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Title: Miles Murchison

Author: Agnes Giberne

Release date: June 6, 2023 [eBook #70919]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MILES MURCHISON ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "This is the boy, Mr. Laurence."]


                       MILES MURCHISON

                             BY
                       AGNES GIBERNE

                         AUTHOR OF

      "MISS CON," "SWEETBRIAR," "READY, AYE, READY!"
  "LEAST SAID, SOONEST MENDED," "FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS,"
      "DAISY OF OLD MEADOW," "OLD UMBRELLAS," ETC.



                           LONDON
                      JAMES NISBET & CO.
                      21 BERNERS STREET



CONTENTS.

CHAP.

    I. A DAY'S PLEASURING.
       MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.

   II. ON THE WAY.
       MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY, (continued).

  III. HOW IT ALL HAPPENED.
       MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY, (continued).

   IV. FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW.
       MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY.

    V. RESULTS.
       MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY, (continued).

   VI. A STEP ONWARD.
       MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.

  VII. A PLACE FOR MILES.
       MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY, (continued).

 VIII. A TALK WITH MR. LAURENCE.
       MILES' STORY.

   IX. TRUSTWORTHINESS.
       MILES' STORY, (continued).

    X. WISE COUNSEL.
       MILES' STORY, (continued).

   XI. A DIFFICULT MOMENT.
       MILES' STORY, (continued).

  XII. LITTLE MISS ADELA.
       MILES' STORY, (continued).

 XIII. "SPOILT," BUT "SWEET".
       MILES' STORY, (continued).

  XIV. IN THE PONY CART.
       MILES' STORY, (continued).

   XV. AN IMPROVED STATE OF THINGS.
       MILES' STORY, (continued).

  XVI. LOOKING BACK.
       MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.



MILES MURCHISON.

CHAPTER I.

A DAY'S PLEASURING.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.

I NEVER shall forget that day,—never! Not if I live to be a hundred
years old.

Till then I hadn't known real trouble in life—worth calling trouble,
I mean. Of course there were worries and bothers, like in most
people's lives. Things went sometimes cross, as I suppose they must;
and clothes wore out too fast, and the children would be fractious
or naughty, and measles and chicken-pox had their turn, and there
wasn't always money enough to get what we needed.

But still, as I say, I hadn't known real trouble in all the sixteen
years I'd been married, nor in all the twenty years I'd lived at home
before that. I had such a happy home in my girlhood, and Jervis had
been all along such a good husband to me. I won't say he never spoke
a sharp word; but then I won't say I never did neither; and if he had
his faults, I had mine too. Anyhow, he worked hard and steady, and he
brought home his wages regular, and he didn't spend his time nor
earnings at the public-house, and we had a tidy little sum growing
at the Post Office Savings Bank, and he and I were in good health,
and the children were well.

We lived at Littleburgh, and my husband was foreman in the building
works, and he was trusted and liked. I didn't wonder neither—I who
knew him as only a wife can know her husband. Some men are trusted
and liked by outside people, and their own wives could tell a mighty
different tale if they chose to speak out, which most wives won't do;
but it wasn't so with Jervis and me.

For some time we had gone on, without so much as a day's journeying
away from home. Jervis wasn't given to gadding about, or finding his
amusements anywhere and everywhere except in his own home, nor
spending on pleasure what properly we'd ought to lay by for our
children. And as for me, why, I had every single thing to do in the
house—all the cleaning and cooking, and washing and working, and
looking after the children; and that means a deal more than the men
ever think. It wasn't likely I should have time for running about,
leaving things to take care of themselves.

Sometimes I do wonder, when I see maidservants in nice places, with
good food, and all sorts of comforts, and kind mistresses, and no
cares, I do wonder when I see them in such a hurry to go and get
married, and set up for themselves. Not as I'm saying a word against
girls marrying, when it's right and proper for them, if it's a good
sober steady man that's in question, and if he has regular work, and
if there's a store laid by against a rainy day, and if the girl is fit
to manage a little home and to do for her husband comfortably, and if
neither of them are in too great haste; why, of course, there's no
objection whatever. To have a little home of one's own sounds nice,
and it ought to be nice, and it may be nice; but folks don't know
beforehand what a deal of toil is wanted to keep it nice, nor how many
get tired of the toil in a little while, and let it go nasty and get
dirty and messy and untidy, more like to a pig-stye than a home.
More especially when a lot of children come, and when one don't feel
good for anything, and work never ends, morning, noon, nor night.

Well, as I say, I wonder sometimes, knowing all this. For the change
from a good place to married life in a cottage, or maybe in two or
three rooms, is oftentimes a change from light work to hard work, and
from ease to poverty. When a girl grumbles at what she has to do in
service, and wants to get married, she don't guess how much more
she'll have to do, when every single thing depends on herself. Seems
to me, a good husband is a gift from God, and a happy home's the same;
but there's none too many of either in the world.

I wasn't in service before I married Jervis, but I was the eldest of a
lot of children, and my mother made me work hard and no mistake.
So much the better. It was a good training for my married life.

But I always do think to this day that Jervis and I would have been
wiser, if we had waited just a few years, and had laid by more. Then,
instead of only a little sum being ready when trouble came, it might
have been enough to be a real help, and we shouldn't have been near
so dependent on others. It is all right telling us to trust for the
future; and so we ought; but all the same we've got to provide for
ourselves, and not to go on in a happy-go-lucky way, just taking our
pleasure, and hoping things 'll all come right somehow. That's not
trust; it's laziness and selfishness. People ought to think of their
children, if they should have any.

Well, if I run off on this, I shall forget all about the story I've
got to tell; and that wouldn't do at all. Most folks would rather hear
a story than be preached to.

It came all as a sort of surprise to me one day, when my husband said
to me unexpected-like—

"Annie," said he, "I've set my mind on a day by the sea."

"You have, Jervis!" says I; for I couldn't think whatever he was at.

"A nice long day by the sea," says he. "I'll get a day off work—
they'll give it me, I'm always so regular—and we'll go early.
We'll get to Ermespoint by ten o'clock," says he, "and we won't be
home again till past nine at night."

"It'll cost a lot," said I.

"That's the first thought with you," says he. "And I'm not blaming
my little woman, either." He often called me his "little woman"—not as
I was so especial small, only I was sort of thin, and I'd small bones;
and though he wasn't uncommon tall, he was of a broad make, with big
hands, and very strong. "I'm not blaming you for it," said he. "If you
weren't such a careful body as you are, why, we shouldn't have such a
comfortable home as we've got. It's the woman of a house has to do
with that, I know well enough," says he. "But all the same, Annie,
I do think we've earned a day's pleasuring; and I don't think it'll be
money thrown away. I'd like to be out of it all for once. I spent
a day in Ermespoint years ago, and I've never forgot it; and I'd like
the children to have just such another day to look back on."

Well I didn't go against him, though I couldn't help thinking what a
nice sum all those fares together would make to add to our savings
in the Post Office Bank. Not only him and me, but Miles and Louey, and
Rosie and Bessie. And only the two youngest would go for half-fares.
Louey was over twelve, though she didn't look it; and some of the
neighbours advised us to pass her off for younger, but Jervis wouldn't
hear of it. "I'm not going to tell lies for nobody," said he in his
sturdy sort of way; "and I don't see as it's any less dishonest to
cheat the Company than to cheat a man. Louey's over twelve, and she
shan't make believe to be under."

That's how it was Jervis got to be trusted. Nobody ever found him out
in untruthful or crooked ways, and so they got to know they might
depend on him always.

Well, as I was saying, I wouldn't go against him, though I had my
doubts if he was wise, and I've often and often wished since that we
hadn't gone!

And yet maybe that's a foolish wish. For we did what we thought to be
right at the time, and nobody can do more. It's no manner of use
to judge, after things have happened, by what couldn't be guessed
beforehand. Besides, what did happen don't show that we were wrong
to go. Trouble don't always mean punishment. It's often sent just
to do us good, like medicine given to a sick child, and it may be the
very best thing that could happen. And if we hadn't gone to Ermespoint
that day, but had stayed at home, who's to say that something quite
as bad mightn't have come to us some other way?

Jervis had no difficulty in getting a day off from work, though it
wasn't a Bank holiday. He asked it so seldom, that the masters said
"Yes" at once. We had a fine day too. Right glad we were to see the
sun go down, with red streaks across the sky. Jervis said, "Red at
night is the shepherd's delight;" and then he told us there were other
good signs too, most likely meaning fine weather. The air was dry; and
the swallows had been flying high; and there wasn't too clear a view
of the distance.

He was in the right too. We woke up to a beautiful July day—
all sunshine and blue sky. I'm sure I didn't sleep much the night
before, and the children said they hadn't either; and we were all
ready for an early breakfast, so as to get off by the eight o'clock
train.

Jervis had on his Sunday coat, and he did look so nice in it, you
can't think. I always felt proud of my husband in that coat. Not that
I didn't feel proud of him in his working clothes too; but then
I suppose I was proud of him for what he was inside; and in his Sunday
coat I was proud of him for what he was outside. A woman does like her
husband to look nice, you know, and I'm pretty sure a husband likes
his wife to look nice. And though one may say folks don't love each
other for their looks, yet it is wonderful what a lot of difference
looks make in one's feelings. Anyhow, I know I liked to see Jervis
in his Sunday coat; and I know he liked to see me in my Sunday bonnet,
which was quiet but pretty. He wasn't too busy that very morning
to tell me how nice I looked in it. And I was proud, of course;
why shouldn't I be? What's the woman made of, I wonder, who doesn't
like her husband to tell her she looks nice?

We had to wait a while on the platform, because the train was late;
and Rosie and Bessie each held one of his hands, and Louey kept watch
over the lunch-basket, and Miles never left my side. That was always
the way. Louey had always been a quiet sort of independent child; and
the two little girls, but most of all our pretty Bessie, were my
husband's great pets; and Miles would do anything for me. If we had
any favourites among the children, I suppose Bessie was her father's
favourite, and Miles was mine; yet it isn't fair to talk of
favourites, when we loved them all so dearly. Miles was fourteen
and Louey twelve, and Rosie and Bessie were nine and seven. Nobody
could call Louey or Rosie pretty, but little Bessie was lovely.

Miles had just done with his schooling, and Jervis hoped soon to get
him into the building trade. The worst of the matter was, that Miles
didn't care to be a builder. He was a quiet boy, fond of books, and
fond of writing; and he'd always had a hankering after something
different. But Jervis said that was nonsense, and of course the boy
must do as he had done. So there was just a little difficulty between
the two, and I suppose that was why Miles turned more than ever to me.
He knew I felt with him always, whether or no I could help him.

Miles had such a pleasant face. I don't think it was only because I
was his mother that I thought so. He wasn't handsome, and handsomeness
don't matter much, but he had such a bright look, and he was so true,
and he never was rude or rough; and if a gentleman or lady spoke to
him, his cap was off in a moment. To be sure, I'd been particular
about my boy's manners, which is more than some mothers can say, and
he's thanked me for it since. I've never had no notion of letting my
children grow up like a set of young bears, without a thought of how
to behave themselves.

The train came puffing up, and we all got into a third-class
compartment, where nobody else was. The children were delighted,
because they could move about and chatter without disturbing folks.
Presently Miles said to me,—"That's the life I should like, mother,"
as we passed a farm house, standing all by itself in the country.

"Perhaps you wouldn't if you tried it," said I; for I knew there
wasn't a chance of any such life for him.

"I should, though," said he. "I know what I like."

Then Bessie asked her father, "Is Ermespoint a very pretty place?"
I suppose the children had asked this question a hundred times, but
Jervis never grew tired of answering it.

"It's the prettiest place I ever saw," said he. "There's high cliffs,
you know, and a sandy beach; and rocks here and there; and beautiful
waves rolling in. I've only been once, but I did say then, if I could
choose a home for myself, I'd choose to be there. Likely as not,
if that came about, we'd be wishing ourselves back at Littleburgh."

I wondered if he'd heard Miles and me the minute before.

The train was a slow one, and it stopped at all the stations. When we
had gone by a good many we came to a biggish town, and there we waited
longer than usual. My husband got out to stretch his legs, and we all
thought somebody was sure to get in. The children didn't want this,
for they knew I wouldn't let them chatter and move about, if it would
be a bother to other people. I've no notion of letting my children be
a plague and trouble, so that everybody must dislike them. I mean
I hadn't in the days when they were children.

Up till just the last moment nobody came; and when the bell was rung,
and the guard was slamming the doors, we thought we were safe. But
just at that moment a young gentleman came rushing along the platform,
full speed, with a porter after him, carrying a bag. "Anywhere!
third-class will do," says he; and the porter opened our door, and he
came in with a leap, just as the whistle sounded, and the train began
to move; and Jervis helped to pull in the bag.

So we weren't alone any longer, and I can remember how disappointed
the children looked, and how quiet they got, all of a sudden.

Nobody spoke at all at first, except that the young gentleman said
"Thanks" to my husband. I think that was all he could say, for he
seemed to have had a desperately hard run, and he just sat panting
for breath.

It comes back to me how he looked that day—the first time I ever set
eyes on him; little thinking he and we should have so much to do with
one another. He didn't seem older than Miles, though he really was
near two years older; and he had the brightest blue eyes, all ready
for a laugh, even when he could hardly draw his breath. A lot of
curly light hair peeped out from under his cap, and there was a colour
in his cheeks that I shouldn't have liked to see in my children's
cheeks—such a bright pink patch, and all round his lips as white as a
tablecloth, with the run and the breathlessness. I wondered if his
mother felt anxious about him. The panting lasted longer than it ought
to have done, though he tried to hide it; and I could see that he
didn't like to be noticed.

Presently he seemed better, and I saw him looking at the children, and
they at him. Then he fixed his eyes on Bessie, and tried to get her
to smile. She always had a smile ready, so he got what he wanted;
and then she turned shy, and hid her face on Jervis' shoulder.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?" says the young gentleman.

"She isn't used to strangers, sir," said my husband.

"Then we won't be strangers," said he. "Look here!"—and he pulled
a toy out of his pocket, a thing with legs, and when a string was
pulled it whirled round, and the legs flew out like mad. He made
Bessie pull the string, and soon she was laughing, and as pleased
as anything. "You'd like to have it for your own, wouldn't you?"
said he. "I meant to take it to my little sister, but I'll get
something else for her, and you shall have this." Then he put the toy
into Bessie's hand, and he looked up at Jervis in that frank easy way
of his, and asked,—"Where are you all going?"

"Just for a day's pleasuring, sir, on the shore at Ermespoint,"
says my husband.

"Ermespoint! Why, that's my home,—only I haven't been there yet,"
says he.

He should call a place his home when he had not seen it; and I suppose
we looked puzzled, for he went on to explain. His father was just made
Rector there, and the family had gone down a week or two before; but
the young gentleman himself had been staying with friends for the
first few days of his holidays. So now he was on his way to "make
acquaintance" with his new home.

"My father's name is Kingscote," says he—"The Rev. Philip Kingscote.
And if you're down on the beach, I dare say I shall find you out
by-and-by. I always go to the shore, one of the first things, when I
am near the sea. Won't it be jolly to live there always?" says he.



CHAPTER II.

ON THE WAY.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY—(continued).

IT was funny how we seemed to get to know Master Bertram in the next
hour. I can't help calling him "Master Bertram," though we did not
know his name then. He talked away to the children, and gave them
chocolate drops till I thought he'd make them ill; and then he talked
to my husband, and he tried to make Miles talk too, but Miles was too
shy. By-and-by I saw the white look come back round his mouth, and he
didn't say anything, but just moved off into the corner, and went
sound asleep with his head against the window.

When he woke up he was all fun and talk again, and he pulled out a bag
of cakes and buns, and would have us share with him all round. I told
him we'd got buns, but he said that didn't matter. "You'll want them
all, down on the shore," says he; "and you don't think I can eat all
these, do you?" said he. I couldn't help noticing that he ate hardly
any, and he kept picking out the nicest cakes and offering them to
little Bessie, who I could see took his fancy—she was so pretty and
so sweet. But presently, in the very middle of a joke, he stopped and
said—"Oh dear!" and dropped his head down on his hands.

"You're not well, sir," I said; and he got up a laugh, and said,—"Oh,
only a little;" and then he got whiter and whiter, and couldn't hold
himself up. So I just saw to him as if he'd been one of my own. I made
him lie on the seat, and asked Jervis for some water, which we'd
brought with us in case the children should be thirsty. Then I wetted
his forehead, and after a minute he gave a sort of gasp, and opened
his eyes, and laughed. If I hadn't kept him back he would have started
up.

"Don't move yet, sir, please," I said. "It'll make you bad again."

"So very stupid of me," said he. "Thanks—you're so good. It was only
that run, you know."

"I'm afraid you're ill, sir," I said.

"Ill! no!" says he. "I was ill in the winter, but that's ages ago.
I'm all right now."

"Maybe the sea 'll make you stronger, sir," says I.

"Oh, I'm all right enough," said he again; and then he shut his eyes,
and lay still, which didn't seem of a piece with his words.

"What a kind creature you are!" says he, all of a sudden; and he spoke
quite brisk, and a streak of colour had come to his cheeks. "It's too
bad, though, to bother you like this. I can get up now;" and he was up
before I could stop him; but the streak of colour died away in a
moment, and he just dropped back again, and I heard him say—
to himself, like—"Oh dear, I do feel bad!"

After that I wouldn't let him stir nor talk, and I kept wetting
a clean pocket-handkerchief and laying it on his forehead. He let me
do as I liked; and presently he went off sound again, and slept like
a top for ever so long. And when he woke up he did look better.

"There! I'm all right," said he, just as he had said before. "How
stupid I've been!" And he sat up, and looked me in the face, smiling,
with such a pleasant look. "You are a good kind creature!" said he.
"What makes you so good to me, I wonder? You're exactly like our dear
old nurse—only she's three times as old as you are, you know."
I wondered if he meant that really; for three times thirty-six would
make her a very uncommon age; but I thought perhaps he was joking.

Very soon after that we got to Ermespoint; and Master Bertram jumped
out first, in such a hurry that I only wondered he didn't tumble down.
He was rushing across the platform, but he stopped short, and came
back, to lift down little Bessie. "Here, porter, bring my bag," said
he; and then he rushed off again, and I saw a young lady, rather
bigger than my Louey, kissing him, and he kissing a lady. I could hear
his voice too, saying—"The nicest woman, mother, you ever saw!—and the
very jolliest little girl!"—and they all three came across to us, and
the lady thanked me so prettily for my "kind care" of "her boy,"
as she was pleased to call it. And Master Bertram said—"I shall find
you all out on the shore by-and-by. Mind you don't go out of reach."

"After lunch," the lady said. "He must rest a little first,"—though
nobody could have guessed from his merry face how bad he'd been
an hour before.

What we had to do was to make our way down to the beach, and that was
easy enough, Ermespoint being but a small place. We soon got to the
Parade, where two or three donkeys stood about, and one little
goat-carriage. The first thing my husband couldn't resist was to give
Rosie and Bessie a ride in the goat-carriage. I did think the shilling
might have been better used: and yet it was such a pleasure to them
both! I've always been glad since to think our little Bessie had that
ride.

[Illustration: My husband and I enjoyed it all.]

So for an hour we walked or sat about on the Parade, while the
children were driven up and down; and after that we went on the sands.
Louey made a collection of sea-weed; and the two youngest hunted for
shells; and Miles scrambled about on the low rocks; and my husband
and I enjoyed it all—the quiet and the breeze, and the sunshine, and
our children's delight, and the tiny waves which kept rolling in and
breaking. Not big waves, like those Jervis had talked of; but then,
as he said, big waves don't come without a big wind to make them;
and that wouldn't have been half so nice for a long day on the shore.

The day didn't seem long; at least the morning did not. It was
wonderful how the hours slipped by, and how happy we were! Nobody came
near us; and I couldn't help thinking how much nicer such a day was,
than to go out from home when everybody goes, and when every place
is crowded, so one can't find a quiet corner anywhere.

Between twelve and one we had our dinner, and right glad we were
of it. The children were just ravenous. After our meal it was nice
to sit quiet for awhile. Jervis told stories to the little ones;
and Louey arranged her seaweeds; and Miles kicked his heels about,
lying on his back to stare up at the sky. All at once I heard a merry
voice close behind, saying—"So here you all are!" and when I got up
in a hurry, and turned about, there was Master Kingscote, and two
young ladies with him—Miss Ellen Kingscote, who was two years older
than Louey, and little Miss Rosamund, who was just the same age as our
Bessie, and a sweet little lady too, though to my thinking there never
was so pretty a child as my poor little Bessie.

"Isn't she jolly, Ros?" said Master Bertram pointing at Bessie. "And
I've told my father and mother all about you," said he to me; "and
you're all to come to tea in our house at five o'clock. You'll have
the big basement-room." Ah! how little he thought, as he said the
words, what way we should have the use of that basement-room! "You'll
come; won't you?" said he, with that smile of his, which was like
nobody's I'd ever seen before.

Well, I thanked him, and I asked him to thank Mr. and Mrs. Kingscote,
and I said I was afraid it would be a trouble, more especial as they
were just settling into a new house: but to that he wouldn't listen.
Then I asked how he was, and he said, "Oh, I'm all right!" and I saw
Miss Kingscote gave a little shake to her head, as if she didn't
think so, no more than me.

Then Master Bertram asked us what we'd done, and where we'd been;
and he said we must come along with him to see the very prettiest part
of all, under the west cliff. "I've not been there yet," said he;
"but everybody talks about that bit of beach, and I'm going now with
my sisters. So you'd better all come along too. Now, Ros, you've got
to act showman," said he to the little one, who kept holding on to his
hand, and looking up in his face, as if she did love him so. She was
like him, with blue eyes and a bright colour; and her hair was short
and curly.

"The tide's going out now, so we can walk round under the cliffs,
into the cove beyond," said he. "When the tide's high, you can't go
that way. You see I know all about it," said he, laughing; and he kept
running ahead, to jump from one rock to another, or to make his little
sister jump. I couldn't help seeing, though, how quick he lost his
breath, and how his colour came and went, and how often he seemed
to stop, just to pant quietly, not making any fuss, and trying to
hide it.

"I wouldn't go so fast, sir, if I was you," I said.

"Wouldn't you?" said he; and then he asked Miles, "Do you know what
it is makes the tides come in and go out?"

"No, sir, I don't," said Miles. I could see Miles was wonderfully
taken with the young gentleman, though he was too shy to say much.

"It's the moon," said Master Bertram; and I made sure he was joking;
but he wasn't. "I'm not talking nonsense," said he. "It really is the
moon and the sun; but most of all the moon. I'll tell you more—
some day!" And I knew he hadn't breath to say much, walking over the
shingles and the wet sand; and I wondered if we should ever see him
again after that day.

We got to the cove at last, with great high cliffs rising up behind;
and it was pretty, there's no denying. I think I noticed directly how
the waves seemed to have eaten into the rock down below, digging out
a hollow all along, so that the cliffs hung right over. But nobody
thought of danger. It wasn't likely we should, being new to the place;
and Master Bertram was as new to it as we were, and his sisters had
been only there a few days. There were no danger-notices up, as there
ought to have been. We heard later that there had been boards, warning
people, till a year or two back; but they had been taken away, nobody
could say why; and though one or two gentlemen had spoken out, and
said how wrong it was, nothing had been done.

So we all went close up under the cliffs, never dreaming of danger;
and if we'd all sat down and stayed there, nobody knows how many
mightn't have been killed on the spot. But presently we scattered
about. Master Bertram was amusing Bessie. He seemed to have taken such
a fancy to her; and the dear little thing did look so pretty and
smiling, while he built her a house of pebbles, and then wound a big
ribbon of sea-weed round her hat. He said she was to take it home
with her—little thinking! But none of us knew what was coming.

Presently Master Bertram left Bessie with my husband near the cliffs,
and he strolled down the beach half-way to the sea, and got into
a talk with Miles, which pleased me; while Jervis sat on a small rock,
with Bessie on his knee, not following Master Bertram. Miss Ellie and
Miss Rosamund were down near the water, with my Rosie; and I was just
going to them, fearing Rosie might be a trouble. And Louey stood
alone, not far from me.

I suppose she was the only one free to look-out; for all the rest
except me were talking and busy; and I was thinking about Rosie.
Louey always had been uncommon sharp to notice things: though she
wasn't given to talk. She was not far from me, and about even on the
beach with Master Bertram and Miles; and she had her face turned
towards the cliff, looking up—watching the sea-gulls, she said after.

All at once, such a shriek came from her. I'd never heard my quiet
Louey shriek before. I could not hear what she said; but others told
me later that it was something about the cliff tumbling. I only knew
the shriek meant something dreadful; and my head went round, for I
didn't know where the danger was, nor who needed help, nor where
I ought to turn. I saw Louey begin to rush down the beach, towards the
sea; and I saw Master Bertram start off the other way towards
my husband and Bessie. And I don't rightly know what happened next;
only it seemed as if the whole top of the cliff was coming down in a
great crash, and as if everybody must be killed.



CHAPTER III.

HOW IT ALL HAPPENED.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY—(continued).

THEY say it's a common thing enough—cliffs getting worn away
underneath by the washing of the sea, and then hanging right over
above, so that great pieces must break off and tumble down now and
again. And they told us—afterward, you know—that heavy falls had taken
place in this very cove, only not for a good while; and that everybody
living in Ermespoint knew it to be dangerous. It did seem so cruelly
wrong that not one word of warning should be put up for strangers,
to keep them from walking into such a trap. But of course nobody could
blame Master Bertram for taking us there, because he was just as new
to the place as ourselves and knew no more about how things were.

Such a quantity of rock had never been known to fall before as came
down that day. As I've said, it looked like the cliff giving way,
though it only was a part from above. A great shower of sand and earth
came with the rock, and big blocks rolled and bounded down the beach,
which meant danger to us all.

But the worst was to know that underneath that pile lay my husband and
little Bessie.

It was for their sake that Master Bertram started off to rush to the
cliff, the moment he heard Louey shriek: and most likely he'd have met
his death, only Miles saw in a moment he could do no good, and sprang
and seized hold of him to stop him. In the moment's struggle,
I suppose, or somehow, Master Bertram fell; and a great block of stone
came bounding towards them both, as the top of the cliff crashed down;
and Miles didn't rush off, only to save himself, as so many would have
done. He gripped Master Bertram quick as lightning, and gave him
a great drag to one side. You see, Miles was a strong lad, and Master
Bertram was thin and light. And he was just in time—for the block
rolled and dashed past over where Master Bertram had been, and close
to them both, and it was big enough to have killed a man outright.
So my Miles saved the life of Master Bertram at the risk of his own.
I think it's not every boy of fourteen who'd have done so much,
nor been so sharp.

I'm telling this because it happened then, and others saw it beside
the boys themselves; not because I saw it. I couldn't see aught
at first, except that great pile of fallen rocks, where my husband
and Bessie had been. I didn't notice Louey go down near me; and though
a sharp bit of rock struck me, I didn't so much as feel it.

A lot of people came hurrying up—sailors and other men I hadn't seen
to be near, but yet they must have been. The children were made to
move away to a distance as fast as possible; but I couldn't stop
to think of them, for I was wild to know about Jervis and Bessie.
They say I spoke pretty quiet, only I didn't feel myself to be quiet.
The next thing was, I found Miles close by me, and he was saying,
"They'll get 'em out, mother, and I am going to help."

I couldn't bear Miles to go near, for I thought there'd surely be
another fall of the cliff; and I tried to hold him back, but it was
no use. A lot of men were hard at work, and Master Bertram was with
them; and they had need of courage, for nobody could say if any moment
they mightn't be buried too. But still they kept on, as brave as could
be, clearing away the rock and the rubbish, hoping that it mightn't be
too late.

Somebody tried to make me go farther off, and I wouldn't be made,
not even when a policeman came and ordered me back. I just gazed
in his face, and stayed where I was. "Want me to go, when my husband
and child are there!" said I. And he looked pitying, and said no more:
and maybe I was wrong, but how could I help it?

The time seemed so slow, I didn't know how to bear myself. Sometimes
everything turned black, and I couldn't have told where I was,
nor what had come to me.

It must have been just after one of those turns that I saw a man
carrying something down the beach—carrying a child, and I knew it must
be my little Bessie, though I could not properly see. I cried out
for Bessie, but somebody stepped between; and I tried to meet him,
but I could hardly walk, and he went off and away too quick; and I
asked no questions, for my husband wasn't out yet, and I had to wait
for him. The blackness came again, and the next minute somebody had
hold of my hand, and I jumped up, and cried out, "Is it Jervis?"
And then I knew from the feel of the hand, with a glove on it, that it
wasn't a man, and I saw the face of Master Bertram's mother, that I
had seen on the platform.

"Come with me," she said, and she held me, as if she meant to be
obeyed.

"But my husband and Bessie!" said I.

"Yes, they are both taken away," said she. "You must come home
with me now."

She led me, for I couldn't see rightly, and I kept stumbling over the
pebbles: but she held me up, and somebody helped me on the other side,
and not a word was said. I couldn't speak either for a time, I felt
so strange: and then I had a pain in my left shoulder, and I suppose
I put my hand there, for the lady said, "Does it hurt much?"

[Illustration: I cried out for Bessie, but somebody stepped between.]


I think I looked at her, wondering how she knew, for she said,—
"A piece of rock has struck you, and I am afraid you are badly
bruised."

I hadn't felt it before, but the pain got worse, till I didn't know
how to walk. The rock must have been jagged, for it had torn my dress.

Then all of a sudden we were at the Rectory. I didn't dare to ask any
questions, and I was sick with the pain: so Mrs. Kingscote made me sit
down, and she loosened my dress and bathed the shoulder; and my arm
below the shoulder was all swelled up. And then she made me drink
something hot; I couldn't say what it was. After that I must have
turned sleepy or stupid, I don't know which, nor for how long;
for when I woke up wide in a fright, and longing to know more,
it would be a good hour later. Mrs. Kingscote was gone, and only Miss
Ellie sat by me, keeping watch; and I was on the sofa in the little
workroom where the Rectory maids used to sit. I couldn't think how
I'd come on the sofa, nor why I wasn't with my husband, and I sat up
in a hurry and said, "Oh, I must go!"

"Wait, please, till my mother comes. Just one moment," said Miss
Ellie.

"I can't wait," said I, all in a fever.

"But you don't know where anybody is," said she. "Wait just one
moment;" and hardly was she out of sight before Mrs. Kingscote
came in.

"Are you a little better now?" said she, and she sat down by me.

I couldn't answer, for it didn't seem to matter how I was. I wanted
to hear about them, you know. I just looked at her hard, and I
said—"Then they're killed!"

Mrs. Kingscote's blue eyes, which are every bit like Master
Bertram's,—were, I ought to say, for eyes alter as people grow older—
her eyes filled up with tears, and her soft hands took tight hold
of mine, as if she did want to comfort me.

"Only—one," said she.

I think I cried out sharp at this, and I said, "Oh, not Jervis! Not my
little Bessie!"

She didn't speak again directly, but one big tear after another came
dropping fast, and her eyes kept filling up and filling up, and her
hands wouldn't let mine go.

"Not Jervis!" I said again, and before I could go on she said—

"No, not your husband."

"Then—Bessie," said I; and I began to shake, like as if I had got
the palsy.

"Think," said she, and she spoke soft—"think how much happier it is
for your little Bessie there—there, in sweet Paradise with our Lord!
Try to think of that most. Bessie will never have any more trouble
to bear. She is safe for ever and ever in His keeping. Isn't that
wonderful?" said she; and it did seem so. Her words took hold of me.
"And by-and-by you will meet again, won't you?" said she. "It isn't
very long to wait. Only a few years, and soon you will be able to feel
glad, though I know how hard it is, for I have two little ones there."

Then there came up the thought of my Bessie's sweet look and loving
ways, and how our home wouldn't be like home without her, and I did
feel as if I couldn't bear it.

"I want to go to her," I said, and my voice sounded strange, like
somebody else speaking. "I want to see her, please. Where is Bessie?"

"In Paradise, with our dear Lord," said she. "She has gone there just
a little while before you."

But I wanted the little body that I loved; the little face and hands
that had so often kissed and held and clung to me! And when I would
not be persuaded, she took me into the big basement-room, where we
were all to have had our tea together that afternoon. Little we'd
thought of the use that room was to be put to.

There my little angel was, looking as if she was asleep, only so cold
and pale. There was a great dented blow on one side of her forehead,
where a cruel rock had struck and slain her. Only it had come so
sudden, she had had no time to feel fear or pain, and the little lips
were smiling still.

They had dressed her in a frilled nightgown of Miss Rosamund's, and
had laid her on a small mattress, her little hands outside the sheet;
and somebody had scattered a lot of white flowers all over and around
her, and a white rosebud was in her fingers.

"You see, she did not suffer. It was all in a moment," said Mrs.
Kingscote. While I stood looking, she stooped down to kiss the little
thing, and I have always loved her since for that. It seemed to
comfort me, and it made me able to cry; and the dear lady cried
with me.

"It isn't for very long, you know," she said again. "Only a few years.
And they will take such care of your little darling in Paradise.
For our Lord Himself is there,—and the holy angels,—and so many who
have gone away from earth. They are all full of love and kindness
in Paradise, and she will not be lonely. And by-and-by she will be
so glad when you go too."

I wondered if she thought I was sure to go, and why she should
think it. But I could not speak nor ask questions. I could only cry
and let her comfort me.

By-and-by I thought again of Jervis and my other children; and then
she led me back to the workroom.

"Miles and Rosie are not hurt at all," she said. "And Louey will soon
be better, I hope." She seemed to know all the names quite well "Miles
was so good and brave—he saved my boy's life. We shall never never
forget that."

She went on to tell me about my husband's state, breaking it gently.
It seems that just before the fall of the cliff, Bessie had got off my
husband's knee, and gone a few yards out from the cliff—not far enough
to save her life; and yet it might have been, but for that one blow
on the head, for she was covered over chiefly with earth and sand,
and wasn't much hurt in any other part. My husband hadn't moved;
and he was terribly crushed by the fall of the rock, though just
so far sheltered by the overhanging cliff as not to be buried under
the heaviest part; and so he was not killed. But it couldn't be known
yet whether he would recover. He had not opened his eyes, nor made
any sound, nor given any sign of sense, since first he was found.

Near the Rectory was a tiny little house, hardly bigger than a
cottage, where a nice woman lived, named Mrs. Coles. She was the very
same that Master Bertram meant when he talked of "Old Nurse;" though I
never could see what he meant by saying she and I were alike. She'd
been years in service to Mr. Kingscote's mother, and had had the care
of him all through his childhood; and when Mr. and Mrs. Kingscote came
to live at Ermespoint, nothing would content them but finding a home
for Mrs. Coles there too. She'd been settled in near a month; and
she'd got three little rooms which she was to let as lodgings
to somebody or other, only she hadn't found any lodgers yet. So, by
Mr. Kingscote's order, Jervis and Louey had been taken straight
to her, Mr. Kingscote knowing she'd do well for them both. Mrs. Coles
was a good nurse, and had had a deal of experience; and though she was
getting oldish, she had plenty of work in her still.

Miles was gone with his father, and Rosie was in the Rectory nursery.

It did seem to me I'd ought to have been with Jervis all this while;
but Mrs. Kingscote told me I was too ill at the first. She said
I should go now as soon as I liked, only I must have some tea first;
and she didn't think my shoulder would let me do much for a day or
two. Which seemed likely enough, for when I moved the pain turned me
sick, though the doctor had seen me and said there wasn't any bones
broken.

While I drank my tea Mrs. Kingscote sat and talked with me, as kind
as could be. Going back to Littleburgh couldn't of course be thought
of yet, she said. Jervis couldn't be moved, and I shouldn't wish
to leave him. If I liked, her husband would write for me to Jervis'
employers.

Those weren't such days for clubs as these; but my husband belonged
to a "Benefit" Society, and I knew we should have fifteen shillings
or so coming in weekly while he was disabled—at least for a certain
time. Still, I didn't see how we were to get along; and the lady
seemed to understand my thought. "We shall help you," she said, "and I
think we can find some work for your boy. We will look after you all,"
said she, "just as you looked after my boy when he needed it. I don't
forget that!—or Miles saving his life!" and her eyes filled up again.
"Don't you see, it seems as if you and we were bound together?" And I
couldn't but thank her, and say how good she was to talk so. I won't
say I wasn't proud of Miles in all my sorrow.

"There's just one thing more, Mrs. Murchison," said she. "I want you
to say a kind word to my poor boy before you go. It's asking a great
deal, just now when you are so tried, but he is almost heart-broken,
because it was he who led you all under the cliffs, and he seems
to feel as if in a way it lay at his door. But he had no idea of the
danger. If he had, he wouldn't have taken his own sisters, you know."

"Nobody could blame the young gentleman, ma'am," said I. "It was just
his kindness; and he was as ignorant as we were."

"I knew you would feel so," said she. And then she said, "It was my
boy who put all those flowers. He is so upset. You will speak to him
while I go to get my bonnet?"

As soon as she was gone Master Bertram came in, and, dear me, he was
altered. He had grown as pale!—and all the fun gone out of his eyes.
He just dragged himself in, as if he was so tired he could hardly
walk, and he stood by me, and he said, "I didn't know there was
danger, Mrs. Murchison. I'd have cut off my right arm sooner than—"

"I'm sure you would, sir," said I. "It wasn't your fault, no more
than mine."

"If you'll believe me," says he—just as if I was accusing him. "And
poor little Bessie—" says he. But he couldn't get on, and his face
went as white as paper, and he sat down and dropped it on his hands,
like he'd done in the train.

"She's better off, sir," I tried to say, though it was all I could do.

"If only I could have saved her," says he, fetching a long breath.

"I know you would, sir," said I, and the tears were running down
my cheeks. He didn't cry, but I could see his chest heaving up and
down with the struggle not to give in. "I'm afraid it's made you ill
again, sir," said I, for he did look bad.

"Oh, that's nothing," says he, sighing. "If only—Don't tell mother.
She's going with you. And if your husband—" But all at once he
couldn't stand any more. There was a sort of sound like a sob, and he
jumped up and was gone before I could say a word. Master Bertram never
was one who could bear to be seen crying; and I suppose he wouldn't
have cried, whatever he felt, if he hadn't been in a weak state of
body. It's wonderful how ashamed young gentlemen are of it's being
known they ever shed a tear. It's a sort of pride with them to seem
not to mind. Master Bertram always was such a one for carrying
everything off with a high hand, so to say; but that day he was
knocked down, and no mistake.

Then Mrs. Kingscote came in, and she didn't ask any questions,
but just set off with me for Mrs. Coles' cottage.



CHAPTER IV.

FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW.
MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY.

I HAVE persuaded my friend, Mrs. Murchison, to put down on paper
certain recollections of certain events which happened a few years
since—not easily, since she is diffident, and not aware of her own
unusual powers. But at last she yielded, and a beginning is made which
she has shown to me. My impulse, thereupon, is to fill up certain gaps
in her story; adding particulars, for my own pleasure, which she has
omitted.

"Friend," I call her; and why not? Though we occupy different
positions in life, that need be no bar to friendship. Somebody has
defined friendship to be "a strong and habitual inclination in two
people to promote the good of one another"—an inclination springing,
of course, from mutual love. Well, I love Mrs. Murchison, and Mrs.
Murchison loves me; I would do aught I could for the good of
Mrs. Murchison, and she would do aught she could for my good.
Moreover, I trust Mrs. Murchison, and Mrs. Murchison trusts me.
I understand Mrs. Murchison, and Mrs. Murchison understands me.
What does all this mean, if not friendship?

It is a true and tried friendship also; not an affair of last week.
Years have passed, and many things have happened since the day when
Mrs. Murchison, with her husband and children, came down for a few
hours from Littleburgh to Ermespoint, fully intending to return the
same evening. How powerless we are to carry out our intentions, unless
God wills that we should! How seldom, as we go through life, have we
the least idea of what lies ahead! A precipice may be just three steps
in advance, yet we often do not see it until we are on the brink. All
this would be very terrible, if we did not know that our steps are
guided and guarded by a Father's Hand. If He conducts to the
precipice-edge, then all is well. Nay, even if He bids us plunge over—
to death—what is it but a swift and sure passage Home? I mean, with
those who know and love and obey Him.



We had not been long at Ermespoint, and the house was still in
confusion. My boy, Bertram, was expected home that day; and Ellie
and I went to meet him at the station. He was just sixteen, and very
delicate, from the effects of a severe illness some months earlier.
He came rushing to us, out of the train, full of spirit as usual, and
poured out a hurried jumble about having been "taken rather" on the
way, and somebody having been "so good" to him.

It was difficult to make out exactly what he meant; but I followed him
across the platform to the little group of excursionists.

"You've got to thank her, mother," Bertram whispered energetically.

The picture comes back to me now, as I recall that day. A strong
broad-built working-man, respectful and respectable, in his Sunday
suit, holding by the hand one of the prettiest little children I have
ever seen—poor tiny Bessie! She had the sweetest face, so shy and
smiling. Two other children and a biggish boy were there; but after
Bessie, I noticed chiefly the mother. She was young-looking still,
though over thirty-five in age; and remarkable for her extreme
neatness and sobriety of dress, together with a gentle placid
anxious face—placid and anxious together. That was curious. A rather
thin face, but not too thin, not long or bony; with high cheek-bones,
and deep-set tender wistful eyes; while the mouth was quiet, yet
disposed to be tremulous. Something about Mrs. Murchison won my trust
and my liking on the spot.

Only a few words were exchanged between us then; but Bertram said he
would find them later on the shore; and he gave me no peace till I
promised to have the whole family in to tea in the basement-room.
We were still so busy, unpacking and arranging, and the house was in
so much confusion, that I confess I did hesitate for a few minutes.
It seemed to me that the maids had enough to do. However, I knew they
never minded anything if it were for Bertram,—he was always such a
favourite,—and I gave way, though only on condition that he would stay
quietly indoors till after lunch.

Then he went out with Ellie and Rosamund; and what follows Mrs.
Murchison has to a great extent told—better, I am sure, than I could,
for she has an extraordinary memory for conversations. I could not
repeat one tenth part of what I said to her that sorrowful day; but
she says it is all correct. Sometimes I tell her she makes up out of
her own head; and then she smiles and shakes the said head, and
answers only, "You know better, ma'am." So I do: she is true to the
backbone, and her memory is as true as herself.

We had been so short a time in Ermespoint, and so busy while there,
as to have had little leisure yet for learning much about it. Ellie
and Rose had been down to the beach several times, but only near
at hand—except just once, the day before, when old nurse and they went
along the shore under the west cliff; and they came back full of the
beauty of the place. My husband took a stroll the same way in the
evening; and he spoke, on his return, of the remarkable overhanging of
the cliffs. But still he had no thought of danger. No warning-boards
were up; and it seemed inconceivable that people should be quietly
left to run into such peril, without a word being said to hinder them.

We did not know till later that warning-boards had once been up, and
had been removed,—nobody could precisely say by whom or for what
reason. No doubt it was for the interest of certain bathing-machine
owners, that people should not be frightened away; yet if that were
all—! One finds it difficult to believe in such selfishness—such
recklessness of human life!

However—so things were, and remonstrances had been made by one or two
gentlemen living at Ermespoint without avail. My husband's predecessor
tried to rouse people to a sense of the danger; but nobody would
listen, or at least nobody cared to act. I suppose it was hopeless,
until somebody's life should be forfeited, and poor little Bessie was
the victim. It might have been all the Murchisons, and all my
children, if the landslip had come just half-an-hour earlier, when the
whole party were close up under the cliff.

I never can look back to that day without a shudder; thinking how
Philip and I might have been left childless. We had lost two little
ones already; and if the three others had been taken—But mercifully
we were spared!

I don't know how I told Mrs. Murchison of little Bessie's death.
It was one of the most terrible things I have ever had to do. She
seems to remember all I said, but I do not. I only remember her look,—
the sad despairing certainty that one was gone; the longing and the
dread to know which; the bitterness of that sorrowful cry,—"Oh, not
Jervis! Oh, not my Bessie!"—then the strange quiet with which she
listened to my poor attempts to comfort; and the patient begging to go
to her child. Perhaps that did her good! the little one looked so
unutterably sweet.

And then she was enough herself to be able to try and comfort my poor
broken-down Bertram. The boy had been in such an agony, blaming
himself for taking them all to that part of the beach, talking as
if the little one's death lay at his door. I sent him to her when I
was not in the room; but he was gone again before I returned.

Nurse Coles' new little home was very near; not a hundred yards from
our garden gate. If it had been more, Mrs. Murchison could hardly have
walked so far.

We had had Nurse Coles near us for years, ever since she had been out
of a place, and we thought then that she would remain near us always.
She was devoted to my husband, and to all of us; a good faithful
servant of the old type. She belonged to us, and we to her;
her interests were ours, and ours were hers.

My husband was on the beach almost immediately after the fall of rock
took place: for the news spread like wildfire, and he happened to be
passing near. He thought of Nurse Coles' rooms the first thing, and
when Murchison and little Bessie were dug out, he had poor Murchison
taken at once to Mrs. Coles, as well as Louey; while I think it was
my thought to have little Bessie's body brought to our basement-room.
But everything at first seemed in such a strange confusion.

Murchison was still unconscious when we reached the cottage, and the
doctor was only just gone, and Nurse Coles was tending him.

"It was a bad case," she whispered to me; "the poor fellow was so
frightfully crushed and hurt all over; two ribs and one arm broken,
and both head and back injured—nobody could say how much."

"Is there any hope for him?" Mrs. Murchison asked; and I saw that
she had overheard every word.

Nurse Coles shook her head dubiously.

"The doctor didn't say. She didn't suppose he could tell yet. It was a
bad case, any how, and they'd got a long bout of nursing before them."



CHAPTER V.

RESULTS.
MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY—(continued).

IT was only under the first shock of the accident that Bertram was so
entirely overcome as to show fully what he felt. I hardly knew what to
do with the boy; he was so overpowered with remorse, for having
unwittingly guided the poor Murchisons into danger. Yet nobody could
justly blame him. The little talk with Mrs. Murchison, from which
I had hoped so much, seemed rather to add to his distress. Her look
of patient sorrow impressed him, I suppose, as it had impressed me.

When I reached home, after leaving her with her husband at Mrs.
Coles', Ellie told me that she had seen nothing of Bertram meanwhile.
He had gone straight to his room, she said, and had not since come
out. "And I thought he mightn't like me to go to him," she added.

No; he would not like that, if he were overcome, I knew well. In a
general way he could not endure that even I, his mother, should see
him shed a tear. He had always such a spirit of his own. So I told
Ellie she was right; and I went upstairs, not without hesitation.

But the door was not locked; and when I tapped, he at once said,
"Come in." I found him on the bed, pale and restless, tossing to and
fro, the picture of misery.

"I'm only seedy. It's nothing, mother," he said, with a husky attempt
at a laugh. "Just a little—like what I was in the train."

"Poor Bertie!" I said.

"Oh, it's nothing—only stupidity," he declared again. "I shall be all
right by-and-by,"—and then he could hardly get out the question—"How
are they?"

"Louey is better," I said. "Murchison much the same. Not conscious
yet. I fear he may not be—perhaps for some days. And Mrs. Murchison—"

I suppose my voice expressed the pity I was feeling; for Bertram
turned his face away, and buried it in the pillow. I could see him
shaking with the sobs that he would smother down; but I knew I must
not make him give way. He would not like afterward to remember that he
had done so: and presently he looked at me again, outwardly composed,
only much flushed.

"Mother, why do such things happen?" he burst out.

My sunny-tempered boy had never asked this question before. He had
always had a happy spirit, and a happy home; and I do not think bodily
suffering on his own part would ever have drawn it from him; though he
had known, off and on, much ill-health. But so far he had seen little
of sorrow; he had not been brought face to face with the great
realities of life and death—the great underlying mysteries of our
present existence. I knew what it meant, when he broke into that
passionate question, "Why do such things happen?" and I answered him
slowly—

"I don't know, altogether, Bertie. Some reasons are beyond our reach.
But it is partly because men are selfish and thoughtless. If proper
warning had been given, nobody need have been hurt."

"If we had known," he said.

"But others did know; and they are responsible."

"I wouldn't be they!" he muttered. "It's bad enough as it is."

I tried to make him see that, while he could not but feel distressed,
no real responsibility attached itself to him. As a complete stranger
to the place, he could not possibly have known or guessed the danger.
Even my husband, after one walk under the cliffs, had not thought
of forbidding the children to go there. He had only noticed as curious
the remarkable overhanging of the rock. I suppose, if Philip had been
a scientific man, he would have read more clearly the state of things;
but then he never was scientific. Whatever there is in Bertram of a
scientific tendency, he inherits from my family, not from his
father's. But I am wandering from the point.

I did my best to make poor Bertie see this,—how completely he was
himself free from blame in the matter; how entirely blame belonged
to those who did know of the danger, and who omitted to warn
others off.

"You mean that poor little Bessie was killed, because they didn't
care?" he said.

"Yes, I mean that," I said, "for one side of the question. Only one
side. There is another!"

He asked listlessly, "What side? I don't see it."

"Perhaps our Lord wanted little Bessie in Paradise," I said softly.
"And perhaps it was better for her not to be left longer on earth."

"I don't see why," he murmured.

"No need that we should see why. We have not the settling of it,"
I said. "We know so little about the real reasons of things; or about
the future of those we love. It is enough to trust the love and wisdom
of our God. Even though some are to be blamed for her death, it may
still be the very best and happiest thing for her to have been called
Home so early."

"Wouldn't it be best for everybody, if you look at it in that way,
mother?"

"No," I said; "certainly not. Not even though it is 'far better' to be
'with Christ,' and though Paradise is far better than earth. God has
work for most of us here, and it is not good for us to go until that
work is done. For some it may be that He has work there, and not
here."

All this comes back to me with the help of a few written notes jotted
down at the time. It has been a habit of mine to keep memoranda
of certain conversations,—generally with my children only. If I had
not done so, this talk, like many others, might have faded quite out
of my memory.

Bertram seemed to be a little comforted; and then I told him of a plan
for Miles,—that he should be, for a time at least, our under-gardener.

"How good of you and father! That's capital!" he said. "Miles is a
jolly boy!"

"You and we owe him much," I said.

"Yes, it was so plucky of him. I wonder we didn't both get killed,—
it was such a thundering big rock, you know," declared Bertram, oddly
trying to seem indifferent the moment he was able to master himself.
And then there was a sigh. "Doesn't it seem horrid that he should have
saved me from being hurt, and that I should have brought all this
upon them!"

So then we had to go through it all again, and I had to comfort him
afresh.

However, I think the idea of Miles working under old Nichols did him
most good, by diverting his thoughts into a new channel. He was able
soon to wonder what old Nichols would say, and to laugh at the thought
of our aged retainer's probable grumpiness.

Not that Nichols was really so old. I suppose he was under fifty-five
at that time, though anybody would have taken him for sixty-five
at least. He was stooping and slow, grey and wrinkled. He had been
a member of our household for twelve years, and of my father's
household for fifteen years before that; so Nichols was entirely
one of us, and he never hesitated to show what he thought.

The possibility of his "grumpiness" had occurred to me already.
Nichols knew that we intended to get help for him; and he was not
at all gratified, even while perfectly well aware that he could not
do all the work alone. Our Ermespoint garden was more than twice
as large as our former garden, and Nichols was becoming each year
less capable of hard work. Still, having done alone for us during
so many years, it was perhaps not surprising that he disliked the
notion of any interloper.

My husband was so busy next day that I undertook to explain to Nichols
about the new arrangement. He listened solemnly, his under lip
protruding, and his shaggy eyebrows drawn together.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, when I stopped, and he said no more.

"I am sure you will find it a great comfort in a little while,"
I said. "Miles will be here distinctly to help you, and to do whatever
you tell him. I think you will find him quick and willing."

"Can't abear boys," growled Nichols. "More trouble than they're
worth."

"Still, the work has to be done," I said, "and you cannot do it alone.
I doubt if you would care to have a man to help you, even if we could
undertake the expense."

No, indeed; Nichols would have objected to a man far more than to a
boy, and I knew this well. He mumbled something about "bother of
teaching."

Of course it would be a little bother; but then Nichols was not lazy,
and I told him so. No doubt, a boy already trained in gardening and in
the care of a pony, would be less trouble than a boy who knew almost
nothing of either. But there was the question of the Murchisons' need—
the pressing necessity that Miles should find something to do. Even if
he should, later on, go into his father's trade, which I then thought
probable, he had to do what he could for the moment to bring in
something; and he would be none the worse in the end for a short
training under Nichols. I explained all this, adding, "Besides, think
of the boy's courage in saving Master Bertram. That ought to make you
willing to take a little extra trouble."

Not even Nichols' love for our Bertram would make the old fellow
acknowledge himself in the wrong. What he had once said, that he would
stick to, with the obstinacy of an unreasoning mind. However, he
understood that, whether he were willing or no, the thing had to be.
I wondered privately how the two would get on together. Some patience
would be needed on the part of Miles, for Nichols could be surly.

During the first two or three days, matters were not as I wished.
Nichols insisted on doing everything himself; and Miles could be seen
standing about, unoccupied and rather unhappy. If he offered to do
this or that, he was sharply desired to "mind his own business." Once
I said to the boy, "Patience, Miles. It will all come right." Further
than this I would not at once interfere. Things are sometimes best
left to settle themselves.

Bertram was indoors for nearly a week after the accident, thoroughly
unwell, but no sooner was he able to go out again, than affairs took
a new aspect. If Miles were for a moment unemployed, Bertie was sure
to rush up, exclaiming, "You don't want Miles just now, I see, so he
can come and do something for me."

"I suppose he isn't here, sir, for nought but play," Nichols would
retort, immediately setting Miles to work; and very soon Miles had as
much to do as he could manage. He proved himself so apt and obliging,
that Nichols speedily learnt his value, and the two became firm
friends.

Still, I think that even then the real strength of Miles' affection
went out towards Bertram. Everybody loved Bertie, and Miles was no
exception. If Bertie wanted him, and Nichols was in a mood to make
no objection, the boy's face would gleam with delight. Bertie liked
Miles greatly; and the two boys drew together, much after the same
fashion that Mrs. Murchison and I drew together; belonging indeed
to different positions in life, yet none the less each loving and
trusting the other.

But I must speak now of poor Murchison, lying helplessly on his bed.
A few days brought him back to clear consciousness; and though his
head was weak still, from the blow it had received, improvement in
that direction was pretty steady, and the broken bones were slowly
mending. In other directions matters were less satisfactory. There was
a marked powerlessness of the lower limbs,—whether likely to be
permanent no one could or would say. Dr. Wray seemed reluctant to give
a decided opinion; yet I thought from the first that he was not very
hopeful.

Murchison had two devoted nurses—Mrs. Coles and his wife. My husband
took care that Coles should be no loser; and indeed for many weeks
we undertook nearly all the expense of rent for the lodgings. This
could not, of course, go on indefinitely. Our purse had many and heavy
calls upon it, and we were paying Miles beyond his real due, so far
as his powers of work were concerned.

Happily, the little home at Littleburgh had found a tenant, otherwise
I do not know how the Murchisons would have managed to get on, despite
our help and Miles' earnings.

For a while it seemed to me that Mrs. Murchison hardly realised how
the days were slipping by, and how slight was the improvement in her
husband's state, until one particular afternoon when the whole
appeared to come upon her sharply, like a fresh blow. I had seen her
in the morning, anxious, yet placid, able to smile and be pleased when
I told her how we all liked Miles. Later in the day I went again,
to find her alone, seemingly overwhelmed. I cannot forget the hollow
look of misery in her eyes, as she stood gazing at me.

"He will never get well, ma'am," she said quietly, with the quiet
of despair, "never! Jervis asked the doctor himself, and I was there.
The doctor didn't say just that, you know, but he meant it. He said it
would be long—long—and he bid my husband not look forward."

"No," I said, "I don't think either of you ought to look forward
too much just now. 'Day by day' must be your motto."

"But if it's to be always?" she said.

"You cannot tell that it is to be always," I answered. "Don't be sure
that you know what the doctor meant, beyond what he said."

"I couldn't help knowing, ma'am, and Jervis knows too," she said.
"Dr. Wray is a kind man. He's young, but he's uncommon kind. He said
he made no doubt my husband would get better; only he couldn't promise
he'd ever be up to hard work again. He said he wouldn't be the man
he had been. And Jervis says to him, 'Shall I be able to walk?' and
the doctor said he couldn't promise; time might do a deal, but he
couldn't promise. And when the doctor was gone, Jervis says, 'I know
what that means, Annie. I'm a cripple for life,' says he. And then he
groaned, like as if he'd break his heart, and he says, 'I'd better
have died; a deal better,' says he. And I came away, for I couldn't
stand it, ma'am. If the trouble's got to be, it's got to be borne;
but, oh, it's hard! He's been a good husband to me; God bless him!"

I don't know how much more she said, but she came to a stop suddenly,
and hid her face, rocking to and fro. I heard her whisper,
"My husband's all alone."

"I will go to him," I said; and before I went I said just a few words
of sympathy,—something about how God loved them both, and would care
for them still, and how she must try to rest her troubles on Him. Then
I passed on to the room behind.

He looked up at me, poor fellow, in his helplessness: a kind of sad
protesting look, yet braver than hers, not so crushed.

"My poor little woman is terrible upset, ma'am," he said. "The
doctor's let it out at last. Not but what I've been pretty sure."

I sat down by him, and said—

"I could wish you had not asked yet."

"Think so, ma'am? I don't know as it's any good not knowing." Then he
said, in almost his wife's words, "If a thing's got to be—"

"If God wills it for you, then you will be willing too," I said.

"Ay, that's a better way of putting it," he said. "But I won't deny
it's hard to bear. It is hard!" and his face showed what he felt.
"Me, that's always been so strong, and maybe I've thought too much
of my strength; me to come down to this, and be a burden on them
I'd ought to work for! It is hard."

"But you do not really know that it will be so always," I said.
"The doctor did not say that."

"He said he couldn't promise I'd ever be up and about again."

"No," I said, "he cannot promise that. Still, he did not say
positively that you never could or would. He only spoke doubtfully.
You must try to leave the matter as he left it. There is room
for prayer and for hope."

"And hope's a wonderful help," Murchison said, almost cheerfully.
"Yes, thank you, ma'am, I'll try to hope." Then he added, "But my poor
little woman!"

So he thought most of her in this trouble, and she thought most
of him. I could but wish that all husbands and wives were
like-spirited.



CHAPTER VI.

A STEP ONWARD.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.

AFTER once I got to Mrs. Coles' cottage that first day, I don't seem
to have but a dim memory of what came next. Looking back to those
weeks, is like looking at a lot of trees ever so far off, which all
run and mix together, so that one can't see them apart. Ever so many
things happened, but I can't rightly piece them out.

I know Louey got better soon, and was up and about again. And I know
one day my little Bessie was taken away, and laid to rest in the
Churchyard. And I know Miles began to work at the Rectory under old
Nichols, which wasn't the manner of life I'd expected for my boy, and
yet it seemed we'd no choice. And I know I had a deal of pain in my
shoulder, before I got over the blow I'd had. And I know how good and
kind Mr. and Mrs. Kingscote were, coming in and out, and giving me
a lot of help that I was ashamed to take it.

It wasn't many days before my husband's sense came back, and I know
what joy it was to be told that his head wasn't much hurt; not near
so much as we'd feared at first. I thought he'd get well fast, and
everything would soon be all right again.

Then, as time went on, it seemed odd he didn't get back strength in
his legs—for he didn't. He had no more strength in them than a baby;
no, nor near so much, for he couldn't stir either. He wasn't able
to lift his head from the pillow, for all it was grown sensible again,
and he'd little enough power in the arm that wasn't broken. It was
natural he should be weak, and I wasn't surprised; but it did surprise
me that when he began to seem better in himself, there was no manner
of change in the helplessness.

I didn't see what it meant, though Jervis did, till one day, all of
a sudden, he put the question to the doctor, whether he would ever be
able to walk again.

Dr. Wray was young still, and a kindhearted gentleman as ever I saw.
He didn't like to trouble us, that was plain. And yet he wouldn't say
what wasn't true. But I seemed to know what he meant, and Jervis
was sure.

It was like a great black cloud coming down, and shutting off all joy
in the rest of our life,—like to the blackness that came while I was
on the beach watching for my husband and child to be dug out.
I couldn't see any lightening of it, nor any hope.

Jervis to be a cripple for life! That was what seemed so terrible
to me. I didn't scarcely know how to face the thought. He'd been
always so good, and taken such care of me and the children. And now
he had to be cared for like a baby. And it would be so always!
It never could be anything else! I made up my mind to that, and it
weighed me down. Mrs. Kingscote tried to make me feel I couldn't be
sure. She said Dr. Wray hadn't said so much, which was true; and she
said nobody could tell, which was true too. Doctors know a wonderful
lot more than common folks, but they don't know everything, and they'd
be the first to say so.

I couldn't take any comfort, though. It was worse to me than losing my
little Bessie. For I could think of her as always happy and cared for;
but if Jervis was to be a helpless cripple, he'd be miserable, and I
should be miserable, and there was no knowing what would become
of us all.

I suppose there's hardly any sort of trouble that folks don't get in
a manner used to as time goes on. Even if it's a trouble that changes
everything, still one gets used to the change after a time, so as to
bear it patient; and even if it's a burden always pressing, one learns
to bear up better under the burden. Looking back, I could think it was
a very long while before I was able to fit in with this trouble, and
yet it couldn't have been so very long. The summer weather hadn't
begun to fade before I was feeling almost as if he'd been years and
years like that, and as if we'd never been used to depend on him.

And the wonderful thing was that Jervis didn't seem miserable, as I'd
thought he would be. He didn't fret, or fuss, or worry, but just lay
and looked happy. And for a good while I couldn't make it out.
A strong active man like him, struck down all at once, and made as
helpless as a baby; why, one wouldn't have been surprised if he'd
broken his heart over it, or been cross, and fractious, and
complaining. But he didn't; not he! There was never a word of
grumbling, and never a sign of fretting. And it only came to me
slowly that he wasn't so of himself, but that he was being taught
and helped, and put through what Mr. Kingscote called "a school
of patience."

It was wonderful how manly and thoughtful Miles grew, all of a sudden,
after that first day at Ermespoint. Though hardly fifteen yet, he was
growing tall and big; and I'm sure he might have been twenty, by the
way he cared for his father, and tried to save me trouble.

I won't say but what it was a grief to me that he shouldn't go into
the trade. When he had talked of wanting a country life, I had
sometimes wanted it too for him, but not anything of this sort.
I hadn't looked for my Miles to be, so to speak, in service. Yet there
didn't seem to be anything else we could do. He was earning more than
he could have earned any other way; and the boy himself said it was
right. I wondered sometimes what Jervis thought, for I had asked
no questions, not liking to worry his head while it was weak.

But one day, after many weeks, when he was getting better and stronger
every way, except that he'd little or no power yet over his legs,
he said to me—

"So Miles has his wish, after all. Are you pleased, Annie?" says he.

"No," says I; "it isn't what I'd have chosen for the boy. And you know
that," says I.

"Maybe the boy wouldn't choose it for himself now," says he.

"I didn't know," I said. Miles was happy enough I could see. He liked
flowers, and he liked the pony; and he would do anything in the world
for Master Bertram.

"Well, it don't seem we've much choice yet awhile," says Jervis.
"They'd have him in the works at Littleburgh; but he wouldn't earn
what he's earning now, and you couldn't do with less."

"And you don't mind?" says I, wondering to myself. He had such
a peaceful sort of look.

"It don't do no good to worry," says he; "only makes other folks
wretched. I'm laid here, and I've got to lie here, just as long as God
tells me to. That's where it is, Annie," says he. "Seems to me,
I've learnt a deal lying here, and I shouldn't wonder if I've got more
to learn."

"More of what?" says I.

"More of God's love, and more of God's will," says he. "It's uncommon
little I've known till now. And I'm sure of one thing," says he;
"I'm sure God will take care of my little woman for me, now I can do
nothing."

Then he wanted to know what I was thinking of doing; and the wonder
had been often enough in my own mind. For of course we couldn't go on
much longer in these lodgings, letting Mr. Kingscote pay so much
for us. He had spoken of doing it three months, and the three months
were running fast away.

I'd some thoughts that we might get a little cottage, I said, quite
a small one, and farther back from the sea, where rents were lower.
And there, with Miles' earnings, and what I could make by fine
needlework, we should get on. At least I hoped so. I didn't speak out
my doubts and fears, and Jervis seemed to have none.

"It'll be all right," says he. "Shouldn't wonder if the cottage
is waiting for us."

But I'd got the burden of it all on me, and I was tired with long
nursing, and I didn't feel near so hopeful.

I couldn't see the way to our getting on at all; and sometimes, when I
was alone, I had a good cry, thinking of what lay before us.



CHAPTER VII.

A PLACE FOR MILES.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY—(continued).

IT must have been one day not much later that Mr. Kingscote came in,
as he often did come in, and sat down for a chat. He was rather a
short gentleman, not quite so tall as his wife, and thin, and very
quiet. And though he wasn't like Master Bertram in face, he'd got
a way of laughing like Master Bertram.

"I don't want to see your husband yet," said he, "I want a few words
with you first." And then he asked the very question Jervis had
asked,—"What was I thinking of doing?"

"For I suppose it is time we should face matters," said he. "Don't you
think so, Mrs. Murchison? We can't expect to see your husband a great
deal better at present, I'm afraid."

I know I got very red and flustered, and felt ashamed; for it seemed
to me he thought I'd been taking his help too easy, and going on
too long without talking of a change. And I tried to say so, and
couldn't get out the words, for I was near crying. And when I looked
up, his eyes had the funniest look—like Master Bertram in a
mischievous mood.

"Now what does all this mean?" said he.

"I thought," said I—and the tears began to come again—"I—"

"Oh yes, you thought," said Mr. Kingscote, smiling. "You thought
what?"

"I thought, perhaps, I'd let you help me too long. But, indeed, sir—"

"Quite a mistake," said he. "Three months was the time I named for
paying part of your rent, and it isn't three months yet. I would be
glad to make it six," said he, "but I must think of others who need
help, for I haven't a very deep purse. And perhaps it would not be
quite right for yourselves. There's plenty of time, and you needn't
think I'm going to throw you overboard," said he. "But it's best
we should come to some conclusion, eh?"

I said "Yes;" and I tried to look cheerful.

"That's right," said he. And then he told me—what was news to me—that
Mrs. Coles didn't want to go on living in this little house. A nephew
of hers had come home unexpected from abroad, and he wanted to have
her to live with him, and Mrs. Coles was minded to go. She didn't like
to part from Mr. and Mrs. Kingscote, but the nephew was a favourite
nephew, and her own flesh and blood, and he'd had a lot of trouble,
and wanted her. So when she'd talked things over with Mr. Kingscote,
she took his advice, and settled to go.

Then the question was, Would we like to stay on in the little house
and do as she'd meant to do? The rent was more than we should have
to give for a cottage further inland, but then we could let well
in the summer months, and make more than enough to pay our whole
year's rent. I knew this, because again and again people had come
to ask, and if we hadn't been there Mrs. Coles would have let the
rooms easily. And if I made people comfortable, and the house got a
good name, why, we might be full pretty near all the year round,
except just in the depth of winter.

Of course it would mean a lot of work, and I had my husband to see to.
But then I never was one to mind work, and Louey would soon be able
to give me ever so much help. Even Rosie, though she was only nine,
could dust a room as nice as possible, and answer the bell, and wash
up, when she wasn't at school.

Mr. Kingscote put the matter before me, and said he'd like me to think
it over. He didn't want me to settle in a hurry, and he didn't want
to decide for me, but he did think it sounded a hopeful plan.

"And you may be sure, Mrs. Murchison," said he, "well do our best
to find you lodgers."

I was sure of that, and in my heart I'd no doubt the thing was to be,
though I only thanked him, and said I'd see what Jervis thought.

"And now there's something else," said he. "I'm rather thinking
of dismissing Miles, and getting another boy in his place."

Well, that did startle me; and if it hadn't been for Mr. Kingscote
looking funny, I should have been in a fright. But I saw he meant
something or other that wasn't bad, and I said, "Yes, sir;" not a word
more.

"You don't mind that, do you?" said he.

I didn't know what to say, except that I couldn't think Miles had done
anything so very wrong; and I didn't see how we were to get on without
his earnings.

"No; that's the thing,—just what I told Mr. Laurence," said he.

Then he asked me if I had ever seen Mr. Laurence, and I couldn't say
I had not. Miles had told me of the old gentleman who was often in
at the Rectory, and who seemed so fond of Master Bertram—as who
wasn't?—and he had pointed him out to me in Church. And though I said,
"Sh-sh," and told the boy after I did dislike to have people
whispering and looking about in Church, when they'd ought to be
occupied with better things, still I couldn't help seeing
Mr. Laurence, for he was just in front of me, and uncommon-looking,
and I'd noticed him before, not knowing his name. And I felt an
interest in seeing him too, because he'd been kind to my Miles, and
had asked him a lot of questions, and told him things he wanted
to know. He lived in a biggish house, all alone; and he had a
beautiful garden, and he was very clever, and he wrote learned books,
and he had telescopes and microscopes, and all sorts of wonderful
things.

"Yes, sir; I've seen him," said I.

Then Mr. Kingscote told me that Mr. Laurence had taken quite a fancy
to my Miles. "He is struck with the boy's intelligence, and with his
nice modest manners," Mr. Kingscote said, and anybody can guess how
pleased I was. "He has been looking out for some time for a boy, to be
trained as his helper,—a really careful trustworthy lad,—and he thinks
Miles might be the very boy."

I asked what sort of work it would be, and Mr. Kingscote said he could
hardly tell. It would mean the cleaning and handling of instruments
and telescopes, needing a lot of care, and helping in some sorts of
experiments, and having to do with books, and any sort of thing that
was wanted. If the boy worked well, he might rise to a trusted
position, and be of great value to Mr. Laurence. Everything would
depend on how he took to the work. Mr. Laurence was getting elderly;
and he wanted some young fellow to be a help to him when old age
should come.

He had talked this all over with Mr. Kingscote; and Mr. Kingscote had
told him how quick and clever and attentive Miles was. He told him,
too, how much we depended on the boy's earnings: so Mr. Laurence had
offered to give the same for the first year, and to raise the sum
at the year's end, if Miles did well.

"I cannot think you would be wise to refuse," Mr. Kingscote said.
"Mr. Laurence is in a position to help your boy on, and he likes him.
Partly, no doubt for Miles' own sake; partly for his courage in saving
my son from injury. Mr. Laurence is godfather to Master Bertram,
as perhaps you know. It is quite a different line of life from your
husband's, but I imagine that it is one for which Miles is well
adapted. However, you must consider the matter, and let me know
your decision."

It didn't take a great deal of considering after all, and Miles was
wild to go. "Mother, I'll be able to learn everything there,"
he cried. And I wondered where he got his love of learning from:
for Jervis, though a first-rate workman, was no such great scholar.
But then, to be sure, I always did love books, and wish I'd more time
for them.



CHAPTER VIII.

A TALK WITH MR. LAURENCE.
MILES' STORY.

MOTHER seems to have come to a stop in her writing. She says
she's too busy, and I don't see why I shouldn't take it up instead,
till she gets the inclination again. I should like to tell how
Mr. Laurence came to think of having me in his house.

Though it's years and years ago, I can remember so well the very first
day I ever saw him. Most likely I'd passed him in Ermespoint before
that, and hadn't noticed. It wasn't a large place, and he was always
going about. But anyhow, I hadn't remarked him particularly.

It was one day, when I was working in the garden under Nichols. I had
been watering some beds, and I saw Mr. Bertram coming along the path
with an old gentleman. Not that he was old, really, only he had grey
hair, and a great many wrinkles; and even middle-aged people seem old
to a boy of fifteen. They came close to where I was, and Mr. Bertram
said, "This is the boy, Mr. Laurence."

Mr. Laurence repeated the words,—"This is the boy!"—slowly. Then he
said again, "This is the boy that saved your life."

I always do say too much was made of that. I hadn't a moment to think,
one way or the other, and to pull somebody else out of danger was the
natural thing for anybody who wasn't a downright coward. I don't think
I ever was a coward. But in my eyes it wasn't so brave a deed as if
I'd had time to consider, and to know that I was putting my own life
in danger. Not that I suppose I didn't know after a fashion, one
thinks so quickly; but still, as I say, it was the natural thing
to do for any lad of courage.

However, I suppose it's natural too that Mr. Bertram's friends should
think more of it than I did, and I know they've never forgotten that
moment. As for paying back, it's been paid back in kindness a hundred
times to me and mine.

Well, when Mr. Laurence spoke so, Mr. Bertram said, "Didn't you,
Miles?"

"It was a biggish piece of rock, sir," said I, for I didn't know what
else to say.

"Thundering big," said he, in his quick way.

I don't know what there always was about Mr. Bertram that made
everybody love him, but I know everybody did. When he was near,
I couldn't keep my eyes off him.

Then Mr. Laurence came close, and he fixed on me a pair of bright eyes
from underneath such shaggy eyebrows, and he said, "Why didn't you run
away and save yourself, my boy? You might have been killed, trying
to help my godson."

I'm not sure that I didn't laugh,—it seemed such a question to ask,—
and I made an uncommonly stupid answer. "Mother wouldn't have liked
it," I said.

"Ah!" said Mr. Laurence, with a curious look. "That's a wonderful
check, isn't it? Quite right always to think of what your mother would
like. And I'll tell you what, Somebody else wouldn't have liked it
either. God wouldn't. We ought to be always ready to put ourselves
in danger, if it's for the saving of somebody else."

Well, I saw Mr. Laurence any number of times after that. When Mr.
Bertram was at home, he was often coming in; and even when Mr. Bertram
was at school he never let a week pass without a call. Now and then,
if he was walking through the garden, he would stop where I was, and
would ask me a lot of questions, and sometimes he would get me to ask
him questions, and he would answer them.

I never saw anybody who seemed to know such an amount about everything
as Mr. Laurence. You couldn't ask him a question that took him
by surprise. If he didn't know exactly what you wanted to hear,
he would say so; but he always knew something about it. He had been
reading hard, and studying hard, all his life, and this was the
outcome. Not reading books only, but studying the things around him,
and looking into Nature for himself, till it was wonderful the lot
of knowledge that he had got together.

All my life I had been fond of books and of learning. I think I had
that from my mother, and she often said she'd like to make a "scholar"
of me. But it was seeing and hearing Mr. Laurence that first made me
feel how little people in general know, and how much there is to be
known, if only we would take the trouble to learn.

For the world around us is full of beautiful and extraordinary things,
and the more we examine into them the more we see how beautiful and
extraordinary they are; and yet ninety-nine men in a hundred walk
through life blind and deaf to all they might see and hear.

One day, Mr. Laurence bade me look at the clouds,—white fleecy
clouds,—scurrying over the sky, driven by a sharp breeze; with little
firm white clouds between, not seeming to move at all. I had not been
noticing them, but when I began to look I saw all at once how
beautiful they were, with the blue sky beyond.

"What are those clouds made of?" Mr. Laurence asked.

Of course I didn't know; how should I? Nobody had ever told me. I had
never even heard the question put before.

"Those lower clouds, moving so quickly, are made of fine mist," said
he; "mist like a thick fog, or like the thick white mist which cools
out of the hot steam leaving the funnel of a steam-engine."

I had always thought that was smoke, and I said so.

Mr. Laurence shook his head, smiling. "People often make that
mistake," he said. "It is not smoke, but mist, or cooled steam. It is
made of fine floating particles or specks of water. Smoke is made of
little floating particles of charcoal. Quite a different matter,
you see."

He had a short clear sort of way of saying such things, which stuck
firm in one's mind; and I used to think over his words afterward,
and not forget them.

"But all those clouds may not be made of mist," he went on. "Those
little white streaks, far beyond and not seeming to move, are most
likely made of snow. Yes, even in summer," said he, as I couldn't help
showing how astonished I was. "So high up in the air as that is always
intensely cold. There can scarcely be a doubt that those little clouds
are frozen."

Another day he came into the garden with a little stone in his hand,
hard as rock, but marked like a shell. He showed it me, and said
it really was a shell, only very very old, and turned into stone.
He called it a "fossil," which was a new word to me then.

"Where do you think I found this, Miles?" asked he.

"I don't know, sir," I said.

"Not on the sea-shore, but on the top of the cliff, buried deep.
How do you think it came there?"

I couldn't tell, of course.

"Once upon a time, ages ago," said he, "those cliff-tops were under
the waves. Not that the sea was higher, but that the land was lower.
Once upon a time all England was deep under the sea, and the ground
rose up very slowly to its present height. So you see how easily
sea-shells can have become embedded in the highest rocks."

I had been doing a good deal of cloud-gazing for many days, picturing
to myself how strange it was that all those wonderful shapes should be
made of mist or snow. The next thing I did was to spend my spare time
wandering about the cliffs, hunting for fossils above, or looking up
from below and trying to fancy how all those heights had been once
under the sea.

One day Mr. Laurence found me on the beach, busy in this way; and when
he learnt what I was after he did seem pleased. "That's the way to get
on," he said, "to study Nature for yourself, my boy." Then he pointed
out to me the lines of old old sea-beaches, high up on the front of
the cliff; where, as the land slowly rose, one part after another had
been level with the sea. And he showed me how the cliffs were actually
built up of tiny sand grains, once dropped upon the ocean's floor,
and gradually pressed into hard rock, ready to be heaved up into the
big cliffs I could now see.

You may fancy how wonderful all this was to a boy who really loved
to be taught, but who had never been in the way of any such learning
before.

I used to go home, and tell it all to my mother, whenever she had time
to attend to me; and of course she told Mrs. Kingscote what a lot
I thought of all Mr. Laurence said, though I didn't know it at the
time; and Mrs. Kingscote told Mr. Laurence. So he knew his words were
not quite thrown away.

The next thing he did was to lend me little books on such subjects,
which I could read to myself, and I got so full of them, that it was
hard never to neglect my work. Old Nichols had a sharp eye on me,
however, and my mother kept me up to the mark; so I wasn't allowed
to fall into careless habits.

One other day, I can remember, about the same time, something had
brought to my mind what Mr. Bertram had said about the tides, the very
afternoon of the cliff-accident. I hadn't thought of it again since,
and Mr. Bertram was gone back to school, so I could not speak to him;
but next time Mr. Laurence offered to lend me a book, I scraped up
courage to ask if it might be "something about the tides."

"What do you know about the tides?" he asked; and I told him what
Mr. Bertram had said.

"If it isn't giving you trouble, sir," I said.

"No; no trouble," said he; "only it's a difficult subject for anyone
to understand, without knowing a few other matters first. But I'll try
to find something readable for you." Then he asked: "What is it keeps
the ocean in its bed? Why doesn't the sea pour all over the land?"

I had never thought of putting that question before; and I had to
think. "Doesn't water always run downhill, sir?" said I; "and isn't it
downhill into the ocean?"

"Good!" said he; "I like to see that you can think. And what makes
water run downhill?"

"Isn't it—because it's heavy?" said I. "And what makes it heavy?"
said he. There I was posed, and had no more to say. Mr. Laurence
picked up an apple and let it drop.

"What makes that apple fall downward? Being heavy, you will say.
But what makes it heavy? I will tell you. Because the earth attracts
or draws it downward. The earth attracts everything to itself.
The force of that attraction holds the ocean in its bed."

I asked him a lot of questions, and he told me a good deal more
to make this clear.

"But the moon has power to attract as well as the earth," he said.
"The moon cannot attract so strongly as to draw the ocean out of the
bed; but it attracts strongly enough to draw up a great wave of
sea-water which travels round and round the earth. Also, by drawing
the body of the earth away from the other side, it makes another great
wave there. Where these waves are it is high tide, and between them
it is low tide."

All this comes back to me, the more clearly, I suppose, because of
what followed. For before I could ask any more questions, Mr. Laurence
said suddenly, "You would like to spend your life studying these
questions."

"I can't, sir; I've got to work," I said.

"My boy, there is no harder work than headwork," said he. "But you
mean that you have to work so as to earn money for your parents, and
you are right." Then he stood and thought. "I don't see why not,"
he said; "it's what I have been looking for."

"I don't understand, sir, please."

He laughed and said, "No, I dare say not;" and he didn't tell me
any more that day. But a few days later, it came out what he'd been
thinking about. He talked things over with Mr. Kingscote first, and
Mr. Kingscote spoke to my mother, and then it was put before me.

Mr. Laurence wanted to find a boy to help him in his studies and
researches; a quick and thoughtful boy, he said, really interested
in such things as interested him. He wanted a boy whom he could trust
to help clean his microscopes and telescopes, and other instruments;
and to dust and arrange his books; and to keep in order his museum
of curiosities; and to do all sorts of things that he wanted done.
But also he meant such a boy to have time for study, and he meant
to teach him; and he said that if he could find the right sort of boy,
he might even some day train him into a sort of "secretary"
to himself. That would all depend on what the boy was, of course.

"I had pretty nearly given up the hope of finding him," he said;
"but if Miles is willing, I think Miles would do."

To make matters easy, he offered to give me for the first year exactly
the same wages as I was receiving from Mr. Kingscote, and at the
year's end, if I was growing useful to him, he would give me more.

Mother didn't seem to know what to think of the matter at first.
She said I mightn't like it when I was there; and she didn't see that
I was going to be trained for anything. But Mr. Kingscote told her
she needn't be afraid, for Mr. Laurence knew what he was about, and he
would not let me be a loser. He had helped forward many young fellows,
Mr. Kingscote said, though without taking them into his house, which
was what he wanted to do with me.

Mother thought a lot of what Mr. Kingscote said, and my father seemed
to be willing, and I had set my heart on going: so it was soon
arranged. I only had to wait till a boy had been found to do my work
at the Rectory.



CHAPTER IX.

TRUSTWORTHINESS.
MILES' STORY—(continued).

IT was settled that I should make my home altogether at The Myrtles—
which was the name of Mr. Laurence's house—because he wanted to have
me always within call.

The first evening I got there, things did seem strange. The house was
so big and quiet, and I seemed to belong to nobody. The servants' hall
and kitchen were lively enough, no doubt, but I was told I had no
business there, and I could see that the maids looked upon me with no
friendly eyes. They didn't see what on earth I was come for, one of
them said; and another muttered something about "one of master's new
freaks," which was not over respectful.

However, I was not likely to interfere much with them, or they with
me, since my work lay upstairs. I had a cosy bedroom all to myself,
nicely fitted up—the first time I had ever slept alone in my life.
My meals I was to take with the housekeeper, Mrs. Crane, in her
sitting-room, and not in the servants' hall. Mr. Laurence had settled
all this, in a way he'd got, which did not allow anybody to question
his will. He always spoke very quietly, and never raised his voice;
but nobody in the house dared go against him, when once he said
a thing was to be.

Mrs. Crane made no complaint; but it was easy to see she didn't like
the arrangement. She was tall and stout, and she commonly wore black
silk, with a pile of red ribbons on her head. She moved about in a
very slow dignified sort of way, and she had a pair of cold eyes which
made me feel uncomfortable whenever she fixed them on me, which was
pretty often. I dare say it was a bore to have a strange boy set down
at her table: though I can say one thing for myself, and that is, that
I knew how to behave there, thanks to my mother, who'd always been so
particular to teach us nice ways, and to cure us of ugly tricks.
Everybody knew that if Mr. Laurence said a thing he meant it.
Mrs. Crane was not obliged to stay, but if she stayed she had to do
what Mr. Laurence chose, which was only fair and just, seeing she
received his money, and ate his food, and was sheltered by his roof.
She was much too wise to want to leave, and so she gave in; but all
the same I could feel I wasn't welcome.

There were no indoor men-servants, for Mr. Laurence disliked the
bother of them. The maids could all be under Mrs. Crane, but a man
he would have had to manage himself. As it was, he just gave all his
orders to the housekeeper, and held her responsible for what went
wrong.

But with me he made a difference, having me with him, and giving me
his orders direct from the first, which Mrs. Crane objected to.

I suppose I was in a rather difficult position—difficult because it
was uncertain. I was not exactly one thing or the other—neither fish,
flesh, nor fowl. I had to make my own standing as it were, and this
could not be an easy matter for a boy of fifteen, brought up hitherto
in a busy crowded little home, where all were on a level, and all knew
and loved the rest.

After tea with Mrs. Crane—and a silent tea it was, scarcely a word
passing between us—I was sent for to the study, where Mr. Laurence
commonly sat. It opened out of the great library, which was lined with
books; and the museum, a biggish room, full of all sorts of
curiosities, was on the other side of the library. The dining-room
was beyond the hall, and so was the drawing-room, not often used.
The little observatory was up at the top of the house.

Mr. Laurence was at his writing-table when I came in, and another
table in the bow window had microscopes on it, under glass cases.
He looked up and said—

"How do you do, Miles? Had your tea?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Ready for work?"

I said "Yes" again.

Then he stood up and wiped his pen carefully, and laid it down, for he
was always neat, and never in a hurry. After that he took me through
the library, into the museum, which I had not seen before. There was
matting over the floor, and a chair and table stood near the farthest
window, while all round close to the walls were glass-fronted cases,
with stuffed birds, or insects, or curiosities from foreign parts,
arranged in them. Other odd things lay about on tables, or were
fastened to the walls.

"This is to be your especial charge," Mr. Laurence said. "I hope
I shall find you capable. We must begin slowly. I have never allowed
anybody to handle my specimens or to dust my books; but I am beginning
to feel the need of help. You will have to learn—gradually."

He pointed out to me a great bone, lying on the top of a case, and he
said it was part of an animal which had lived long long before the
time of Adam. "The bone has turned into stone now," he went on, "so it
is a fossil."

"May I come in any time, sir?" I asked wonderingly.

Mr. Laurence gave me a look, and asked—"Would you like it?"

"I should like to learn all about everything here," I said.

"So you shall—as far as I can put you in the way of learning. No man
alive knows 'all' about any one thing; but some of the little that
can be known you shall learn. You will have a key, and when you are
not here the door is always to be locked. By-and-by I hope you will be
able to copy out things for me. I know that you write a clear hand.
Remember, if you wish to be of real use to me by-and-by, you must
study and read steadily. When the bell in the corner rings, you will
know that I want you."

Then he pointed out a glass case full of weapons from distant
countries.

"Some day these things must all be turned out and cleaned or dusted,"
he said; "but not just yet." He stood still, looking at me. "Do you
know what the first thing is that I have to find out about you,
Miles?"

"Whether I won't break things?" I asked. "But I'll take care, really,
sir."

"I am sure you will. That is important; yet not the most important.
What I want to know is whether you are fully and utterly true in all
that you say and do—whether I may depend, not only upon your honesty,
for that I do not doubt, but upon your absolute truthfulness and
trustworthiness."

"I wouldn't tell a lie for anything," I said.

"I don't think you would. I hope not. Your mother says the same. But I
want more than just the absence of direct falsehood. I want to be able
to place entire confidence in you. Now how is that to be brought
about?"

I understood in a measure, yet I was at a loss what to say.

"I will tell you," he said, and he spoke slowly. "If anything goes
wrong—if anything in your charge is injured or broken—mind you never
attempt to hide it, but come at once and tell me. Sooner or later you
would be found out, and then I could never be sure of you again. Be
brave, and speak out always. Never try to shield yourself from just
blame. Then again you have to be obedient. When I am absent, just as
when I am present, do what I tell you to do. You have leave to come
to the museum yourself, but not to admit others without asking me.
Remember that! No matter who asks, you have to say 'No'!"

"Yes, sir, I will."

"That is right. Now about the matter of your going home. I do not wish
for incessant running to and fro; but you may see your people
reasonably often—once a week, at all events. When you wish to go,
ask me, and if possible I will arrange it. If I send you out on an
errand for myself, don't spend the time in going to your parents,
but be back as sharp as you can. If I send you out for an hour or two
to amuse yourself, then you may do as you choose. But do not go out
without asking my leave."

"No, sir, I won't," I said.

"One more thing, Miles. When you are in my study, among my books and
papers, remember that I am trusting you. Nothing is to be read, except
what you know that I intend you to read. And what you do see, or read,
or hear, is not to be talked about elsewhere—either among my servants
or out of this house. Do you understand me? Can I put confidence
in you?"

A rush of pride swept through me, as I thought that he should do so—
that I would make myself worthy of his confidence. It was my first
real glimpse of what is meant by "honour." He was "putting me on my
honour," and he should not be disappointed.

"It will do, I see," said Mr. Laurence, smiling. "You understand."

I was so busy, thinking, I hadn't said a word, but only just gazed
up in his face.



CHAPTER X.

WISE COUNSEL.
MILES' STORY—(continued).

THE next few days passed smoothly, so far as my work was concerned.
Not that I wasn't often clumsy and stupid, doing things awkwardly
enough from want of practice; but I tried hard, and Mr. Laurence was
wonderfully patient. He saw at least how anxious I was to learn. If I
forgot, he told me again, and if I blundered he made me try a second
time. He showed me exactly how he liked his books dusted—so many
shelves every week, and each shelf by itself, and every volume put
back into its own place. He stood by while I did it, over and over
again, till he was sure I knew how.

I had not leave to take away books for my own reading, of course, but
he lent me one at a time, choosing those I could understand, and he
was always pleased if I asked him questions. Sometimes he would come
into the museum, and give me quite a lesson on the things there.

It was wonderful how much bigger and wider the world grew as I
listened to him. Every day I grew more eager to learn, and more fond
of Mr. Laurence, and more bent on serving him rightly.

He did not yet allow me to go alone into the observatory. That was
to come later. "A careless touch might do such harm," he said; though
he was pleased to add that he did not count me careless. "But it would
not be fair yet to you, my boy," he said in his kind way.

The one real trouble in my new life was the way the maids looked
askance at me, and most of all the way I was disliked by Mrs. Crane.
To be sure, Mr. Laurence did not want me to have much to do with the
maids or with the servants' hall, and he told me so plainly; but still
I'd rather have been on pleasant terms, and I couldn't think why they
must all treat me as if I had no right to be in the house.

Of course I know now well enough that the feeling sprang from
jealousy, because I was favoured by Mr. Laurence, and was made free
to go in and out where none of them might venture. Besides, they did
not like me being put to meals with Mrs. Crane, instead of in the
servants' hall.

If I had been of a surly or an ill temper I should have found it hard
not to be unpleasant again; but as it was, I only felt uncomfortable,
and wondered what it all meant.

It was a good thing my mother had not trained me to be dainty in my
eating, for Mrs. Crane never asked me what I would like, but always
gave me the worst that was on the table. She had plenty of nice things
for herself, and I shouldn't have minded a little of them too; but all
the same I ate what she put on my plate, and I made no fuss, which was
best, of course, in every way. She would soon have used against me any
manner of grumbling on my part, and it is good for everybody to learn
not to mind what one eats. I do despise daintiness! Mr. Laurence never
seemed to care what he had on his plate, and as often as not he just
ate without knowing what he ate. Everybody can't be like that,
I suppose, because everybody hasn't such a mind as he had; but I do
think it contemptible when a man's happiness and good temper depend
on his victuals being to his taste. Or a woman's either—which perhaps
isn't quite so common, though I'm not sure.

The only person about the house who spoke kind words to me, beside Mr.
Laurence, was Andrews, the head gardener—a big slow man, who knew what
he was about. He had been used to come in once a week to dust out the
museum, because Mr. Laurence wouldn't trust anybody else among his
treasures. But Andrews didn't seem to mind seeing me there instead.
He always had a pleasant smile.

The very first Sunday after I got to The Myrtles, Mr. Laurence asked
if I would like to go home for the afternoon and evening: and right
glad I was to do it. Weeks might have passed, instead of only days,
since I'd seen them all.

There was plenty to hear and plenty to tell, though I was mindful
of what Mr. Laurence had said, and I wouldn't let myself gossip about
things I'd no business to repeat. Mother saw I was careful, and then
she grew careful too, and wouldn't ask many questions, and I knew
she thought me right.

Before I left home it had been all settled about Mrs. Coles' little
house being taken on by my parents, and now Mrs. Coles was gone, and
our house at Littleburgh was given up, and our furniture was on the
way down. The furniture in our new home did not belong to Mrs. Coles,
but to Mr. Kingscote; and as Mrs. Coles would not need the things
where she was going, Mr. Kingscote was going to let mother have the
use of some of them for the present—enough to furnish nicely the rooms
for letting, as we shouldn't have had enough of our own.

So it was all settled, and mother hoped to have all straight in a week
or two ready for lodgers. Two or three people had been already to ask
about lodgings.

I did not think my father seemed better, but he was as good and
patient as could be, and he had begun to have a little feeling in one
of his legs, which the doctor said was a good sign.

The wonderful thing to us all was that he should lie, day after day,
so quiet and contented, not worrying or fretful. It is bad enough for
anybody to be cut off from work, and laid on a bed for nobody can say
how long; but with a strong active man like my father, always used to
be busy, it must have been especially bad, and yet he didn't fuss or
grumble. It often seemed as if, when God laid him there, He gave him
a spirit of quiet willingness; though I didn't understand this till
long after. When father sometimes said with a little smile, "I'm
learning lessons, Miles!" I could not see at all what he meant.

It was before dinner that I went home that first Sunday, and
afterward father had to be left quiet, and Louey and Rosey went to
Sunday-school. I'd been used to go too from Mr. Kingscote's, as he
liked me to belong to the class of big boys; but I could not know yet
how it would be from Mr. Laurence's house; and this day I wanted most
of all to have a talk alone with my mother. She saw I wanted that;
and when the children were gone, she began by asking if I was happy.

"Yes," I said, "Mr. Laurence was so good;" and I told her all about
what he had said to me the first evening.

"Right too!" said she. "You can't be too careful, Miles. If Mr.
Laurence is to trust you, there's no other way."

"Only I may speak out to you, mother," I said.

"No," said she; "not one single thing to do with Mr. Laurence's ways
or habits, nor with his work. Not a single thing that you don't feel
sure he'd wish me to know. If you've troubles of your own, you may
tell them to me."

"Well, I don't know if I ought to call them troubles," I said, and I
laughed. "Not quite so bad as that; only I don't think the servants
like me being there."

"Which servants?" said she.

"Why,—all of them," I said, "except the gardener. Mrs. Crane, the
housekeeper, and Mrs. Perkins, the cook, and the parlour-maid and the
housemaid and the under-housemaid. I don't think any of them like me."

She asked one or two questions, and when I told her I had my meals
with Mrs. Crane, and was allowed in rooms where they mightn't go,
she said, "That's it!"

"What is?" I asked.

"It might have been wiser the other way," said she slowly, as if
thinking aloud. "I mean if you'd had your meals for a time with the
rest. But then there'd have been difficulties later, if—And Mr.
Laurence has a right to settle it as he will."

"I don't know what you mean, mother," I said.

"No," said she; "never mind; it's all right, Miles. You've just got
to do what Mr. Laurence tells you, and you mustn't mind a few cross
looks."

"Mr. Laurence doesn't want me to be much in the servants' hall,"
I said. "He told me so."

"Then you're quite clear as to what you've got to do. Mind, Miles,
you're there, taking Mr. Laurence's wages; and you're there to do what
he bids you. Your time is his, not your own."

"But if they don't like it?" I said.

"Well, then they must do without liking it," said she. "You're not a
coward, Miles. You can stand a few hits, if it's in the way of duty,
I hope. Only don't give them cause to be vexed,—not any real cause,
I mean. Don't you give yourself airs, or be rude. You're only the son
of a working-man; and it's as likely as not that some of their fathers
are better off than yours. That's neither here nor there, for Mr.
Laurence has a right to settle his household as he will. And if
anybody don't like it, why they've got the remedy in their own hands,
and they can go. But all the same I dare say it's a grievance, seeing
you put to your meals with Mrs. Crane, so you've got to be doubly
careful to give no offence."



CHAPTER XI.

A DIFFICULT MOMENT.
MILES' STORY—(continued).

THE advice my mother gave me that afternoon was uncommonly wise
advice, and the very best that could have been given, I do believe;
and yet it isn't always possible to follow out to the letter what
seems wise advice.

I went back to The Myrtles that evening, fully resolved that I would
do my best to keep smooth with everybody, and would give no offence;
and after all I had to give great offence, only the very next day.

On second thoughts, though, it was not going contrary to my mother's
advice: for what she had said and fully meant was that I should not
give real cause for offence, not just cause, and this could not be
called just or real cause, for my duty to Mr. Laurence had of course
to stand first.

On Monday evening Mr. Laurence had an engagement which would keep him
away till past ten o'clock. When he was starting he gave me a long
list of names that he wanted to have copied out. "They are hard names,
and so you will have to be very careful not to make mistakes,"
he said. "Let me see how well you can do it, Miles." Then he told me
to sit in the museum if I liked, and to spend part of the time
in reading the last book he had lent me. I had been in the afternoon
for a good walk on an errand for him.

I was never a boy who minded being alone and quiet, and I think the
love of quiet was growing with the love of study.

After he was gone, I took my things to the little table in the museum,
and worked steadily at the copying, which was not very easy, because
all the words were new to me, and I had to, spell them carefully.
I spoilt one sheet and began over again; and I was half-way through,
when there came a smart rap at the door.

In a moment I jumped up and went to see who it was; but before I could
reach the door it was thrown open, and the housemaid, Rose, came in,
giggling, with the under-gardener, Will, behind her.

"I told you he'd be here," said she. "Look! isn't it a concern! What a
lot of old bones!"

It took me by surprise her walking in so suddenly, for I knew well
that nobody was ever allowed there without leave; and almost before
I knew what I was going to say, I asked, "Did Mr. Laurence say you
might come?"

Rose turned round and mimicked me, with her head on one side. She was
a pretty girl; and Will, who was a great lanky awkward fellow, roared
with laughter.

"Did Mr. Laurence say we might come?" said she, in an affected voice.
"O dear me! the innocence of the youth! Just hear him, Will! Why, dear
me, no!" she went on, when Will had roared again. "Who ever would
think of asking Mr. Laurence, while the mighty Mr. Miles Murchison was
sitting here in state! It is enough to ask him, any day!" She dropped
a mock curtsey as she spoke. "Please, Mr. Miles Murchison, will you
let your humble servants take a look round?"

"I can't do it, Rose," I said, straight out, though I was worried.
"You know I can't; I'm put here in charge, and Mr. Laurence forbids
any one to come in without his leave. I can't give it."

"Hear him. Will! The innocent child! 'I can't give it.'"

She mimicked me again, cleverly enough, and my face got as red as
fire, for Will shouted afresh.

"Come, we'll take a look," said she, in a daring sort of voice, and
she walked to the middle table and picked up a fossil bone that was
lying there. "What's this?" said she. "We're poor ignorant creatures—
ain't we, Will?—don't know nothing at all about such things! Couldn't
the learned Mr. Miles Murchison teach us?"

It was a great temptation to me to give in. No boy of fifteen likes
to be laughed at; nor to make enemies; nor to have to stand alone.
For one moment I was tempted. Mr. Laurence was away for another hour
or more, I thought, and if I did let them stay a few minutes they
would not do any mischief, and nobody would know. It was not likely
that they would tell of themselves.

But I am glad to say this temptation had power only for one moment.
Then I remembered that I was in charge, and that I was upon honour;
that I had to do my employer's will, and to prove myself trustworthy.
Whether they liked it or did not like it made no difference at all.
They were in the wrong, and if I yielded to them I should be in the
wrong too.

I went after Rose, and I said—

"Rose, if you and Will stay, I shall have to tell Mr. Laurence."

"You will!" said she, turning sharp round to face me.

"I shall have to," I said.

"Then you're a pitiful miserable sneak!" said she. "Take that!" and
she gave me a smart box on the ear with her hand, which was not by any
means a soft one.

My ear tingled, and my temper tingled more, for I hadn't been used
to that sort of thing; but still the main thought with me was how to
get rid of them both, and to prove myself trustworthy. Almost without
thought I found myself saying again—

"If you don't both go this minute, I'll tell Mr. Laurence as soon as
ever he comes back."

"Very well; we'll go," said she. "You sneak! I'll never speak to you
again!"—and she looked as if she meant it. "Come, Will, 'tisn't worth
staying for, after all."

She turned round with such a whisk, in her anger, that she bounced up
against Will, and sent him staggering against the nearest case of
stuffed birds; and between them they gave it such a shake that a small
plaster head, standing on the top, fell with a crash and broke across
at the neck.

"Bother!" said she. "That's like your clumsiness, Will. What a
plague!"

Before I could stop her she picked up the two pieces and set the head
on the neck.

"Oh, that's all right! It doesn't show. Mr. Laurence won't see it for
weeks, you may be sure. Come along, Will," and she went off, not
giving me a look. But just outside the door she turned back and glared
at me, and her eyes didn't look pretty then. "Mind," she said, "if you
let slip one word of this to Mr. Laurence, you won't stay long in the
house. I'll see to that, I promise. If you tell one tale, Will and
I'll tell another—and that will be two to one. So you just take care."

She was gone before I could answer, and I shut and locked the door,
but I heard them talking loudly in the passage for some minutes.

Well, I cannot say I was not angry too as well as puzzled and
dismayed. Should I, or should I not, tell Mr. Laurence about the
breakage? If I'd done it myself I would never have thought of hiding
it; but I didn't see how I was to tell without blaming others. Yet if
I said nothing, and he found it out late; as he was pretty sure to do,
how could he ever be sure of me again?

As for Rose's threats, I gave little thought to them. Of course I knew
that anybody has power to harm anybody else if bent upon it; but I
minded much more being called "a sneak." Still, if it came in the way
of my duty, better far to be called "a sneak" than to be untrue.

My hand was not steady enough for writing for some minutes, for I had
been not a little flustered. It was the first time I had ever had in
my life to make such a stand against people older than myself; yet I
was glad I had made it, and had not given in. I finished the copying
by half-past nine, and then to my surprise the bell rang, which showed
me that Mr. Laurence was in his study. As I was going I took down the
broken plaster head, carrying the two pieces with me.

Mr. Laurence looked up from his desk, and when he saw what was in my
hands, he said—

"I am very sorry, sir," I said, thinking that I wouldn't tell more
than was needful.

He took both pieces from me and examined them.

"How did it happen, Miles?"

"The case had a shake, sir, and it tumbled down."

"You must be more careful. Quite right to let me know at once."

Then, just as I thought all was straight, he asked—

"Did you do it yourself?"

I made no answer, and he looked straight at me.

"How did the thing happen, my boy?"

I felt myself getting as red as fire again.

"Something not explained yet, eh? Have you been doing anything you are
ashamed of, Miles?"

"No, sir."

"That's decisive, at all events. Then has somebody else?"

"If you wouldn't mind, sir—please—not asking me," I said. "It was
an accident, and I don't think it will happen again. I'll take care.
I will really."

"Yes, I think you will," Mr. Laurence said slowly; "I am sure
you will. If you had done as Rose told you, and not mentioned
the breakage, I should not have felt so confident as now. But you have
done well all through; first, in refusing them admittance; then,
in not concealing the accident. You have proved yourself trustworthy,
Miles."

I was so amazed to find how much he knew that I could take no pleasure
in his words of praise; and I must have stared. He did not smile;
he only said—

"I came home earlier than I intended."

Then he must have seen or heard with his own eyes and ears. Well,
it was not my fault; but I knew I should be blamed, and I couldn't
help being sorry.

Mrs. Crane was out that evening with friends, and I had had my supper
early, for somebody's convenience. I didn't see the rest till
prayer-time, and then I only had askance looks. Coming out I overheard
Matilda, the parlour-maid, say something about Mr. Laurence getting
home early, and Rose said, in a scared tone—

"What time? Why didn't you tell us?"

"Why should I?" Matilda asked. "Mr. Laurence just let himself in with
his latchkey and went straight to the study. Some time between
half-past eight and nine."

I knew what that meant, and Rose knew too; but all the same,
she tossed her head with a sneer when I went by.

Next morning Mr. Laurence had Rose and Will into his study,
an uncommon thing, as he left the maids to Mrs. Crane generally,
and the under-gardeners to Andrews. Mrs. Crane was present, but he
spoke himself to them, and he dismissed them both, with a month's
wages each. He'd been actually passing outside the open door of the
museum, at the moment that Rose boxed my ear; and when they talked
so loud afterwards in the passage, he was in the library, and could
hear every word. He told them all this quite plainly: and he told them
too that he had questioned me, and that I had not let out about them.
Then he rebuked them strongly for their deceit and disobedience, and
their trying to lead me astray; and he said he wouldn't have them
in the house another night. Rose cried her eyes out, and Will looked
wretched; but nothing could move Mr. Laurence. He could put up with
dulness and stupidity, but the one thing he never would stand was
deceit, or a person doing differently behind his back from before
his face.

They were both gone before night: and it was long before I heard
of them again. All these particulars leaked out slowly. Mr. Laurence
did not refuse to give them some sort of a character, but he said he
must explain about what had passed, and would advise any future master
or mistress to keep a sharp look-out upon them both. Seems to me,
he couldn't honourably do anything else.

My position in the house was, in some respects, better after that
evening. I had shown that I would do my duty, and that I could hold
my own; and nobody dared to meddle with me. But I couldn't help seeing
how I was dislike by Mrs. Crane and Matilda; and if it had not been
for Mr. Laurence's great kindness, I should have felt sometimes very
dull and even unhappy.



CHAPTER XII.

LITTLE MISS ADELA.
MILES' STORY—(continued).

NOTHING particular happened, that I can remember, through the early
part of that winter, up to Christmas, except that my father got on
perhaps a little better than was expected, and was able to sit up and
use his hands, though he could not stand, and his legs still had
little or no power in them. We all knew well enough by this time that
he never could be an able-bodied man again; though, as years went on,
he might slowly improve. The wonderful thing still was how quietly
he took it all.

I suppose, where great trouble is sent, strength to bear it is sent
too; at least it was so in his case. And my mother was just her old
self; always busy, and always a little anxious, but happy in her own
way, and thinking of everybody before herself.

I had a week at home at Christmas and New Year, and didn't once see
Mr. Laurence the whole week through.

Mr. Bertram came back, of course, for the Christmas holidays, and he
was growing tall and thin, and not looking over well; but he was full
of fun and high spirits. He used to come in and talk nonsense, till we
were all in such fits of laughter we didn't know what, to do with
ourselves. And through all the fun, he was so kind and gentle to my
father. Well, I never did see any one quite like Mr. Bertram, and for
the matter of that I don't think I ever shall.

When I went back at the week's end, there was a visitor at The
Myrtles—Mr. Laurence's only grandchild. I knew he was expecting her
for the New Year, and I wondered how that quiet house would seem with
a child in it. Children do make such a difference where they are, and,
to my mind, no home is perfect without children.

I got there after dark in the afternoon, and I was told that Mr.
Laurence had gone out on business. So I went straight to the museum,
thinking I'd take a look round there the first thing. I found the door
unlocked which rather startled me, as it was so uncommon; and when I
first opened the door I saw nobody. So I shut it, and stopped to take
a look at a side-table, where a new piece of red granite was lying
which had not been there when I went away. Mr. Laurence was always
getting fresh things to add to his collection. And then I went on a
few steps, and to my surprise, all at once I saw somebody sitting
in my chair, sound asleep.

She was the prettiest little lady, and I always did say she had a look
of our poor little Bessie, who was killed by the falling of the cliff.
I don't know how it was, but she had a look of her, somehow. I saw it
in a moment, though little Miss Adela was very fair, with rosy cheeks,
and blue eyes, and short flaxen hair. The blue eyes were fast shut
when I saw her first, and her head was dropping over to one side, and
one little round white arm lay over the table where I always wrote.

I was so taken aback, I stood and looked at her, not knowing what to
think. And then she suddenly woke up, and looked at me without moving.

"How d'you do?" she said sleepily. "What o'clock is it?"

"It is getting on for half-past five, Miss," I said.

"Oh, to be sure. I've had my tea," she said, and she got up slowly.
I saw she was about as tall as our Rosie, or taller, though I found
later she was only eight years old. "Grandpapa's gone out," she said.
"And they told me the museum-boy was coming back, so I thought I would
be here to see him. Are you the museum-boy? And is your name Miles?"

"I'm Miles Murchison, Miss," I said; "and I've got to look after the
museum."

"Oh yes; I know all about it," said she. "And the housemaid and
under-gardener tried to get in, and you wouldn't let them. That was
like a soldier doing his duty;" and she held up her head. "My papa is
a soldier, so I know all about it. And he told me a story once—about
the private and the Duke, you know."

"No, Miss; I don't know the story," I said.

"Don't you? Why, I thought everybody did," said she. "Let me see, how
did the story begin? There was a private soldier put at a door to keep
people from going in, except those that had got a written order—
at least, I think that was it. The soldier was told to turn back
everybody else, you know; and of course he had to turn back lots.
And presently a duke came up, at least, I think it was a duke; and I
believe it was the Duke of Wellington, only I'm not sure. But anyhow,
the Duke hadn't a written paper to show, and he wanted to go in
without it, and the soldier wouldn't let him. And of course the
soldier was right, because he only just had to do as he was bid. And
the Duke gave up, and went away quietly; and when the soldier heard
who it was he had turned back, he was rather frightened, because he
thought the Duke would be angry. But instead of that, the Duke saw the
soldier afterward, and praised him for obeying, and said he was
perfectly right. Wasn't it nice of the Duke? And I think," Miss Adela
went on, "it was a wee bit like that, when you turned Rose and Will
out of the museum; only not quite the same, because there wasn't
any Duke."

"But Mr. Laurence doesn't mind you coming here, does he, Miss?"
I asked.

"Me? Why, of course not. I am his grandchild," said she. "Of course
I may do what I like in his house. He is the dearest old Grandpapa,
isn't he? And he likes you ever so much, I know, because he told me
he did. He said you were such a trustworthy boy."

I was glad to hear this, even though I knew pretty well already what
Mr. Laurence thought.

"And I made him give me his museum-key before he went out, so that
I might come here after my tea," she went on. "It's such fun—nurse
can't come after me when I'm in the museum, because nobody must come
in without Grandpapa's leave. She can only rap at the door, and call.
Now you are going to tell me about all these things;" and she waved
her hand toward the cases. "I want to know about every single thing."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much, Miss, because I have only begun
to learn," I said.

"Well, then, you can tell me the beginning, just as far as you have
learnt," said she. "Come, what is this big round stone? Look how it is
marked."

"That's an ammonite," I said, glad to know the first thing she asked.

"An am-mo-nite?" said she. "Yes; go on," and she nodded her head.

So I told her what little I was able, how the ammonite had once been
a living sea-creature, swimming about in the ocean; and how it had
somehow died out, so that no ammonite was ever found now alive; and
how the only ones ever seen were these fossil ammonites, which had
lived so very, very long ago, that their remains were turned to stone.
I showed her some tiny little ammonites, beside the big one she had
noticed first.

For the best part of an hour she kept me busy, either answering
questions or saying I couldn't answer them. Sometimes she would
murmur, "How clever you are!" and quite as often it was, "What!
don't you know that!" So I was in no danger of being made conceited.

All went smoothly enough so far, and the little lady was as sweet and
pleasant as she could be; but by-and-by we came to a small glass case,
which had Indian curiosities in it, and she stooped over to look at
them.

"Oh, what are those funny things?" she cried. "Look! are they stones?
What do you call them? 'Catseyes!' Not real eyes of real cats?"

"It's a sort of precious stone," I told her. "They are worth a lot,
I believe."

"I like those catseyes better than anything else in the whole museum,"
said she. "And I mean to make Grandpapa give me one of them. It would
make a lovely little brooch, you know. Oh, what a bother! The case is
locked. Where is the key?"

"It isn't meant to be opened, Miss," I said.

"Have you got a key?" said she.

I was glad to be able to say "No," for Mr. Laurence kept the keys
himself of the smaller cases; but the next moment she gave a little
scream, and lifted up the glass lid. And I saw that the lock had just
failed to catch. Mr. Laurence must have turned the key in a hurry, not
noticing that the lid wasn't quite closed, and so he had really locked
it open. Miss Adela's hand grasped the biggest catseye in a moment;
and I knew I had no easy task before me. For it wasn't difficult to
see, with all her sweetness, that she was a good deal spoilt, and used
to getting her own way.

"We mustn't touch anything inside," I said. "Mr. Laurence wouldn't
like it. Put that back, please, Miss."

She opened her eyes wide, and looked at me in astonishment.

"You don't think you've got to tell me what to do!" said she, with a
grand air.

"I'm in charge, Miss," I said; "and I can't have the things meddled
with."

"I'm going to keep this dear little catseye till Grandpapa comes in,
and then I shall make him give it to me," said she.

"If he gives it you, that's all right," I said; "but till he does,
it's got to stay here in my charge."

She gave a funny little toss to her head, and said, "Don't you wish
you may get it?"

"You wouldn't want to get me into disgrace, would you, Miss?" said I,
thinking I'd try persuasion.

"Oh no!" said she; "I shall just tell Grandpapa you couldn't help it."

I knew very well that would do no good. Mr. Laurence would say I ought
to have helped it.

"I'm going to show it to Nurse now," said she; and she walked towards
the door; but I was there before her, and I had my hand on the key.

"No, Miss; I daren't let it leave the room," said I.

"But you'll have to; because I'm going, and I mean to take it
with me," said she.

"No, Miss," I said.

"But I will!" said she.

For all answer I locked the door, and put the key in my pocket;
and didn't Miss Adela's blue eyes give a flash!

"You're a naughty impertinent boy," said she; "and I shall tell
my grandfather how you behave."

I half thought she would have cried and struggled to get the key;
but she didn't. She held up her head like a little queen, and turned
her back upon me.

"I'll open the door in a minute, if you'll just give me that catseye,"
said I.

"No!" said she. "I'm going to keep it."

I thought I'd make one more try. "Miss Adela," I said, for I knew her
name already, "you told me a nice story just now about the soldier and
the duke. If I let you take away that catseye, shouldn't I be like the
soldier disobeying his orders, and letting the duke go in?"

"Well, and I think he ought to have let the duke go in," said she.
"He was a rude impertinent soldier to keep the duke out; and if I was
the duke, I would be very angry. I think it's a stupid story, and I
don't know why I told it to you."

Then she pulled my chair round, with its back to where I was; and she
seated herself on it, with her pretty arms folded, and the catseye
clasped tight in one little hand.



CHAPTER XIII.

"SPOILT," BUT "SWEET."
MILES' STORY—(continued).

OF course I could have got the catseye from Miss Adela by force, but I
knew my place better than to try anything of that sort. The only way
before me was to keep the door locked till somebody should come after
her.

It seemed a long while before anybody came. I suppose the servants
knew that Miss Adela was in the museum, and thought she would be all
right with me; and time passed slowly for I couldn't be busy. Miss
Adela had my chair, and my table with the lamp on it; and she wouldn't
speak any more. So she sat there, and I stood near the door. I was
just thinking that I'd try again to reason with her, and to get back
the catseye, when I saw her head give a little nod, and one arm slip
down over the other. That made me keep silence; for if she fell
asleep, I might get the catseye from her without her knowing.

Well, she straightened herself once or twice, as if she didn't mean
to be overcome by sleep; but gradually her head dropped over on one
side, and the little hand was opening slowly. So I came softly and
stood close by; and when it opened wider still, and the catseye
dropped out, I caught it on my palm without a sound, and she slept on.

Then I crept to the door, and unlocked it gently; and next I put back
the catseye into its right place, and stood over the unlocked case
to keep guard.

It wasn't five minutes, I suppose, before she woke. She looked round,
and gave a gape and a little laugh; and all at once she exclaimed,
"Oh, it's gone! Oh, where's my dear little catseye?"

"I've got it here, all right, Miss," I said.

"You've got it!" said she, flaming up. "What business have you with my
catseye? Give it back to me directly."

She stamped her foot as she spoke, and ran to where I stood. Of course
I was prepared; and when she tried with her little hands to lift the
glass lid, she couldn't stir it. One hand of mine on the frame was
more than enough for all her strength.

"I can't let you, Miss," I said. "Only just wait till Mr. Laurence
comes, and then you can ask him anything you like. I must take care
of it till then."

Miss Adela went as white as a sheet with passion: for she had a hasty
temper, and she hadn't learnt to govern herself, as even a child ought
to learn before eight years old. She stood quite still for a moment,
looking at me; and then without any warning, she dashed her right hand
through the glass, breaking it into bits, and seized the catseye.

I don't know what I said, I was so startled; or whether I said
anything; but the next instant I saw that her hand was badly cut,
for blood came streaming from it.

"O Miss Adela! how could you? And you've hurt yourself so!"

"I don't care! I've got it!" said she proudly.

[Illustration: "I can't let you, Miss," I said.]

That very moment the door opened, and Mr. Laurence walked in, followed
by Mr. Bertram; and didn't they both call out! I expected Miss Adela
to break out into accusations of me; and I thought I should surely
be blamed. But she didn't say a word at first, not even to answer
their questions. She seemed to have paid away her anger, and not to be
in a hurry to defend herself. Mr. Laurence sat down and took her on
his knee, and Mr. Bertram pitied the poor little hand, and together
they looked to see if any glass was sticking there. Then they tied it
up in Mr. Laurence's big silk pocket-handkerchief, seeming satisfied
that she wasn't so badly hurt as might have been; and Mr. Laurence
said—

"How did it happen, Adela?"

She gave a great sigh, and didn't speak, but put her head down on his
shoulder.

"Come, Addie; how was it?" said Mr. Bertram, giving her a kiss.
"You poor little mite, did you tumble with your hand against the
glass?"

"I think you'd better ask the museum-boy," said she; "and please
put this away." She held out the other hand with the catseye.

"My dear, how do you come to have that?" asked Mr. Laurence.
"I thought the case was locked."

"It wasn't properly locked," said she, in a shaky voice. "Ask the
museum-boy, please."

But I came a step forward, and said I'd ever so much rather Miss Adela
should tell.

Miss Adela burst into tears, and said she couldn't—her hand hurt her
so much; and indeed the silk handkerchief was showing red even then.
So Nurse was sent for in a hurry, and Mrs. Crane came too, and the
hand was bathed and seen after, and bound up afresh; and Miss Adela
looked very pale and pitiful. Then Nurse asked how it had happened,
and Mr. Laurence said gravely, "We don't know yet."

"Some mischief of that boy," I heard Crane mutter. "I told you, Nurse,
she oughtn't to be left alone with him so long."

"Miles, have you been to blame?" Mr. Laurence asked; and I saw he was
worried.

"No, sir; I don't think so," I said. "I tried to do for the best."

"He's sure to say that," Mrs. Crane put in. "If he wasn't to blame,
how ever could the poor little lamb get hurt like this?"

And then, to my surprise, Miss Adela herself spoke up bravely.

"The museum-boy isn't to blame," she said. "He's a brave boy, and he's
like that soldier in the story, and I was naughty, and I wanted the
catseye, and so he locked the door; and when I was asleep he got it
away from me. And then I was angry, and I put my hand through the
glass to get it again. And that's how I'm hurt, and it's every bit
my fault."

"I know who is brave now," I heard Mr. Bertram whisper; and Mr.
Laurence put his arms tightly round the child, and called her
"his little darling."

"But I was naughty, because I was in a temper," said she; "and I meant
to ask for that catseye, Grandpapa; and now I won't."

Mr. Laurence smiled at the idea. "No, my dear; something else,—not the
catseye," he said. "But you are a good child to tell me exactly what
has happened, and not to let Miles be blamed unjustly."

"Oh, I couldn't do that, of course," she said, holding up her head.
"It would be so horrid, you know. And of course I knew he was right,
though I did tell him he was impertinent,—didn't I, museum-boy?"

"My dear, call him 'Miles,'" said Mr. Laurence.

"Why,—he is a museum-boy, isn't he?" said she wilfully. "O Grandpapa!
do let me go into your study with you now, and you can tell me
stories. And Bertie must come too. And I don't want Nurse any more
till bed-time,—or Mrs. Crane."

And then, to my surprise, as she went by she gave me a smile, and
said, "I'm sorry I was naughty."

Well, she might be a little spoilt; but anyway she was sweet. I didn't
wonder when I saw how fond Mr. Bertram was of her, after that.



CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE PONY CART.
MILES' STORY—(continued).

LITTLE Miss Adela stayed nearly a month, and I never had any more
trouble with her. She was as good as gold always; and she used to come
into the museum, and stay there by the hour, and not touch a thing
without leave. I grew almost to be as fond of her as Mr. Bertram
himself was: and to see her face peeping round the door was like
having a gleam of sunshine.

"Museum-boy," said she on the last day before she was to go away; and
nothing could cure her of calling me that, or make her give me
my proper name; "Museum-boy, what do you think we're going to do this
afternoon, directly the minute after lunch?"

I said I couldn't guess. Was it something nice?

"'Course it is! I shouldn't tell you if it wasn't, you stupid boy!"
said she, as sharp as a needle; and then she sighed. "Oh, dear me!
Nurse says I oughtn't ever to call anybody stupid, and it is so hard.
But you're nice all the same, you know."

"I'm glad you think so, Miss Adela," said I. "And what are you going
to do after lunch?"

"Why, it isn't only me; it's you too, and it's such fun! Grandpapa
is going to lend the cart to Mrs. Crane and Nurse, for us to drive
to the town, and buy heaps of things. And Grandpapa asked who else
I'd like to have go, and I said I wanted the museum-boy. And he
laughed, and didn't mind. So you've got to go; and you must be quite
neat, please, because Mrs. Crane is going to take us to tea with a
cousin of hers."

"I don't know if Mrs. Crane will want to have me, Miss Adele," I said;
and she gave me one of her astonished looks.

"Why,—I want you," she said. "And Grandpapa says you're to go. 'Course
Mrs. Crane will like it."

I could not feel quite so sure as to that; but after all I only had
to do as I was told. An hour later I had my orders from Mr. Laurence
himself. "You are to go in to St. Ermes this afternoon with Miss
Adela, starting at two o'clock;" and then he told me to buy a few
things for him, and explained carefully what he wanted, putting five
shillings into my hand. St. Ermes was a biggish town, several miles
away; and the cart was a funny little concern, not so much used by Mr.
Laurence himself, as he preferred the high dog-cart, but often lent
to Mrs. Crane, if she had shopping to do in St. Ermes.

I was ready punctually at two, waiting outside the front door; and
Mrs. Crane came to the step, wearing her very best bonnet, and not
looking specially pleased. "Where's that boy?" I heard her say. "Well,
if he's late I shan't wait for him! Such nonsense! As if you and me
wasn't enough."

"Miss Adela always gets her own way with her Grandpapa," I heard
Nurse's voice answer, close behind Mrs. Crane.

"And with everybody else. Well, I'm not going to take a great awkward
boy to my cousin's, I can tell him. He'll have to manage for himself.
Oh, there he is!" she said, but I felt pretty sure she had seen me
sooner, and meant me to hear what went before.

I didn't care to show that I had heard, though I made up my mind that
I would manage for myself, even if managing meant going without tea.
Miss Adela came running up to me, full of fun and brightness. "There's
a good museum-boy!" she cried. "They said you would be late, but I
knew you wouldn't. Now you've got to sit behind, I suppose, 'cause
Mrs. Crane likes to drive. I think a boy ought to drive."

Mrs. Crane took no notice of this, but helped Miss Adela in, and
seated herself with dignity. It was a sort of governess-cart, with
room for two on either side, the couples facing one another, and all
going sideways—so the driving had to be an awkward sideways affair;
but the last pony had been such a slow-coach, he never would go beyond
a walk, and the new pony, only just bought, seemed slower still. Mrs.
Crane sat holding the reins, opposite Miss Adela; and Nurse was beside
Miss Adela, opposite me; so I was beside Mrs. Crane, who kept turning
her back upon me, as she twisted round to drive.

After all, the new pony went better than the old one used, and we got
to St. Ermes in a shorter time than commonly. A good part of an hour
was spent in driving about there from shop to shop, buying different
things. Mrs. Crane was due at her cousin's, I found, about four
o'clock, and we were to start for home at a quarter to five. It was
a mildish day, and we had lots of wraps in the cart; so Nurse did not
mind Miss Adela being out a little after dark, for once.

I made up my mind to do Mr. Laurence's shopping while the rest were
having their tea; and though Miss Adela talked as if I were sure to go
with them, making Mrs. Crane purse up her lips, I paid no attention,
but just settled my own plans. Mrs. Crane's cousin was the wife of a
riding-master, and the pony would be looked after in his stables, but
I thought I would offer to drive him there.

The house was a white one, in the middle of a row of white houses,
all exactly alike; and when we drove up a boy stood lounging on the
pavement. "That's Alick," pronounced Miss Adela. "It's Mrs. Crane's
cousin's son, isn't it, Mrs. Crane? Look, museum-boy! And he always
takes the pony. Doesn't he, Mrs. Crane?"

I believe Mrs. Crane had meant to use me as I had meant to be used,
for she looked rather disconcerted. "There was no need for him to be
here," she said. "Miles could just as well have taken the pony to the
stables."

"Of course I could," I said. "I'd better go now, to see where they
are, and then I shall know another time."

"But then you'll be late for tea," said Miss Adela. "Oh, no,—I know
what! I'll show you where the stables are, after tea."

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Miss Adela," exclaimed Nurse.
"The idea—!"

"Why, it's only round the corner," said Miss Adela.

"The idea—" repeated Nurse, and she seemed as if she could get
no farther.

By that time I was out, and they all got down, Miss Adela seizing my
hand. "Come, you're to come in," she said. "Mrs. Crane's cousin makes
such lovely cakes, and I know you're most awfully hungry. I am."

Well, I won't say driving in that fresh air hadn't given me an
appetite, but all the same I shook my head. "No, Miss Adela, I've got
business to see to for Mr. Laurence," I said. "I'll be back in time
to start."

"But I want you," said she wilfully.

Then she saw Nurse's face, and Mrs. Crane's; and, child as she was,
she understood in a moment. She flushed up red, and stamped her foot.

"I shall tell my Grandpapa!" she said; and she turned and marched into
the house, just as if she'd been a little queen. I saw Mrs. Crane look
at Nurse, and Nurse look at Mrs. Crane; and then I got away as fast
as I could.

It took a good part of the time choosing the things that Mr. Laurence
wanted, and I had fourpence over in my purse, out of the five
shillings. Miss Adela's talking of being hungry had made me feel
hungry enough, if I hadn't been so before, and I was sorely tempted
to get a penny bun for myself. But I wouldn't, for the money did not
belong to me; and though I knew well enough Mr. Laurence would have
given leave if I could have asked it, yet I could not ask, and I had
not leave, and so I had no right to spend what was not mine. Of my own
I hadn't a penny, for all my weekly wages were handed straight over
to my mother, and if I had a need I told her, and she bought, when she
could, what I needed.

I took good care not to be outside the house till close upon the time
for starting; indeed the pony carriage and I got there at the very
same moment, and then the little rough servant-girl came out with a
big breakfast cup of tea, and a thick slice of bread-and-butter.
"The young lady wouldn't rest without you had something," she said.
"I was to ask if you'd like to take it out here or indoors."

I thanked her, but I wouldn't go indoors; and I did feel glad I hadn't
spent one penny of the money I had in my pocket on myself; so that now
I could enjoy my tea with a clear conscience. Before I was done, Miss
Adela came racing out, ready for the drive, with a big slice of
plum-cake. "There! that's for you too, museum-boy," she cried. "You're
to eat it all up, every bit. I told Mrs. Crane's cousin I wouldn't
taste a crumb if I mightn't have a piece for you; and hasn't she cut
a lovely big hunch!"

Then Miss Adela was called back, and by the time I had done my cake
they all came out. "Was it nice, museum-boy? Wasn't it nice?" Miss
Adela cried, jumping about in her delight at a drive in the dusk; and
Nurse kept trying to catch her, and to wrap her up warmly, while
Miss Adela kept slipping away like an eel. "Isn't it delicious cake?"
she persisted; and then Mrs. Crane's cousin came out, and I thanked
her; and I heard her whisper pretty loud to Mrs. Crane, "What does
make you dislike the boy so? He's got the nicest manners!"

It was getting late, and we had to hurry off. We sat just the same
as in going, only Miss Adela made Nurse go in front, and she took
the seat opposite to me; and how she did chatter, to be sure! I never
heard anybody's tongue go like Miss Adela's at that age. All about
Mrs. Crane's cousin, and Mrs. Crane's cousin's husband, and Mrs.
Crane's cousin's husband's horses, till I'm sure I felt bewildered.
Mrs. Crane didn't half like it, and she frowned at Miss Adela once
or twice; but it was no manner of use, so she took to talking with
Nurse instead.

Well, I suppose we had got about half-way home, going at a steady
jog-trot, and I was listening to Miss Adela, and not paying particular
attention to anything, when all at once the pony stopped, and began
to back. Nurse gave a scream, and Mrs. Crane did the same; and in one
moment the cart was off the road, and nearly up to the axles in a pond
full of slimy greenish water.

It didn't take me long to think what to do. At the first sound of the
scream I was up and over in the water, with a splash, and at the
pony's head—just in time to keep him from backing further. For I knew
this pond shelved pretty fast, and about the middle it was deep enough
to give anybody a good ducking—perhaps to drown one. Besides, there
was some danger of the little light cart turning over.

Mrs. Crane and Nurse shrieked again; and the pony put his ears back
and looked wicked, and I could hear Miss Adela begging, "Oh,
museum-boy, do get us out!" But that was easier said than done;
for the pony had got an obstinate fit, which we found afterward was
his way; and he wouldn't budge for anything or anybody. The moment
I loosened my grasp he began to back again, and as long as I held firm
he kept pretty still; but move forward he wouldn't. It was no earthly
use for me to pull.

"What is to be done? O dear me!" gasped Mrs. Crane. "Hold on tight,
Miles—do! there's a good boy! Don't let go! I know we shall all be
drowned."

"Hand me the whip, please," said I.

"No, no, I can't have him beaten; not on any account," cried she; and
she held the whip with both hands. "He will kick, and turn us all
over, and we shall be drowned. And I've got my best bonnet on! O dear!
O dear!"

"I can't make him stir without the whip," said I.

"I won't have him beaten; I know it isn't safe! Just hold tight on,
there's a good boy," begged Mrs. Crane, in a despairing voice.
"Perhaps he'll change his mind presently; the horrid little beast!
Or somebody may go by. Don't let go, Miles. What a mercy you came,
to be sure!"

She had never spoken so politely to me before; and I began to see a
dawn of better days. But I had no time to think of myself, for there
was no knowing what trick the pony might be up to next; and I didn't
want to have them all soused in cold water, on a January afternoon,
three miles away from home; more especially Miss Adela, who was given
to taking bad colds. I was wondering how in the world to get them out;
and, despite all I could do, the pony backed again a few inches.
So then Mrs. Crane and Nurse set up another shriek, and Miss Adela
looked quite white and shivering, as if she was getting frightened.

"Miss Adela," said I, "you just come to the corner, please—this
side—and tell me if you think you could jump into my arms, if I move
a step nearer."

"Yes, I'm sure I could," said she.

"Then stand up firm; and when I say 'Now,' you jump as far as you can,
and I'll catch you. Don't be in a hurry. Are you quite ready—quite?
Now!"

She jumped like a little kangaroo, and the same instant I let go the
pony, and held out both arms. I had her safe, and with one bound I set
her on the grass, and was back at the pony's head. But he had used his
opportunity, and the cart was deeper in than before.

"Now Miss Adela's safe," said I, and perhaps I gave a breath
of relief, which wasn't altogether kind to the two who were still
in the cart. "If you'll give me the whip, I'll get you both out;
and if not, we may have to stay here till midnight. You and Nurse
couldn't jump like that; and if you could, I shouldn't be able
to carry you."

"No, indeed!" Mrs. Crane said; but all the same she held to the whip,
and would not give it up. She was sure the pony would kick, and sure
I didn't know anything about horses; and if I only would hold on
tight, like a dear good boy—yes, she actually said "dear"—somebody
would come by very soon, or else the pony would get tired, and would
give in.

I don't know how soon the pony was likely to get tired, but I knew
I was getting heartily tired of standing knee-deep in slimy water,
lugging at an obstinate little brute who wouldn't move. I was just
going to say that if she would not give me the whip, I should have
to leave at the pony, and go after other help,—I thought this might
have the effect of frightening her into yielding, and it was so bad
for Miss Adela, waiting about in the cold,—I was just going to say
something of that sort when all at once the pony took into his head
to do the very thing that Mrs. Crane was most afraid of. He gave
a kick and a plunge, and backed again, spite of all I could do, and
one wheel caught in a big stone under water, and the cart went over,
not in a hurry, but quietly and deliberately, in a sort of
business-like way.

Those two women did scream, and no mistake, when they felt it going;
and I heard Miss Adela's frightened "Oh! Oh! Oh!" joining in from the
shore. Nurse held on gallantly to the upturned cart; but Mrs. Crane
floundered about in the water loosely, like a great walrus; though
of course nobody ever told her so afterwards. Just there the pond
wasn't deeper than up to her waist; but she had no presence of mind
for finding her feet or standing up; and if I had not been at hand,
it is as likely as not that she would have been drowned, out of sheer
fright and helplessness.

Well, I pulled and tugged her to shore somehow, she spluttering and
screaming as much as she had breath for; and she did look a
woeful-looking object, to be sure, all streaming with water and
streaked with green slime: and her best bonnet was a wonderful sight.
Next I went after Nurse, and brought her out too. She had managed
to keep her head and shoulders dry, by not losing all her wits.
The question in my mind, as I helped Nurse to land, was, what in the
world to do with them next? For there was the cart to be righted, and
the pony to be seen to; and Miss Adela was looking like a ghost; and
we were near three miles from home; and Mrs. Crane was declaring that
nothing in the world should ever make her sit behind that pony again;
and yet if she and Nurse couldn't get into dry clothes quickly,
it might cost them their lives.



CHAPTER XV.

AN IMPROVED STATE OF THINGS.
MILES' STORY—(continued).

JUST as I got to shore, helping Nurse, and looking down to choose her
steps for her, I heard a sort of shout—half laughter, half
astonishment. "Oh! I say!"—and then Miss Adela crying out,—"O Bertie!
Bertie!" And I saw Mr. Bertram holding Miss Adela, and trying to
comfort her; with his face all the time full of mischief, and yet in
a way concerned too, as he kept looking away from Miss Adela to Mrs.
Crane, who seemed dreadfully ashamed and flurried, and all in a shake,
and not far from hysterics. Miss Adela had begun to sob, clinging to
him tight.

"But how in the world did it happen?" said Mr. Bertram, after a good
lot of exclamations on both sides, for which he wasn't much the wiser.
"And how is it you're not wet, Addie? As dry as a bone!"

I told him, quick as I could, about the way things had come about, and
asked him what was to be done,—Nurse standing by, pretty patient,
while Mrs. Crane kept groaning, "O dear! O dear!" in a way that was
interrupting, to say the least. She put in her word, before Mr.
Bertram could answer me, which wasn't like her usual respectful ways;
but when a woman has been floundering in slimy green water, wearing
her best new Sunday bonnet, it isn't a wonder if for once she should
forget herself a little. "She wasn't going to sit behind that pony
again," she said. "No! never! not if she knew it! A horrid little
ill-conditioned brute! He'd be the death of somebody some day!
She wouldn't be driven any more—no, never! She would just walk home,—
yes, exactly as she was."

"I say, Crane, you'll catch your death of cold, if you stand there
speechifying," said Mr. Bertram. "Nothing is less likely than your
having to sit behind the pony again at present, in that particular
cart! You and Nurse must hurry off sharp to Brooks' farm—you know the
way—it's not half a mile. Be as quick as you can, and get your wet
things off, and go to bed, or roll yourselves up in blankets,
whichever you like."

"Miss Adela, sir?" said Nurse, shaking.

"Never mind Miss Adela. She's all right with me. We'll come presently.
Don't wait for us or anybody. Off with you both, and run, run!"
shouted Mr. Bertram, as they took him at his word. "Get warm, if you
can; and mind you have something hot to drink, the first thing."

"O Bertie! it has been so dreadful!" sighed Miss Adela.

"I say, Addie, just look at them trying to run," said Mr. Bertram,
in a whisper, to make her laugh, for she was sobbing still, off and
on. "Don't you mind," said he. "It'll be all right. Nobody's drowned.
We've got to unharness the pony now, and then Miles must walk or ride
him home and send a fly to the farm. Send dry clothes too for Crane
and Nurse. One of the maids, will see to that. Shall I help you,
Miles?" said he.

I was at work on the straps already, standing knee-deep in water;
and I said I didn't want any help. There was no need for Mr. Bertram
to get himself wet too, I thought; besides Miss Adela couldn't bear
to have him go away from her side. So he only waited a few minutes
to see how I could manage, and then he walked off to the farm
with Miss Adela.

The pony seemed to think he had done enough mischief for one day—as no
doubt he had—and he stood like a lamb while I got him free. I could do
nothing with the cart by myself; it was right over on one side, and
the shafts were snapped in two. So I just led the pony out, and gave
him a little punishment for his bad behaviour, which he took as well
as possible; and then I got on his back, being used now and then to
ride Mr. Kingscote's pony without a saddle. He started off at a
canter, and never stopped once till we reached The Myrtles.

I left the pony in the stable, advising that somebody should be sent
to see after the cart; while I went straight to Mr. Laurence, only
stopping on the way to tell Matilda what had happened, as I thought
she might like at once to get together the dry clothes, and to order
the fly ready. "Mr. Bertram wished it," I said. I didn't make much
of my own share in the adventure. Matilda held up her hands in a
startled way, and went off without a word.

Mr. Laurence was reading in his study as usual; and he was much too
busy to notice at first anything particular in my look. "Miles—that's
right," he said. "I expected you about this time. Something I want
done—a little copying. Where is Miss Adela, by-the-bye? Master Bertram
went to meet her. Is he—why, Miles!"—as I came nearer the light—"what
can have happened? My boy, what a state your trousers are in!"

"Yes, sir; we have been in the pond," I said. "But nobody is hurt."

"Been in the pond!" Mr. Laurence stared at me like one distracted.
"In the pond!"

"The pony backed in and overturned the cart," I said, "and Mrs. Crane
and Nurse have had a wetting; but Miss Adela is all right. Mr. Bertram
and they are gone to the farm near; and Mr. Bertram said a fly was
to be sent."

"To be sure! to be sure! A fly! But my child—my little Adela!"
he said, too much agitated to take in what I had said; at least,
he didn't fully. "My little Adela! To be wet through at this time
of year,—and so late!"

"No; not Miss Adela, sir," I said. "I was able to get her to dry
ground before the cart turned over."

Nothing would content Mr. Laurence but hearing the whole. He listened
and questioned, and wouldn't stir or let me go till he understood
exactly what had happened. By that time Matilda knocked at the door,
and was told to come in.

"I hope I've done right, sir," she said. "I have ordered the fly to be
here as quick as possible; and the clothes are all ready. Would you
like me to go to the farm, sir, and see if I can help?"

"Well, yes; I think that might be best, perhaps," hesitated Mr.
Laurence. "Stay—I am not sure—" And she had to wait while he stood up
and shook my hand warmly. "I owe you a great deal, Miles," said he.
"You once saved the life of my godson; and now, it may be, you have
saved the life of my grandchild too, by your promptitude. She is a
delicate little creature, and a chill is a dangerous thing. I hope
Crane and Nurse will not suffer. Yes, pray go, Matilda; certainly you
had better go. And tell Mr. Bertram that I wish him and Miss Adela to
return at once. If the others are not ready, the fly can go again
for them."

"May I change my wet things, sir, now?" I asked.

"Why, to be sure! You don't mean to say you are standing in damp
clothes all this time?" exclaimed Mr. Laurence. "Be off at once,
Miles, and don't waste a moment. Get into dry clothes directly,
or we shall have you ill."

I did not expect that, for I was hardy, and used to getting wet; but,
naturally enough, both Mrs. Crane and Nurse caught bad colds, and
Mrs. Crane especially was bad enough to be in bed for a week.

A good ten days passed before I saw her again, and all that time
others in the house were much more civil to me than they had yet been.
Nurse thanked me more than once for getting her out of the pond, and
Miss Adela was always talking about it.

The first appearance of Mrs. Crane was at tea, and I saw directly that
I wasn't to be treated any more as an interloper. She gave me the best
of everything on the table, and she talked to me politely, and,
altogether, she put me on a footing with herself, which certainly
she had never done before. It wasn't Mrs. Crane's way to acknowledge
herself in the wrong, or to say she was sorry for the past, and I
don't think she ever went so far as actually to thank me for pulling
her out of the pond; but "actions speak louder than words," and she
made a difference in her manner of treating me, which nobody could
have mistaken.

I wondered if this would last, and I found it did. Mrs. Crane might
not have a graceful way of expressing gratitude, but, at all events,
her gratitude lasted. My rubs and difficulties in that way were over,
and very glad I was that I had managed to live through them, without
giving any real cause for offence, or showing bad tempers in return.



CHAPTER XVI.

LOOKING BACK.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.

My boy, Miles, seems to have come to a stop in his writing, and he
says I'm to add something here. If I do, the first thing I'm likely
to put down is, how thankful I am to have such children as mine!
I don't think I am what is called "fond and foolish" about my
children. That is to say, I don't think mine is a blind love,
able only to see good in them, and able to see nothing that is wrong.
The best and highest kind of love isn't a blind love—at least,
I should think not.

Miles has his faults, like other boys; and one fault shows pretty
clearly in this bit of our story which he has written. I mean, he has
the fault of thinking too much about himself. There is a lot about
"I—I," and "what I have done, and what I think," and "what people
think of me," and that's a pity always. The more we think about
ourselves, the less leisure we have to think about other people.

I wonder whether anybody reading my part of the story—I mean the part
I wrote myself —would perhaps say the same of me! I never thought of
that before; but things look so different from outside and inside,
and it may be so.

Well, anyhow, as I say, I'm not blind to my children's faults, and I'm
not blind to this fault of Miles'. But, all the same, I am thankful
to have my boy what he is. For I know that he is honest and
straightforward and true: that he is hardworking, and diligent,
and ready to do a kindness to anybody. And I know that Mr. Laurence
thinks a lot of my boy. He told Mrs. Kingscote the other day, that he
"would trust Miles with anything." That was nice for a mother to hear,
wasn't it?

As for my other children, Louey and Rosie, they are both as good and
affectionate as I could wish. Louey is more and more of a help to me
in the house, and Rosie bids fair to follow in her steps.

And my other little one—my sweet Bessie—it is all well with her,
I know, though a veil has come between, and I cannot see or touch her
more. Yet often I feel that she is even nearer to me than my dear ones
who seem so near; for the veil between is very thin, and she and I are
both in Christ's keeping. And oh, how safe she is? For the three elder
ones I am often anxious, picturing their future in this life, and
possible dangers and temptations. But for Bessie, all anxiety is over!
she is beyond danger and beyond temptation. If I could have her back
again, would I? Ah, that would be a hard question to answer, if put
to me! Hard to say "No," and yet how grieved she would be to have to
come! It would be like going from the Queen's palace to live in some
dark cellar. Oh no! I love her too well to wish it really, even while
nothing can ever fill that blank in my life.

Sometimes I think my husband was struck down too, that I might have
the more to fill my time and thoughts during the months following.
For a long while he improved so slowly, it could hardly be called
getting on at all; and though the doctor spoke of a measure of
recovery, I knew he never could be a strong man again. We didn't dare
at first to hope that he would ever get back his walking-power. And
though things were better than we feared, and he did in time gain
strength to move slowly with a stick, yet he has always been something
of an invalid, needing a lot of care, and not able to do much in the
way of work.

The lodging-house plan was a success. From the time we first began,
I never knew for the next three years what it was to have empty rooms
in spring, or summer, or autumn; and we were able to lay by for winter
months. Miles too earned more, and he brought all his earnings to me.
It is wonderful how, one way and another, we were helped.

But isn't that the way? If trouble comes, and we put our trust in God,
isn't help sure?

I don't mean just a careless indifferent sort of confidence that
things will get right somehow, but a real living trust in the Fatherly
love of God, and in the willingness of Christ our Lord always to hear
when we pray, and to do for us what we really need. That can never be
in vain. The help mayn't come exactly as we should choose; but one way
or another it will come.



THE END.



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