room for any man to come between this passing soul and the Saviour who loved her, whom she loved, whom she hoped so soon to behold, could not surely be. It was as though she already beheld Him, he could not but acknowledge. But looking up, and meeting the gaze of Sister Agnace’s asking eyes, he spoke no such word to her.

“Is she safe?” asked she eagerly. “Will you let her die unblessed of the Church? and must she perish?”

But he did not answer.

“May God have mercy on us all,” said he solemnly.

“Amen!” said Miss Agnace, crossing herself. “Is it enough, I wonder? ‘He loved us, and gave Himself for us.’ ‘The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ That is what these children are always saying to her and to one another. And surely she is cleansed and saved. Ah, well! I will send at the very last for Father Jerome, and for Sister Magdalen, and it will be well, let us hope. It ought to be enough, the blood of Jesus Christ.”

But neither Father Jerome nor Sister Magdalen was with her at the end. A very peaceful end to a troubled life it was. Her children were all there, and Mr and Mrs Brandon. They thought her dying early in the afternoon, but she revived again, and spoke to them all, and sent a message to their father.

“Tell him I shall be waiting for him till he comes. Are you here, Frederica? Write it now beside me, that no time may be lost. Tell him, ‘He loved us, and gave Himself for us.’”

If she spoke after that, they did not catch the words. They waited on, hour after hour, and so gently came the messenger, they scarce knew the moment when she was called.

“They thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.”

Then “a change” came over the beautiful worn face. Tessie uttered a startled cry, and Selina laid down her face on the hand growing cold in hers, Frederica, taking a step toward the door, said, “Now I must go to papa.” But she would have fallen, had not Miss Agnace put her arm around her.

Then there were long, long days of waiting. Awed by the remembrance of their mother’s face, and the unwonted quiet of the house, the little boys now and then broke into momentary tears, and Tessie gave way sometimes, and cried bitterly. Selina comforted them all. She hardly realised yet what had befallen her. She only thought that her mother was at rest—that the weariness of earth was over, and the joy of heaven begun, and she said to the others how blessed their mother was now, how safe, and satisfied, and how she was waiting for them all there. Frederica listened as the rest did, and watched with grave, attentive eyes all that was done in preparation for the funeral, but she hardly ever spoke a word.

So Mrs Vane was carried away from the house where she was born, and where she had lived all her life. Her little sons followed her to the grave, but her daughters remained at home, as is the custom in M. among people of their class. They sat silent in the room where their mother had lain, refusing to leave it till their brothers came home. Mrs Brandon was with them, and by-and-by Miss Agnace came and sat down by the door. It grew dark, for the days were at the shortest, and it seemed a long time before the little boys came home.

“And now I must go to papa,” said Frederica that night, before Mrs Brandon went away. Mrs Brandon looked in perplexity at Miss Agnace, who whispered,—

“Say nothing to-night. Look at her eyes and her changing colour. She is not fit to be spoken to to-night. Poor child! There are weary days before her.”

Chapter Fifteen.

Miss Agnace was right. The next day Frederica began with her own hands the preparations for the voyage she was determined to make, and Miss Agnace, going up in a little while to her room, found her lying on the floor, among the garments she had gathered together, quite insensible. She had come to the end of her strength now. For the next few weeks she knew little of what was going on in the house. Except that Selina was with her now, as well as Miss Agnace, the days passed very much as they had done after her father went away.

Tessie went willingly back to school, for Madame Precoe’s presence in the house was altogether distasteful to her. Madame had taken up her abode with them, no one knew at whose request or suggestion. Her stay gave pleasure to no one. Mrs Brandon was more than displeased, she was indignant. But there was no one to whom appeal could be made. It was to be presumed that Mr Jerome was carrying out the plans of Mr St. Cyr, who was the proper person to act for Mrs Vane’s children, and Mr Jerome approved of Madame’s residence with them. There was nothing to be done therefore but to wait patiently till their father came home.

The boys were sent to school again within a few days after their mother’s funeral. Mr Jerome took them away, saying that school was the best place for them, and so no doubt it was. The boys went away willingly, for their home was altogether changed now.

For a good while Frederica was not sufficiently able to notice what was going on about her, to be unhappy because of these things. Selina was constantly saying to herself and her sister, that it would be well with them, and they need not fear, and she believed it, and Frederica came to believe it too.

But whether it was to be well with them or not, Frederica knew there was nothing she could do to help it. What a poor weak little creature she felt herself to be! Even Selina, whom she had meant to care for and comfort, was stronger than she—stronger and wiser, and more to be relied on in a time of trouble; and she found it difficult sometimes not to murmur at her weakness.

She was very weak. The slightest exertion tired her. A word brought tears to her eyes. She needed quite another kind of discipline than that which she was getting at the hands of her sister and Miss Agnace, Madame Precoe hinted to Mr Jerome, and she also hinted what sort of discipline it ought to be. But either he did not agree with her, or had not the power to put her plans in practice, for the girls were left undisturbed together under Miss Agnace’s care.

“Selina,” said Frederica one day, after a hint from Madame Precoe, “I had forgotten how very disagreeable Mrs Ascot used to be. Her visit has taken away all the good effect of Miss Agnace’s medicine.”

“Don’t be foolish, Fred dear,” said her sister.

“Oh! you did not see her face, or the horrible shrug of her shoulders. You cannot know. Has she quite taken possession of us and the house. I wonder what her beloved Precoe can do without her!”

“Fred,” said Selina, laughing, and kissing her, “you are almost your old self again. It delights me to see you vexed with Prickly Polly.”

Frederica laughed, partly at the old nickname, and partly at Selina’s way of saying it; for French had always been Selina’s language with her mother, and she spoke English with an accent not at all like the rest.

“But she is not ‘Prickly Polly’ now. She is not easily offended as she used to be. I have not tried certainly; but she has a grand and satisfied air, as though she had but to speak to put things on a pleasant footing—for herself at least.”

“You must rise, Fred, and sit on this chair. You are quite well, I am sure. She was not ten minutes in the room, and you saw all that.”

“Oh! Selina,” said Frederica, with a sigh, “it is very sad to think now of the days when we were young and had no trouble.”

“But then, we are still rather young, are we not?” said Selina gravely. “And if you remember, there never was a time when we were quite without trouble. Always mama was ill, and there were other things sometimes.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Mama will not suffer any more, and I am glad for her.”

But it was a tearful smile that bore witness to her gladness, and Frederica broke into weeping as she looked at her sister’s face.

“Oh! Lena! Lena!” she gasped, “are we never to have her with us any more? nor papa—”

“Hush, Fred! Don’t cry like that,” said Selina, crying herself, but more gently. “Think how well she is, and how satisfied. And papa may come home; but I don’t think he will: I think he will go to mama. He has had all this long time to think, and to be sorry. And Jesus loves him too. He gave Himself for him.”

“Oh! Lena! Lena!” was all that Frederica could say.

“And, darling, think how glad mama will be! and nothing shall grieve them any more. We shall be with them there; and you may go very soon, for you are not strong.”

Frederica was startled by her sister’s words.

“No. I am not strong: but to die! Lena, I must not die. I must live to take care of you all. Oh! what a foolish girl I am! As though I could do anything!” and her tears fell fast as her sister tried to soothe her.

“And, Lena, I would not like to die yet, even to see mama. I am not good like you.”

“Hush, dear. I think God will let you live to take care of us all. And you are not to cry any more to-night. For indeed, except that you are weak and tired, there is no cause.”

But Frederica was weak in body and mind, and cried herself to sleep, and Miss Agnace saw with anxiety her flushed wet cheeks when she came in.

“I almost wish she might have her desire, and go away to England,” said she as she stood looking at her. “She needs something to rouse and interest her. But perhaps Madame’s plan for her would be best.”

“What is her plan?” asked Selina quickly. “My child, Madame has given me no authority to speak of any plan of hers. But I wish there could come a change of some kind for this poor Miss Frederica.”

“She is better, and I don’t know why Madame Precoe should take trouble in making plans for us. What has she to do with us, or our plans?”

“Nay, my child! It is not well to say anything in that voice and manner. It is not like you. It will all be well, as you often say. Why should you be afraid?”

“Yes, it will be well,” said Selina, and she thought so still, though she felt that her sister’s eyes were wet beneath her kiss. “We must have patience a little while. It will all be well.”

“Yes, it will be well,” said Miss Agnace, thinking how Father Jerome had set himself to the work of saving these children. Yet she sighed, too; for she had learned to love them dearly, and she longed that they should be happy, as well as safe. If Father Jerome were permitted to have his will as to their future life, she feared that suffering must come before the happiness. She could not help them much, she knew, still she gave them good counsel, repeated her little legends, and prayed earnestly to Mary and the saints in their behalf. In her heart she believed it would be well with them in the end, and in the meantime she longed to comfort them and to teach them as well. So that night, as the young girls sat in the darkening room a little sad and dreary, with the tears not very far from the eyes of either of them, she said softly,—

“My children, do you never comfort yourselves and one another by praying for your dear mother’s soul?”

Frederica looked at her in astonishment, not quite free from anger.

“I do not understand you, Miss Agnace,” said Selina gently.

“It would soothe and comfort you, would it not, to feel that you might still do something for your dear mama?”

“We do what we think would please her by loving one another, and caring for our brothers and Tessie. We can do nothing more,” said Selina.

“Ah! who knows?” said Miss Agnace. “It is dark beyond the grave.”

“The grave is dark, but beyond the grave is heaven. Do you know what is said of it, Miss Agnace? ‘And the city had no need of the sun neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.’ Frederica, read about it to Miss Agnace.”

But Frederica made no movement.

“Miss Agnace does not care for the Bible. Father Jerome is her Bible. I am glad he is not mine,” said Frederica contemptuously; for she was not pleased with what Miss Agnace had said. Miss Agnace took no notice.

“We know so little,” said she. “But the Church teaches us that there are purifying fires through which some, even some of the saints, have had to pass to heaven. Every day I pray that if your dear mother is not yet safe and happy, the time may be hastened.”

Frederica uttered an angry cry.

“Nay, but I fear Father Jerome would say all that was wrong—to pray for the soul of a heretic.”

“Fred dear, that is quite wrong,” said Selina, but she was herself very pale. “If you please, Miss Agnace will not speak of these things on which we do not think alike. But, Frederica, it is foolish to be angry.”

“But, my dear children, though we may keep silence, or forget, that will change nothing. And the Church teaches no doctrine more clearly than that some must enter heaven through purifying fires.”

“We will not talk about it,” said Frederica.

If they had talked all night about it, Miss Agnace could have said no more. The Church taught the doctrine—none more plainly—and there were examples enough, of which she could have told them.

“No, we will speak no more,” said Selina. “Only this, Miss Agnace. There is a word which you believe as well as we: ‘The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ Now surely those who are cleansed in this precious blood need no purifying fires. And there is nothing else. The Book of God tells of no other way.”

“Yes, I know it is the blood of Jesus. Still the Church is clear in her teaching, and it would do no harm to ask. It might comfort you, and who knows—?”

“It would be mockery; for we do not believe in it,” said Frederica.

“It would be wrong,” said Selina. “It would dishonour the Lord Jesus. He has done all for His people. He saves to the uttermost, He needs no help from purifying fires. Could any one say, could even David have said, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley and shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,’ if there had been any danger that after all he might be left behind? And the old man told us, ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’”

“The Bible is what we go by,” said Frederica, “and we do not mind what else is said.”

“But, dear child,” said Miss Agnace, showing no anger, though Frederica’s manner might well have provoked it, “you have not read even all the Bible carefully; and besides, how can children like you interpret what is written there? Indeed, it is because I love you that I speak of these things.”

“We know you love us,” said Selina. “But there is only this to be said: Jesus died that we might live for ever. This is for you, and for us, and for all who believe on Him and love Him. All other words are vain.”

Nothing more was said; but that Miss Agnace was grieved and anxious about them, they could plainly see.

“Selina,” said Frederica, when they were left alone, “did her words make you afraid?”

“No,” said Selina slowly, “I am not afraid.”

“But how did you know how to answer her? I could only be angry. But we will not speak about it. Oh, dear! I am so tired of Miss Agnace and her teaching. I wish—”

“But you like her better than Madame Precoe.”

“Much better, but why should we have either?”

“I do not know. But now we have both, and there seems to be no one else,” said Selina, with a sigh.

“Oh! if papa could only come! We should have no more of Madame Precoe, or Father Jerome, or any of them. Everybody seems to have forsaken us.”

“No. A great many people have called. But you have been so ill—and Madame does not care to have even Miss Robina come up. Oh! Fred dear, if you were only quite well again?”

“I shall be well, I am determined. I shall be equal to Madame Precoe very soon.”

“I do not know why she is here. We do not need her more than we did before. When you are well, you must ask Mr St. Cyr.”

“I shall be well I feel quite strong when I think of Madame Ascot Precoe. And we can get Tessie home.”

“But that is not a very sure strength, I am afraid. And the best way will be to wait patiently till papa comes home, or till—”

Selina stopped suddenly, and Frederica, notwithstanding her boasted strength, burst into tears. They felt very forlorn and friendless, these young girls. There were many in M— who cared for them, and who would gladly have come to them with help and counsel. But they seemed to be under other guardianship. No offered kindness to them was well received either by Mr Jerome St. Cyr, or by Madame Precoe. To the young people themselves there was little chance of access, and those who felt kindly towards them had no opportunity of showing their feelings. Even Mrs Brandon was kept at home by the care of an infant daughter, and no wonder that they began to feel their loneliness press sadly on them.

“We can have Tessie home for awhile. I will write a note to Miss Robina, and she will let her come. Then she can read to us, and go out in the sleigh with you.”

The note was written, and Tessie came home, well pleased to be made useful, and they brightened up a little. Frederica grew better, and was soon able to drive with her sisters. She made several attempts, more or less successful, to let Madame Precoe see that she was not the mistress of the house, nor even the housekeeper, as she once had been. She was too well bred, and heeded too entirely the peacemaking suggestions of Selina, to say or do anything to make her aware that she was not altogether a welcome visitor. To all appearance Madame was quite content with her ill-defined position in the house, and willing to be on the best of terms with them all. Tessie took less pains than the rest to be agreeable to her, but Madame would take no offence; and beyond a suggestion, that it was not wise to have Tessie losing so much of her time from school, she did not interfere with their arrangements with regard to her.

But though there was nothing to disturb the outward quiet of the time, it was a time of trial to them all. There was in every one of them a feeling that they were waiting for something—a sense of dread and doubt, that went deeper than the fear that they might never see their father again. Of that there was little hope. The tidings that came from him varied with every mail, and did not become more hopeful. There never had been much hope that he would be quite well, and now it seemed doubtful whether he would be able to return home again; and gradually, as the winter wore away, there fell on them a dread of what might follow his death to them all.

Mr St. Cyr was still an invalid, quite confined to the house. They used to go round that way when they went to drive, and several times Frederica had made an attempt to see him. But he was able to see no one, she was always told: His brother seemed to have taken his place with them, as far as the guidance of their affairs was concerned; but they did not trust Mr Jerome as they had been taught to trust Mr St. Cyr. He was kind in many ways, granting without hesitation almost all the requests made to him, and refusing, when he was obliged to refuse, in a way which ought not to have offended them. But it was not clear to them, that he had a right to assume any guardianship or authority over them, and they made one another unhappy, and sometimes angry, by discussing his possible motives, and the designs he might have with regard to them.

If there had been nothing else, the stand he took with regard to Madame Precoe’s residence with them would have made them dislike him. He said decidedly, when appealed to, that she must remain. A family of young girls in their circumstances could not well be left without some responsible person to take charge of them. There was no one so well fitted for the position as Madame. Her former residence in the house made this evident. Her society was not, it seemed, indispensable to the happiness of Mr Precoe. At least, she could be spared, and was willing to devote herself to their interests. What complaint had they against her?

They had no complaints, except that Tessie detested her, and Frederica did not trust her; but neither the one nor the other could give any satisfactory reason for the feelings entertained toward her, and she remained.

She had taken the affairs of the house into her own hands from the very first. There were changes made in various respects. Old servants were dismissed for reasons which commended themselves to her judgment and the judgment of Mr Jerome, and she did not trouble the young ladies about the matter. Still she was not unreasonable with regard to this, nor arbitrary, as the priest took pains to point out to them. For when they indignantly exclaimed against the dismissal of old Dixen, Madame certainly did not look pleased, but she did not insist. Dixen still kept his place in the house, and came and went at everybody’s bidding, but he was no longer permitted to drive the young ladies as he had always done before. It was dangerous in the crowded streets, Madame said, for Dixen was getting both deaf and blind, and his place was given to one whom she considered in every way worthy of confidence.

Madame did not trouble herself to answer expostulations or objections. She did not resent Frederica’s but half-concealed distrust, or Tessie’s open impertinence. Like every one else in the house, she seemed waiting for something—“biding her time,” as Tessie said, and knowing her as they did, they were hardly to be blamed for looking forward with dread, and for the determination, daily strengthening, to resist her influence and interference when the time for change should come.

Miss Agnace was with them still, but she was very grave and silent at this time. Any day or hour she might be recalled to her hospital and her sick people again, and she was sad at the thought of leaving the children whom she had learned to love so well. But she was sad for another reason too—a reason which ought not to have troubled her. This silent, patient, humble woman, who had long ago forgotten what it was to have hopes, or fears, or wishes of her own, had her heart stirred to its utmost depths for the sake of these orphan children. She was afraid for them. And yet, why should she be afraid? Why should she look forward with such dread to the change and separation that sooner or later must come to them? Were they not to be in good keeping? Had not Father Jerome given himself to the work of caring for their souls, of bringing them into the true Church? thus ensuring their happiness, both in this world and the next. They must suffer a little while, being separated from each other; but with such good and gentle children the struggle would not be long. Why should she fear for them? So blessed an end would justify the use of any means, and who was she that she should judge the actions of one like Father Jerome?

But in spite of her confidence in the priest, in spite of her reasonings and her indignation at herself because of her misgivings, she had painful sinkings of heart for the children’s sakes. Sometimes, as she sat listening to their conversation, or watched Frederica writing to their little brothers letters which would never reach them, because she knew they must be given by her into Father Jerome’s hands, to be read and smiled at, and put into the fire, she had a feeling of pain and shame which no confidence in the priest, no belief in the good work he was to do in the saving of these children’s souls, could quite put away. She knew that, with the will of Father Jerome, the sisters would not for years see their brothers again. She knew that into his plans for them the entire separation of the sisters entered. It might be best for them, she acknowledged, but it was very, very sad.

The boys had not been sent back to the school from which they had been brought at the time of their mother’s death. They were in one of the great Catholic schools of the city, where hundreds of boys of all ages and classes were taught. It was a good school, Miss Agnace believed, and they would be well taught and well disciplined, and where no evil could befall them. It was the best place in the world for them, she was sure. But she shrank with a feeling of pain and shame from the thought that their sisters were being deceived with regard to them. And if it was wrong for Father Jerome and Madame Precoe, what was it for her, whom they loved and trusted, to deceive them? Many a painful question, which she could not answer, came into Miss Agnace’s thoughts during these days of waiting—questions which she called sinful—but which she could neither answer nor put quite away.

Chapter Sixteen.

The winter wore slowly away. The snow was fast disappearing from mountain and fields, and the streets were growing dirty and uneven, as, under the influence of the sun in the lengthening days of March, the ice began to yield, and an early spring was anticipated.

Except for the sunshine, which is usually bright, this is not a pleasant time of the year in the city of M—. It is a time for high winds, and the streets are rough when the frost is strong, and very wet and slippery when the thaw sets in; and people who are not obliged to go out, usually keep within doors for a week or two, till the season advances, and the streets are cleared. But when, as happens in most seasons, a heavy fall of snow comes to restore for a day the reign of winter, few fail to avail themselves of the opportunity to renew the winter’s chief enjoyment. Sleigh bells tinkle merrily, and the streets are full of gay equipages gliding smoothly and noiselessly to and fro.

Such a day came after a week of alternate rain and wind and sleet, and the sisters gladly found themselves speeding away from home and from the city streets. The fresh air, the sunshine, and the rapid motion had an exhilarating effect upon their spirits after the confinement of the last few days, and the burden of doubt and dread that had fallen on them grew lighter. The last English letter had been less discouraging than the former ones; Frederica was growing better and stronger, and they were more cheerful and lively than they had been for a long time. Neither Madame Precoe nor Miss Agnace was with them, and they amused themselves with making plans as to what they were to do when their father came home. For a long time it had been, “If papa comes home,” but to-day they said cheerfully, “When papa comes home.”

“Oh, how glad papa will be to see us all again!” said Frederica. “And, Lena and Tessie, I think he must have changed in some things.”

“He will be glad to get home, I am sure; but as to his being changed—I don’t know about that,” said Tessie.

“He has suffered so much,” said Frederica; “and God sends suffering to do people good. And besides, Cecilia’s letters make me think so.”

“And his little letters to us,” said Selina.

“Oh! if he were only safe home with us again!” said Frederica. “This has been such a long winter, and I am afraid to think of the summer without papa or any one.”

“Any one! We have only too many people;” and Tessie went on to say something not at all polite about Madame and Father Jerome, and they were in danger of taking up their burden again as they came back to the town.

“Where are we?” asked Selina as the street noises told her they were near home.

“We are in M— Street, near where the tall poplars are. They are building a new house, and the fence has fallen down, and there are a great many sleighs passing along,” said Frederica, as her manner was, using her eyes for her sister’s benefit; and then Tessie went on,—

“And here are school-boys, hundreds of them, I should think. Listen to the noise as they pass. A shabby lot they are. The Brothers should dress their boys in uniform—they would look much nicer. One would think all the old clothes in the town had been collected for their benefit.”

“Listen,” said Selina suddenly, “Some one is calling Fred.”

They listened, but amid the jingling of bells and the trampling of feet nothing was heard.

“It was Charlie’s voice. I am quite sure it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.

“But Lena dear, it is quite impossible,” said Tessie. “Charlie is far away.”

“It was Charlie’s voice. First he called ‘Fred,’ and then ‘Lena, Lena.’”

The horses’ heads were turned, and they drove slowly along by the line of boys. There was noise enough, laughing, talking, and exclaiming, but no voice called ‘Fred’ or ‘Lena.’ When they had passed, they turned again, and waited as the boys moved on, and both Fred and Tessie eagerly scanned each face as it came near. There were all sorts of faces, dark and fair, handsome and ugly, bright, eager, laughing faces, and faces stupid, dull, and unhappy. But the face of Charlie was not among them.

“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina, and nothing could move her from that.

They went home full of wonder and anxiety. They told Miss Agnace about the voice that Selina had heard, but Miss Agnace said nothing. They told Madame Precoe, when she came in, and she expressed more surprise than she needed to have expressed, seeing she had already heard all about the incident from Louis the coachman, as indeed, she generally heard of the incidents, and even of the conversations, that attended their drives, when she was not with them.

By-and-by Mr Jerome came in, and he was interested too, but laughed a little at Selina’s fancy.

“You were thinking of your brother, and imagined the voice,” said he.

Selina said nothing.

“Or rather, you heard many voices, and the names were a fancy, or why should not your sisters have heard them also? It is nothing to look so grave about, my child.”

“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.

“And we were not thinking of our brothers, but looking and talking. And Selina hears much more readily than we do,” said Tessie.

Frederica said nothing. She was not strong yet, and she was in that nervous anxious state when nothing in the way of trouble seems impossible, and she looked pale and unhappy.

“Could we not go to the school and ask if Charlie was among the boys?” said Tessie.

“We could certainly do that,” said Father Jerome, “if it would set your minds at rest. Shall we go at once?”

But Madame said the girls needed rest, and they must wait till to-morrow, or at least till afternoon, and this was acquiesced in by them all.

Of course, when they went there, they found no Charlie. They found a great many boys, who scanned them with sharp, attentive eyes, as they passed down the long class-room. They heard them sing and do some of their lessons, and they saw them file down to the long dining-hall to their supper of dry bread and pease coffee. Then they went through other long rooms, and through the great dormitory, where the little grey beds stood close together in long rows, and where nothing else was seen. They went up many stairs, and looked down on numberless city roofs, and that was all.

Everybody was polite and attentive, and thanked them for coming, and asked them to come again. Then Madame Precoe and each of the girls put a piece of money in the charity box that hung on the wall near the door, and then they went away.

That was all. Of course it had been very foolish in them to expect to see their brother, Fred and Tessie said to one another as they walked down the stairs; but when they came home and saw Selina’s expectant face, they looked at one another in doubt again.

Madame sat with them that evening, and exerted herself to amuse them and to withdraw their thoughts from their brother, and from Selina’s foolish fancy about the voice she had heard. Miss Agnace was rarely with them when Madame was there, and when she went upstairs with them she would not linger to talk with them as she sometimes did.

“You are not to listen to them or speak about this foolish fancy, and they will forget it,” said Madame to her. “In a few days it will not matter what they know. But in the meantime they might complicate matters by discussing their affairs with other people. And remember, should any one call when I am out, the young ladies are engaged. And should it be impossible to deny any one, remember you must know all that may be said.”

Miss Agnace assented silently.

“And when you go as usual to Mr St. Cyr’s, remember you are to say nothing of this foolish fancy of Miss Selina’s. He could do nothing, even if he understood; and they will soon be out of his hands, and the sooner the better for all concerned. You understand what I wish, do you not?”

Again Miss Agnace assented in silence. She was by no means sure how all this would seem to her, when she should have time to think it over, but there was nothing to be said. She was not bound to obey blindly Madame Precoe’s commands, except as they expressed the will of Father Jerome also; and in the single moment in which she permitted herself to question, a great many unhappy thoughts rushed into her mind. And they would not be put away, even when it became clear to her that for the plans with regard to the future of these children, and all that they involved, Father Jerome was responsible. Madame Precoe was but an instrument in his hands, as she herself was. Father Jerome must not be accused of doing wrong—at least, the end he had in view was right, and that ought to be enough.

Ought it to be enough? Poor Sister Agnace had never been in the habit of deciding between right and wrong for herself, and she was sadly puzzled now. It was such a pity, she thought, that it was necessary to deceive these children for their good. There would be strong resistance on their part, she began to fear, to the power that was shaping their fate.

“And they will suffer. Oh! how they will suffer?” said the poor anxious creature to herself. “But it is for their souls’ sake, and their suffering will only be for this world; and surely, Mary and the saints will soften their trouble, poor darlings! Father Jerome must, of course, be right. But it hurts me to deceive them, because they love me a little, and trust me.”

She went that night to pay her usual monthly visit to Mr St. Cyr. She answered his questions. She told him no lie, but she kept silence, as Madame had bidden her, about all that could have awakened the anxiety of their friend and guardian on their account. Unintentionally she made him aware that Madame Precoe was living with them; but he said nothing.

He thanked Miss Agnace for her care of the girls and their mother, and for her love and faithfulness to them, and expressed a hope that as long as they should need her, she might be permitted to remain with them. Poor Miss Agnace! She went into a church on her way home, and knelt for a long hour or two in the cold and darkness, but she carried still her burden of doubt and care when she went away.

A few more weeks passed away. Frederica said nothing now about going to her father, for they were not without hope that when the spring came he might return home. He longed very much to come, they knew, and they permitted themselves to hope, almost to believe, that they would see him again, and waited for his coning with what patience they could command.

Tessie went to school again after the Easter holidays, and they missed her sadly. But they both strove conscientiously, not only to be patient, but to be happy, in the great lonely house that had so changed to them. But waiting is weary work to young and eager hearts, and time passed slowly.

The day for Tessie’s first visit came, and they amused themselves making preparations for her entertainment. But hour after hour passed, and she did not appear. Instead of Tessie, came Madame with her work-basket in her hand, and with the evident intention of remaining. It was not a pleasant prospect, and it is to be feared they were not quite able to hide their discomfort under it.

“Frederica,” said Madame, “pray do not be so restless—so unsettled. You had much better take your work, and be content to sit still.” But Frederica could settle to nothing till Tessie came.

“Expect Tessie? Nay, you need not do that Tessie is not coming home.”

“Excuse me, Madame, but it was certainly to-day that we agreed on for her visit, and Miss Glencairn will be sure to allow her.”

“But unfortunately it is not a question of Miss Glencairn’s kindness. It has long been evident that Miss Tessie has got beyond Miss Glencairn and her little attempts at education; and she has been sent elsewhere—to the ladies of the Sacred Heart, where you all should have been sent long ago. I have no doubt she will be quite happy there. She will, at all events, be judiciously dealt with.”

Astonishment kept the sisters silent, and Madame went on—

“A most necessary and important step, I consider it. It is only to be regretted that so much time has been lost.”

Frederica so trembled with indignation, that she could not speak. Selina made a movement toward her, and holding her hand firmly, said,—

“Remember, Fred, nothing can really harm Tessie, or any of us. And, Madame, you will excuse us from discussing this matter with you. It is painful to us, and it cannot concern you.”

“Except as I approve of it entirely. You do me injustice. I take the greatest possible interest in this matter, and in you.”

“And who took the responsibility to advise such a step?” asked Frederica. “Does Mr St. Cyr know it? What do you suppose papa will say?”

“I advised it, and Mr Jerome St. Cyr saw the propriety of it. Mr St. Cyr is in no state of health to say anything about such a matter. As for Mr Vane—” added Madame, and paused, with a look that sent a chill to the girls’ hearts. There had no letter come to them by the last mail.

“What of papa?” said Selina, “Have you heard anything that we do not know?”

“As to this affair of Tessie? No, I have heard nothing. Should he ever return, he will doubtless recall her, unless she should wish to remain. I dare say she is quite happy there by this time.”

“Fred, love, do not let us vex ourselves. Tessie is at least quite safe there. But, Madame, why was it thought necessary to conceal her going there from us? Why did you deceive us?”

“Nay, you forget—I have nothing to do in this affair. I suppose Father Jerome feared that you might make yourselves unhappy. It was for your sakes that his intentions were not explained to you. Now that your sister is there, you must acknowledge that the convent is quite the best place for her. At all events, no change will be made now.”

Frederica was sick at heart. If she were to utter the angry words that rose to her lips, she knew it would do no good. She knew not what to do.

“Fortunately, here comes Father Jerome; you may discuss the matter with him, and I will leave you;” and Madame rose to leave the room.

“At this moment it would not be agreeable to us,” said Selina. “He has deceived us, and we decline to see him just now.”

“What right has he to intermeddle in our affairs?” burst in Frederica; “a man whom neither our father nor mother ever trusted.”

Madame laughed.

“It is as well to decline his visit at this moment. Later he will, I think, make you understand his right to meddle in your affairs, and his power to do so,” said Madame, as she left the room.

“Selina, what shall we do? Selina, I am beginning to be afraid.”

“But then you know, dear, nothing can really harm us. You read it yesterday—‘Who is he that can harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”

“Oh! I don’t remember, and that may not mean us. Selina, I am afraid.”

“But, Fred, love, it must mean us, I think. We must not let the promise go, as though God would change. Read it, dear—to please me;” and she put the Bible into her sister’s hand. “And in another place it is said, ‘All things shall work together for good to them that love God.’ We love Him, Fred. He has been very good to us.”

Frederica took the Bible and read,—

“‘For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open unto their prayers. But the face of the Lord is against them that do evil.

“‘And who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”

Selina’s face grew bright as she listened.

“Fred, love, why should we be afraid? It is wrong to be afraid.”

“Well,” said Frederica, with a long breath, “I will not be afraid. I think I am more angry than afraid.”

“But anger will not help us. Read what you read yesterday,” said Selina.

Frederica read on to the end of the chapter, and then turned back to the one before it, the second of First Peter. They could not have explained all those beautiful and wonderful words—nay, they knew that most of them they understood very imperfectly. But they could take comfort from them, lingering over a verse here and there, and speaking to one another words which might not have been very wise, but which were always reverent and trustful.

“It is ‘as new-born babes’ that He speaks to us. And babes are neither wise nor strong. But He cares for them all the same, and surely we ‘have tasted that the Lord is gracious,’” said Selina.

And so she went on to the end. It quieted them, and they went out to the garden to get the good of the sunshine, not less cheerfully than usual. The faces that the priest caught sight of as they passed were brighter than he had seen them for a good while.

“See, they have forgotten their troubles already,” said he, smiling. “You are mistaken in thinking they will resist. Sister Agnace is mistaken in thinking they will suffer. They will yield to circumstances and a strong will. From whom could they have inherited strength? Neither from father nor mother.”

“Frederica is like the little Jewess her grandmother. She may have inherited her strength,” said Madame. “I wish you could have seen her as I saw her a little while ago.”

“Ah, well! She has forgotten her anger already. See the little butterfly flitting about in the garden. There is nothing to fear from her.”

“I will send Sister Agnace to keep an eye on your butterfly. It is not necessary that they should tell their affairs to old Dixen who is there.”

She returned immediately.

“Of what are you then afraid, if not of the ‘little Jewess’?” asked she.

“There is nothing to fear. Everything is prospering beyond my hopes.”

“And your brother?”

“He is better. But I do not think he will seriously object to the plans I have in view for these children. Indeed, I have no plans for them. That will be for those who are to be appointed as their guardians. I hope to name these guardians. Cyprien may not agree with me, but still I think it can be arranged to suit us both.”

“And are you sure that their mother and your brother did not appoint them, even after you found the torn paper on your brother’s table?”

“It is impossible. If indeed there were any guardians legally appointed, that might make the work I have set myself more difficult. Other means would have to be used.”

“Ah, well! I doubt if ever you can make a nun of ‘the little Jewess,’” said Madame.

“Nothing is farther from my wish than to do that. Her sister shall be a nun and a saint, and if by any miracle of science and skill her blindness may be cured, it shall be so done, that even by that the Church shall receive honour, and her power be extended and strengthened. Your ‘little Jewess,’ your ‘butterfly,’ shall be allowed to shine in society, and to take her fill of the pleasure she tasted last year. A few years with the good sisters first will do much for her. When she is properly submissive to those who have a right to direct her, she shall have her own way. I am not afraid.”

“And her brothers: what are they to be?”

“After ten, or even seven years with the good fathers, they shall choose for themselves.”

“And if Mr Vane should return? It is not impossible.”

“It is impossible. Mr Vane is dead.”

“Dead!” repeated Madame. Even she was shocked at the tidings, or the suddenness of the announcement.

“I have known it for a week. Cyprien does not know it yet, but all must know it soon.”

“And have you come to tell these girls?”

“No. They will probably have letters to-night,—the steamer has arrived, I see,—and then no time must be lost. They must not have a chance to talk over their affairs with all the world, who will come to condole with them.”

“And will you not see them?”

“You forget. They decline to see me,” said the priest laughing. “I hope to find them in better humour another time.”

Madame did not laugh.

“It is not impossible that all your plans for them may be frustrated after all,” said she.

“For the moment, it is not impossible. But I shall never, while I live, give up the hope of making them and their wealth of use to the Church, and when I die others will take up the work. There is nothing impossible. They, or their children, or their children’s children—and their wealth must be ours.”

“There is only God Himself stronger than you and the Church, and these children believe Him to be on their side.”

“They are but children,” said the priest, but he frowned darkly at her words, as he turned to go away.

Madame sat still, looking after him in silence, Mr Jerome’s tidings had moved her more than she would have thought possible. She sat lost in painful thoughts till Miss Agnace came in. She felt that she could not yet meet the questioning eyes of these orphan girls.

“I am going out,” said she, rising hastily. “If any one calls, the young ladies are not to be seen.”

She went out immediately and Miss Agnace did not follow her to say to her what she had come to say.

“It will keep. Perhaps she need not be told,” said she to herself.

It seemed that Miss Agnace had not been needed in the garden, or rather the need for her was past, before she had been sent out. She met the girls returning to the house. They were very quiet but there was some restrained excitement in their manners, as she remembered afterwards. They went to their own room, where she had supposed they both remained till she went to tell them that luncheon was served. But only Selina was there. Frederica had gone to see their sister Caroline, she told Miss Agnace.

“But my dear, should she not have asked permission, or at least have said that she was going, or have taken the carriage. It is not well that a young lady should go out alone, and she is not strong.”

“Of whom should she ask permission?” said Selina coldly.

And so Miss Agnace had gone to let Madame know, as Madame expected her to let her know everything that went on in the house. But she had not waited to hear, and Frederica had been allowed to have her own way.

Chapter Seventeen.

Madame Precoe’s care in sending Sister Agnace into the garden because of old Dixen, had been more needed than she supposed, but it came too late to be of use. The old man had been busy near one of the walks as they entered, and he had answered their greeting very briefly. But as he stooped again he said hurriedly,—

“She thinks I am blind, but I can see her and the priest at the window looking out. Go round to the other side behind the hedge, young ladies dear, for I have something to tell you.”

He worked on for a little while after they had disappeared. He worked his way along the walk till he was out of sight of the windows, then coming close to them he said in a whisper, as though he feared to be overheard,—

“I have seen the little lads. Mrs Hearn told me something that made me think they were at the school with her boys. I never let on that it was not all right, and I watched afterwards, and saw them walking with the rest. But they do not always walk, and they are well watched.”

“I knew it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.

“Oh! Lena! Oh! Dixen! What shall we do?” said Frederica, clasping her hands.

“Fred love! God will take care of them.” But Selina herself grew pale.

“And is it true that Miss Tessie was sent away to the convent without a word to you two?” went on Dixen. “I’m sore feared that something must have happened to the master, or they would never have dared to do that.”

“But it cannot be that, Dixen. For the boys must have been there a long time. They were never sent back, I suppose,” said Frederica.

“And we have heard nothing from papa for a fortnight,” said Selina.

“It does not look well,” said Dixen. “But, children dear, you are not to fret. The boys are safe enough. No harm can come to them. We are living in the Queen’s dominions, thank God, and evil things can only be done in secret. And, Miss Fred dear, you should go to Mrs Brandon, and tell her about Miss Tessie and the little lads. And somebody that is wise in the law should be told. I would have gone myself, but nobody would heed such a story from the like of me. I am sore feared that no good is meant to you all. And the priests are everywhere, and have the means of making men do their will, that we know nothing of. Only here they must keep things quieter than in some places. But don’t let them smuggle you all off without a word. They will tell you it is your souls they would save, but it is your grandfather’s money they want as well. And here is that soft-spoken nun coming to hear what I may be saying. Be sure you go to your sister this very day.”

In his increasing excitement the old man used some words that are not put down, and he went muttering to himself away.

“Here is Miss Agnace,” said Frederica.

“We must be very quiet, and let her see nothing. Let us walk round the other way to the house,” said Selina.

“And I will go to Caroline. Anything is better than to sit still and think about it,” said Frederica excitedly.

They walked very quietly into the house, and went to their room.

“I will go at once, as Dixen said,” and Frederica’s preparations were soon made.

The room where Madame and the priest were sitting looked back upon the garden, so she got away without being seen. She had gone but a few steps, when she heard Dixen’s voice behind her.

“You are but weakly yet, Miss Frederica,” said he, when she waited for him, “and I will come with you. Just you go on without heeding me. I will keep in sight. Can you walk all the way, think you?”

Frederica was doubtful about it. She was excited, and trembling, hot and cold by turns. She was not very hopeful as to any help she could get from her sister. She was ill, and her husband was cautious, and not easily moved, and above all averse to interfere in matters where his right to do so was not acknowledged.

“And he will say it is Mr St. Cyr that is doing all this—and it is not impossible,” said Frederica, with a new pang of terror. “But I don’t think he would deceive us. I will go to the school myself. I will take them by surprise, and they will not have time to hide them as they must have done before, and I will take them away.”

It was not a very wise idea. Dixen shook his head, but Frederica persisted, and the old man followed her up the street. But before they had gone far they heard the hum of many voices, and the long line of boys came in sight. Frederica turned into a doorway, and waited till they passed, scanning each face eagerly. They were for the most part bigger boys than her brothers. She looked in vain for the face of either of them, and stood gazing blankly after the long line as it passed down the street. The gate stood open, and she went and looked in. The side door stood open also.

“Dixen,” said she hurriedly, “I am going in. They cannot do me any harm, and I may see Charlie, or little Hubert.”

But this seemed a dreadful thing to Dixen.

“Miss Frederica, I cannot think it would be well to go. No one knows what might happen,” said he in distress.

“I am not afraid, Dixen. Yes, I am a little afraid. But I have prayed to God, and so has Selina, and He will take care of me. Wait at the corner; and if I don’t come out in half an hour; you must tell some one, and come for me.”

But she did not keep him half that time. She went slowly up the steps and in at the door. She did not go forward into the wide hall as she had done when they came with Father Jerome, but turned at once, and went up a narrow stair, down which the sound of voices came. Still following the sound, she came to a room where a score or two of little boys were amusing themselves. They did not see her at first, and she stood watching them for a little while. She did not see her brothers, but she called softly several times,—

“Charlie! Hubert! are you here?” And as she spoke, a little hand touched hers, and she turned to meet the wondering eyes of her youngest brother. Without a word, she drew him outside of the room, and along the passage toward the stairs.

“Where is Charlie?” uttered she with difficulty. “No, we must not look for him. I have one safe, and I can come again for Charlie.”

It does not sound possible that this should have happened, but it is perfectly true. The stairs were passed, and the hall, and they ran across the yard, and into the street, and no eye had seen them. At least, no hand had stopped them. It would not have been easy to stop them, Frederica thought; for her courage rose to the occasion the moment she felt the touch of her little brother’s hand. It was a happy thing that no one tried. Dixen rubbed his eyes as they passed him without a word, but he lost not a moment in following them. After they had crossed a good many streets, they paused, and he overtook them.

“Where shall we go? Not home. To Mrs Brandon’s? Yes. And you must go home and tell Selina. Go quickly, Dixen, before you are missed.”

In her haste she had not noticed the way she was taking. The streets were not familiar to her and as she hurried on, hardly daring to speak to her brother, or even to look at him, she became bewildered and anxious, and her courage failed a little.

“I am afraid Caroline will think I have been foolish. And they will be sure to look in her house, as they will not find him at home. Oh! if I only had a safe place in which to hide him for a few days!”

She thought of Mr St. Cyr’s house. But then she was not sure that their old friend had remained true to them. And besides, he was ill, and Father Jerome was often there, and the house was no place for Hubert.

“A safe place,” repeated she, and then there came into her mind the thought of Mistress Campbell and her garret, where there never entered a creature, but Eppie herself. Without a moment’s hesitation, she turned her steps in the direction of Mrs Glencairn’s house.

“Hubert dear,” said she coaxingly, “you will be very good, won’t you, and stay with Mistress Campbell till I know what I ought to do. No one will think of looking for you there.”

“But are we not going home? Why should we not go home?” demanded Hubert.

“It is quite impossible to-night,” said Fred firmly. “Father Jerome would have you back at school again this very night. You cannot go home.”

“Father Jerome? What has he to do with it? I don’t know what you mean, Fred.”

“Was it not he who took you there, when he should have taken you back to your former school again?”

No, Hubert thought not. He did not remember very well about it. But Father Jerome had nothing to do with their going to school. But Frederica had her doubts about it all the same, and hurried on.

“But we cannot go home, because mama is not there, nor papa. But Madame is there, and you may be sure she would not let you even stay one night, but send you back at once, and they would be sure to punish you for coming without leave.”

“It is you they ought to punish, Fred, I think,” said Hubert.

“Ah! wouldn’t they. If they could! And tell me about about Charlie. Where was he?”

“But Hubert knew very little about his brother. They very seldom saw each other. They were not in the same class.”

“And are they good to you? Are you glad to come away?”

It was not so, bad as it might be. Still, Hubert was very glad to get away. Some of the boys were not nice, and they had queer ways there. But of his life there he had no complaint to make. In the midst of his talk they reached Mrs Glencairn’s house. They went round to the door at the wing at which the pupils entered. They stumbled over a scrubbing-brush and a pail of water at the open door, but they saw no one; and went up till they reached the attic unseen.

“Where are we going?” said Hubert, holding fast his sister’s hand in the dimness, of the little passage. “Into the spider’s parlour, I think.”

“By no means,” said Frederica, as she knocked. “We are going to see Mistress Campbell; who used to be so good to Tessie and me when we were at school. And you must not look surprised at anything you may see. And, Hubert dear, you will be a good boy, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Why should I not be good?” said Hubert impatiently.

“Eh, Missy! is this you?” exclaimed the old woman, holding up her hands in astonishment. “And this is your wee brother?—a bonny laddie, but—”

Mistress Campbell could not finish her sentence; for, excited and tired beyond her strength, Frederica burst into tears.

“My bairn! what is it?” said Eppie. “To think of my folly in speiring that I after all that has come to you and yours, since we saw you here. But, my dear, you have no cause to grieve—for your mama—”

Frederica put up her hand to stop her.

“No—I am glad for mama—but—I am frightened—and tired.”

“Sit down and rest you, my bairn,” said her old friend tenderly. “Go away yonder to your window, and I’ll make acquaintance with your brother here—a fine lad he is.”

Hubert, though a little startled at the sight of Frederica’s tears, had never taken his eyes from the small brown wrinkled face of the old woman, and he met her look with an undisguised curiosity and wonder that amused her.

“Your wee brother, did I say? No, this must be the elder of the two—and a fine well-grown lad he is,” said Mistress Campbell admiringly.

“No, Charlie is bigger than I am,” said Hubert gravely.

“Dear me! I ay thought Miss Frederica’s brothers were but wee boys; but you have had time to grow, it’s true, since I have been in the way of hearing about you. You’re near hand as big as Miss Frederica herself.”

This was not saying very much, but it won the good-will of Hubert, whether she meant it to do so or not. And some interesting confidences followed on his part, in the midst of which his sister found him, when she recovered herself.

“And you’ll bide to your tea with me,” said Mistress Campbell. “I’m sore failed since you were here, Miss Frederica, but I am not altogether helpless yet. So you’ll bide still a wee while.”

But Frederica was not sure that they ought to stay.

“First, I must tell you why we came,” said she.

She told the story hurriedly, and it was doubtful whether Mrs Campbell followed her closely through it all. She understood, however, that Miss Tessie had been “spirited away,” as she called it, and that from some dread mysterious fate Frederica had courageously rescued her little brother, and that in some way she was relied on for help.

“But I thought the days for such things were long past, and that they only whiles happen in books,” said he wondering. “But dear! dear! What is the like o’ me to ken about what is going on in the world? And one has but to look out, first at one window and then another, at the great buildings that are rising up on every hand, to be sure that the ‘scarlet woman’ has this for a favoured abiding-place. And I doubt she’s no’ much changed since the old days, though her hands are a wee tied. And you rescued your brother, did you? ’Deed you’re a brave lassie.”

But Hubert had no idea of being looked on as rescued.

“If I had known you cared about it, Fred, I could have run away any time—I could have done it quite easily.”

“I’m no’ just so sure o’ that,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “If these long-coated gentry had a motive for keeping you, they wouldna have let you go, or they would have had you back again.”

“Yes, and no one must know where he is,” said Frederica anxiously. “I could think of no other safe place to bring him to. And, Hubert dear, if Mistress Campbell will have you, you will stay here quietly till I can see Caroline and Mr Brandon, or till papa comes home.”

“There has nothing happened to your papa, has there? They’re bold, these folk, or they’re sure o’ their ground,” said Mistress Campbell gravely.

“Dixen said that about papa. But we have had no more news. We had no letter last mail.”

“Oh well! No news is good news, they say; and it’s utter nonsense to think that anything can really happen to harm you in a Christian country like this.”

“And in the Queen’s dominions, as Dixen said,” echoed Frederica hopefully.

“And I’ll keep the laddie safe, though the whole Inquisition were after him. That’s no’ just the name they get here, I daresay; but I’ll keep the laddie, if he’ll bide.”

“You cannot go home, Hubert dear; for Madame Precoe is there, and Father Jerome; and though he is so smooth and pleasant, I do not trust him; and, indeed, I don’t know what to do. Will you stay, dear Hubert?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll stay, if you make a point of it. But there is no danger for me,” said Hubert loftily.

“Did you like staying at the school, my lad? Were they good to you?”

“At first I did not like it. Oh, yes, they were kind enough. They’re a rough lot, however, and I would not like to go back, since Fred objects to it.”

The door opened, and Frederica uttered a cry. It was only Miss Robina, however, not one of the servants, as she had feared. Of course there were more exclamations, and the story was told again, but the part dwelt on now was the taking away of Tessie from Mrs Glencairn’s, and sending her to the convent, without even telling her sisters.

“We did not know it till this morning, and I was angry and frightened. We could have done nothing, even if we had known. There is no one but Mr Brandon who has a right to say anything, and he does not like to interfere with Mr St. Cyr. But I think that has been done by Mr Jerome and Madame Precoe, and not Mr St. Cyr. I should be in despair if I thought Mr St. Cyr had turned against us.”

“Have they heard that Mr Vane is worse?” asked Miss Robina anxiously.

Frederica turned pale: “They all ask that. Dear Miss Robina, do you think he is really worse. What must we then do?”

“My darling, don’t be troubled. No harm can really come to you. It is not to be believed. Have you seen Mr St. Cyr? He is a man of high character. He will do nothing wrong—nothing unlawful, surely.”

“He has been ill. They thought him dying. I have not seen him for a long time. Oh! if papa would only come home! No, I am not going to cry. But I am tired, and—yes—I am afraid.”

“When had you your dinner?” asked Mistress Campbell gravely. Frederica laughed.

“I don’t know; I don’t think I had any.”

“And no wonder you are faint-hearted. Just you lie down and rest you, and you will be another creature when you get your tea.”

But Frederica was too excited and anxious to rest. She enjoyed her tea, however, and so did Hubert. He had evidently not been used to dainty fare of late, and he yielded to Mistress Campbell’s entreaties to eat, with entire willingness and enjoyment Fred found her strength and courage renewed when she rose to go. “I will come again soon, if I am not carried away too,” said she laughing.

“My dear, it is no laughing matter,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “May the Lord preserve you all?”

“He will, Selina says. She is not afraid. Selina is better than I am,” said Fred humbly.

“But then it’s no’ our deserts we are to lippen to. You’ll be cared for, never fear. He’ll give His angels charge, and He’ll no’ leave it altogether to them either. He’ll raise some one up to take the orphan’s part.”

Miss Robina promised to come and see her soon, and bring her tidings of Hubert, who was already so sound asleep, that he could not be awakened to say good-bye; and somewhat reassured and comforted, Frederica went away.

But how lonely and friendless she felt, as she went down the familiar street! By some association, which it would not have been easy to trace, there came back to her the remembrance of their unexpected holiday at Easter. Oh, how long it seemed, since these two happy children had gone dancing down the street! How light-hearted they had been! how fearless of all possible evil!

At the corner of the street down which she and Tessie had run to avoid the chance of meeting Mrs Ascot, she paused a moment. Could it be possible that their old friend who had been so kind to them that day, should have turned against them? She remembered how he had walked on with them, and the promise he had made to help her if ever she were in trouble.

“And he did help me ever so many times. I cannot believe that he knows all that is making us unhappy and afraid. I will go and see him now.”

In a minute she was standing on the steps that went down to the wide door of the house. It was not open as she had found it once before, when she came to him with her troubles. But when it opened at the sound of the bell, she gave the servant no time to say as usual, that her master could see no one; but passing her softly and quickly, sprang upstairs like a bird. It was still quite light out of doors, but the passage was dark, and so was the room into which she went. There was a fire in the grate, however; and before she saw Mr St. Cyr, she saw his shadow on the wall, and paused a moment to get breath. Then as she heard a footstep at the door, she came forward. Mr St. Cyr must have been asleep, she thought, for at first he looked at her in a wondering way, as though he did not know her, and she therefore hastened to speak.

“Are you better, Cousin Cyprien?”

“It is not Theresa—is it?” said he, with little pauses between the words, as though he did not find it easy to utter them.

“Not Theresa, but Fred. Are you better, cousin?”

“Ah! my little cousin—who comes to me—in her trouble—but who does not come to me in mine.”

“I have been here often, but you were too ill to see me, they said always. Are you better now?”

“Yes—I am better, I think. Once they told me—I was dying—” He paused.

“And were you afraid, Cousin Cyprien?” said Frederica, looking with awe into his changed face.

“Was it fear that I felt? There was fear, and a thrill of something that was not fear. Now—I said—I shall know the mystery of death—and the beyond.”

“Cousin, mania was not afraid. Even at the last, when death was very near, she was not afraid, because—”

In her earnestness she had knelt down beside the old man; and now, as her voice failed, she laid her face down on his knee. His trembling right hand was laid on her head.

“So—she has gone! She has solved the mystery.”

“Did you not know, Cousin Cyprien? Did not Mr Jerome tell you? He feared to grieve you.”

“Doubtless—it was for that or for some other good reason. I am glad I did not die.”

“But mama was not afraid, after she knew how Jesus loved us and came to die for us.”

“Tell me of your mother, and the end.”

“She was not afraid,” repeated Frederica. “Miss Agnace was afraid for her, and Mr Jerome and Sister Magdalen came often, and told her many things she ought to do. But she was never afraid, after the old man told us how ‘the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ It is in the Bible, you know, and God taught her, I think God and Selina. And it is for us all—the blood of Jesus—for those who think as Miss Agnace does, and you, and all of us. Selina will tell you. May I bring Selina, Mr St. Cyr?”

“Tell me about your mother,” said he.

Frederica told him about how afraid her mother had been, and how she longed to know the way to heaven. And then she told how she had brought the old man in from the storm, never thinking what wonderful things he was to tell them, and how after that her mother was at rest. She told him how she had grown weaker, so slowly that they could see no change in her from day to day, and how calm and peaceful she was through all the time.

“Not even the thought of leaving us alone, when we feared papa was dying, made her unhappy; for she said, ‘God will take care of my children, against all who would do them harm.’ And so He will,” added Frederica earnestly; and as she raised her eyes, they fell on the face of Mr Jerome, standing in the shadow of the door. She rose hastily.

“Must you go? Sit by me for a little while,” said her old friend.

The door closed softly, shutting out the priest, as she believed, and Frederica sat down at the old man’s feet again.

“Does the time seem long, Cousin Cyprien?” asked she.

“It seemed long in passing, but to look back on, it seems like a blank. I must get strong again. Is your father dead too?”

“Papa! Oh, no! He was better when we heard last, but it is a long time now. You have not heard that papa is worse?”

“I have heard nothing, and I can do nothing. Why have you come to-day? Is it because of some new unhappiness? Madame Ascot is with you, I hear. Are you unhappy, my child?”

Frederica paused a moment before she answered.

“Mama is gone, and papa, and sometimes we are afraid. But I did not come because of Madame. I thought that you had forgotten us, and I came to see. I am not afraid now that you are getting well.”

“Ah! we will trust so. And have you nothing to tell me?—no trouble to be helped through?”

“No,” said Frederica thoughtfully. “I will wait till you are quite well again, and then I will tell you all. And will you tell Babette that we may come upstairs—Selina and I? I may bring Selina, may I not?”

“By all means, and I will warn Babette, you may be sure. Must you go how?”

“It is growing dark, I think. Yes, I must go. So good night, Cousin Cyprien.”

“Are you alone? My child, it is not well for you to be alone in the street at this hour.”

“It was not dark when I came. It is only a little way. I am not afraid.”

“Well, be sure and come again. Good night, my child.”

“I will see Miss Vane safely home, I have something to say to her,” said a voice from the darkness. Frederica with great difficulty suppressed a cry as Mr Jerome stepped forward.

“Is it you, my brother? Ah, well, she need not be in haste, though it is growing dark. You will see her safely home.”

But Frederica bent hastily over Mr St. Cyr’s hand.

“Good night, Cousin Cyprien. I do not fear the dark,” said she; “but I do fear Mr Jerome,” added she, in an undertone, as she sprang out of the room and down the stairs. She sped along the street like one pursued by an enemy. But Mr Jerome did not follow her across the threshold. He lingered a moment, looking out after her, and then went up through the darkness to his brother’s room.

“And so Theresa St. Hubert is gone!” said Mr St. Cyr, as he entered the room, which was no longer dark.

“Yes,” said his brother; “she is gone, and so is her husband.”

“Dead! His daughter does not know.”

“No. Why tell her sooner than needful? He, at least, is no loss to his children.”

“And yet they loved him, and they ought to know.”

“They will be told when the right time comes.”

“There will be much to do. There are many documents relating to their affairs that must be looked over and arranged, and I have still so little strength.”

“My strength is yours in their cause;” said Mr Jerome.

“Brother,” said Mr St. Cyr, “why did you not tell me of poor Theresa’s death?”

“Did I not tell you? Did not Sister Agnace? You were too ill at that time to be told, I suppose. Or you have forgotten. Your memory fails you at times, I fear, my brother.”

“It may be,” said Mr St. Cyr, after a moment’s thought. “And yet I think I should not have forgotten this.”

“There is no time to be lost in the settlement of their affairs, you must see,” said Jerome.

“No, certainly.”

“There must be guardians appointed.”

“They are appointed.”

“In your illness, having to act for them, I examined such papers relating to their affairs as I had access to. I found none having reference to what was to follow the death of their mother. None entire, I mean. Was there not to be some change? some new choice? I found some torn morsels of paper, a cancelled instrument of some sort. It is quite as well. The court will be happier in the selection of guardians than that unhappy woman was.”

“There are guardians appointed!” repeated Mr St. Cyr.

“You have forgotten. Your illness has impaired your memory. There was to be a change of names. The former appointment was set aside. You yourself must have had some knowledge of it. You have forgotten.”

Mr St. Cyr looked at his brother with a strange emotion visible in his face.

“My brother, you are not glad of my weakness, are you? Have patience with me. I am weak.”

“That is easily seen. Yes, I will be gentle with you, but I must be faithful too: your weakness shall be helped and shielded by my strength.”

“Yes, but not to-night. I am tired to-night,” said Mr St. Cyr, leaning back wearily in his chair.

“You shall not be troubled. See, I have thought of the men whose names are written here, and at an early day I shall see the judges as to their legal appointment. And you shall not be troubled. If you are not satisfied with my suggestions, of course you are at liberty to make what change in the names you please.”

“But their mother, by my advice, appointed their guardians in the manner prescribed by Mr St. Hubert’s will; and nothing can supersede that appointment, you are aware.”

“If any trace of such an instrument is to be found,” said Mr Jerome.

“It is to be hoped it is to be found, or it may go badly with some of us,” said Mr St. Cyr gravely.

“As to that I cannot say. But the court, under your direction and mine, can do all that is necessary, without reference to documents of doubtful justice.”

“The appointment must stand as it is,” said Mr St. Cyr impatiently.

“It is time you were retiring, is it not? You seem tired. Shall I help you?”

“Thanks, I am not inclined to go yet.”

“Still I think you had better go. I shall speak to Babette, shall I not?”

There was no reply; and he left the room. Listening intently to his receding footsteps, Mr St. Cyr rose with difficulty, and holding by the furniture, crossed the room to the cabinet in which Frederica, on her first visit, had seen so many beautiful and curious things. From a hidden compartment in one of its sides, he drew forth several papers, and looked eagerly and attentively over them. He had only time to replace them and return to his seat, before his brother came in again.