Front matter (continued 3)

CHAPTER X.

AT SIDCOMBE.

Miss Gifford and the two girls, Gertrude and Lena, had been now for some days in their comfortable lodgings at Sidcombe, and Lena was fast becoming very fond of her new companion. Although they had seen a great deal of Gertrude during their stay at Astbury, both she and Milly had looked upon her as being nearly grown up, and though liking her very much, for she was always kind and good to them, they looked upon her in quite a different light to that in which they looked on Bessie, not considering her, as they did the latter, as a companion and playfellow. There seemed to Lena more difference between her twelve and Gertrude's fifteen years, than there was between Milly and Bessie, though the actual difference in age was much the same. Gertrude was very different from her sister, Bessie being much gentler and quieter in disposition. But now, in the quiet and daily companionship of their life, the two girls were fast becoming firm friends.

The life at Sidcombe was very pleasant, and Lena was enjoying it much. There was nothing here to recall the secret trouble that had been haunting her at home, and no word was ever said to call forth the struggle between right and wrong, between deceit and truth, that had been of daily occurrence when with her mother-and sisters. She was only too glad to think that her secret was to remain one for ever, and that the whole thing was an affair of the past, never to trouble her any more.

Both Miss Gifford and Gertrude were very kind to Lena, and the days passed in a simple but happy manner. Their mornings were spent on the sands, and there was nothing Lena enjoyed more, when the morning bath in the sea was over, than to lie under shelter of some rock, and listen to Gertrude as she read aloud, for Miss Gifford said something in the way of lessons must be done, so had fixed upon this plan, of reading out for a certain number of hours each morning from an interesting and improving book, certainly the pleasantest of all ways of gaining knowledge.

The afternoons and evenings were devoted to long rambles, either along the sands, or through the pretty lanes and fields of the country round. At first both girls were eager to wander about and explore the neighbourhood, but very soon they grew either too lazy, or the weather became too hot, or for some reason Lena began to tire of long walks, and she would ask Miss Gifford and Gertrude to spend their evenings on the water, being rowed about in the cool evening air, chatting to one another, or listening to the many tales that their boatman, who was an old sailor, delighted to tell them of the many places he had visited.

One afternoon Miss Gifford said she had letters to write, so the two girls started off together for a walk.

"Where shall we go?" asked Lena.

"Suppose we go to the wood. We have only been once since we came."

"Right past that little white cottage where we saw that pretty little girl who sold us flowers?"

"Yes, and perhaps we shall see her again. Now don't be lazy, Lena; it will be a lovely walk."

"Can we buy some more flowers? David says that she and her mother are very poor."

"I will run and ask Miss Gifford," said Gertrude, turning back and re-entering the house she soon came out again, saying, "Yes, we may; and Miss Gifford says she will come and meet us when she has finished her letters."

They started off again, this time without returning, talking of the little girl, whose sweet looks and gentle manner had interested them all, and of whom their boatman David had often spoken to them, her father, who had been a sailor like himself, having been drowned a few years before, leaving his widow and children very poor, and in a certain degree to David's care.

Their way lay along a shady lane, bordered with ferns and wild flowers, tempting both girls to stop to pick and admire them more than once. Before they reached the end of the lane, Lena said, "O Gertrude, let us wait here for Miss Gifford; it's so hot, and I am so tired;" and she seated herself on the bank as she spoke.

"You lazy girl!" laughed Gertrude; then seeing that she looked really tired, added, "You take a rest, dear, while I pick some flowers and ferns, and then I will bring them to you and we will arrange them together."

Gertrude had joined Lena, with both hands full of floral treasures, and they were busy arranging them into a pretty nosegay, when the sound of footsteps caused them to look up. They so seldom met any one in these quiet lanes, that both the girls stopped their work to see who was coming. In a few moments their curiosity was gratified by seeing their old friend the boatman coming towards them from the direction of the White Cottage.

"Halloa, David!" called out Lena, "have you been for a walk?"

"Yes, Missie," answered the old man as he touched his hat.

"We are going to the wood, and to call and buy some flowers from that little girl, Mary Roberts," said Gertrude.

"I would not go that way to-day, Miss," he answered gravely.

"Oh yes, but we want to—we mean to," said Lena.

"What is the matter, David?" asked Gertrude, seeing he looked troubled.

"I've just came from the cottage, Miss, from seeing little Mary. She's down with the fever."

Both girls exclaimed in tones of pity, "Poor Mary!" and Gertrude added, "Is there nothing we can do for her, David? Is she very ill?"

"Yes, Miss, she's terrible bad, and her mother is in a sad way about her."

"Oh, do take her this," pressing into his hand the money Miss Gifford had given them to pay for the flowers. "And we will go back and ask Miss Gifford to help her. Come, Lena."

Both the girls were eager to hurry back to ask for assistance, but David would not let them go until they promised they would not go near the cottage, as he feared the fever might be infectious.

When they gave the desired promise, he thanked them, and said he would return with the money they had given him, for small though the coin was, it would be a help to the poor hard-working mother.

"Is she very ill, David?" asked Lena in an awed tone; "will she die?"

"She is in God's hands, Missie; the best and safest of all," he answered reverently, adding, "She's very young, and it's wonderful what a deal of illness young things can bear."

"How old is she?" asked Gertrude kindly.

"Twelve years, that's all."

"Just your age, Lena." Then with a friendly good-bye to the old man, the two girls hurried off to meet Miss Gifford, and tell her of the sad trouble that had overtaken Mrs. Roberts and her child.

They had gone but a very little way when they met Miss Gifford hurrying towards them. When she went to post her letters, she had heard a rumour of there being fever at Mrs. Roberts' cottage, and she had hurried after the two girls, hoping to overtake them before they reached the cottage, for she dreaded their running into any danger of infection. Her first question was as to whether they had been, and it was with deep thankfulness she heard how they had loitered on the way, and that they had met David, who had stopped their going on.

"We may send them something, may we not?" they both asked eagerly as they walked home.

Very soon a basket was despatched under David's care, filled with things that Miss Gifford thought would be good for the sick child. There was no boating that evening, both the girls declaring it would not be fair upon their "own man," as they called David, to employ any one else, when he had gone on an errand of kindness and mercy to his old friend's widow and child.

Miss Gifford was naturally very anxious about the health of her two pupils, and she remembered, with a feeling of uneasiness, how much Lena had complained the last few days of being tired; and as she looked white that evening after the great heat of the day, she hurried her off early to bed, much against Lena's inclination. But Miss Gifford was firm, and she had to obey.

The next day came news that little Mary was still very very ill, and there was but small hope of her recovery. And the two girls spoke and thought much of the poor little sufferer, who but a few days ago had brought them flowers, apparently as well and with as fair a prospect of living as either of themselves, now lying tossing restlessly about in the clutches of that cruel fever, in the small close cottage that was her home.

"She is not going to die, is she, Gertrude?" asked Lena. "She is so young—only twelve."

It was not Gertrude, but Miss Gifford, that answered this remark with, "Age has nothing to do with it, Lena dear. It is not only the aged that God calls away. We ought all, even children, try to live good lives, so that when our summons comes we may be ready and glad to go."

"But we can't; at least children can't always be good," said Lena.

"No, dear; but we can all try, and if we do fall, we can repent, and ask God's forgiveness, which He never withholds, and then we need not fear."

"But David says little Mary is such a good girl, so truthful and honest, and always been so kind to her mother and everybody; he says she is a real little Christian," said Gertrude.

"Yes, so I was very glad to hear," answered Miss Gifford.

"It would be a dreadful thing," said Gertrude, thoughtfully, "to die when you were doing a wrong thing."

"Little Mary is not going to die," said Lena almost passionately, bursting into a flood of tears as she spoke.

Miss Gifford looked surprised but said nothing except, "We hope not, dear Lena." Then drawing the weeping child to her side, she soothed her with gentle words, until she had recovered, and regained her composure once more.

Nothing more was said on the subject of little Mary that morning. Gertrude opened her book and read out until it was time to return to the house, while Lena leant with her head against Miss Gifford's shoulder, apparently listening intently, but in reality thinking and wondering over many things.

After dinner Miss Gifford announced that it was too hot for a walk; and as Lena complained of having a headache, she was to lie down until it was cool enough for them to go out, adding, as she left the room, "Poor child, I had no idea she would have felt for others so very strongly."

As Lena lay on the bed in the darkened room, sleep was very far from her. Although her eyes were shut, her thoughts were very busy. Gertrude's words came back to her over and over again, "To die doing wrong." Her head ached dreadfully, which was not to be wondered at after her passionate fit of crying; and as Lena was not often troubled with a headache, she began to grow nervous and frightened. Could it be that she was going to get the fever also, like Mary Roberts? If she had it at twelve years of age, why should not she? Yes, she was sure she was going to be ill too; and her mother would soon be in as sad a state about her, as David said Mrs. Roberts was about her little girl. Poor Lena! she began to cry softly out of sheer fright. Suddenly jumping up, she went to the table, and taking up a small hand-glass that lay there, she took it with her to the window, and lifting the blind, looked at herself. Such a miserable, flushed, tear-stained face she saw. Yes, it must be the fever that made her cheeks so red. Laying down the glass, she flung herself on the bed. Oh, if she had only told Papa and Mama that it was she who had destroyed Milly's hat, and not little Lucy, as she had allowed them all to believe, how much happier she would be now! How weak and wicked she had been and still was! Oh, if Mama was only here, she would go and tell her all; but it was too late now, Mama was far away, and couldn't hear or see her child's sorrow, and alas! it was her own doing, and by her own wish, they were not together. Then there crept into her heart the sweet loving words that had been so familiar to her all her life, but now seemed to come back to her with a stronger power and deeper meaning than they had ever had to her before. "I will arise and go to my Father," were the words that were ever before her as she lay sobbing bitterly. Yes, she too would do that. Springing up, she knelt down and prayed earnestly and truly for strength to do what was right—to tell the truth, and remove the blame from poor innocent little Lucy. Lena prayed as she had never prayed before in her young life, and being calmed and comforted, she was standing meditating how she was to carry out her good resolutions, when the door opened softly, and Gertrude looked in.

"I came to see if you were asleep; how is your headache, dear?" she asked.

Here was a way opened to her—an answer, as it seemed, to her prayer. She would tell Gertrude all, and be guided by her as to the best way of acting. Without answering her question, she sprang forward, and throwing her arms round her friend's neck, sobbed out, "O Gertrude, I must tell you—I spoilt the hat; I am so wicked and so miserable. Do you think Papa will ever forgive me?"

"Spoilt what, Lena? Whatever is the matter, dear?" asked Gertrude in amazement, and a little bit frightened at the excited state Lena was in. She had heard about the hat being destroyed, and thought, as they all did, that Lucy had done it; but as it was now some time since it had happened, she had forgotten all about it. So when Lena sobbed out again, "I spoilt the hat," she began to think it was some hat she had destroyed belonging to herself.

"What hat, dear, do you mean?"

"Milly's; I did it, not Lucy."

"O Lena!" she exclaimed in a shocked voice.

"Don't speak like that, Gerty, please. I can't bear you to be angry with me; I didn't mean to do it really."

"I am not angry, Lena dear; but I don't understand about it. Come and sit down and tell me what you mean." Going to the window, she drew up the blind and drew a chair up for Lena as well as herself; but Lena would sit nowhere but on the floor. Crouching down at Gertrude's feet, and hiding her face on her lap, she told her tale in broken words. Gertrude listened, without saying one word until she had ended; then stooping down and putting her arms round her she said, "Poor Lena, how unhappy you must have been all this time!"

"Not since I have been here; but before it was dreadful. Do you think they will ever forgive me?"

"Of course they will, Lena; how can you doubt it?"

"But Papa said he couldn't bear us to do a dishonourable, wicked thing; and Gerty, he spoke so sternly, that I was afraid to tell him. And then I thought Mama and Milly knew, and had forgiven me without telling him," repeated Lena again.

"Poor Lena!" was all Gertrude said again, as she stroked back the child's hair from her flushed face, for by this time Lena had found her way from the floor to Gertrude's lap. A long silence fell upon them. Lena lay very still, resting her head against her kind companion's shoulder, feeling, oh, so thankful! that the wretched secret was no longer locked up in her own heart. At last she said, "How can I tell them?"

"You must write to them, dear, to-night; don't put off, for it only makes it more difficult."

"I am sure I don't know what I shall say. I shall never be able to write it."

"Yes, you will, dear. I will help you. What made you tell me to-day, Lena?"

"O Gerty!" she exclaimed, sitting up and looking very grave, "I have got such a headache, and I am so hot and my cheeks so red, I am sure I am going to have the fever like little Mary Roberts."

"O Lena, what nonsense!"

"It is not, Gertrude. I never had such a bad headache before, and I am so hot, and I thought about what you said about dying when you were doing wrong, so I felt I must tell; and, Gerty"—here she lowered her voice—"I asked God to help me, and then you came in."

"Darling," was the only answer. Then a knock came to the door and the servant's voice was heard saying, "Tea is ready."

Gertrude helped Lena to get ready, and together they went downstairs.

Miss Gifford called out in surprise as they entered the room, "My poor little Lena, I am afraid your sleep has not done you any good. Are you feeling ill?"

"Yes, Miss Gifford, my head aches, and I am so hot I could not sleep."

"You shall sit in the arm-chair by the window; it is so pleasant now with the cool sea-breeze coming in, and Gerty shall give you a cup of tea."

Lena sat very quietly, accepting all Miss Gifford's kindness in silence; but when Gerty took her a cup of tea she whispered, "Must I tell Miss Gifford?"

"I will tell her, dear, and how sorry you are."

"Perhaps she won't be so kind to me then; she will think me so wicked."

"She was never unkind when Bessie and I were naughty: I am sure she won't be to you." Then raising her voice she said, "Lena wants to write a letter home to-night, please, Miss Gifford."

"No, dear, that must wait till to-morrow; little girls with headaches must keep quiet," was the answer.

With this Lena had to be content. In truth she was not sorry to have nothing more to do that evening but rest quietly, feeling thankful that she had taken that difficult first step in the right direction.

CHAPTER XI.

CONCLUSION.

Lena's fears that she too was going to have the fever proved only too true, for by the next day she was really ill.

All she had gone through for the last few weeks—the fear of discovery, and misery of concealment, joined with the knowledge of how wrongly she was behaving—had tried the child. Though, alas! she had been, as all children are, naughty over and over again, she had never before concealed a fault and continued to do so, as she had now done week after week; and the continual struggle that had gone on in her mind between truth and right, and the pride and jealousy for love, that were such strong features of her character, had told upon body as well as mind, and made her fall an easy prey to the low fever that had broken out in the village and neighbourhood of Sidcombe; and for the next few days she had but a very dim and hazy idea of what was going on around her.

Fortunately the attack was in a mild form, and the weather was much cooler than it had been before the fever broke out, heavy rain having fallen, which cooled the air and revived the sick and drooping, and the doctor was soon able to pronounce his little patient on the high road to recovery.

When Lena first began to take notice of who was beside her, she expressed no astonishment at seeing her mother's face bending over her and hearing her whisper a few loving words in answer to her. "What is the matter, Mama?"

"You have been ill, dear, but, please God, you will soon be well again."

Lena was quite satisfied, and asked no more questions—it only seemed natural to have Papa and Mama beside her; but gradually the recollections of the day before she was taken ill came back to her, and she remembered that it was Gertrude and Miss Gifford who had been with her then. The latter was still constantly beside her, but it was Gertrude she wanted to see and speak to, as she remembered everything clearly. Had she told Miss Gifford? She wondered if she had; she certainly was not angry, for she could not have been kinder to any one than she was to Lena.

"Mama, where is Gertrude?" she asked.

"Gone home, dear, for we were afraid of her being taken ill also if she remained."

After a few minutes' silence Lena murmured, "My letter; I never wrote it."

"My darling," whispered Mrs. Graham, leaning over her child and placing her hand lovingly on her forehead, "There is no need to write—Gertrude has told me all."

"O Mama, and are you angry? Do you still love me, when I am so wicked?"

"Still love you, my little one! You cannot doubt that we all forgive you fully and freely. O my child, never fear to tell us everything and anything you do or think."

Lena's arms were round her mother's neck in a moment, and she said, as she clung fondly to her, "No, Mama, I never, never will. It was not you I was afraid of, but Papa. I thought he would be so angry."

Lena did not think Papa stern, or one likely to cause any one fear, when later that day he spoke a few loving words to his child; and as she kissed him, she felt that never again would she think him stern. Her only wonder was how she could ever have feared him, or doubted the love of either of them ceasing because she had done wrong.

As Lena lay still that evening, her hand clasped in Mama's, and her eyes fixed upon Papa, who was reading out her letters from Milly and Gertrude, Lena felt so happy and contented. There was no longer any fear in her heart, for there was nothing to be hidden, and the child's heart swelled with gratitude as she thought how good every one had been and now were to her.

When the letters were finished, Lena asked suddenly, "How is little Mary; is she better?"

A moment's silence followed, and then Mama said, "Little Mary has gone to that home where she will never have pain or suffering more, my Lena; she is with her Saviour now, dear."

"Dead, Mama—dead! and she was only twelve years old, just my age. Her poor mother"——

And her eyes filled with tears as she added, "And David, how sorry he must be, he was so fond of her!"

"Yes, dear, we must pity them, but not little Mary herself; she is happy, perfectly happy now."

"O Mama, I am so glad I did not die too, for I was not good like her, and I hadn't told you and Papa. I meant to that very night, but Miss Gifford would not let me write."

"God has been very good to us all, as He always is, Lena, and has spared my little girl to us, and given her another opportunity of living and working for Him."

"Indeed, indeed I will try."

"Now, dear, you must not talk any more or get excited. We feared to tell you about little Mary, in case it should upset you while you were so weak, but Papa and I decided that if you asked we would tell you the truth; for we have all decided, have we not, that we are to have no concealments or deceptions any more,—have we not?" she repeated.

"No, I never will; I mean," she added humbly, "I will try not to."

After that day Lena grew rapidly better, and was soon able to be taken down to the sitting-room, where she could lie on the sofa before the open window, inhaling the cool sea-breezes that brought back health to the weakened frame, and colour to the pale cheeks.

Soon the day arrived when the doctor pronounced the invalid strong enough to undertake the journey home; but before they started she begged for and was allowed to see Mrs. Roberts, the poor widowed mother, who gladly spoke of her little Mary, and she told Lena much of the simple holy life her child had tried to lead; and it comforted the poor mother to hear how her child had been, although unconsciously, instrumental in leading and strengthening another in the right way; and it interested Lena much to hear of the girl who, though she had seen her but once or twice, had still been able to exercise such an influence for good on her life.

It was the contrast between her own feeling of wrong-doing, and the account David gave them of how Mary had tried to act, that made such a deep impression on Lena's mind, and had been the means of bringing her, in the true spirit of humility, to sue for pardon and strength to do what was right. How thankful and happy Lena now felt that she had told all, and that there was no longer in her heart or life anything that she desired to hide from her parents.

Oh, if children would only remember that the good or evil they do affects, not only themselves, but may, both by example and bearing, have a powerful influence over their companions, I am sure one and all would strive to deserve the name that David had bestowed on Mary Roberts, and be, in deed and in truth, little Christians. How happy they would be, not only themselves, but would make all around them equally so!

Long ere the autumn passed into winter, Lena was well and strong, and Astbury was no longer looked upon or called a new home; and although they were not able, now the cold and wet weather had set in, to spend their time in the fields and garden as at first, they found there were pleasures and joys in a country life in winter as well as in summer, and sunshine reigned indoors, for Lena and her sisters were very happy and loving together. Storms came occasionally, as among all small people; but there was not only love, but perfect trust and confidence between them all now; and when that is the case, there must be happiness in the home circle.

Christmas was drawing very near, and with it the prospect of Aunt Mary's promised visit. No word had been said to Miss Somerville about Lena's wrong-doing and its long concealment. Mrs. Graham wished Lena to tell her Aunt herself, and though at first she shrank from the task, she acknowledged that she ought to do so, for, as she said to her mother, "I know I ought to, Mama, for Gerty saved me the pain of telling you, though now I should not want any one to tell you or Papa anything for me, but then it was different."

Christmas also brought back, for her first holiday, Bessie Freeling from the boarding-school that she had looked forward to with so much dread, and that she had found was not so dreadful in reality as in anticipation. Like many other things in this world that we dread and think of as misfortunes, it turned out, as is so often the case, to be a real blessing when it came. Bessie was beginning to see that running about wild in the country was not all that was required to make life either useful or happy.

The first evening of Aunt Mary's arrival Lena joined her in her own room. Miss Somerville sat quietly in her chair before the fire, and listened to Lena as she poured forth the account of her doings since they had parted in the summer, ending with, "I know, Auntie, that you must be disappointed and grieved with me after all my promises."

"I did not expect those promises to be quite fulfilled, Lena," was her Aunt's answer.

"Did you think so badly of me as that, then, Aunt Mary?"

"Not badly, darling. I fear I thought too much of my little niece, and helped to spoil her by being too indulgent and easy."

"Then why,—what do you mean, Auntie?"

"I mean, darling, that you spoke so confidently, and as if you were so sure of your own strength; and Lena, you know now that our own strength is but utter weakness when we are tempted."

Lena's eyes filled with tears, but she made no answer as her Aunt, drawing her close to her, went on lovingly to say, "However sorry I am about the past, I am now much more happy and hopeful about your future than I was when we parted in the summer, for I feared you would have many trials and temptations to go through, that you little dreamed of in the quiet life we led together."

"You warned me, Auntie; you said I must learn to give in, and share with Milly and Lucy."

"Yes, dear, experience teaches us many lessons, and God has been very good to you: He has shown you the misery of wrong-doing."

"Yes indeed, Auntie, I was very miserable," interrupted Lena.

"But, my darling, if that misery has taught you to be humble and trust less in your own strength, I cannot be sorry, but thankful for it."

"And you won't love me less?"

"Lena!" was all her Aunt said, but it was enough.

"No, no, Auntie, I didn't mean that; I know you won't. You will be like Papa and Mama, who only seem to love me more, if that is possible; only," she added with a smile, "Mama says the love was always there, but I wouldn't see it."

"Thank God, dear Lena, that you do see it at last."

"It was only sometimes I didn't, when I thought they liked Milly best, but she deserved it if they had. O Auntie, she has been so good, and so has little Lucy; they never said one unkind word when I came home, though I had behaved so badly."

A loud knock, and an impatient "Do let us in, Aunt Mary," from Lucy, interrupted them.

Lena ran and opened the door, and there stood Lucy, all eagerness and excitement, and beside her was Milly, holding a big parcel in her arms, her face beaming with delight.

"It's for you, Lena; see, it is addressed 'Miss Graham.' It's from Mrs. Clifford," she added softly.

"Then it must be meant for you," answered Lena, flushing scarlet and drawing back.

"Never mind, Lena; open it quickly, do, and see what is inside," burst out Lucy impatiently.

"It is meant for you, Lena dear, so don't be afraid to open it."

"I heard from Mrs. Clifford this morning that the box was sent," said her mother, coming in.

Thus bidden, Lena, with her sister's help, undid the string and took off the paper. Opening the box, Lena took out and laid on the floor two parcels directed to Milly and herself. Then she drew out one with Lucy's name on it. There was no mistaking what Lucy's was.

"A doll for me! Oh, how lovely! My first Christmas present!" she exclaimed in delight.

Lena looked at hers. On the paper was written, "For dear Lena, from Milly's godmama." Opening it, she saw a pretty soft brown hat, with a long curling ostrich feather of the same colour, and looking up she saw Milly holding one exactly the same in her hand.

"O Lena, how nice! We shall be exactly like, I am so glad. Aren't they lovely?"

"Mama," said Lena, after a pause, "may I give Lucy the feather? she deserves it, I don't;" and she tried to unfasten it as she spoke.

"Wait a moment, my child. Ask Lucy first if she would like it."

It was difficult to get Lucy to attend to anything they said, so absorbed was she in the delights of her new doll; when she did hear, she asked in surprise, "Give it me! what for? It's your present, Lena; you should not give away presents—it is wrong."

"But, Lucy, you forget what I did to Milly's white one, and let you bear the blame."

"Oh, I didn't mind; at least, I knew I did not mean to spoil the feather; but I kicked it, you know."

"Do let me give it to her, Mama," Lena pleaded.

"I don't want it, Lena, I don't want it; you and Milly will have hats alike. I mustn't speak of the white one. Milly and I decided we never would; and Bessie said she would think me very mean if I did, and I won't."

"How good you are all to me!" said Lena, giving her little sister a kiss.

"That's because you are so much nicer now than you used to be—you are not always"—— Here Lucy stopped, abashed at Milly's indignant exclamation.

"Always what?" asked Lena after a moment's pause.

"Always wanting to be first, and going on about being the eldest. I love you ever so much more now since you have been to Sidcombe;" and the child looked round at them all, as much as to say, "There now, I have spoken out what I really think."

"Dear Lena, I should rather have had that testimony to your character than all the promises of last summer, and I am sure Mama agrees with me," said Aunt Mary.

Mama's answer was a loving kiss as she placed the hat on Lena's head. Then doing the same to Milly, said, "Now run down together, and show them to Papa, and ask what he thinks about them; and then put them away in your own room until Christmas morning, that day of joy, peace, and good-will towards man."

As the two girls left the room together, Miss Somerville said to her sister, "They are very fond of each other."

"Yes, dear," was the answer. "It makes me very happy to see their affection. I know the value of a sister's love, and I trust that no root of jealousy may ever again spring up to interrupt their perfect friendship."

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Young Tom Bowling. A Story of the Boys of the British Navy. By J. C. Hutcheson. Fully Illustrated by J. B. Greene. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price 5s.

An Antarctic Queen. By Captain Charles Clark. Illustrated by J. B. Greene. In crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price 5s.

A splendid sea story for boys. Full of shipwrecks, storms, and peril and adventure by land and sea; how the hero escapes death from shipwreck, accident and treachery of all kinds, and finally settles down in "Antarctica," after marrying the Antarctic Queen, is related in a most attractive and realistic style.

The Dogs of War. By Edgar Pickering. Illustrated by Lancelot Speed. In crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price 3s. 6d.

True to the Watchword. By Edgar Pickering. Illustrated by Lancelot Speed. In crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price 3s. 6d.

Pleasant, brightly written, and full of incident, is "True to the Watchword," and although a number of the characters have their place in Hume, it is only indirectly historical, the main theme of the narrative being derived from the author's imagination. Events exciting and dramatic follow fast upon each other, and the reader is often brought in contact with the grim reality of battle.

Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London

* * * * * * * *

A SERIES OF INTERESTING GIFT BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.

In Crown 8vo, neatly bound in cloth gilt, each volume containing an original Frontispiece and Illustrated Title-page.

LIST OF THE SERIES.

Adrift in a Boat. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. Walter's Escape. By J. DE LIEFDE. Daring and Doing. By Mrs. L. VALENTINE. New Honours. By C. S. LOWNDES. Linford Green. By C. S. LOWNDES. The Brave Days of Old. By Mrs. L. VALENTINE. The Old Bible. By E. WYNNE. Jack Locke. By GORDON STABLES, R.N. The Young Marooners. By F. R. GOULDING. The Magic Half-Crown. By Author of "Crib and Fly." Jarwin and Cuffy. By R. M. BALLANTYNE. Natty's Violin. By C. H. BARSTOW. Ernest rail-field. By A. N. MALAN, M.A. Lena Graham. By C. S. LOWNDES. Phil and his Friends. By J. T. TROWBRIDGE. My Neighbour's Garden. By MARY H. DEBENHAM. Lost on Brown Willy. By A. N. MALAN, M.A. The Silver Lake. By R. M. BALLANTYNE. Through Deep Waters. By C. H. BARSTOW. Told in the Orchard. By E. L. HERVEY. Benaiah. By Mrs. WEBB. The Treasure Finder. By W. J. GORDON. Nancy's Nephew. By Miss MARSHALL. A Long Delay. By THOMAS KEYWORTH.

FREDERICK WARNE & CO., CHANDOS HOUSE, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, LONDON; AND 36 EAST 22ND STREET, NEW YORK.