"The Inglises" (continued 4)

“It is very good of you. Yes, I dare say I would like it. What does mamma say?”

“She thinks you are too useful a man to be spared so long. What would Mr Caldwell do without you?”

“When are you coming to help him?” said David.

“After I come home in the autumn. I cannot bring myself to Davie’s standard of steadiness all at once, Aunt Mary. I must have a little time.”

“There is none to lose,” said Mrs Inglis gravely.

Chapter Eleven.

About this time it was announced to the world in general, that Miss Oswald’s marriage was to take place immediately. Her friends thought she had been very kind and considerate to stay with her father and her brothers and sisters so long. Miss Oswald was a discreet young lady, and knew how to manage her own affairs to her own satisfaction. Perhaps the knowledge that her own establishment must be in a different style from that of her father’s, helped her considerateness a little, and made her more willing to continue at home. However that might be, when her father set before her certain reasons for economy in household matters, for decided retrenchment indeed, she very considerately suggested that her Aunt Livy would be a very suitable person to see her father’s wishes in this direction carried out, and advised that she should be sent for, and then she set about her own preparations. With these, of course, no one at the bridge house had anything to do, except Violet. But for the glimpses that she had behind the scenes, she might have been a little dazzled and unsettled by the gaiety and splendour in the midst of which she found herself. For Miss Oswald’s arrangements were on the grandest scale. Everything that she considered “proper” on the occasion, she exacted to the uttermost, with no thoughts of necessary economy. There were fine clothes, fine presents, a fine wedding breakfast, and the proper number of fine brides-maids, of whom Violet was one.

Even the wise and sensible Letty was not above a feeling of girlish delight in being prettily dressed and admired as one of the gay company; but the knowledge that she was only chosen at the last minute to supply the place of a young lady whose illness had disarranged Miss Oswald’s plans, and a few other drawbacks, kept her from being unduly elated with the honour and pleasure, and she was very glad when it was all over, and so was everybody concerned. So Miss Oswald went away. Mrs Mavor and Miss Livy came to the big house to reign in her stead, and all in it were beginning to settle down to a quiet and happy summer again.

But trouble came first. Scarlet fever had broken out in the neighbourhood of the bridge house, and in other parts of the town, and first little Polly took it, and then Jessie and Ned, and Violet came home to help her mother to nurse them. They were not very ill—that is, the fever did not run very high, and at no time did the doctor suppose them to be in danger, but there was much anxiety and fatigue in taking care of them. The weather was very hot, too, and the bridge house stood too low to catch the infrequent breeze, and though they were soon able to be up and even to be out of doors, the children did not get strong.

In the meantime both Charlotte and Sarah Oswald had taken the disease, and Mr Oswald himself came to the bridge house to entreat that Violet might be permitted to come to them. Their sister Selina had gone away after the wedding to visit in a distant city, and as she had never had the disease, her father did not like to send for her to come home. The children did not take to their aunt. It had been possible to get on when they were very ill, but when they began to be better they were peevish and fretful, and Aunt Livy could not please them, and nothing would do but Violet must come to them again. It did not seem possible that she could leave home, but David was to be spared as much as possible to help with the little ones, and so she went.

But between her anxiety for the children at home, and her weariness with the little Oswalds, she had rather a hard time of it. Frank helped her for a while, but he was not very well, and was threatened with the old trouble in his eyes, so that he was not a very cheerful companion, either for her or the children. Mr Philip had commenced an irregular sort of attendance at the bank, but he had a good deal of time still at his disposal, and kindly bestowed a share of it on his little sisters. “Philip could be very nice when he liked,” they agreed, and he very often “liked” about this time.

He went sometimes to the bridge house, too, and was as popular as ever among the little people there. They were not getting well very fast. Charlotte and Sarah were up and out in the garden, and able to amuse themselves with their dolls and their games, when Violet, going home one day, found Jessie and Ned languid and fretful, and poor wee Polly lying limp and white in her cot. Her mother looked worn and anxious, David came home with a headache, and Jem was the only one among them whose health and spirits were in a satisfactory condition.

“I cannot stay to-night, mamma, because they expect me back,” said Violet. “But I shall come home to-morrow. They don’t need me half as much as you do, and I must come. You are sick yourself, mamma.”

“No, I am tired, that is all; and the weather is so warm. Don’t come till the children are well. It is your proper place there, and even you cannot help us here while the weather is so warm.”

It was very hot and close, and Violet fancied that from the low fields beyond, where there was water still standing, a sickly odour came.

“No wonder they don’t get strong,” said she.

Mr Oswald had spoken in the morning about sending his little girls to the country, or to the seaside. The doctor had suggested this as the best thing that could be done for them. Violet thought of their large house, with its many rooms, and of the garden in which it stood, and looked at her little sisters and brothers growing so pale and languid in the close air, which there was no hope of changing, with a feeling very like envy or discontent rising in her heart.

“Mamma,” said she, “it is a dreadful thing to be poor;” and then she told of the plan for sending the Oswalds away for change of air, and how they were already well and strong in comparison to their own poor darlings, and then she said, again, “It is a dreadful thing to be so poor.”

“We are not so poor as we might be?” said her mother, gravely. “Think how it would have been if we had lost one of them, dear. God has been very good to us, and we must not be so ungrateful as to murmur because we have not all that others have, or all that we might wish for.”

“I know it, mamma. But look at these pale cheeks. Poor wee Polly! she is only a shadow of our baby. If we could only send her to Gourlay for a little while.”

“Do you think her looking so poorly? I think it is the heat that is keeping them all so languid. Don’t look so miserable. If it is necessary for them to go to the country, we shall manage to send them in some way. But we are quite in the country here, and when we have had rain the air will be changed, and the heat may be less, and then they will all be better.”

“Have you made any plan about going to the country?” asked Violet, eagerly.

“No, my dear. I trust it will not be necessary. It could not be easily managed,” said Mrs Inglis, with a sigh.

“If we were only not quite so poor,” said Violet.

“I say, Letty, don’t you think mamma has trouble enough without your bother?” said Jem, sharply, as his mother went out of the room. Violet looked at him in astonishment.

“If we were only not quite so poor!” repeated Jem, in the doleful tone she had used. “You have said that three times within half an hour. You had better stay up at the big house, if that is all the good you can do by coming home.”

“That will do, Jem! Don’t spoil your sermon by making it too long,” said David, laughing.

“Sermon! No, I leave that to you, Davie. But what is the use of being so dismal? And it isn’t a bit like Letty.”

“But, Jem, it is true. The children look so ill, and if they could only get a change of air—”

“And don’t you suppose mamma knows all that better than you can tell her? What is the good of telling her? She has been looking all day for you to come and cheer us up and brighten us a little, and now that you have come you are as dismal as—I don’t know what. You have been having too easy times lately, and can’t bear hardness,” said Jem, severely.

“Have I?” said Violet, with an uncertain little laugh.

“Softly, Jem, lad!” said his mother, who had come in again. “I think she has been having a rather hard time, only it will not do her much good to tell her so.”

“I dare say Jem is right, mamma, and I am cross.”

“Not cross, Letty, only dismal, which is a great deal worse, I think,” said Jem.

“Well, I won’t be dismal any more to-night, if I can help it. Davie, take Polly, and, mamma, lie down on the sofa and rest while I make the tea. Jem, you shall help me by making up the fire. We will all have tea to-night, because I am a visitor.”

“All right!” said Jem. “Anything to please all round; and the hot tea will cool us nicely, won’t it?”

“It will refresh us at any rate.”

And so the little cloud passed away, and Violet’s cheerfulness lasted through the rest of the visit, and up to the moment that she bade Jem good-bye at Mr Oswald’s gate. It did not last much longer, however. It was nearly dark, and Mr Oswald and his sister and Frank were sitting on the lawn to catch the faint breeze that was stirring among the chestnut trees.

“I thought you were not coming home to-night,” said Miss Livy, in an aggrieved tone.

“I was detained,” said Violet. “How are the children?”

“They are in bed at last. You should not have told them that you would be home before their bed-time, unless you had intended to come. However, they are in bed now. Pray don’t go and disturb them again. Philip had to go to them at last. He is up-stairs now. They are dreadfully spoiled.”

Violet dropped down in the nearest chair.

“How are the children at home?” asked Mr Oswald, kindly.

“They are—not better.”

“I hope they are not spoiled,” said Frank, laughing. “Did they cry when you came away, Violet?”

“They were rather fretful. They are not strong.”

“You are not very well yourself, to-night,” said Mr Oswald. “The change will do you as much good as any of them.”

“I am quite well,” said Violet.

“We have been speaking about sending the girls to the country for a change of air,” went on Mr Oswald. “Will you go with them? Betsey will go too, of course, but they will scarcely be happy without you, and the change will do you good.”

“Thank you. You are very kind. But the children need me at home. I could not think of leaving mamma while they are so poorly to go away for pleasure.”

“It would not be quite all pleasure, I fancy,” said Mr Philip. “They are asleep at last. It cannot be a very easy thing to keep them amused all day, as they are just now.”

“They are quite spoiled,” said Aunt Livy.

“Oh! no. Not quite. They are good little things in general, as children go. You can’t judge now, aunt,” said Philip. “Miss Inglis, are you not a little dismal to-night?”

“So Jem told me. I am tired. I think I shall say good-night and go up-stairs.”

“It should be settled at once about the children, where they are to go, and who is to go with them,” said Aunt Livy.

“There is no haste,” said Mr Oswald. “Perhaps the children at home may be better able to spare you in a day or two, Miss Violet.”

“Thank you. It would be very pleasant, but—”

“Why not send all together?” said Philip. “Ned and Jessie and wee Polly, with Charlotte and Sarah? I dare say they would all be better of a change, poor little souls!”

“I dare say they can do without it, thank you,” said Violet, stiffly.

“For what? My suggestion? They would like it, I am sure.”

“People cannot get all they like in this world.”

“Violet,” said Frank, solemnly, “I believe you are cross.”

“I am almost afraid I am,” said Violet, laughing uneasily.

“For the first time in your life. Something dreadful must have happened at the bridge house to-day!”

“No; nothing happened.”

“The children are not better, that is what is the matter,” said Philip; “though it ought not to make you cross, only sorry. Depend on it, it is change they want,” said Philip, with the air of a doctor.

“It is worth thinking about; and it would be very nice if they could all go together, with you to take care of them,” said Mr Oswald. “Very nice for our little girls, I mean. Think of it, and speak to your mother.”

“Thank you; I will,” said Violet.

“Much they know about it,” said she to herself, as she went up-stairs in the dark. “An extra orange or a cup of strawberries for the little darlings has to be considered in our house, and they speak of change as coolly as possible. And I didn’t know better than to trouble mamma with just such foolish talk. We must try and have mamma and Polly go to Gourlay for a week or two. June not half over, and how shall we ever get through the two not months! Oh, dear! I am so tired!”

Violet was so tired in the morning that she slept late, and a good many things had happened next morning before she came down-stairs. When she opened the dining-room door she thought, for a minute, she must be sleeping still and dreaming; for, instead of the usual decorous breakfast-table, Aunt Livy seemed to be presiding at a large children’s party. Everybody laughed at her astonished face, and little Mary held out her arms to be taken.

“My precious wee Polly! Have you got a pair of wings?” said she, clasping and kissing her little sister.

“We are to stay all day, if we are good. You are to tell mamma how we behave,” said Jessie. “We came in a carriage, with Mr Philip and Jem.”

Violet looked a little anxiously from Aunt Livy to Mr Oswald, and saw nothing to make her doubt the children’s welcome. Mr Oswald smiled; Miss Livy nodded.

“They seem very well-behaved children,” said she. “Not at all spoiled.”

“We haven’t been here long,” said Jessie, gravely. “But we are going to be good, Letty. We promised mamma.”

And they were very good, considering all things. Still, it was a fatiguing day to Violet. She followed them out and she followed them in; and when they grew tired, and their little legs and their tempers failed, she beguiled them into the wide gallery, shaded by vines, and told them stories, and comforted them with toys and picture-books and something nice to eat. It would have been a better day, as far as the visitors were concerned, if there had been less to see and to admire. But the great house and garden were beautiful and wonderful to their unaccustomed eyes, and they had tired themselves so utterly that they grew fretful and out of sorts, and were glad when it came night and time to go home; and so was Violet.

The next day they came they were stronger and better, but they needed constant attention, lest mischief should happen among them; and, on the third morning, Violet was not sorry to hear the rain pattering on the window. Not that she would have minded ten times the trouble for herself, so that the children were the better for it, but it was as well not to try Miss Livy’s forbearance too far. Miss Livy had had very little to do with children since she was a child herself, and that little led her decidedly to agree with the generally-received opinion that the children of the present day are not so well brought up as children used to be. This opinion did not make her more patient with them, but rather less so; and so Violet was not sorry for the rain that kept her little sisters at home.

At breakfast, the subject of sending the little girls, Charlotte and Sarah, to the country for awhile was again brought up by their aunt, and, in the afternoon, Violet, at Mr Oswald’s request, went home to speak to her mother about it; but she had fully determined beforehand how the matter was to be decided, as far as she was concerned.

However, everything was put out of her mind by the surprise that awaited her; for, at the bridge house, they were entertaining an angel unawares, in the person of Miss Bethia Barnes. And was not Violet glad to see her? So glad that she put her arms round her neck and kissed her, and then laughed and then cried a little, not quite knowing what she did.

“It is good to see you, Aunt Bethia,” said she.

“You are the only one of the family who looks better for Singleton,” said Miss Bethia, regarding her with pleased wonder.

Miss Bethia had considered Violet a little girl when she left Singleton; but she was a little girl no longer, but a young woman, and a very pretty young woman, too, Miss Bethia acknowledged. If Violet had not been so glad to see her, and shown it so plainly as to disarm her, she must, even at the first moment, have uttered some word of counsel or warning, for to be pretty, and not aware of it, or vain of it, was a state of things that she could not believe in. However, she reserved her advice for a future occasion, and, in the meantime, drew her own conclusions from the brightening of the mother’s face at the coming of her eldest daughter, and from the eager way in which little Mary clung to her, and the others claimed her attention.

“You must stay at home to-night, Letty,” said Jem.

“May I, mamma? I am to be sent for later; but may I not send a message that Miss Bethia has come, and that you cannot spare me?”

“But I can spare you all the better that Miss Bethia is here,” said her mother, smiling.

“Yes, I know mamma; but I want to stay so much.”

“You would not think it polite in her to go away to-night? Now, would you? Aunt Bethia,” said Jem.

“Politeness ain’t the only thing to think of,” said Miss Bethia.

“Violet is not quite at our disposal just now,” said Mrs Inglis; “and I am afraid you will be missed up there, dear, by the children. They have had the fever, too, poor little things, and their sister is away, and they hardly know this aunt yet, and Violet has charge of them. They are fond of Violet.”

“Oh, yes! they are all fond of Violet up there; but so are we,” said Jem. “Let her stay, mamma.”

“And how do you like earning your living?” asked Miss Bethia.

Violet laughed.

“Oh, I like it. When did you come, Miss Bethia? You are not looking very well.”

“I haven’t been well—had a sharp turn of rheumatism. I had some business, and I came yesterday.”

“And how are all the Gourlay people? And you live in our house now. How strange it must seem! And what a shame that your old place is spoiled!”

“I thought so at the time, but it might have been worse.”

And then Violet had a great many questions to ask, and listened with many exclamations of wonder and pleasure to all that she heard; and Miss Bethia, pleased with the interest she displayed, made no pause till Ned called out that young Mr Oswald was driving Davie over the bridge, and that now Violet would have to go.

“Mamma,” said Violet, “I have not told you why I came yet. Mr Oswald sent me, and I cannot tell it all at once. Let me stay till after tea, and Jem can take me home.”

“All right,” said Jem. “I have no objections, if nobody else has none.”

There was a little pleasant confusion after Mr Philip and David came in, two or three speaking at once, and all eager to be heard, and then Mr Philip was introduced to the visitor. There was no mistaking the look she bent upon him. It was searching and critical, admiring, but not altogether approving.

“You have never been out Gourlay way?” said she.

“No, I never have, as yet.”

“He did not know what nice people the Gourlay people are, or he would have been,” said Jem.

“I expect so,” said Miss Bethia. “It ain’t too late to go yet.”

“Thank you, Miss Barnes. I shall be happy to accept your kind invitation,” said Philip.

In the meantime, Violet had been telling her mother of Mr Oswald’s proposal. It was a matter of too great importance to be dismissed with a single word of refusal, as Violet would have liked, and time must be taken to consider it.

“Violet is not going with you, Mr Philip,” said Jessie. “She is going to stay and take tea with Miss Bethia.”

“I am sorry you should have had the trouble of coming round this way for nothing, Mr Philip,” said Mrs Inglis. “We want Violet a little while to-night. Miss Barnes does not know how soon she may go, and Violet thinks she can be spared to-night, perhaps.”

“Of course, she can be spared. And it was no trouble, but a pleasure, to come round. Shall I come back again?”

“Pray, do not. Jem will go with me. I shall like the walk.”

“All right!” said Jem. “I consider myself responsible for her. She will be up there at the proper time.”

“All right!” said Philip cheerfully. “Aunt Mary, you might ask me to have tea too.”

“You haven’t had your dinner yet,” said Jessie.

“And you could not keep your horse standing so long,” said Ned.

“And, besides, I am not to be invited,” said Philip, laughing.

They all watched him and his fine horse as they went over the bridge and along the street. Then Violet said:

“Now, mamma, you are to sit down and I am to get tea. I can do all quite well.”

And, so tying on an apron over her dress, she made herself very busy for the next half-hour, passing in and out, pausing to listen or put in her word now and then, sometimes claiming help from Jem or Davie in some household matter to which she put her hand. At last, with an air of pride and pleasure that Miss Bethia thought pretty to see, she called them to tea.

“You have got to be quite a house-keeper,” said Miss Bethia, as they sat down to the table.

“Hasn’t she?” said Jem and Davie in a breath.

“I mean to be, at any rate,” said Violet, nodding and laughing gaily. “I like it a great deal better than teaching children, only, you know, it doesn’t pay quite so well.”

“I guess it will, in the long run,” said Miss Barnes.

“I am going to be house-keeper for the next two months. Sarah and Charlotte are to have no lessons for that time, and Betsey can take care of them in the country quite as well as I—better, indeed. Mamma needs me at home. Don’t you think so, Davie? I can find enough to do at home; can’t I?”

“But, as you say, it wouldn’t pay so well.”

“In one way, perhaps, it wouldn’t, but in another way it would. But mamma doesn’t say anything,” added Violet, disconsolately.

“We must sleep upon it, mamma thinks,” said Jem.

“We need not be in haste to decide upon it for a day or two,” said Mrs Inglis.

“I am afraid we must, mamma. The sooner the better, Mr Oswald says; and that is why I came to-day.”

“I wish you would come and keep house for me. I am getting tired of it,” said Miss Bethia.

“I should like it well—with mamma and the children.”

“Of course, that is understood,” said Miss Bethia. “And you could take these others with you, couldn’t you? And what their father would pay for them would help your house-keeping.”

“Miss Bethia spoke as coolly as if she had been speaking about the stirring up of a Johnny cake,” Jem said. Violet looked eagerly from her to her mother. There was a little stir and murmur of excitement went round the table, but all awaited for their mother to speak. But she said nothing, and Miss Bethia went on, not at all as if she were saying anything to surprise anybody, but just as she would have told any piece of news.

“I’ve thought of it considerable. Serepta Stone has concluded to go away to a water-cure place in the States. If Debby should conclude to go to another place, I shouldn’t care about staying in that big house alone. I can let it next fall, I expect. But this summer, Mrs Inglis, if you say so, you can have the house as well as not. It won’t cost you a cent, and it won’t be a cent’s loss to me. And I don’t see why that won’t suit pretty well all round.”

A chorus of “ohs,” and “ahs,” and “dear mammas,” went round the table.

“It wouldn’t cost more than living here,” said David.

“Not so much,” said Miss Bethia.

“And I am sure Mr Oswald would be delighted to have Charlotte and Sarah go, mamma,” said Violet.

“He would pay you the same as he’d pay to them at the other place, and he might be sure he would get the worth of his money,” said Miss Bethia.

“And I would keep house, and save you the trouble, mamma,” said Violet.

“You and Debby Stone,” said Miss Bethia, who seemed to consider that it was as much her affair as theirs, and so put in her word between the others.

“Davie, you’ll have to lend me your fishing rod, to take to Gourlay with me,” said Ned.

“Bless the child! there’s fishing rods enough,” said Miss Bethia.

“It’s mamma’s turn to speak now,” said Jessie. And “yes, mamma!” and “oh! dear mamma!” were repeated again, eagerly.

There would be no use in telling all that Mrs Inglis said, or all that Miss Bethia and the rest said. It was not quite decided that night that they were to pass a part of the summer in Gourlay, but it looked so much like it that Violet held a little private jubilation with little Polly, as she undressed her for bed, before she went away, promising her, with many kisses and sweet words, that she would be rosy and strong, and as brown as a berry before she should see the bridge house again. Before she was done with it, Jem called out.

“It is time to be going, Letty, if I am to be responsible for you at the big house.”

“Perhaps if you wait, Mr Philip will come for you. He said he would,” said Jessie.

“And, just at the minute, he meant it, but we won’t put him to the trouble, even if he remembers, which is doubtful,” said Violet. “Come, Jem, I am ready.”

“He seems a pretty likely young man, don’t he?—young Mr Oswald, I mean,” said Miss Bethia.

The question was not addressed to any one in particular. Jem looked at Letty, and Letty looked at Davie, and they all laughed merrily. “Likely,” in Miss Bethia’s vocabulary, meant well-intentioned, agreeable, promising, all in a moderate degree, and the description fell so far short of Mr Philip’s idea of himself and his merits, and indeed of their idea of him that they could not help it.

“He seems to be a pleasant-spoken youth, and good-natured,” said Miss Bethia.

“Oh, yes! he is very good-natured,” said Violet.

Everybody had something to say in his praise. The little ones were quite enthusiastic. Jem said he was “smart” as well as good-natured, and David, though he said less, acknowledged that he was very clever, and added Mr Caldwell’s opinion, that Mr Philip had all his father’s talent for business, and would do well if he were really in earnest about it, and would settle down to it. Several instances of his kindness to the children and to his own little sisters were repeated, and Mrs Inglis spoke warmly in his praise.

“Only, mamma,” said Violet, with some hesitation, “all these things are agreeable to himself. He does such things because he likes to do them.”

“And ain’t that to be put to his credit,” said Miss Bethia. “It is well when one does right things and likes to do them, ain’t it?”

“Yes; but people ought to do right things because they are right, and not just because they are pleasant. If very different things were agreeable to him, he would do them all the same.”

“Stuff, Letty! with your buts and your ifs. Mr Phil, is just like other people. It is only you and Davie that have such high-flown notions about right and wrong, and duty, and all that.”

“Our ideas of ‘duty and all that’ are just like other people’s, Jem, I think,” said David. “They are just like Miss Bethia’s, at any rate, and mamma’s.”

“And like Jem’s own ideas, though not like Mr Philip’s” said Violet.

“Violet means that if he had to choose between what is right and what is pleasant, the chances are he would choose to do what is pleasant,” said Davie.

“He would not wait to choose,” said Violet, gravely. “He would just do what was pleasant without at all thinking about the other.”

“Mamma, do you call that charitable?” said Jem.

“I think Violet means—and Davie—that his actions are, as a general thing, guided and governed by impulse rather than by principle,” said Mrs Inglis; “and you know, Jem, the same reliance cannot be placed on such a person as on—”

“On a steady old rock, like Mr Caldwell or our Davie,” said Jem. “Yes, I know; still I like Phil.”

“So we all like him,” said Violet. “But, as mamma says, we do not rely on him. He likes us and our ways, and our admiration of him, and he likes to come here and talk with mamma, and get good advice, and all that. But he likes to go to other places, and to talk with other people, who are as different from mamma as darkness is from daylight. He is so careless and good-tempered that anything pleases him for the moment. He has no stability. One cannot help liking him, but one cannot respect him.”

Everybody looked surprised. Jem whistled.

“Why don’t you tell him so? It might do him good.”

“It wouldn’t change his nature,” said Violet, loftily. And then she bade them all good-night, and she and Jem went away, and Miss Bethia improved the occasion.

“I expect that his nature has got to be changed before he amounts to much that is good. I hope, David, you will not let this frivolous young man lead you away from the right path.”

Mrs Inglis had gone out of the room, and David prepared himself for what he knew would come sooner or later, Miss Bethia’s never-failing good advice.

“You are none too wise to be drawn away by a pleasant-spoken, careless youth like that. His company might easily become a snare to you, and to Jem too.”

“Oh! he has very little to say to me, Miss Bethia. He is older than Jem or I. He likes to talk to mamma, and you mustn’t think ill of him from what was said to-night.”

“I suppose the trouble is in his bringing up,” said Miss Bethia. “From all I hear, I should fear that his father hasn’t a realising sense of the importance of religion for himself or his family, and what can be expected of his son?”

David did not like the turn the conversation had taken, and he did not like the next better.

“There is a great responsibility resting on you, David, with regard to the people among whom your lot is cast. It is to be hoped they’ll be led to think more, and not less, of the Master you serve from your walk and conversation.”

David made no answer.

“David,” said Miss Bethia, “have you been living a Christian life since you came here? Such a life as would have given comfort to your father, if he had been here to see it? Have you been keeping your armour bright, David?”

“I have been trying, Miss Bethia,” said David.

“Well, it is something to have been trying. It is something not to be led away. But have you been content with that? You have a battle to fight—a work to do in just the spot you stand in, and if you are faithful, you may help that unstable youth to stand on firmer ground than his feet have found yet.”

David shook his head.

“You don’t know me, Miss Bethia, nor him, or you would not say that.”

“Your father would have made it his business to do him good.”

“But I am not like my father, very far from that.”

“Well, your father was nothing by himself. You are bound to do the same work, and you can have the same help. And it will pay in the long run. Oh, yes! it will pay!”

“I have been telling David that he may do that pleasant-spoken youth much good, if he is faithful to him and to himself,” added she, as Mrs Inglis came into the room.

“And I have been telling Miss Bethia that she does not know me, or him, or she wouldn’t say that, mamma,” said David.

“She must know you by this time, I think, Davie,” said his mother, smiling.

“I used to know him pretty well, and he seems to be getting along pretty much so. I don’t know as I see any change for the worse in him. He has had great privileges, and he has great responsibility.”

“Yes,” said his mother, gravely; “and I quite agree with you, Miss Bethia, he may do Mr Philip good by a diligent and faithful performance of his daily duties, if in no other way. He has done so already.”

“Oh, mamma!” said David, “Miss Bethia will think you are growing vain.”

“No, I sha’n’t. But he must be faithful in word as well as in deed. Oh! I guess he’ll get along pretty well—David, I mean, not young Mr Oswald.”

Jem came home while they were still talking.

“Mamma,” said he, as he followed his mother out of the room, “we saw Philip going into Dick’s saloon as we were going up the street and Violet said he’d be just as pleased and just as popular there as in our own home among the children, and she said he was as weak as water. That is all she knows! Violet is hard on Phil.”

“She cannot think it right for him to spend his evenings in such a place,” said his mother.

“But he sees no harm in it, and I don’t suppose there is much.”

“I should think it great harm for one of my boys,” said his mother, gravely.

“All right, mamma!” said Jem. “But, then, as Miss Barnes says, our bringing up has been different.”

Chapter Twelve.

When it was fairly decided that Miss Bethia’s pleasant plan for the summer was possible, there was little time lost in preparation. Miss Bethia went away at once, to have all things ready for their coming, and in a few days Mrs Inglis and Violet and the children followed. The little Oswalds went with them, and Jem and possibly Frank Oswald were to follow when their holidays commenced. Whether David was to go or not, was to be decided later, but he did not let the uncertainty with regard to his own prospects of pleasure interfere with his in all that the others were to enjoy. He helped cheerfully in all the arrangements for their departure, and made light of his mother’s anxiety and doubts as to the comfort of those who were to be left behind.

But when they were gone, and Jem and David left in the deserted house alone, they were neither of them very cheerful for a while. They were quite alone, for Mrs Lacy, the neighbour whom Mrs Inglis had engaged to care for their comfort, had a home of her own and little children to care for, and could only be there a part of the day. The unwonted silence of the house pressed heavily upon their spirits.

“It’s queer, too,” said Jem, who had been promising himself great enjoyment of the quiet time so that he might the better prepare for the school examinations that were coming on. “I used to think the children bothered with their noise and their chatter, but the stillness is ten, times more distracting, I think.”

David nodded assent.

“They will be in Gourlay long ago,” said he. “I wonder how it will seem to mamma to go back again.”

Jem looked grave.

“It won’t be all pleasure to her, I am afraid.”

“No; she will have many things to remember; but I think she would rather have gone to Gourlay than anywhere else. I wish I could have gone with her.”

“Yes; but she has Violet and the children; and mamma is not one to fret or be unhappy.”

“She will not be unhappy; but all the same it will be a sorrowful thing for her to go there now.”

“Yes; but I am glad she is there; and I hope I may be there, too, before the summer is over.”

Jem’s examinations passed off with great credit to himself; but he did not have the pleasure of telling his triumph, or showing his prizes to his mother and the children till after their return to Singleton; for Jem did not go to Gourlay, but in quite another direction.

When an offer was made to him, through one of his friends at the great engine-house, to accompany a skillful machinist to a distant part of the country where he was to superintend the setting up of some valuable machinery in a manufacturing establishment, he gave a few regretful thoughts to his mother and Gourlay, and the long anticipated delights of boating and fishing; but it did not take him long to decide to go. Indeed, by the time his mother’s consent reached him, his preparations were far advanced, and he was as eager to be gone as though the sole object of the trip had been pleasure, and not the hard work which had been offered him. But, besides the work, there was the wages, which, to Jem seemed magnificent, and there was the prospect of seeing new sights far from home; so he went away in great spirits, and David was left alone.

He was not in great spirits. Jem had left him no earlier than he must have done had it been to join his mother and the children in Gourlay. But, somehow, when he thought of his brother out in the wonderful, strange world, about which they had so often spoken and dreamed, David had to struggle against a feeling which, indulged, might very easily have changed to discontent or envy of his brother’s happier fortune.

Happier fortune, indeed! How foolish his thoughts were! David laughed at himself when he called up the figure of Jem, with bared arms and blackened face, busy amidst the smoke and dust of some great work-shop, going here and there—doing this and that at the bidding of his master. A very hard working world Jem would no doubt find it; and, as he thought about him, David made believe content, and congratulated himself on the quiet and leisure which the summer evenings were bringing, and made plans for doing great things in the way of reading and study while they lasted. But they were very dull days and evenings. The silence in the house grew more oppressive to him than even Jem had found it. The long summer evenings often found him listless and dull over the books that had been so precious to him when he had only stolen moments to bestow on them.

There had been something said at first about his going to the Oswald’s to stay, when the time came when he should be alone in the house. Mr Philip had proposed it at the time when they were making arrangements for the going away of his little sisters. But the invitation had not been repeated. Mr Philip had gone away long before Jem. He had, at the last moment, joined an exploring party who were going—not, indeed, to Red River, but far away into the woods. Mr Oswald had forgotten the invitation, or had never known of it, perhaps, and David went home to the deserted house not very willingly sometimes, and, with a vague impatience of the monotony of the days, wished for something to happen to break it. Before Jem had been gone a week, something did happen. Indeed, it had happened a good while before, but it only came to David’s knowledge at that time.

Mr Caldwell had just returned from one of his frequent business journeys, and one night David lingered beyond the usual hour that he might see him and walk down the street with him as far as their way lay in the same direction; and it was while they were going towards home together that Mr Caldwell told him of something very unpleasant that had occurred in the office. A small sum of money had been missed, and the circumstances connected with its loss led Mr Caldwell to believe that it had been taken by some one belonging to the office. Mr Caldwell could not give his reasons for this opinion, nor did he say much about it, but he questioned David closely about those who had been coming and going, and seemed troubled and annoyed about the affair. David was troubled, too, and tried to recall anything that might throw light upon the painful matter. But he did not succeed.

The circumstances, as David learned them then and afterwards, were these: Mr Oswald, as treasurer for one of the benevolent societies of the town, had, on a certain day of the preceding month, received a sum of money, part of which could not be found or accounted for. The rest of the sum paid into his hands was found in that compartment of his private safe allotted to the papers of the society. A receipt for the whole sum was in the hands of the person who had paid the money, and an entry in the society’s books corresponded to the sum named in this receipt. Mr Oswald was certain that he had not made use of any part of it, because such was never his custom. The accounts of the society were kept quite distinct from all others, and all arrangements with regard to them were made by Mr Oswald himself. It did not make the loss a matter of less importance that the sum missed was small. Nor did it make Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell less anxious to discover what had become of it.

The loss had not been discovered until some time after it had taken place, when the quarterly making up of the society’s accounts had been taken in hand, and Mr Oswald could not remember much about the circumstances. The date of the receipt showed the time. The person who paid the money remembered that part of it had been in small silver coins, made up in packets, and this was the part that had disappeared.

All this was not told by Mr Caldwell that first afternoon. It came to David’s knowledge, little by little, as it was found out. The matter was not, at first, discussed by the clerks in the office. Mr Caldwell had asked David not to speak of it to them, or to any one.

When Mr Caldwell told him that nothing had been said to them of the loss, he thought it was strange; but it never came into his mind that the reason was that Mr Oswald feared that he was the person guilty, and wished to keep it from the knowledge of the rest. But, as time went on, he began to notice a change in Mr Oswald’s manner toward him. He had never said many words to him in the course of the day. It was not his way with those in his employment, except with Mr Caldwell. He said less than ever to him now, but David fancied that he was more watchful of him, that he took more note of his comings and goings, and that his manner was more peremptory and less friendly when he gave him directions as to his work for the day.

Mr Caldwell did not remain long in Singleton at this time, and having no one to speak to about the mysterious affair of the missing money, David, after a day or two, began to think less about it than he might otherwise have done. Once he ventured to speak to Mr Oswald about it.

“Have you heard anything about the lost money, sir?” said he, one night, when there were only they two in the office.

Mr Oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that David was startled, changing colour and looking at him in astonishment.

“No, I have not. Have you anything to tell me about it? The sooner the better,” said Mr Oswald.

“I know only what Mr Caldwell has told me,” said David.

“You may go,” said Mr Oswald.

And David went away, very much surprised both at his words and his manner. He did not think long about it, but every day he became more certain that all was not right between them. He had no one to speak to, which made it worse. He could not write to his mother or even to Violet, because there was nothing to tell. Mr Oswald was sharp and short in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had never said much to him at any time. No; there was nothing to tell.

But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. The weather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office was done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother’s return. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit.

He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little Dick Lacy his accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual. But, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him a sense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not right between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. He seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtook him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. Once he came at night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been forgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his head on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence.

Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had been at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and where he went, and how he passed his time; and though David was surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he thought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into his mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few days at the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. He was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters in the morning, for Mr Oswald’s manner was much kinder, and he spoke to him just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did not come down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might.

That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive till after the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he went home. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money; and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whether the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of suspicion in his friend’s hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if some one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell’s voice, saying:

“Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falsely accused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What would your mother say?”

His mother! David uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain. Was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief?

“David,” said his friend solemnly, “it is at a time like this that our trust in God stands us in stead. There is nothing to be dismayed at, if you are innocent.”

“If!” said David, with a gasp.

“Ay! ‘if!’ Your mother herself might say as much as that. And you have not said that the charge is a false one yet.”

“I did not think I should need to say so to you!”

“But you see, my lad, I am not speaking for myself. I was bidden ask you the question point blank, and I must give your answer to him that sent me. My word is another matter. You must answer to him.”

“To Mr Oswald, I suppose? Why should he suspect me? Has he been suspecting me all these weeks? Was that the reason he wished nothing said about it in the office?”

“That was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna’ let your eyes flash on me,” said Mr Caldwell, severely. “Don’t you think it has caused him much unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?”

“But why should he suspect me?”

“There seemed to be no one else. But he must speak for himself. I have nothing to say for him. I have only to carry him your answer.”

“I will answer him myself,” said David, rising, as though he were going at once to do it. But he only walked to the window and stood looking out.

“David,” said Mr Caldwell, “put away your books, and come home with me.”

“No, I cannot do that,” said David, shortly.

He did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spoken for a while. By and by Mr Caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way:

“David, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is to see that you bear it well. The accusation will give but small concern to your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has been indulging in an angry and unchristian spirit.” And then he went away.

He did not go very far, however. It was getting late, and, in the gathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the house seemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before he reached the gate.

“David,” said he kindly, opening the door, “come away home with me.”

But David only answered as he had done before.

“No, I cannot do that.”

He said it in a gentler tone, however, and added:

“No, I thank you, Mr Caldwell, I would rather not.”

“It will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart. You need not be alone, however. You don’t need me to tell you where you are to take all this trouble to. You may honour Him by bearing it well,” said his friend.

“Bear it well!” No, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first.

When Mr Caldwell had gone, and David had shut the doors and windows to keep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he had kept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in a flood. And they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh. There was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitter as they fell. He had wild thoughts of going that very night to Mr Oswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he would never enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected, seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made him eager to defend himself at whatever cost. But night brought wiser counsels; and David knew, as Mr Caldwell had said, where to betake himself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite another mind.

As for Mr Caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer to Mr Oswald. He did not even go home first to his own house, though he had not been there for a fortnight.

“For who knows,” said he to himself, “what that foolish lad may go and say in his anger, and Mr Oswald must hear what I have to say first, or it may end badly for all concerned.”

He found Mr Oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a few words concerning the business which had called him away during the last few weeks, he told him of his visit to David, and spoke with decision as to the impossibility of the lad’s having any knowledge of the lost money.

“It seems impossible, certainly,” said Mr Oswald; “and yet how can its disappearance be accounted for? It must have been taken from the table or from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or I must have seen it at night. There can be no doubt it was brought to me on that day, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except young Inglis and yourself were gone. I was out, I remember, when it was time to go home. When I came in, there was no one in the outer office. You had sent David out, you said. He came in before I left—” And he went over the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the money that vexed him. Though the loss had been ten times as great, it would have been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss of confidence in those whom he employed.

“For some one must have taken the money, even if David Inglis be not guilty.”

Here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room.

“David Inglis, papa! What can you mean?” and Frank came hurriedly forward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from the light.

“My boy! are you here? What would the doctor say? You should have been in bed long ago.”

“But, papa, what is it that is lost? You never could blame Davie, papa. You could not think Davie could take money, Mr Caldwell?”

“No, I know David Inglis better,” said Mr Caldwell, quietly.

“And, papa, you don’t think ill of Davie? You would not if you knew him. Papa! you have not accused him? Oh! what will Aunt Mary think?” cried the boy in great distress. “Papa, how could you do it?”

Mr Oswald was asking himself the same question. The only thing he could say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thing to say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in David. But he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told Frank it was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in his discomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away.

“But I shall go to Davie the first thing in the morning, papa. I would not believe such a thing of Davie, though a hundred men declared it. I would sooner believe it of—of Mr Caldwell,” said Frank, excitedly.

“Be quiet, Frank,” said his father; but Mr Caldwell laughed a little and patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed, and then he, too, said good-night and went away. And Mr Oswald was not left in a very pleasant frame of mind, that is certain.

True to his determination to see David, Frank reached the bank next morning before his father. He reached it before David, too, and he would have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshine which had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made him dizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa in his father’s office for a while. He lay still after his father came in, and only moved when he heard David’s voice saying—

“Mr Caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir.”

Then Frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend.

“He does not mean it, Davie!” he cried. “Papa knows you never could have done such a thing. Don’t be angry, old fellow.”

And then he put out his hand to clasp David’s, and missed it partly because of their natural dimness and partly because of the tears that rushed to them. David regarded him in dismay.

“Are they so bad as that, Frank? Are they worse again?” said David, forgetting his own trouble in the heavier trouble of his friend. They were bad enough, and there was more wrong with the boy besides his eyes. He was ill and weak, and he burst out crying, with his head on David’s shoulder, but his tears were not for himself.

“You were wrong to come out to-day, Frank,” said his father, surprised and perplexed at his sudden break-down; “you must go home immediately.”

“Papa, tell Davie that you do not believe he took the money,” cried the boy. “He could not do it, papa.”

“Indeed, I did not, sir,” said David. “I know nothing about the matter except what Mr Caldwell has told me. You may believe me, sir.”

“I do not know what to believe,” said Mr Oswald. “It seems unlikely that you should be tempted to do so foolish and wrong a thing. But I have been deceived many a time. Who could have taken it?”

“It was not I,” said David, quietly, and while he said it he was conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen Mr Oswald in the first angry moment after he had known of his suspicion. An angry denial, he felt now, would have availed little.

“Papa, begin at the beginning and tell Davie all about it. Perhaps he will think of something you have forgotten—something that may help you to find out where the money has gone,” said Frank, earnestly.

But Mr Oswald would do nothing of the sort. He was tired and perplexed with the matter, and he had come to the determination to pay the lost money, and wait till time should throw light on the circumstances of its loss, or until the guilty person should betray himself.

“You must go, Frank. You are not fit to be here,” said he.

“I want to hear you tell Davie that you don’t believe he is a thief.”

A thief! That is a very ugly word, and David winced as it was spoken. Mr Oswald winced too.

“Money has been taken from this room, and until the manner of its disappearance be discovered, all who had access to the place must, in a sense, be open to suspicion. Let us hope that the guilty person will be found out, and in the meantime, let nothing more be said about it.”

“But why did you not tell me at once that you suspected me?” said David, in some excitement.

“It was not a pleasant thing to tell.”

“No, but it is not pleasanter to hear it now. There is less chance that the guilty person may be traced now, than if the loss had been declared at once. And must I lie under the suspicion always? I do not think you have been just to me.”

“That will do. The less said the better,” said Mr Oswald. “Frank, you must go home.”

“You will not go away, Davie?” said Frank.

“Not if I may stay. Where could I go?” said David.

“You will stay, of course. Let us hope the truth about this unpleasant business may come out at last. We must all be uncomfortable until it does.”

“If you had only spoken to David about it sooner,” said Frank, again.

But Mr Oswald would neither say nor hear more. Entreated by Frank, however, he asked David to go and stay at his house, till his mother returned home. But David refused to go even for a day, and no entreaties of Frank could move him.

“I don’t wonder that you will not come,” said Frank. “I don’t blame you for refusing. And oh! what will Aunt Mary think of us all?”

“She will know that you are all right, Frank,” said David, trying to look cheerful as he bade his friend good-bye at the door. He did not succeed very well, nor did Frank; and David, thinking of it afterwards, was by no means sure that he had been right in refusing to go to stay with him for a while, and thinking of his friend’s troubles did him some good, in that it gave him less time to think of his own. But he could not make up his mind to go to Mr Oswald’s house, and he did not see Frank again for a good while after that.

Chapter Thirteen.

David had rather a hard time for the next few days. A great trouble had fallen on him. He could have borne anything else better he sometimes thought. His good name was in danger, for even a false accusation must leave a stain on it, he thought. Every day that passed made it less likely that the mysterious matter of the lost money could be cleared up, and until this happened, Mr Oswald would never perfectly trust him again; and David said to himself, sometimes sadly and sometimes angrily, that he could not stay where he was not trusted. Nor was it likely that Mr Oswald would wish him to stay. They might have to leave the bridge house and Singleton, and where could they go?

Of course a constant indulgence in such thoughts and fears was very foolish on David’s part, and almost always he knew it to be foolish. He knew that all this trouble had not fallen on him by chance, and that out of it some good must come. He said to himself that he had been growing proud of his good name, of being his mother’s right hand, and of having the confidence of Mr Oswald, and perhaps this had been permitted to happen to him to remind him that he must be watchful and humble, and that he could do nothing good of himself. Gradually David came to see how right Mr Caldwell had been when he said that it was a very great matter how he bore his trial, and he grew ashamed of his anger and impatience and distrust.

Just as if the Lord who loved him, and whom he loved, were not caring for him all this time! Just as though this were a matter that could not be committed to His care—trusted altogether to Him! Yes, he acknowledged himself very foolish and wrong. A great many times every day he asked that his good name might be cleared from the stain that seemed to rest on it; but as often he asked, that whether it was to be so or not, he might have grace and strength given to bear his trouble well.

He did bear it pretty well, Mr Caldwell thought, and he watched him closely through these days. Mr Oswald thought so, top, and wondered a little. He could not really believe David Inglis to be guilty of theft, but it seemed strange to him that he should be so cheerful and patient under a false accusation. The only way in which he showed that he resented his suspicion, was by being firm in continuing to refuse the invitation to his house, which he again renewed. Frank told his father that he did not wonder at the refusal; he tried all the same to shake David’s resolution, but he did not succeed.

David did not think he bore his trial well. In his heart, he was angry and desponding often. And, oh! how he wanted his mother! It would not have been half so bad if she had been at home, he thought, and yet he could not bring himself to write to her about it. When it should be made clear where the lost money had gone—so clear that even Mr Oswald would not have a doubtful thought, then he would tell his mother, and get the sympathy which would be so ready and so sweet. It would spoil her happy summer to know that he was in trouble, he thought, and, besides, he could not bear that she should know that any one had dared to speak of him as dishonest. This was foolish, too, but he could not tell her till afterwards.

His mother was not quite at ease about him. She knew he was in trouble. She had gathered that from the changed tone of his weekly letter, and an inadvertent word, now and then, led her to believe that there was something more the matter than the loneliness to which he confessed after Jem went away. So, when an opportunity occurred for Violet to go to Singleton for a day or two, she was very glad that she should go, to see how Davie was getting on, and to give him an account of their manner of life in Gourlay.

And when David came home one night, to find Violet making tea instead of Mrs Lacy, was he not glad to see her! He was more glad to see her than he would have been to see his mother. He knew he never could have talked half an hour with his mother without telling her all that was in his heart, and he could keep it from Violet. At least, so he said to himself. But when tea was over, and Violet had told him all they were doing at Gourlay, and all they were enjoying there, she began to ask him questions in return, and, before he knew it, he was telling all the sad story of the last few weeks, and was looking with wonder at his sister’s astonished and indignant face. For astonishment was Violet’s first feeling—astonishment that such a thing could have happened to Davie, and for a little, it was stronger even than her indignation.

“And haven’t you the least idea what may have become of the money, Davie? Don’t you have any suspicion of any one?” asked she, after she had said a good many angry words that need not be repeated. “Have they not been trying to discover something?”

“They have been trying, I suppose.”

“And what do you think, Davie? There must be some clue, surely.”

But David was silent.

“You do suspect some one?” said Violet, eagerly.

“No,” said he, slowly; “I have no sufficient reason for suspecting any one.”

“Tell me, Davie.”

“No; I have no right to tell my suspicions, or to suspect any one. It came into my head one night; but I know it is foolish and wrong, and I have nothing to tell.”

“When did it happen?” asked Violet, after a little.

David could not tell her the exact time. He had never been told the date of the receipt which Mr Oswald had given; but he thought it could not have been very long after his mother went away, though he had not heard of the loss till after Jem had gone.

Violet went here and there putting things to rights in the room, and said nothing for a good while. By and by she came and leaned over the chair in which David was sitting, and asked:

“David, when did Philip Oswald go away?”

David turned round and looked at her uneasily.

“A good while ago. Soon after you all went away to Gourlay. No, Violet—don’t say it,” said he, eagerly, as he met her look. “He could not do it. Why should he? He has all the money he wants. And, besides, he could not do such a thing.”

“David,” said Violet, gravely, “was it Philip that you were thinking about?”

“Don’t, Violet! It came into my mind—I couldn’t help that, but it is wrong to speak of it. It could not have been he.”

“I don’t know. It does not seem possible. He is foolish and frivolous—and not to be relied on; but I do not think he would do such a thing as—take money—unless—”

“Violet! Don’t speak of it. A false accusation is a terrible thing.”

“I am not accusing him. There does not seem to be a sufficient motive for such an act. The sum was so small—and then—”

“Dear Violet!” said David, in great distress, “don’t speak of it any more.”

“Well, I will not—but Mr Oswald accused you. You are a great deal better than I am, Davie,” said his sister, softly.

David laughed an uncertain laugh.

“That is all you know about it,” said he.

When Violet went up next day to speak to Miss Oswald about the little girls, the first word that Frank said to her was:

“Has Davie told you? Oh! Violet, what will Aunt Mary think of papa?”

But Violet could not trust herself to speak of Davie’s trouble to him. She was too angry with his father; and, besides, she was too startled by Frank’s pale looks to be able to think, for the moment, of any one but him.

“Are you ill, Frank? Are your eyes worse? What have you been doing to them?”

For Frank had dropped his head down on his hands again.

“Yes, they are worse. I was out in the rain, and caught cold. I was not strong enough to go, I suppose. Phil, sent me back with some people who were coming down. He would have come himself, but, of course, I couldn’t let him.”

“You would have done better to come to Gourlay with us,” said Violet.

“Yes, even without Jem or Davie. I wish I had gone.”

“Come with me to-morrow,” said Violet, earnestly. “Mamma will be very glad to see you.”

But Frank shook his head sadly.

“I cannot, Violet. I should be ashamed to look Aunt Mary in the face—after—”

“You need not, Frank. Mamma will know. And you don’t suppose that anything they say can really hurt our Davie?”

“No; not in the end. But—there’s no use in talking.”

“I am not afraid!” said Violet. “And mamma will not fret about it; I am sure of that?”

There was nothing more said for some time, and then Violet asked:

“Where is your brother now?”

“He must be far across the country by this time. He was enjoying the trip very much when I left him.”

“And when will he be home?”

“I don’t know. Not for a good while yet. Why are you asking?”

Frank raised himself up, and peered with his dim eyes into Violet’s face.

“Why are you asking?” he repeated.

But Violet did not answer him. As she looked at his poor, pale face, the tears started in her eyes.

“Frank, dear boy, you must come home with me. You want mamma again. She will do you more good than the doctor.”

“Violet, tell me one thing! Does Davie blame Phil—about the missing money, I mean. Tell me!”

“Davie blame your brother! Why should you say so? Davie would be shocked at such a question from you. What reason could he have to blame Philip?”

But Violet was very glad that he did not pursue the subject, for she was afraid to let him know all her thoughts about Davie’s trouble. She did not give him an opportunity to return to the subject. She wished very much for Frank’s sake that he should return to Gourlay with her, and she hastened to propose the plan to his aunt. Miss Oswald was, by no means, disposed to hinder him, though she doubted if his father would let him go. She was not very much accustomed to the society of young people, and she had been at a loss what to do with the boy, who, though not very ill, was disinclined, and, indeed, unable to amuse himself, or to enter into any of the plans which were made for his pleasure, so she promised to speak to his father, and to have his things ready should he be permitted to go. Violet took care to avoid being alone with Frank while she stayed in the house, and nothing more was said about Philip.

It was all arranged as Violet desired it might be. Mr Oswald made no serious objections to his son’s going to Gourlay. Frank himself objected, but the prospect of going with Violet was too pleasant to make his refusal very firm, and the thought of the loneliness of his own home decided him to go.

“Violet,” said David, when the time came to say good-bye, “you must not tell mamma about all this vexation. It would only make her unhappy, and do no good.”

But Violet would not promise.

“I cannot, Davie. I cannot keep anything from mamma when she wishes to know it; and she will be sure to ask everything about you. But you need not be afraid. Mamma will not fret. She will know that it will all be right in the end.”

And the “end” of David’s trouble, as far as the missing money was concerned, was nearer than either of them thought when they bade each other good-bye. He had a few days more of anxiety and discomfort, in the midst of which came a letter from his mother, which made it seem to him a very small trouble indeed. He read it over and over again, and laughed at himself for supposing that he was acting wisely in keeping the knowledge of all that was making him so unhappy from his mother.

“Mamma always knows just what to say and how to say it,” said he to himself; “and, of course, she is not going to fret about a matter which is sure to come right in the end.”

And so the days that followed were better days, though the hot weather, and the close confinement in the office through the day, and the loneliness of the deserted house at home, were beginning to tell on him, and he was by no means well. He did his best to do well all that was given him to do, but the days were long and dull and the evenings lonely, and he began to count the days that must pass before they should all come home.

There was something going on in the town one afternoon, a cricket match or a match at football, and all the clerks had left the bank at the earliest possible moment, intent on seeing all that was to be seen of it. David would have gone with, the rest, but Mr Caldwell, who was at the moment engaged with Mr Oswald in his private room, had asked him to remain till he came out to him again. David waited, not caring that he lost the amusement that the others sought, not caring very much for anything just at that moment, for he was tired and getting a little unhappy again, and very much ashamed of himself because of it.

For when he had read his mother’s letter only the other day, he had taken all the comfort of her cheerful, trustful words, and acknowledged how foolish and wrong it had been for him to let Mr Oswald’s doubts and suspicions dismay him. He had said then that it was all past now, and that he could wait God’s time for the clearing of his name, without being unhappy or afraid again. And now here he was wondering anxiously whether Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell were speaking about the lost money, and whether any thing more was known that he had not heard. He was tired waiting, and wanted to go home, and yet the thought of the empty house and the long dull evening was not pleasant, and he was saying to himself that it did not matter whether he stayed or went, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice said—

“Well, Davie, my boy, have you been standing here ever since I went away?”

David turned and saw Philip Oswald. In his surprise, and because of the many thoughts that came upon him at the sight of him, he did not utter a word. He forgot to take the hand which Philip held out to him.

“Have you, Davie? I declare you look as if you had not seen the light of the sun for a month! What is the matter with you, Davie?”

He might well ask it, for David had grown very pale, and his heart was beating fast. In spite of his judgment, he had, since his talk with Violet, associated Philip with the thought of the lost money, and now as he looked at his frank, handsome face, he said how impossible it was that he should have taken it, or that he should know anything about it. No, Philip Oswald could not help him out of his trouble.

“When did you come, Philip?” said he. “I should scarcely have known you, if you hadn’t spoken.”

Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months’ time. He was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed to David to have grown taller in these two months.

“I have improved, haven’t I? I can’t say as much for you. What is the trouble, Davie?”

Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing brown face close to David’s. But David drew himself away. He hated himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he looked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should the summer have passed so differently to them? At the moment he was very miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and afraid. So he withdrew from the young man’s touch, and turned away saying nothing.

“Is it as bad as that? Can’t I help you? Frank seemed to think I might, though I could not make out from his letter what was the trouble or how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have you got into a scrape at last?”

“A scrape!” repeated David. “No you cannot help me, I am afraid. I should be sorry to trouble you.”

“Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted to come, because of Frank’s letter. He seemed to think I could put you through. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is old Caldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?”

David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward to the time of Philip’s coming home, with hope that in some way or other light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to him, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before. If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by breaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must have done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to answer.

“So you have come home!” said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. “You have not been in haste.”

“I beg your pardon. I have been in haste. I did not intend to come home for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way about it.”

“And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless.”

“You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see him a minute, and then I’ll go home with you, Davie,” said Philip, turning towards his father’s door. “David has important business with me,” added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle.

David shook his head.

“Your father will tell you all about it,” said he, hoarsely.

Philip whistled and came back again.

“That is the way, is it?”

“Or I will tell you,” said Mr Caldwell, gravely. “Young man, what did your brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while ago?”

Philip looked at him in surprise.

“What is that to you, sir? He said—I don’t very well know what he said. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and blotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was in trouble, and that I was expected home to bring him through.”

Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother’s letter and held it out to David. “Perhaps you can make it out,” said he.

Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some places they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philip could not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet’s, and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lost money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem mysterious to Philip.

“Can you make it out?” Philip asked.

“I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell.”

“All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I can help you out of the scrape, I will.”

“That is to be seen yet,” said Mr Caldwell.

Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip’s face, and his last words were—

“And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the matter. Is that what he says in his letter?”

Philip’s face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At first he whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceased speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question—

“What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!”

“There was no one else, he thought,” said David.

“No one else!” repeated Philip. “Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell and all the rest of them in the office, and there was me. I took the money.”

“If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them,” said Mr Caldwell, severely. “You had best tell your father about it now,” added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room.

“Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not get the note I left on your table for you the day I went away?”

“The note!” repeated his father. “I got no note from you.”

“David, my man,” whispered Mr Caldwell, “do you mind the word that says, ‘He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday?’ The Lord doesna forget.”

The story as they gathered it from Philip’s explanations and exclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his father directly from the train that had brought him home from C—. He had not found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and that he must return to C— without a moment’s delay, in order that all arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. He was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full value in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it.

“And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie,” said Philip, not very respectfully, when his story was done.

“And now the matter lies between him and you,” said his father. “For the money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it after all.”

But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with his note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was lying on the table. There could be no mistake about that.

“And we are just where we were before,” said Mr Caldwell. “But don’t be cast down, David. There must be a way out of this.”

“But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted Davie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, I would have cut the whole concern,” said Philip.

“There would have been much wisdom in that,” said Mr Caldwell dryly. “There is no fear of David Inglis.”

David said nothing. He stood folding and unfolding the letter that Philip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had really been discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of Mr Oswald might still rest on him “I wonder you did not think of me, father,” went on Philip. “Frank did, I dare say, though I could not make out what he meant. But the money must be somewhere. Let us have a look.”

He went into his father’s room, and the others followed. Philip looked about as though he expected everything might be as he left it two months ago. There were loose papers on the table, and some letters and account-books. The morning paper was there, and Mr Oswald’s hat and cane, and that was all.

“The big book lay just here,” said Philip. “I laid my note on it, so that it need not be overlooked.”

“There are more big books in the office than one,” said Mr Caldwell, crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were still standing open. One by one he lifted the large account-books that were not often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whether any paper might have been shut in them. As soon as Philip understood what he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great deal more energy and interest than Mr Caldwell displayed. But it was Mr Caldwell who came upon that for which they were looking—Philip’s note to his father—safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked as though it might not have been opened for years.

“I mind well; I was referring back to Moses Cramp’s account of past years on the very day that brought us all our trouble. And now, David Inglis, your trial is over for this time,” and he handed the note to Mr Oswald.

“Provided Mr Philip has made no mistake,” added he, cautiously, as the note was opened.

The interest with which David looked on may be imagined. It took Mr Oswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good while before he laid it down, and Mr Caldwell, claiming Mr Philip’s help, set about putting the big books in their places again. David never thought of offering to help.

“It has been a very unfortunate mistake,” said Mr Oswald, at last.

“All’s well that ends well,” said his son lightly.

“I am very sorry that you should have been made unhappy about it, David. I might have known that you were not to blame, but there seemed to be no one else. I beg your pardon sincerely,” said Mr Oswald.

“I am very glad it is all right, sir,” said David, quietly.

“I should like to know one thing,” said Philip. “How came Frank to write to me? He must have thought I was the thief—the young rascal. Did you think so, Davie?”

“No,” said David, “I never thought you took it. I don’t know what Frank thought. I never spoke to him about it, nor to any one,” added David, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Well! never mind. I’ll sift that matter by and by. Come up to the house with me, Davie. I am very sorry for all the pain you have had about this business. Come home with me to-night.”

“No; I am going home by myself. I have a headache. You were not to blame.”

“Yes, he was to blame,” said Mr Oswald. “It was a very unbusiness-like way of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned.”

“It has been bad enough all through for David Inglis. Mr Philip, if you wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place and let him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a few days.”

Philip opened his eyes.

“I am afraid I could not fill David’s place in the office,” said he.

“I am afraid of that, too. But you would be better than nobody, and we would have patience with you. And David must go for awhile, whether you take his place or no.”

“Yes,” assented Mr Oswald, rather absently. “He might as well have a holiday now as any time. And, Philip, I expect you to take your own place in the office after this regularly.”

Philip shrugged his shoulders, when his father was not looking to see.

“I’ll give it a trial,” said he.

“And can I go to-morrow, Mr Caldwell?” said David. “I have no preparations to make, and I should like to take them by surprise.”

“By all means. I should like to go with you and see it,” said Philip. “But, I suppose, that would hardly do—just at present.”

David bade them good-night, and went down the street with Mr Caldwell.

“I am much obliged to you, sir. I am very glad to get away from the office for awhile, to say nothing of going to Gourlay and seeing them all.”

David’s eyes sparkled at the thought.

“Well! You have borne your trouble not so ill,” said Mr Caldwell; “and you may tell your mother I said so.”

David laughed; but he looked grave in a moment.

“I don’t think you would say I bore it well, if you knew all the angry thoughts I had. But I am very glad and thankful now, and I am sure mamma will thank you for all your kindness. I know now you never thought me capable of doing so wrong a thing.”

“We are all poor creatures, David, my man. There is no saying what we mightna’ do if we were left to ourselves. Be thankful and humble, and pray for grace to keep in the right way; and mind that yon young man’s eyes are upon you, and that you are, in a measure, responsible for his well-doing or his ill-doing, for awhile, at least; and may the Lord guide you,” said Mr Caldwell, solemnly, and then he went away.

David stood gazing after him with astonished eyes.

“I responsible for him! That can hardly be. I am nothing to him. I wonder what mamma would say? I shall have nothing to do with him for awhile, at least. I like Frank much the best. Oh! isn’t it good to be going home!”

David had one thing to do with Philip Oswald before he went away. He came to the station with a parcel which he wished him to take to his little sisters, and to see him off. He was merry and good-humoured, though he pretended to be dreadfully afraid of not being able to fill David’s place in the office to the satisfaction of Mr Caldwell.