Beryl's Triumph, by Eglanton Thorne—A Project Gutenberg eBook

AUTHOR OF
"THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "IT'S ALL REAL TRUE,"
"IN LONDON FIELDS," ETC.

"DO make haste, Lucy; how slow you are!" exclaimed Beryl Hollys, as she impatiently shook the long, silken tresses, which her maid was carefully brushing. "Papa will be here before you have done my hair, I do believe."

"You need not be afraid of that, Miss Beryl," answered the maid quietly; "for Andrew has only just driven out of the yard, and it's a good three miles to the station. Master can't possibly be here yet awhile."

"Well, do make haste, anyhow!" returned Beryl, giving her head another toss; "there are ever so many things I want to do before papa comes."

"I am as quick as I can be," replied Lucy, in an aggrieved tone; "but your hair is in such a tangle with tossing in the wind, that there is no doing anything with it."

"My hair is a bother," said Beryl. "I wish I could wear it quite short like a boy. It kept blowing in my eyes and teasing me so when I was on the beach. I should have enjoyed the wind but for that. I think it is good fun when the wind blows as it has been blowing this afternoon."

"The wind still seems to be rising," said Lucy, as an angry gust beat against the house; "I am afraid there will be a storm to-night."

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Beryl gleefully. "I love to hear the wind roaring after I am in bed. It seems to make the bed feel so much more cosy and comfortable."

"Oh, Miss Beryl, how can you say you are glad!" said Lucy reproachfully; for, being a fisherman's daughter, she knew the perils of the deep, and to her a storm was an event to be dreaded. "Think of the poor sailors who may be drowned whilst you are enjoying your warm bed."

"Oh, well, Lucy, you know I did not mean that I was glad that sailors should be drowned," replied Beryl, in a tone of annoyance; "I'm sure I don't wish any one to come to harm; but I do like to hear the wind roar."

By this time Beryl's hair was in order, and Lucy proceeded to array her in a white dress, with blue sash and ribbons. As soon as she was released from her maid's hands, Beryl, regardless of Lucy's warning that she would tumble her dress, scrambled up into the high window-seat, and took a good look at the prospect it commanded. The nursery window was at the side of Egloshayle House, and looked over the garden wall into the narrow, hilly street which led from the village to the shore.

A corner of the beach, too, was visible, with a row of fishermen's boats drawn up high and dry on the stones, and some nets spread over them. Several men were moving about on the beach, gathering up the nets, and making the boats more secure, in expectation of a stormy night. The gloomy sky, the angry roll of the waves, and the increasing bluster of the March wind, seemed to show that their prognostications would soon be verified.

"How the wind does blow, to be sure!" said Beryl; "and now it is beginning to rain. I hope papa will not get wet."

"The rain is not enough to hurt any one at present," said Lucy, looking out; "and I dare say Andrew took wraps. Oh, Miss Beryl, do look at your dress. It will not be fit to be seen if you kneel on it like that."

Beryl disdained to reply to Lucy's words, but, springing lightly from the window-seat, hastened out of the room.

A delicious smell of cooking came to her nostrils as she ran down the wide staircase. Beryl observed it with satisfaction, for she would have dinner with her father to-night in honour of his return, and she had a keen appetite for the dainties which cook was sure to send up on this occasion.

Beryl was the only child in that large, old house, and as such she had many indulgences; but she had never known a mother's love and care. Nearly twelve years had passed since the summer day when Mr. Hollys brought his pretty young bride to her Cornish home. Egloshayle House looked a bright and pleasant abode then, when newly painted and adorned in honour of her coming, and the quiet life of the little seaside village seemed sweet and peaceful to the hearts which clung together so fondly, and made the happiness of each other's life.

The joy had lasted but a short time. Only one year of happy wedded life, and then came death and change.

At Beryl's birth her mother passed from earth, and to the desolate husband the young helpless life seemed a poor exchange for that of which it robbed him.

He went abroad for some years, leaving his babe in the care of servants, who were faithful to their charge, and lovingly tended the child. When at length he returned home, Guy Hollys was very pleased with his tiny daughter, and learned to love her tenderly, though, perhaps, his love was not the wisest, most unselfish form of parental affection. He liked to pet and fondle his little Beryl, showering upon her gifts and indulgences; but his kindness was of a sort that gave him little trouble, and his fondness for her did not incline him to settle down and make his home at Egloshayle again. Since his wife's death, he had returned to the habits of his former bachelor life, and usually lived in London, contenting himself with paying brief visits to his Cornish property, to see that all was going on as it should there, and that the child was well and happy.

In order that Beryl might not be entirely left to servants, he persuaded his sister, an unmarried lady of but small property, to live at Egloshayle House, and take the oversight of the household. Having made this arrangement, he felt fully persuaded that he had done all that could be required of him as a father.

Beryl was very fond of the parent of whom she saw so little, and always hailed his visits with delight. The child's life was not dull, though she had no companion of her own age.

She thoroughly enjoyed her free, wild, seaside life, and found a variety of delights and amusements in rambling along the shore, and exploring the rocks and caves with which it abounded, or in making acquaintance with the honest fisher-folk of the place, who had always a smile and a pleasant word for the little lady of "the House." Her father had given her a pony, on which she used to ride for many a mile along the coast, with Andrew in attendance to see that she came to no harm.

It would have been pleasanter, no doubt, as Beryl sometimes acknowledged, if she had had a child-friend to share her walks and rides; but on the whole she was pretty content with her lot, and did not complain of what could not be helped. These long hours passed in the open air gave her health and strength, and she grew a tall, strong girl, of graceful, well-made figure, and as hardy, agile, and swift-footed as any child in Egloshayle.

Beryl's mental culture was far behind her physical, and she was little less ignorant than the fishermen's children who played on the beach. Her aunt was supposed to be responsible for Beryl's education; but Miss Cecilia Hollys was far too indolent to impose upon herself the trouble of teaching Beryl. Beyond an occasional music lesson, and frequent reprimands on the score of her ignorance, with tiresome injunctions as to ladylike behaviour, she left the culture of Beryl's mind to her nurse, who, having taught her to read after a fashion, to write an ugly scrawling hand, and to do sums of the simplest description, could give no further instruction to her charge.

Beryl was in no wise distressed by the poverty of her mental requirements. She was blissfully unconscious of the fact that for a gentleman's daughter she was disgracefully ignorant. She could read the pretty, gaily-illustrated story books with which her father kept her well supplied, and she felt no need of any further learning. Beryl was disposed to be well satisfied with herself. She had an agreeable sense of superiority and dignity as she went about amongst the fisher-folk of Egloshayle, who regarded her with as much admiration and deference as if she had been a little princess. Sometimes, when the young lady was more than usually perverse and wilful, her aunt would threaten to send her to school, but this threat never disturbed Beryl's equanimity, since she felt certain that her father would not consent to an arrangement to which she herself felt so strong an objection.

Beryl was on her way to her Aunt Cecilia as she flitted down the staircase, sniffing, with pleasant anticipations, the savoury odours which escaped from the kitchen regions. She was not particularly fond of her aunt's company, for the affection existing between them was of the coolest description; but in her present mood of excitement Beryl felt restless and impatient, and a little talk with her aunt might help to pass away the time.

Beryl entered the drawing-room, a long, low room with a painted ceiling, and a bow-window, which commanded a fine sea-view. The room felt warm, even to closeness, for a large fire of logs burned in the grate, and suffused through the apartment the fragrance of burning wood. Beryl could not see the fire as she came in, for a large black and gold screen completely hid the hearthrug. Going round to the other side of the screen, Beryl saw her aunt, comfortably stretched on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, in which she seemed greatly interested. A fat little dog was lying on the rug at Miss Cecilia's feet, and it moved languidly and gave a feeble whine as Beryl approached. Beryl took no notice of the little animal, for, though fond of most dogs, she could feel nothing but contempt for this stupid, useless poodle. Lion, the great mastiff chained in the yard, from whose approach Aunt Cecilia would have shrunk away in terror, was, in Beryl's opinion, far more suitable for a pet and plaything.

Miss Hollys had long ceased to be young, but she was dressed with as much care and attention to fashion as in the days of her early youth, though the youthful style of her apparel only heightened in cruel contrast the worn and faded look of her face. Her thin, pinched features had an expression of peevish discontent, and she appeared as unsympathetic a companion as a child could have. She started and shivered as Beryl bounded across the room.

"Oh, Beryl, if only you could learn to enter a room quietly!" she said, in a weak, fretful tone. "And you have left the door open; I know you have by the dreadful draught."

"Really, Aunt Cecilia, I should think a little draught would do you good," observed Beryl coolly; "this room feels like an oven."

"You forget that I am not like you, child, as strong as a horse. The least current of air gives me cold. Do, for goodness' sake, shut that door."

Beryl did as she was told, and then came back to the fireplace. Tea-things were standing on a little table beside her aunt's couch, for Miss Hollys had just been fortifying herself with her afternoon cup of tea.

"May I have a cup of tea, aunt?" asked Beryl, as she laid hands upon the teapot.

"You had better not," said Aunt Cecilia languidly; "tea is not good for little girls."

But Beryl had already filled a cup for herself, and proceeded to enjoy the tea without further debate.

It was clear that asking her aunt's permission was a mere formality. Miss Hollys never expected that her injunctions would be regarded, and Beryl had long known that she could disobey her aunt with impunity. Filling her lap with sweet biscuits, Beryl sat down on the hearthrug to enjoy a little repast.

"It will keep her quiet! That's a mercy!" thought her aunt, as she turned again to her novel.

But Miss Hollys was soon reminded that Beryl could eat and talk at the same time.

"Do you think papa will soon be here, Aunt Cecilia?" she asked, with her mouth full of biscuit.

"I dare say," replied her aunt; "you had better make haste and eat your biscuits, or you won't be able to speak to him when he comes."

"I can't tell you the exact time," replied Miss Cecilia; "perhaps Lucy may know."

"Oh, how stormy it looks over the sea!" she exclaimed. "And the waves are so big. There will be a great storm presently."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," said Miss Hollys, with a sigh; "I can't sleep when there is a storm. It makes me feel so nervous and weak."

"How would you like it, if you were on board a ship out in the midst of the storm?" returned Beryl, thinking that Lucy's remarks might be repeated to her aunt with advantage. "It will be far worse for the poor sailors than for you."

"I wonder what it feels like to be drowned!" said Beryl, pursuing her own train of thought. "I don't think I should mind it much. There is nothing I like better than being in the water."

For want of anything better to do, Beryl was beginning to tease the poodle, when the welcome sound of wheels reached her ears, and with a cry of joy she rushed from the room, leaving the door wide open, to her aunt's discomfiture, as she ran into the hall to meet her father.

Mr. Hollys was a tall, brown-haired, brown-bearded man, not yet forty years of age. His countenance showed little trace of the sorrow which had darkened his early life. He had the air of a well-to-do English gentleman, who led an easy, comfortable life, carefully avoiding all unnecessary trouble and vexation.

"Well, Beryl, how are you?" he asked, as he took her in his arms. "Quite well? That's right. You look well enough. Why, how you have grown since Christmas, child! I declare you look nothing but legs and arms."

"I'm glad you think I've grown, papa," said Beryl, with pride; "I want to be very tall; as tall as you, papa."

"Not quite as tall as I am, I hope," he replied; "or you will be a female monstrosity, Beryl. How is your aunt? Let us go and find her. And when will dinner be ready? For I am as hungry as a man ought to be who has been fasting for the last nine hours."

As they entered the drawing-room together, it was plain how much Beryl resembled her father. She had the same blue eyes, the same abundant brown hair, only the child's tresses had a pretty golden tinge, which her father's had lost, and her complexion was fair and delicate.

Beryl did not talk much to her father as he ate his dinner, partly because her own attention was absorbed by the unusual dishes presented to her, and partly because she had sufficient feminine discernment to see that her chatter would be more acceptable to him when he had satisfied his appetite. But when dessert was placed on the table, and her father was leisurely sipping his wine, she gave full rein to her tongue, and began to tell him all that had happened in the little world of Egloshayle during the months of his absence. This pleasant talk, however, was not destined to last long. It was brought to a close in a startling manner.

Whilst the meal was in progress, the storm had been growing stronger and stronger, and the blasts which now beat against the house were tremendous.

"What a gale, to be sure!" remarked Mr. Hollys, as he poured himself out a second glass of wine; "We shall hear of some disasters at sea to-morrow, I fear."

Even as he spoke there fell on their ears, through the roar of wind and waves, the boom of a gun, fired out at sea.

"Why, what is that?" exclaimed Mr. Hollys. "There is surely some vessel in distress off our own coast."

They heard the sound again, and he rose and went to the window, but peered in vain into the dark night.

Just then there came a knock at the door, and, scarce waiting for a response, Andrew burst in, saying in great excitement, "I thought as how you would like to know, sir, that there's great commotion down on the beach yonder. They say there's a vessel in danger off Sheldon Point."

CHAPTER II

ON hearing the news which Andrew brought, Mr. Hollys hastened into the hall, and, putting on his travelling coat and cap, prepared to go out into the stormy night.

"Papa," said Beryl's voice by his side, "do let me go with you, and see the ship."

"Nonsense, child," returned her father hastily; "you could not stand on the beach in such a storm as this. No, no; you must not think of it."

"Oh yes, papa, I could stand against the wind," persisted Beryl; "I am sure I could. You do not know how strong I am."

But Mr. Hollys was firm. "No, no, child, it will not do; I cannot think of it," he said. "But I tell you what you may do, Beryl. You can get Lucy to take you into the garden. You will see the ship from there, I have no doubt."

Lucy was anxious herself to see what was happening, and made no objection to taking Beryl into the garden. The garden lay in front of the house, reaching to the beach, and was comparatively a sheltered spot, for a high, strong wall, protected it from any possible danger from wind or wave. At the bottom of the garden there was a door made in the wall, from which a flight of stone steps led down to the beach, giving Beryl easy access to the water when she wanted to bathe, for at high tide the waves broke over the lowest step. As another convenience for bathers, a garden-house had been built close to this door. It consisted of a lower and an upper room, and as the window of the upper room rose above the wall, and overlooked the whole sweep of the bay, it formed a fine observatory.

In this house Lucy and Beryl took refuge from the wind, which even in the garden was felt as far too rough, as it beat in their faces, laden with the cold sea-spray. Soon they were joined by some of the other servants, and the whole party gazed anxiously from the windows; but for a long time they could distinguish nothing save a heaving mass of blackness, over which swept the furious blasts.

Presently Beryl cried, "Lucy, I can see a light! There, far away to the right, beyond Sheldon Point. Don't you see it?"

"Yes, I think I do," said Lucy, peering into the dark. "Ah, and there is that gun again! It sounds a long way off."

"The light is moving!" cried Beryl. "I can see it quite plainly. It is moving towards us."

"Ah, poor souls, the Lord have mercy upon them!" exclaimed Lucy, clasping her hands in despair. "The wind is driving them straight upon the rocks below Sheldon Point."

"Why, Miss Beryl, the ship will break in pieces if it strikes on those rocks, and they will all go down," replied Lucy. "There is scarce a hope for any of them, poor souls."

"But surely they can be saved; they must be saved!" cried Beryl passionately. "The men will get out the lifeboat. Papa will see that they do something."

"The lifeboat would be of no use amongst those rocks, I fear," said Lucy, "even if they could launch it in such weather as this. The fishermen's lives are as dear as the lives of those on board that ship. They have wives and children to live for."

"Oh, Lucy, I will never say again that I like storms," said Beryl remorsefully. "Oh, I hope the ship will be saved!"

"I remember, many years ago, when I was a little girl, there was a vessel struck on those rocks," said Lucy, "and all on board her were drowned, though there were over a hundred of them."

"How dreadful!" said Beryl, with a shiver, as she watched the light drifting nearer and nearer to the deadly peril of the rocks.

Meanwhile, at the extremity of the beach where Sheldon Point ran out grim and sharp into the sea, a crowd of fisher-folk had gathered, and were watching with grief and horror the oncome of the doomed vessel.

There were brave hearts in that throng, men who would not shrink from danger in attempting to save the lives of others; but even these held back now, feeling that it would be certain destruction to commit themselves to those seething, angry waves.

Mr. Hollys had called for the lifeboat when he came down to the beach, but no seaman had echoed the call. They shook their heads at the mention of it, for they felt it would be madness to put out in it now, and Mr. Hollys was reluctantly forced to own that they were right.

Such a terrific sea had not been known for years. The waves were even dashing over Sheldon Point, a feat which would seem incredible to one who had merely seen the waves when dancing in their summer play at the foot of this lofty height. The fate of a disabled vessel drifting at the mercy of such a sea was indeed hopeless.

"Can nothing be done?" cried Mr. Hollys, in despair. The howling of the wind and the fierce tumult of the waves were all the answer he received.

Lights had been kindled along the shore, and now, as the vessel drew nearer, they could discern her form and size. The cries of those on board her were lost in the storm. Already the angry sea had swept over her, carrying many to death; but they could distinguish some human forms clinging with the grasp of despair to mast and rigging.

"Is it quite impossible to help them? Is there nothing you could do?" asked Mr. Hollys of the fishermen about him.

"We have ropes and life-buoys, sir," answered Joe Pollard, Lucy's brother, a brave, sturdy fellow, of honest Cornish race. "When it comes to the worst, we may be able to pull in some, if the waves bring them near enough."

Nearer came the vessel, driven by the cruel wind. Now they could see clearly the people on deck. Clinging together at the stern were a group whose appearance sent a thrill of deep pity through Mr. Hollys' heart.

They were a father and mother apparently, with their little girl between them. Scarcely had Mr. Hollys observed their look of anguish and love, as they clung together in the prospect of immediate death, ere the dreaded shock came. With a crash, sounding sharp and loud above the roar of wind and water, the vessel snapped in two on the treacherous rocks, and the larger part disappeared at once from view. Looking intently at the spot, Mr. Hollys could see that the ship's stern rested on the rocks, a little above the waves, which seemed greedy to devour it. The woman and child were still clinging there, but the man had disappeared.

And now the brave fishermen were on the alert, eager to rescue any whom the waves might bring within their reach. As their quick eyes caught sight of a dark object tossing close at hand, one and another, girt with a rope, would plunge into the sea to the succour of the drowning man. Some few were brought to shore in this way, but the number was small indeed compared with those who perished.

"Is there no possibility of saving them?" he asked. "Could they not be reached from above?"

Joe shook his head. "There's no getting at them that way, I reckon," he replied; "the cliff is as straight as the side of a house below the Point. The only chance would be by swimming round; but it would be a hard fight for it."

"There will soon be no hope of saving them," said Mr. Hollys, as he watched the waves breaking over the wreck. "Here, give me a rope, Joe. I'm a tolerable swimmer, I'll try it. I can't see those poor creatures perish without making some effort to save them."

"Nay, nay, sir; you couldn't hold out against such a sea as this," replied Joe. "If any one does it, I'm the man. You've got the little lady to think of."

As Joe spoke he was fastening a rope round his waist. To one end of this rope, he secured a life-buoy; then turning to Mr. Hollys, he said, "I'll try it, sir. You hold the rope, and I'll do my best."

In another moment the brave fellow had plunged into the water, and was battling with the waves. Mr. Hollys held his breath as he watched him. For a while the waves seemed to assist his progress, but it was harder work to round the Point. Again and again he was driven back; sometimes he was lost to sight in a gulf of the sea, appearing again triumphant on the crest of a huge wave.

Bravely, he struggled on, till at last the Point was rounded, and a few strong strokes brought him alongside the wreck. He had gained it just in time, for already it was breaking up under the fierce onslaught of the waves.

A shout of joy broke from the watchers on the beach when they saw Joe climb the planks to which the helpless woman clung. But rescue was yet to be made, and Joe's hardest struggle lay before him.

With the rope, he secured the woman and child to the life-buoy, and scarcely had he done so, when the whole mass to which they clung heaved over and sank beneath the waves. The three sank with it, and for a moment it seemed to the alarmed watchers as if all were lost. But the next moment the life-buoy bore them up, and, seizing the rope, Joe began to swim back, towing the other two.

Now the fishermen on the shore could help, and with a will they drew in the rope, till, beaten and bruised by the waves, and utterly exhausted, the shipwrecked ones were brought to shore.

"Surely they are dead?" said Mr. Hollys, as he looked at the white and unconscious forms which the men had drawn out of the waves.

"I think not, sir," said one of the fishermen. "They're not so far gone but what they can be brought back, I reckon. I've seen folks look worse than that, and yet recover."

"They had better be carried to my house," said Mr. Hollys. "Everything will be in readiness there."

And with compassionate tenderness the rough fishermen lifted the slight form of the child, and the scarcely heavier one of her mother, and bore them along the beach, and up the short ascent to Egloshayle House. Here prompt measures were taken to restore them to animation. The child was the first to recover consciousness. She came round quickly, and, when wrapped in warm blankets, and laid in Beryl's bed, seemed little the worse for her misadventure, save that she was frightened, and cried piteously for her mother.

The mother's case was more serious, and it was long ere she showed the least sign of life. When at length she was restored to consciousness, her pulse was so feeble, and her exhaustion so extreme, that the doctor, whose help Mr. Hollys had summoned, feared that she might be unable to rally from the effects of the shock she had sustained.

Whilst the others were engaged in attending to the poor woman, Beryl sat beside the child and tried to soothe her with loving words and caresses. She was a pretty child, with large, dark eyes, and short, black curly hair, much smaller, and probably younger than Beryl. She seemed dreadfully frightened at finding herself in a strange place, and Beryl's words and kisses failed to soothe her.

"I want mamma," she sobbed. And when told that her mother was too ill to come to her, she said, "Then father will do. Where is father? Why doesn't he come to me? Mamma is often ill, I know, but father never is."

In despair, Beryl went downstairs and sought her father. She found him in the dining-room talking to the doctor.

"Papa," said Beryl, "that little girl keeps crying for her father. Do you know where he is?"

"Alas! Poor little thing," said Mr. Hollys, sadly, "her father is drowned, I fear. We never saw him after the vessel struck."

Beryl grew white, and clung to her father's arm with a sickening feeling of horror.

She had never realised before what death meant. How dreadful it seemed that that little girl upstairs should be crying for her father, and he lying dead beneath the waves.

She burst into tears, and turned away. Her father drew her back to him, kissing her, and uttering fond and soothing words; but Beryl wept long and bitterly. She never forgot the grief and horror of that night. In after years, it stood out clear and distinct in her history, as the night on which she had first tasted of the world's sorrows.

CHAPTER III

THE morning after the storm dawned so fresh and beautiful that it seemed as if Nature were anxious to atone for her wrath and passion of the previous night. The breeze was light and sportive; such clouds as the sky showed were hurrying out of sight as fast as possible; the sea, on which the sun was pouring his warm rays, though still high, no longer dashed on the shore with devouring rage, but only heaved and flowed with the buoyancy of full life.

But the brightness of the day could not make amends for the ruin which the storm had wrought. On every side were heard complaints of loss and disaster. Some of the fishermen had lost their boats, others their nets; and the loss of their means of livelihood was a serious calamity for these poor men to face, involving, as it did, want and starvation for their wives and families. But the greatest loss of all was the loss of life, and with sad hearts, the few who had been saved from shipwreck counted the number of their comrades who had gone down to death in the dark waters. Several bodies were washed ashore during the course of that day, along with pieces of the wreck—barrels, life-buoys, seamen's jerseys, and articles of various kinds belonging to the fittings of a ship. The drowned were handled with reverent pity by the kindly folk of Egloshayle, and decent burial given them in the churchyard. There were only a few in the Cornish village, and those persons of recognised bad character, who could rejoice in the spoil the sea brought them that day, and showed greedy haste in bearing it away.

The vessel so cruelly wrecked was a merchant ship from Montreal, bound for Swansea. She had carried no passengers save the lady and child now sheltered in Mr. Hollys' home, and the gentleman who had perished. The sailors shook their heads when they heard that the lady was still very ill. It would go hard with her, they feared, for she had been an invalid when she came on board, and they had understood that the gentleman was making this voyage mainly for the benefit of his wife's health.

Beryl awoke on this bright March morning with the sense of a strange weight upon her mind. She could not understand what made her feel so heavy-hearted, till she saw that she was not lying as usual in her own little bed, but on a somewhat frail couch, which Lucy had hastily arranged for her. Then she remembered all, and sprang up, that she might take a look at the little companion who had been brought to her so strangely on the previous night. The child was sleeping peacefully in the bed close by. Beryl crept quietly to her side, and looked at her with a glance of love and pity, for a sense of the child's great loss was still prominent in her mind. The child looked very pretty as she lay with one arm bent beneath her curly head, and the long, dark eyelashes resting on her soft, pale cheek. Beryl stooped and kissed her very gently, so as not to rouse her.

"What a dear little thing she is!" said Beryl to herself. "I wonder what her name is! How I should like to have her for a little sister! I never thought before that I should care for a sister."

At this moment Lucy entered the room. She exclaimed at seeing Miss Beryl standing with bare feet on the cold matting.

"Hush, Lucy," said Beryl, in a shrill whisper, giving her nurse an indignant glance. "You will wake the child if you make such a noise, and she looks so tired, poor little thing."

Lucy made no reply, but quietly fetched the young lady's shoes and stockings from the other side of the room, and Beryl had time to observe that her nurse's eyes were very red, as though she had been weeping.

"Whatever is the matter with you, Lucy?" she asked. "What have you been crying about? Has Aunt Cecilia been scolding you again?"

"Oh no, it's not that, Miss Beryl," replied Lucy, "it's about my brother. They have been telling me what danger he was in last night; and I can't help thinking whatever I should have done if I had lost him."

"But he is all right, is he not?" asked Beryl. "He was not hurt at all, was he?"

"Oh no; he is quite safe and well; not hurt, at least, as I know of," said Lucy.

"Then why ever should you cry?" demanded Beryl, in a tone of astonishment. "I should think you ought to be very glad that he was able to save this little girl and her mother. I think it was so good and brave of him. I should be quite proud of my brother if I were you. Why, I heard papa talking of it last night, and he said Joe deserved a medal from the Royal Humane Society, and he thought he would very likely get it too. Does not that please you, Lucy?"

"Yes, it's all very fine," said Lucy, tears coming into her eyes as she spoke; "and of course I'm proud of Joe; but I reckon the Royal Humane Society could not have brought him to life again if he had been drowned; and he is the only brother I've got, and I can't help thinking how different it might have been."

"Well, really, Lucy, you are silly to cry over what has not happened," said plain-spoken, practical Beryl. "Think what it is for this poor little girl to lose her father. That is a real thing, and far worse."

"Ah, poor child, I should not wonder if she were to lose her mother too," said Lucy, showing no resentment of her young lady's freedom of speech, to which she was probably well accustomed.

"The poor lady is very ill," said Lucy; "for a lady they say she is; and, indeed, I was sure of it as soon as I saw her pretty white hands with the rings upon them. The doctor says the shock may kill her."

"Oh, Lucy, what a dreadful thing!" said Beryl, tears coming into her eyes at the thought. "Whatever will become of this poor little thing if she loses her mother too!"

"I can't tell, I'm sure," replied Lucy. "Perhaps she has friends who will take care of her."

"Make haste and dress me, please, Lucy," said Beryl, in a tone of decision. "I must go and speak to papa."

But Beryl found it no easy matter to get the quiet talk with her father upon which she had set her mind. All the morning people kept coming to the house to consult him on various matters, and just as she thought she had secured his ear, he was summoned to go down to the beach to view a body which had come ashore, and which was believed to be that of the lady's husband.

In vain, Beryl turned for sympathy to Miss Hollys. She was far too absorbed in her own sensations, and would talk of nothing but the terrible shock she had sustained, and the great inconvenience it was to have strangers ill in the house.

At last Beryl was so annoyed at what she considered her aunt's heartlessness, that she was driven to say bluntly, "Well, aunt, you know that if you were half-drowned, and very ill, you would be thankful to any kind people who would take care of you; so I think it is very horrid of you to grumble because we have to do it."

Whereupon Beryl was well scolded for her impertinence, and no doubt she deserved it.

Her aunt's society proving so uninteresting, Beryl went upstairs again, and found, to her delight, that the little girl was awake, and less shy and fretful than on the previous night.

Beryl looked on with pleasure whilst Lucy arrayed the child in some of Beryl's clothes which she had long outgrown.

"What is your name, little girl?" asked Beryl, in such a dignified, patronising tone, that Lucy could hardly keep from smiling to hear her.

"Coral!" repeated Beryl. "What a funny name! I have never heard of any one being named Coral; have you, Lucy?"

"No, I don't know that I ever have," replied Lucy; "but after all it is not much stranger than your own name, Miss Beryl."

"Oh, well," said Beryl; "you know that papa called me Beryl because it was the name of a song mamma used to sing to him."

"Yes," said Lucy; "and this little girl's parents may have had some such reason for calling her Coral."

"Mamma often calls me Cora," said the child, "but papa likes Coral best. Where are papa and mamma? Can't I see them now?"

"I can take her down to see her mamma," said Lucy. "She is sleeping now, they say, so little missy can just look at her quietly, and then come away again."

Little Coral was quite satisfied when she had taken a look at her mother, lying with her face almost as white as the pillow it pressed, in the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. Apparently she saw nothing very unusual in her mother's appearance, for she whispered to Lucy that her mamma was often ill thus, and would be sure to be better soon, and then very willingly suffered herself to be taken back to Beryl.

Beryl brought out her prettiest books and playthings to amuse her little guest, and completely won her heart by the gift of a doll, a kind of toy which Beryl was wont to eye with disdain, but which seemed the loveliest object imaginable to little Coral. The children were very happy together for the rest of the day.

On the following day, the shipwrecked sufferer seemed a little stronger. Mr. Hollys had some talk with her. He was obliged to tell her that her husband's body had been washed ashore, and to ask if there were any relatives to whom she would like him to communicate the fact of his death. The poor woman bore the sad intelligence better than could have been expected. She knew that her husband was dead, she said; and she should not have wished to survive him, save for the sake of their little child.

To Mr. Holly's surprise, she declared that she had no friends in England. The only relative she had living, her brother, was far away in Australia. She had quarrelled with him at the time of her marriage, of which he had disapproved, and had not heard of him for years, so that she did not know where a letter might find him.

Her husband's name was Louis Despard; he came of an old Canadian family of French extraction; her child was named Coralie Despard, after her husband's mother.

Their wedded life had been full of trouble. For a short time they had lived in London; but things had not prospered with them there, and her husband had always been eager to get back to his own country, so when he had the offer of a share in a business in Montreal, nothing would do but he must accept it. But the venture proved unhappy. The business was a failing concern, and her husband lost nearly all his money in it. After struggling for years with disappointment and difficulty, Mrs. Despard's health, never very robust, completely broke down, and a doctor having said that a voyage might perhaps restore her, they had resolved, as a last resource, to sell everything, and return to England, to begin life anew there.

Such was the story told by the suffering woman, in brief, broken sentences as her strength permitted. "And now," she said at last, bursting into tears, "my husband is gone, everything is lost; and what will become of me and my child, I know not."

Mr. Hollys was touched by the sight of her distress. He was a man of tender heart, though little used to scenes of sorrow and suffering. Kind words rushed to his lips in his anxiety to soothe the delicate, grief-stricken woman.

"Do not think of that now," he said. "Do not trouble about the future till you are stronger. We will do all we can for you here, and you are welcome to remain as long as you please."

Mrs. Despard thanked him most gratefully; but he hurried away from her thanks, as though they made him uneasy.

Guy Hollys did not, like his sister, anticipate inconvenience or annoyance from the presence of these strangers in his home. He was a man of generous, kindly nature, and loved to give with a free hand. And although he did not do good from high and sacred motives, he was yet one who could never look on suffering unmoved, nor see others in want, without making an effort to relieve them.

CHAPTER IV

TWO days later, the body of Louis Despard was committed to the earth. Little Coral had been told that the sea had robbed her of her father, and she cried heartily at the thought that she should see him no more. But she was too young to realise the greatness of her loss, and her tears, like most tears of childhood, were quickly dried. Every one was so kind to her, and petted her so freely, Beryl was such a delightful companion, and there were so many strange and pretty things to be seen in the new place in which she found herself, that the child's mind refused to dwell long on its grief.

But both the children shed tears as they stood by Mr. Hollys' side in the churchyard, and saw the coffin lowered into the cold, dark grave. It was a new, mysterious experience for Beryl.

She had heard and known of Death, but it had never come thus near to her before. It was as if a grim shadow had fallen across the sunshine of her life, and it seemed to her that now the coming days could not be so joyous as the past had been. Strange thoughts were working in the child's mind as she stood beside that open grave.

She listened with a dull, aching wonder to the words which the rector was reading, and wished that some one would explain them to her.

Soon the last words were uttered, and as the little crowd turned away, Mr. Hollys drew the children nearer to the grave, that they might drop into it the flowers they carried.

Guy Hollys' spirit was moved within him, for he was reminded of that day of sorrow many years ago, when he had seen his young love laid to rest in the bosom of the earth. Not many yards from where they stood, rose the marble cross which marked the place where she slept. He led the children to the spot ere they left the churchyard.

Beryl knew it well, for Lucy had thought it right, when she was but a tiny child, to bring her frequently to see her mother's grave. She could have repeated without looking the words inscribed on the marble cross:—

Sacred to the Memory of
MARGARETTA HOLLYS,
the beloved wife of Guy Hollys, Esq.,
of Egloshayle House,
who died June 14, 18—, in the 20th year of her age.

"I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting."

Often as Beryl had read these last words, she had never before desired to know their meaning; but now, as she glanced at them, there came an eager, almost painful longing to understand what they signified.

"Papa," she startled him by asking, "what is the resurrection; what does it mean?"

The question seemed to embarrass him. His eyes fell beneath his child's open glance; he coloured, and his foot uneasily tapped the gravel.

"I can hardly explain it to you, child," he said. "When you are older you will understand."

Her father made no reply, but turned to lead the way home. Yet he inwardly reproached himself for having thus evaded his child's question. Could it be that Beryl knew nothing of the truths of religion? Surely his sister might have seen that the child learned her Catechism, and had some religious instruction.

Had her mother lived, he was certain that long ere this, Beryl would have known something of the mysteries of life and death, as far as it was possible that they could be explained to a child. He could fancy in what simple, tender language Margaretta would have talked to the child, of the Lord in whom she so surely believed.

Ah! It was a great loss for poor little Beryl, the loss of a mother's love and training.

He felt himself quite unable to answer her question in a way that would be comprehensible to her. The doctrines of Christianity, if grasped by his intellect, were not loved by his heart. He scarcely knew how the words which had suggested her question came to be upon the tombstone. Perhaps the rector had thought it proper that they should be added as a fitting expression of the faith of the deceased.

"The resurrection of the body and the life everlasting." Were they verities to him? He supposed so; he repeated the words as part of his creed whenever he went to church, which was not every Sunday, however. But he could give no precise form to his belief. Beryl's question had made him uncomfortably aware that he too was ignorant, and needed teaching.

Well, he must see to it that the child had a teacher; he would enquire about a governess when he next went to town. He blamed himself now that he had not done so before, for was he not wronging the memory of his gentle wife, if he allowed her child to grow up ignorant and irreligious? Had not some one said that women without religious faith were angels who had lost their wings?

It was a true saying. Not for the world would he have his little Beryl grow up a soulless, selfish woman, like many whom he knew. He would like her to be such a gentle, loving, trustful woman as his dear young wife had been.

Ah, had she been spared to him, he might have been a different sort of man this day.

Beryl made no further attempt to get her question answered. She took little Coral's hand with a protecting tenderness that was almost motherly, as they turned away from the grave, and sadly and quietly walked home together. When they reached the house, the children lingered for a while in the garden, for this was the first spring day, with a glorious warmth in the sunshine and a balmy softness in the air. Primroses and crocuses decked the garden borders; violets nestling in the shade gave their exquisite perfume to the breeze; a few of the hardier ferns were unfurling their delicate fronds, and the fruit-trees against the walls were bursting into blossom. The garden looked a symbol of the joyful resurrection about which Beryl was wondering.

"Shall we go to the end of the garden," said Beryl, "and gather some violets for your mother?"

When they had gathered all they could find, they went into the garden-house, and Beryl showed Coral the exact spot where she had stood to watch the vessel drifting on to Sheldon Point. So much had happened since that night that it seemed to Beryl a long way off now, and she felt herself a much older and wiser being than the Beryl who had awaited her father's return home with such impatient eagerness.

"Your mother is better, and would like to see you, little missy," said she to Coral; "and you too, Miss Beryl, she would like to see," she added, looking at Beryl.

Beryl was pleased to hear this, for she had a great wish to see little Coral's mother.

They hastened back to the house, and the children would have gone at once to the sick-room, had Lucy not checked them, and insisted on the necessity of their removing their outdoor clothes and changing their shoes before they saw the invalid.

As they went downstairs together, hand in hand, Beryl was conscious of a strange tremor. She had never before seen any one who was very, very ill, and she was half afraid lest there should be anything dreadful in the sight. She stood still for a few moments at the door of the room, and almost wished that she could go back.

But Coral opened the door, and led her in, and as they drew near the bed, Beryl's fear vanished, for the white, worn face she saw upon the pillow had once been beautiful, and was still pleasant to see, and the large, dark eyes, so like Coral's save for the deep sorrow they mirrored forth, looked upon her with a tender motherly glance.

"You are my little Coral's friend," she murmured. "I have heard how good you are to her. I thank you, my dear child, a thousand times."

Beryl could not speak; for once her usual self-possession failed her. Tears came into her eyes at the sight of that pale, sad face; she looked down, and said nothing.

"Mamma," cried Coral, pressing forward with her flowers, "look what lovely violets we have picked for you! Just smell how sweet they are! They all grew in the garden, every one of them."

"My little Coral, my poor, poor Coral!" said her mother, clasping her close, and looking on her with the glance of hungering love. "You have no father to care for you now, and I too must soon leave you. Oh, how can I? But I must, I must."

"Oh, mamma! What do you mean! You must not go away and leave me. I cannot let you go!" cried Coral, in great distress. "Oh, mamma! You will not go; say you will not leave me."

"Alas, my child! I cannot help it," said her mother, in agitated tones. "The doctor has told me he cannot save me. I am dying, I feel it. And oh, I do not want to die yet! Sad and lonely as my life is, I would like to live a little longer for your sake, my sweet child. Besides, death is so dark and terrible, I am afraid of it."

Here Lucy interposed, and drew the children away. "You must not distress yourself so, madam. You must not, indeed; you will make yourself worse," she said.

As Beryl kissed Coral, and tried to soothe her grief, she felt as if she too must mourn a mother; for with the sight of that pale, loving face, there had dawned on her mind a sudden revelation of all that she had lost in losing her mother.

Presently Mrs. Despard asked to speak with Beryl again, and Beryl went back to the bedside.

"What is your name, dear?" asked the invalid, looking with admiration at the tall, strong girl.

"Beryl," repeated Mrs. Despard, "a pretty name. Coral and Beryl, how well they go together! How old are you, Beryl?"

"Not eleven yet, and so tall and strong," said Mrs. Despard, in surprise. "Why, you are scarcely two years older than my Coralie. And you too have lost your mother, they tell me, my dear?"

"It was a great loss for you!" said Mrs. Despard, with a sigh, as her thoughts reverted to her own child. "And my poor little Coral too! She must soon lose her mother. Ah, who will care for her when I am gone?"

"I will take care of her," said Beryl boldly, for she seldom doubted her power to perform anything that she willed. "I mean to ask papa to let her live with us, and be my little sister. She is a dear little thing; I will always be good to her."

The pale, wasted face of the invalid flushed as she heard these words, which brought her a sudden gleam of hope.

"Would you indeed wish that?" she asked eagerly. "But no, it could not be; your father could not think of it."

"He would if I asked him," persisted Beryl, heedless of the fact that Lucy was frowning and putting her finger to her lips, as a sign that she considered Miss Beryl to be talking too fast. "At least, I am almost sure that he would; he generally does whatever I ask him."

Mrs. Despard said no more; but she seemed to be thinking of Beryl's words, for the flush lingered on her cheeks, and her eyes had a more hopeful look as she watched the two children.

When Lucy at last sent them from the room, Beryl left Coral to her own devices for a time, and went in search of her father.

"Well, Beryl, what do you want?" he said as she entered. "Where is your little playfellow? Have you grown tired of her already?"

"Oh no, papa; she is the dearest little thing; but I am so glad to find you here alone, for I want to have a very particular talk with you."

"What is it now, I wonder?" said her father, as he lifted her on to his knee, and began to play with her hair.

"She looks very ill, so white and thin," said Beryl; "but I like her so much, and she spoke to me very kindly. Do you think she is so very ill? She spoke as if she were going to die. Do you think that can be true, papa?"

"I am afraid so," he answered. "The doctor thinks she had disease of the lungs before, and her being so long in the water, and the fright and all her trouble, have made it develop rapidly."

"But will it really come to that? Oh, I hope not," said Beryl, large tears gathering in her eyes; "but if it should, papa, how sad it would be for little Coral! Her mamma cried when she spoke of it, and so did Coral. It was so sad."

"Papa, if it should be, what would become of poor little Coral, without father or mother to take care of her?" asked Beryl, looking straight into her father's eyes.

"I scarcely know, my dear," he answered. "I suppose we should have to send her to some orphan asylum."

"I suppose so," he said. "I believe the children are well cared for in those places."

"I don't believe they are happy! I should think they must feel as if they were at school," said Beryl, to whom school-life seemed an experience to be dreaded. "Oh, papa, cannot you guess what I want you to do? I want you to promise that Coral shall never go away, unless her mother should get better, and wish to take her away. I want you to say that she may live with us always, and be my little sister."

"Well, upon my word, a slight request, truly," said Mr. Hollys. "Do you think I am such a rich man, Beryl, that I can afford to adopt daughters upon a moment's notice?"

"You are rich, are you not, papa? And it would not cost much, I should think," said Beryl. "Oh, papa, do not say no! I never wished for anything so much as I do for this."

"That was what you said, Beryl, when you asked me to give you a pony. You always know how to get round me. But this is a serious matter, and I must take time to think it over. I will do the best I can for poor little Coral, but I cannot at once promise to adopt the child."

And Beryl could get no more from her father that night. She was not without good hope of getting her wish, however, for when her father promised to "think over" any request of hers, he usually ended by complying with it.

CHAPTER V

THE next day was Sunday, and at breakfast Mr. Hollys told Beryl that he was going to church, and would take her with him if she could be ready in time.

"Yes, I suppose so, if the child likes to go," he said, shrugging his shoulders at the idea of his taking charge of two children; "but perhaps she would rather stay with her mother?"

And upon Lucy's being consulted, it was thought better that Coral should stay at home, so that Mrs. Despard might have her child's company, if she wished for it.

Miss Hollys had decided that she was "not equal" to church that morning, so Beryl set out alone with her father.

They walked through the village and up the steep road to the church. The day was bright, and though a boisterous breeze blew from the sea, neither Beryl nor Mr. Hollys thought it too rough. Despite the fineness of the weather, there was but a small congregation gathered in the church, for the clergyman very old man and a dull preacher, so that most of the fisher-folk preferred to worship in the Methodist chapel at the foot of the hill.

Beryl seldom paid much attention to the service when she was at church. She liked the singing well enough, though it was often trying to cultivated ears, but the rest of the service was wearisome to her. She had devised a number of little diversions for her entertainment whilst the lessons were being read, or the sermon, which Mr. Trevor did not attempt to deliver with expression, but read in a hurried, indistinct monotone, with the manuscript held close to his failing eyes. Sometimes Beryl would occupy herself in counting the tiny diamond panes in the large window opposite to her father's pew, or she would endeavour to count the congregation, with a view to ascertaining whether there were more men than women, or more women than men in the church. This question decided, she would perhaps have recourse to studying the mural tablets about her, and trying to gather from the descriptions they gave some idea of what the deceased were like when they walked this earth. Or she would take some long word, such as remembrance or commandment and try how many little words she could make out of the letters.

But to-day, as she sat by her father's side in the large square pew, Beryl used none of these devices for passing away the time. Her mind was full of thoughts of Coral and her mother, and of the sad burial in the churchyard which she had seen yesterday. Somehow these thoughts led her to pay more attention to the service than she generally did. She bent her head over her Prayer-book, and tried to follow the clergyman and to join with the congregation in the responses. When the Apostles' Creed was repeated, Beryl became aware of what she had not before observed,—the fact that the words with which the confession of faith ended were the same as those inscribed on her mother's tombstone. She looked up eagerly at her father as she made this discovery, and he caught the meaning of her glance, for his thoughts too had flown to that marble cross as he repeated the familiar words.

This incident sent Beryl wondering again about the resurrection. How she longed to know what it meant! Was it anything very hard and difficult, she wondered?

When the text of the sermon was announced, Mr. Hollys found the place, and handed Beryl his Bible, that she might read the words. Now Beryl often refused to read the text when Lucy wished her to do so, but she could not behave in that way to her father; so she took the book and slowly read the words, without in the least grasping their meaning, however. She kept the Bible on her lap, and began carelessly turning over the leaves. Suddenly her eye lighted on the word the meaning of which so perplexed her. What was said about it here? The leaves had opened at the eleventh chapter of St. John's Gospel, and the words which met her eager glance were the ever-memorable ones,—

Beryl was so surprised to meet with the word thus; so full of the sense that she had made a great discovery, though a mysterious one to her, that she felt obliged to draw her father's attention to the verse. Moving nearer to him, she touched his sleeve to attract his attention, and then pointed to the place in the Bible. Mr. Hollys bent towards the child, and read the words which had so surprised her. His face changed for a moment, then he nodded and smiled, as if to intimate that he understood what, in fact, he was very far from understanding, and turning away, looked steadfastly at the preacher, as though he were much interested in his discourse. But, in truth, he heard scarce a word of the brief sermon, for his mind was wholly occupied by a strange train of thought to which Beryl's action had given rise.

Beryl was very quiet as they walked home from church. On reaching home she hastily threw off her hat and jacket, and then went to the sick-room, where Coral was keeping her mother company. The invalid welcomed her with a smile. The milder weather had helped her to rally a little, though no permanent recovery was possible.

"So you have been to church, my dear," she said, looking at Beryl. "I wish you would tell me about it. It is long since I entered a church; though I can well remember how I use to go every Sunday with my mother when I was a girl. Did you have a nice sermon this morning? What was the text?"

"Why, Miss Beryl, it was nothing of the kind; how can you say such a thing!" exclaimed Lucy, who had just come in, having also attended church that morning. "The sermon was about being subject unto the higher powers."

"Oh, was it!" said Beryl. "Well, I thought that was the text; but I remember now that papa showed me another first, and I found that one for myself."

"'I am the resurrection and the life,'" repeated Mrs. Despard slowly. "What made you think of those words child?"

"They are like what is written on the cross at mamma's grave," said Beryl softly. "'I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.' I wish I could understand them. What is the resurrection?"

"I think it means that the dead will be raised; that they will live again at some future time," said Mrs. Despard; "but I do not rightly understand these things. I wish I did; for then, perhaps, I should not be so afraid of death." She shivered as she spoke. Alas, she knew that death was drawing near to her, and dark and terrible was the thought of meeting that "last enemy."

"But Jesus said that He was the resurrection," said Beryl; "and Jesus was a man, was He not?"

"Oh, Miss Beryl!" exclaimed Lucy, shocked at the irreverence of which the child in her ignorance seemed to her to be guilty. "Surely you know better than that! Jesus was the Son of God, 'who for us men and our salvation came down from heaven.'"

"But what does it mean about the resurrection?" persisted Beryl. "Will dead people, will my mamma live again? Shall I see her? Do tell me, Lucy!"

"Oh, hush! Miss Beryl; you are talking too fast," said Lucy, giving a warning glance at the bed, as she felt herself unable to answer the child's questions.

"You should ask your clergyman those questions, my dear," said Mrs. Despard, gently.

No one spoke for some minutes after this. Beryl was disturbed by an irritating sense of mystification. Lucy was uncomfortably conscious that she, as a good Church-woman and regular communicant, ought to be able to give a satisfactory explanation of the truth she professed to believe. As for the sick woman, she was as anxious as Beryl to know all that was meant by the words the child had repeated. Coral was the only one at ease; and as she sat on the bed close to her mother's pillow, her large dark eyes were turned on the others with the open gaze of childish wonder.

"Yes, I am a little stronger," she replied; "if only my mind were at peace. I have been thinking a great deal about my brother this morning. Do you think there is any possibility of finding him? Although he could not forgive me, he might be kind to little Coral for my sake."

"I do not know; but we can make enquiries," said Mr. Hollys. "I will do what I can to find him. But make your mind easy about the child; if he does not claim her, I will be her friend. She shall have a home here as long as she needs one."

"Oh, thank you; how good you are!" cried the poor woman, bursting into tears in her sudden sense of relief from anxiety. "I cannot thank you as I should; but God will bless you for your goodness to the stranger."

"No thanks are needed," he returned hastily; and without saying more, he quitted the room, for the sight of the dying woman's emotion affected him painfully. Beryl slipped after her father. Though he had lowered his voice in speaking to Mrs. Despard, she had heard enough to enable her to guess what it was that he had said which gave Coral's mother such comfort.

"Oh, papa!" she cried, as she hastened after him, "How good you are! Thank you so much for saying that Coral may stay with us. You cannot think how glad I am."

"Not so fast, little woman," he said, smiling fondly on her; "you are taking things too much for granted. It is by no means certain that Coral will remain here. If we find her uncle, he will probably take charge of her."

"Now, I wonder if I have done a very foolish thing," said Mr. Hollys to himself as he walked away. "I fancy most people would say that I have. Well, I have committed myself now, and must take the consequences."

But as yet he appeared to have little dread of unpleasant results, and his face did not wear the look of a man who regretted an act of folly.

CHAPTER VI

IN the afternoon, when Mrs. Despard was sleeping, Lucy took the children for a walk. They went through part of the village, and then ascended a steep hill, which led them to a narrow winding path high above the waves, and commanding a splendid prospect of sea and sky. Ferns and mosses grew plenteously on the landward side of this path, but its outer edge overhung the cliff, and was unguarded, so Lucy held little Coral's hand, lest the child should unwarily venture too near the dangerous brink. The path led to some barren fields shelving down to the beach. Near the gate of the first field a stone bench had been erected, which seemed to invite the passer-by to halt and admire the grand sea-view spread before it.

When Beryl was much younger, her nurse had often brought her to this spot, and allowed her to play at will amongst the thin grass, whilst she sat on the bench and knitted, an occupation of which Lucy never tired. Lucy now sat down and gazed silently at the sea for a few moments. She saw, without knowing how beautiful it was, the constant play of light and shadow on the shimmering water, and the glorious stretch of blue sky with its snowy clouds drifting slowly to the west.

Yet, though unconscious of the beauty about her, some of the gladness of the hour stole into Lucy's spirit. She thought, not with shuddering horror, but with deep thankfulness for his safety, of how nearly her brother had found his death beneath the blue waves now dancing so joyously in the sunlight.

But Lucy could not long indulge in such musings, for Beryl was impatient to pass on through the fields to the little pebbly cove beyond. When they reached the stile, from which a steep, narrow path ran down to the beach, they saw, to their surprise, a little crowd of persons standing below within the shelter of the cliff.

It was not unusual for there to be a number of boys and girls playing on the beach on a Sunday afternoon; but though the majority were children, there were several grown-up persons in the little company standing so quietly below.

"Don't you see there is a gentleman talking to them, Miss Beryl?" said Lucy. "I remember now that Joe told me there was a gentleman from London, an artist, he said he was, had taken to preaching to the folks down here on a Sunday afternoon; but I forgot all about it when I said we would walk this way."

"I am very glad we came," said Beryl; "let us go down and hear what he is saying."

And she started at a run down the steep path. Lucy and Coral followed more cautiously; Lucy feeling rather doubtful of the propriety of her allowing Miss Beryl to attend "the preaching."

But Beryl, very curious as to this unusual proceeding, pushed her way into the little crowd gathered about the speaker. Seeing her approach, the people respectfully made place for her, and so it happened that Beryl soon found herself close beside the gentleman, who stood leaning against the cliff, as he spoke in simple words to his untaught, childish audience.

Beryl liked the look of the speaker, and did not doubt his right to be called a gentleman, though he had not the well-to-do, easy air her father always wore, and his clothes were of poor material, and well worn. Even to the child's glance there was something beyond the ordinary in his appearance and bearing. His face was thin, and he had the pallid complexion which betokens delicate health. He wore his black hair rather long, and a thick, dark beard covered his chest. His eyes were of a deep, clear grey, and had the open, steadfast look those only have which can look beyond self, having escaped the thraldom of personal desires and ambitions. There was a winning gentleness in the man's expression, and though his voice was not strong, its tones went home to every heart.

"Last Sunday, my friends," he said, "we were talking together about the first petition in that prayer which you say so often at church or chapel: 'Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.' Now, to-day I want to speak to you about the second petition of that prayer: 'Thy kingdom come.' And first let us ask what is meant by a kingdom? What do you understand now that a kingdom is?"

He paused and awaited an answer; but the question was a difficult one to his hearers, and though several of the rough, honest faces before him looked thoughtful, as if they were considering the matter, no one ventured a reply.

"We often use the word kingdom, do we not," he went on, "in speaking of the country or countries over which a king or queen rules? We speak, for instance, of 'the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.' But the word is sometimes used to represent the power and sovereignty of a king, and sometimes, too, it means the living beings, the human hearts over which he reigns. Now, I think there is somewhat of all three meanings included in this petition. 'Thy kingdom come;' whose kingdom do we mean when we say this?"

"Yes, it is the kingdom of God; and what is the relation God bears to us? What were we talking about last Sunday?"

"'Our Father, which art in heaven,'" said a sad-faced woman with a baby in her arms.

"Yes, you have given us the answer, my friend," said the speaker, looking kindly at her. "Jesus taught us that God is our Father; so you see it is our Father's kingdom that we pray may come. God is at once our Father and our King. Think for a moment what it is to have a King who is our Father. I remember that when I was a boy, and had lessons to do, I was constantly finding in my books this sentence: 'A good king is the father of his people.' Now, that is a grand description of what a king should be, because it is founded on the Divine idea of kingship."

"But how imperfectly can this be realised by any earthly monarch. We are proud of our Queen Victoria, are we not? We think her one of the best of sovereigns. But it is not possible that she can take a parent's interest in all our homely needs and daily anxieties. I dare say that if any of the great men of her court should tell her that you fisher-folk of Egloshayle were in sore distress from famine or fever, and needed her succour and sympathy, her kind heart would prompt her to send immediately to your relief; but you might suffer a thousand ills of which she would never hear."

"Not so is it with our Father-King. He is with you in your homes, and knows the weight of each burden of care which lies so heavily on your hearts. Nothing escapes His knowledge. He knows how you are tried when the weather makes fishing impossible, or when your nets are lost and your boats wrecked, and the gaunt wolf of want comes nearer and nearer to your door. Then He knows and pities, and He will send you help, if only you will trust Him as a Father should be trusted."

"Well, it is our Father's kingdom, then, that we pray for; and if we are good and loving children, we shall take a great interest, shall we not, in our Father's kingdom? The Prince of Wales, your Duke of Cornwall, of whom you are proud, and all the other children of the Queen, take a great interest in their mother's kingdom. And why? Is it not because in being her kingdom it is also theirs? They belong to the kingdom and the kingdom belongs to them. And so it is with us. We are not merely the subjects of God's kingdom, but the children of that kingdom."

"That expression, 'children of the kingdom,' occurs twice in the Bible. In the first instance, Jesus (for in both cases it is our Lord who uses this word) says, referring, it is supposed, to the Jewish nation, 'The children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.' God forbid that you or I should, like those Jews, be cast out of the kingdom as unworthy to belong to it!"

"Again, our Lord, in explaining His parable of the sower and the seed, says: 'The field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one.'"

"How I wish I could persuade you, my friends, to aim at being like the good seed in this great field in which God has placed you. Who is willing to be a child of the kingdom?"

"I am," murmured Beryl, who had been listening with intense interest to the speaker's words. "I am willing."

The gentleman heard the child's low response. He was silent for a few minutes, and then went on with growing earnestness:—

"I heard some one say, 'I am willing,'" he said, not looking at Beryl, but so far beyond her that she fancied he could not know that she had said the words. "God be praised for one willing heart! But I trust there are others amongst you ready to become children of the kingdom; and in order that we may understand what this means, let us try to form some idea of what the nature of this kingdom really is."

"First, let me say that it is not a kingdom of the future, but a kingdom existing now. Some people mean heaven, the world of joy and rest, which they believe death will open to them, when they speak of the kingdom of God."

"But God has a kingdom now, in this world, a kingdom into which we may enter if we will. The kingdom is not yet perfected, it is true; but it is daily growing and increasing. We cannot describe its form, for it is an invisible kingdom. Jesus said, 'The kingdom of God cometh not with observation; neither shall they say, "Lo here!" or, "Lo there!" for behold the kingdom of God is within you.' And St. Paul, taught of the Spirit, said, 'The kingdom of God is not meat and drink; but righteousness and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.'"

"Now do you begin to see something of what the kingdom is? The realm over which our Father would reign is the hearts of men. It is His by right; He is its lawful ruler; but He desires to win its loving submission. Wherever there is a heart bowing to the will of its Father, striving to do His will, struggling to live worthy of its Divine birth, there is the kingdom of heaven. The Lord Jesus Christ is the door into that kingdom. The man who, loving Christ, tries to follow His example, living a true, pure, honest life, working his hardest when work is to hand, and trusting his Father without grumbling when times are bad, is a child of the kingdom."

"The woman who does her lowly household work as to the Lord, loving her husband, caring for her children, keeping her home clean and bright, and living peaceably with her neighbours, is a child of the kingdom. The boy or girl who tries to be like the child Jesus, obedient, gentle, loving, making the sunshine of glad smiles and the music of happy voices in this sad earth, is a child of the kingdom."

The gentleman ceased speaking, and looked with searching, though kindly glances at the people standing about him. Many had listened only with idle wonder; but on some few his words had made a deep impression.

These now moved forward to shake hands with him and utter their rough but hearty thanks. Beryl remained beside the gentleman, although she was aware that Lucy, who had lingered on the outskirts of the crowd, was beckoning to her to come away.

Beryl was determined that she would not move till she had spoken to the stranger, and perhaps asked him the question she was so anxious to have answered.

CHAPTER VII

BERYL had to wait for some minutes before she could speak to the stranger, whose words had so interested her.

The gentleman was not unaware of the little figure waiting patiently beside him; but many persons were just then claiming his attention, and he thought it best not to speak to the child till he was at leisure to hear all that she might have to say. One by one the strange congregation dispersed, and, having said the last good-bye, he turned to meet Beryl's upturned glance.

"Well, my dear," he said, noting with pleasure the pretty flushed face and soft blue eyes of the child; "I saw you listening to me just now. What is your name, if you do not mind telling me?"

"Beryl Hollys. We live at Egloshayle House. I dare say you know my papa," said Beryl, displaying some consciousness of her own importance.

"Yes, I have heard of your father since I have been at Egloshayle," the stranger replied. "So your name is Beryl—a precious stone. Well, my child, you must make your name good. You must be a precious stone in the living temple. I heard you say you were willing to be a child of the kingdom."

"No one can more easily enter the kingdom, my child. The kingdom is yours. Don't you remember that Jesus said, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven'? You have only to come to Jesus."

Beryl knew the words well. Lucy had taught them to her when she was a little girl; but now they seemed to her quite new, as their meaning suddenly flashed upon her mind.

"My child, you can come to Jesus at any moment. He is ever near you. He loves you even better than your father does. You can lift your heart to Him, and tell Him you will be His."

"But," said Beryl, with a touch of impatience in her tone, "there are so many things I want to know, and I have no one to tell me. I want to know what the resurrection means. I asked papa, but he only said I should understand when I was older. But I want to understand now."

"It is on mamma's grave," said Beryl, "'I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.'"

"Ah, to be sure," he replied, "I remember seeing those words in the churchyard. And that was your mother's grave, my little friend? You want to know what that long word resurrection means?"

"Yes; will you tell me?" asked Beryl eagerly, sure that he could tell her, if only he would.

The gentleman was silent for a minute, thinking how he could put in simplest words what he knew of the great mystery of the resurrection.

"Beryl," he said gently, "do you know that Jesus said, 'I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die'?"

"Well, my child, that word resurrection means life from the dead, a returning from the grave, as it were."

"But no one ever does return from the grave," said Beryl, her face full of wonder and awe.

"Jesus returned from the grave," said her new friend. "Do you not remember? You know that Jesus died?"

"And after He was dead they laid Him in the grave, a grave made in the rock, and a great stone was rolled to the mouth of the grave to make it secure. But Jesus could not be the prisoner of death. The Lord of Life rose from the dead, and when the women who loved Him came to weep beside the grave, they found the stone rolled away, and the place where He had lain empty. Then Jesus appeared to Mary and the other disciples, the very same Jesus whom they had known and loved and mourned as dead. And the disciples were glad when they saw the Lord, and knew that He had conquered death. And so Jesus is the Resurrection, the Life from the Dead, because having conquered Death Himself, He can promise the same victory to all who trust in Him. He has the keys of Death. Our dead are in His keeping, and He will raise them up at the last day. Can you understand me, my child?"

"Yes, I think so," said Beryl, but still looking puzzled. "But where do people go when they die? Where is my mamma? Where is Coral's papa?"

"Many have asked such questions as those, my child, but they cannot yet be answered; we must wait for fuller knowledge. All we know is that our dead have passed into a region which is under the control of Christ. They are safe in His keeping. His voice it was which called them from earth, and His voice it is which will call them forth on the morning of the resurrection. 'Them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him.'"

"We know not. The Lord has not revealed the time of His appearing; only we must seek to be ready for His coming," said the stranger. "But I am afraid I am keeping you too long, my child. Is that your nurse who is beckoning to you so energetically?"

"Yes, that is Lucy," said Beryl; "and Coral is with her. Won't you come and speak to Coral?"

"Oh no," said Beryl quickly; "but she is going to live with me, and be like my little sister."

And then, in hurried words, she told the story of the shipwreck—of Coral's and her mother's rescue—and of her father's sad fate.

The gentleman listened with interest to the child's account, though he had already heard all particulars of the shipwreck. Then, pitying the impatience which Lucy manifested, he crossed the beach to where she and Coral stood, and proposed that as he was about to return to the village, they should all walk back together.

The children were very pleased with their new companion, and chattered fast to him as they passed through the fields. When they reached the stone bench at the top of the hill, the gentleman paused and looked round.

The sight was indeed worth a long gaze. The sun was sinking in the west, and its crimson light flushed the water. A bank of purple clouds lay on the horizon, and where they parted the ruddy rays broke forth in glorious beauty. The whole sky caught the illumination, and the tiny clouds which floated overhead were of a delicate rose-colour.

"How pretty the sky is!" said little Coral. "It was often like that when we were in the ship. Papa used to take me on deck to look at it."

"It will be a fine day to-morrow," said Lucy; "it always is when the sun goes down red."

Beryl said nothing, but gazed in silence on the beauty of the sky. She could not have explained what she thought of it, but somehow, in the child's mind, the glory of that sunset was entwined with her idea of the kingdom of heaven. It was indeed a symbol of the happy death unto sin and new birth unto righteousness by which we enter into the kingdom of God.

They watched till the sun sank into his grave, which yet was no grave, and the pink clouds grew grey in the fading light. Then Lucy and Coral went on, and Beryl and her new friend followed. When they reached the village street, he said he must bid her good-bye.

"Yes, my child, I hope so. I shall be at Egloshayle a few weeks longer; and, Beryl, if your father should wish to know my name, you can tell him I am David Gilbank, and I am staying at the Blue Anchor for a while, in order to do some sketching."

And she bounded away to overtake Lucy, eager to tell her father, or any one who would listen to her, of the new friend she had gained. But her father was not to be found when she reached home, and she learned, to her vexation, that he had gone out.

Miss Hollys, as usual at that hour, was reclining on the sofa in the drawing-room; but when Beryl burst in, eager to tell all that had happened, her aunt, annoyed at her intrusion, showed no sympathy for the enthusiasm with which Beryl spoke of her new friend.

She chose to consider it an occasion for fault-finding, and scolded Beryl for being so ready to make acquaintance with an utter stranger, who was not likely to prove a desirable person to know.

Beryl received her aunt's rebukes more patiently than was her wont. The recollection of her resolve to be a child of the kingdom helped her to refrain from a rude and angry retort.

Later in the evening, when the children went to Mrs. Despard's room to bid her good-night, Beryl found the sympathy for which she longed.

Mrs. Despard was sitting up, and looking much better, Beryl thought, because a bright crimson spot burnt in each cheek, and her eyes were large and brilliant. She began to question the children about their walk, and soon heard all that Beryl could tell her of the stranger whose name was David Gilbank.

"I wish you could have heard what he said," the child cried eagerly; "he was speaking about the kingdom of God, and oh! He made it all so plain—how God is our Father and our King, and we must all be children of the kingdom. And I am going to be a child of the kingdom; I said that I would!"

"Ah, it is easy for the young," sighed Mrs. Despard; "but I have never thought much of religion, and now I fear the door of that kingdom is closed against me."

"But Jesus is the door," said Beryl. "David Gilbank said so; he told me to come to Jesus, who said,—'Suffer little children to come unto Me.' But then you are not a little child; I forgot that. I don't know what you must do."

"But the kingdom is for men and women too. He said that; so I do not see why you should not come, although you are not a little child," observed Beryl. "If I were you, I should ask Jesus to let me in."

"Yes; and oh, I asked him the meaning of the resurrection!" exclaimed Beryl eagerly. "And he explained it all so nicely. But I am afraid I cannot tell you properly what he said. Resurrection means rising from the dead; and as Jesus rose from the dead, so all those who trust in Him shall be raised up at last, although they are dead. But it is very difficult to understand, only it is plain that when we die we shall go to Jesus, and He will take care of us; so you see that there is nothing really to be afraid of in dying."

"Ah, child, it is easy to say so," said Mrs. Despard mournfully; "but I have been such a sinner. I cannot expect that the Lord would receive me."

"But I thought Jesus died for every one, whether they were sinners or not," said Beryl, looking puzzled; "and if any one can go into the kingdom, you can. You've only got to ask Jesus."

How straight to the point went the childish words! Long after Beryl had left her, the sick woman lay pondering them, and adding to them all that she could recollect of what she had learned in her childhood about the Saviour of the world, who by His death upon the cross and His glorious resurrection has redeemed us from the power of sin and death.

When Lucy came in, Mrs. Despard asked her for a Bible, and from that time, as her strength permitted, she daily studied the sacred Book, and by the power of the Holy Spirit, its words brought her life and peace. As she read of Him who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and who died to save His people from their sins, and deliver them from the fear of death, her spirit grew calm and restful. She looked no longer on her sins, but on the Lamb of God, who had taken them away. She could trust in God her Saviour, and trusting in Him with childlike faith, death was robbed of its sting and the grave of its terrors.

Some days passed ere Beryl again saw her friend David Gilbank, for a sudden change in the weather made it unpleasant to saunter on the beach, and quite impossible to sketch in the open air. The advance of spring was checked by biting east winds, which brought showers of sleet and even a slight snowstorm in their train. In place of the bright and joyous Easter which every one had expected, came a cold, inclement season, which would have seemed like Christmas but for the opening buds, and the primroses and violets, which smiled in the face of the cold wind, as if confident that its triumph would be of short duration, and sunshine and beauty would conquer in the end.

To the invalid's failing strength, the cold, raw weather struck a fatal blow. There was a rapid change for the worse, and she sank so low that the doctor gave warning that death might come at any hour.

On Easter Sunday, Beryl went with her father to church, but Coral was left at home in Lucy's care. The day was cold and showery, but every now and then the sun broke through the clouds, and smiled an assurance of better things to come. Beryl watched with pleasure the gleams of sunlight which from time to time lit up the diamond-paned windows, and sent bright shafts of light athwart the dusky old church. She was pleased to see Mr. Gilbank at church. He was looking pale and ill, and was much wrapped up, for the east winds had their perils for him.

Beryl drew her father's attention to the artist, and looked forward to speaking to him when the service ended.

Beryl was able heartily to enjoy that Sunday morning service. The solemn, sweet anthem, the bright, exultant hymns stirred the child's heart. She knew now the significance of Easter Day, with its joyful recognition of a risen Lord. She had learned the meaning of the long word which had puzzled her, and, however faint and imperfect the child's ideas of the resurrection may have been, doubtless she, in her childish simplicity, came nearer to the truth than many of the wise and prudent.

David Gilbank was in the porch as they went out of church, and Beryl addressed him eagerly, and hastened to make her father acquainted with her new friend. Mr. Hollys spoke cordially to the artist, and invited him to come some day to Egloshayle House to see some pictures of which their owner was rather proud.

Beryl was not allowed to go into the sick-room when she returned from church. Mrs. Despard was too ill to see her, Lucy said. But when bed-time came, she as well as Coral was allowed to go into the room to say good-night to the weary sufferer. Even to Beryl's eyes it was clear that a strange, indescribable change had come over the colourless, wasted face. And it was not good-night but good-bye she said to the children, clinging to her poor little Coral with a passionate tenderness which brought tears to the eyes of all who witnessed the farewell.

Some hours later Beryl awoke from her first sleep' to find a candle burning in the room, and Lucy standing by Coral's bed with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"She is gone, poor lady," said Lucy, wiping her eyes; "she passed away in her sleep as gently as possible, and now she looks so peaceful and happy."

"Oh, Lucy, do you mean that she is dead?" said Beryl, in a tone of awe and sorrow.

"Yes, Miss Beryl, it is true; her troubles are over now; but don't make a noise and wake Miss Coral; she will know soon enough, poor dear."

Beryl covered her face with the bed-clothes, and cried bitterly at the thought of little Coral's loss. It seemed so sad and dark and terrible. But even as she cried, and thought of the dark grave and the lonely, motherless life, there came to her mind, with some sense of comfort, the words they had sung that morning in church—

"Jesus lives! Henceforth is death
But the gate of life immortal;
This shall calm our trembling breath,
When we pass its gloomy portal."

CHAPTER VIII

A FORTNIGHT after Mrs. Despard's death, Mr. Hollys went to London. The children seemed already to have forgotten their experience of earth's darkest shadow. May dawned so fresh and beautiful, that it was impossible for thoughts of sorrow to dwell in their childish hearts.

It was delightful to pass the sunny mornings on the beach, hunting for shells and seaweed, or raising with their spades castles or embankments, which the incoming tide always swept away. It was warm enough now for Beryl to commence the bathing which she so thoroughly enjoyed. Beryl's swimming seemed to Coral a wonderful performance. She did not soon forget the fright Beryl gave her on the morning on which they first ventured into the water.

"Look, Coral; see what I am going to do!" exclaimed Beryl, as she waded through the shallow waves towards a rock, which rose high out of the water.

On the other side of the rock, the waves were running high. Coral watched Beryl wonderingly as she scrambled up the great rocks, and stood on the top, looking a strange little figure in her pretty scarlet bathing-dress. Coral laughed and clapped her hands to see her perched there; but her laugh changed to a cry of horror, as she saw Beryl suddenly raise her hands high above her head, and, springing forward, plunge headlong into the waves surging around the rock.

Coral screamed with fear, as her friend disappeared from view. She felt certain that Beryl would be drowned.

"Don't be frightened, my dear," cried Lucy's voice from the shore; "that's only one of Miss Beryl's venturesome tricks. She's safe enough, for she can swim like a fish. Master had her taught when she was quite a little girl. Look! There she is again."

And Coral's fears were allayed by seeing Beryl's head appear above the water, and hearing her laugh merrily as she shook the water from her eyes and head.

"You little goose! Did you think I was drowned?" she cried. "Look how well I can swim. Come, Coral, I will teach you to swim."

"I don't want to learn," she said. "I am tired of being in the water; I shall go in."

"Oh, you can't think of going in yet," cried Beryl, who was warmed and exhilarated by her exercise; "you have been in the water no time. Come, let me dip you."

But Coral screamed and drew back as Beryl laid rather rough hands on her. Beryl, little used to having her will opposed, lost her temper at this, and the children, who up to this time had agreed most charmingly, now began to quarrel.

"You silly little thing," said Beryl, in a tone of contempt, "I do believe you are frightened. I would not be such a coward for something. There, go along with you; I don't want your company."

Coral ran sobbing to Lucy, and Beryl swam leisurely round the rock, and tried to believe that she was enjoying herself very much. But in truth she was feeling too angry with Coral to be very happy.

"Coral was a silly, cross, disagreeable little thing," she said to herself again and again, not being at all willing to acknowledge that she too had been cross and disagreeable.

"How could you be so unkind to Miss Coral?" said Lucy, when Beryl at length came out of the water, and went into the garden-house to be dressed. "The poor child has been sobbing like to break her heart. I wonder at you, Miss Beryl, treating a poor little motherless girl like that!"

Now, Beryl was already beginning to feel ashamed of herself, but she was not willing to acknowledge this to Lucy. At her nurse's words her heart grew hard again.

"I don't care," she said defiantly. "Coral was much more cross than I was. She is a horrid little thing."

"Well, I never! Miss Beryl!" exclaimed Lucy, lifting up her hands in astonishment. "And to think how anxious you were to have her for a little sister. No one would have thought, to hear you talk of her then, that you would so soon behave badly to her."

Beryl made no reply; her face wore a sullen, proud look, which it was not pleasant to see. When she was dressed, she went down to the beach again. Coral had ceased to cry, and was playing there very contentedly.

Beryl passed her without vouchsafing her even a look, and went to some rocks at a little distance, where she sat down and stared sulkily at the sea. Beryl was quite conscious of her own naughtiness, but felt disposed to encourage it and prolong it as much as possible.

Presently Coral, finding it dull to play alone, came timidly to the place where Beryl sat.

"Beryl," she said, trying to appear oblivious of past occurrences, "won't you come and play with me?"

For a moment Beryl felt inclined to dismiss her vexation and yield to Coral's wish, but pride and ill-temper reasserted themselves.

"No," she said crossly; "I don't care to play with a stupid little thing like you. You can go away."

"You ought not to call me stupid," replied Coral, her dark eyes flashing angrily; "you are a bad girl."

The blow did not hurt Beryl in the least, but in her present mood it was more than her pride could endure.

"How dare you!" she cried, turning upon Coral, with her face aglow with passion, and giving the child such a violent push as made her fall with her face on the rough stones.

Beryl did not wait to see if Coral were hurt, but ran off at full speed along the beach, as if anxious to get as far away as possible. But run as fast as she might, Beryl could not escape from the evil self which was the source of her unhappiness. She came to a sudden halt as she caught sight of a distant figure seated in a quiet nook amongst the rocks, with easel and paint-box at hand. She had no inclination now to bound forward to greet the artist. She fancied that Mr. Gilbank would be able to read in her face the secret of her naughtiness. The very sight of him had the force of a silent reproach.

Hoping that he had not seen her, Beryl turned back, and began slowly to climb one of the many zigzag paths leading to the top of the cliff. Half-way up, she paused, and stood looking down on the beach. She was anxious to see Coral, but the child was not in sight.

It was lovely to watch the blue, foam-crested waves breaking on the stones, to gaze across the beautiful bay, or at the pure white clouds sailing slowly overhead; but these things were lost upon Beryl. Conscience was awake now, and her unhappiness had taken a new and better shape.

The sight of Mr. Gilbank had reminded her of her resolve to be a child of the kingdom, and she felt that she had miserably failed. She saw her conduct in its true light, and wondered to think how easily she had given way to bad temper. How could she behave so crossly to poor little Coral, who had lost both her father and mother, and had no one else to love her! She had meant to be so tender and loving, and to act the part of a good, wise, elder sister to the child. Beryl really loved Coral, and she now felt heartily sorry and ashamed to think how she had treated her. She began to fear that Coral must have been very much hurt by that fall on the sharp stones.

She longed to go in search of her and ask her forgiveness, yet she shrank from doing so. How could she bear it if she found Coral suffering greatly from the effects of her violence?

The more Beryl thought of all that had happened, the more uneasy she became. At last she turned to the best source of comfort for our troubles, whether they spring from sin or not. There is but one voice that can absolve from sin, and one Friend whose sympathy can reach every sorrow. When Beryl had told her sin and sorrow in the ear of that Friend, she felt calmer, and started off, determined to lose no time in finding Coral and telling her how sorry she was that she had been so cross.

She ran down to the beach, and hastened in the direction of home, looking everywhere for Coral; but the child was not to be seen. Once or twice Beryl called her name, thinking that Coral might be hiding amongst the rocks; but no answer came, and she hurried on with a vague sense of fear. Coral was not at the end of the beach, where she had left her, and Beryl ran up the steps into the garden, hoping to find her there. But no; the garden paths were quiet and deserted; and, feeling more and more frightened, Beryl hastened into the house, and ran upstairs to the nursery, meeting no one by the way.

The nursery was empty, but the door of the adjoining room, in which the children slept, stood ajar, and something prompted Beryl to peep inside. She started and trembled greatly to see Coral lying on her little bed, looking very pale, with closed eyes, and a white bandage on her forehead. For a few moments Beryl scarcely dared to move, so alarmed was she. Then she ventured to creep nearer; but as she did so, Beryl saw to her horror that there was blood upon the handkerchief which bound Coral's forehead. The sight was too much for Beryl's self-control, and she uttered a sharp cry of distress. At the sound Coral's eyes opened, and she looked up at Beryl with a dazed, bewildered glance.

"Oh, Coral, Coral!" sobbed Beryl, quite overcome by emotion. "I thought I had killed you! What is the matter with your forehead? Is it very bad?"

"The stones cut it," said Coral, "and it bled so, and I was frightened, and cried, so Lucy carried me in and put me to bed. She said I had better try and go to sleep, and I think I have been asleep."

"Oh, I am so sorry, Coral," said Beryl; "I can't think how I could be so horrid to you. I can never forgive myself for knocking you down and hurting you so."

"Don't cry, Beryl; it is better now," said the child; "it only smarts a little."

"Oh yes, of course I forgive you," said Coral readily; "please do not cry any more."

But Beryl's tears burst forth anew as she stooped to kiss Coral. She hardly left Coral's side for the rest of the day, and tried by loving words and actions to atone for her previous unkindness.

Beryl did not soon forget the lesson she had learned. Though the cut on Coral's forehead soon began to heal, its scar lingered for many a day to remind Beryl of her ill-temper and its consequences. This, their first quarrel, was also the last serious disagreement which the children had.

When Beryl was tempted to give way to passion and pride, she remembered the misery she had endured that day on the beach, and tried to check her anger, and show the loving, forgiving spirit of a true child of the kingdom.

After this, the days passed very pleasantly with the two little people. As spring grew into summer they took long walks and rides along the shore, or they explored the beautiful woods lying beyond the village.

Andrew was very pleased when he could find leisure to accompany the young ladies, and lead the pony whilst they rode by turns. In this way, they were able to go a good distance, and they generally came back from these excursions laden with ferns and wild flowers.

Sometimes Lucy would get her brother to take them for a row in his boat, a treat which the children thoroughly enjoyed. Beryl planned how, when she was a little older, she would get her father to give her a boat of her own, which she would learn to row her very self.

Once Mr. Gilbank joined them in one of their boating excursions, and his presence added greatly to the children's pleasure, for he talked to them and told them stories as they sailed over the bright rippling water.

The children saw a good deal of the artist in those days; they often sat by his side on the beach whilst he painted. Their presence did not disturb him, and he was never too busy to answer the questions they asked.

The only drawback to Beryl's happiness at this time was the thought of the governess, of whom mention had been made. Beryl fancied that a governess must of necessity be a disagreeable, cross-looking individual, who would feel it to be her duty to restrict their pleasures, and scold and punish them as much as possible. She disliked the thought of her coming. Beryl was beginning to be sensible of her need of instruction, for she had discovered that Coral, though two years younger, could read and write better, and knew a great deal more than herself; but she could not regard a governess otherwise than as a necessary evil.

It was a relief to her to find that her father's letters contained no allusion to his purpose of seeking a governess, and she began to hope that he had forgotten all about it, and for the present, they might enjoy unrestrainedly the delights of life at Egloshayle.

CHAPTER IX

THE children were very sorry when their friend David Gilbank quitted Egloshayle. He had made a longer stay than he had intended at the Cornish village, and he carried away with him many beautiful sketches, to be worked up to perfection in his London studio. Not the least excellent of these was a water-colour sketch of Coral and Beryl, seated side by side in the shelter of a fisherman's boat, turned keel upwards on the beach. Mr. Gilbank hoped in time to finish this picture, and make it a worthy memorial of the little friends in whom he took such interest.

The children missed him sadly when he had gone away. There were no nice talks on the beach now, no preaching on Sunday afternoons, no friend who could tell them what they wanted to know. They wandered about listlessly on the Sunday afternoon following his departure, and found the time long and dull.

Beryl had been unusually silent for some time, and Coral, finding her remarks unheeded, had also grown thoughtful, when suddenly Beryl exclaimed, "Oh, Coral, I've thought of such a splendid thing!"

"What is it?" asked Coral, eager to hear any new idea which might brighten the dulness of their day.

"You know what Mr. Gilbank was saying last Sunday, how we might all help to make the kingdom grow and spread in the world? You remember that, don't you, Coral?"

"No," said Coral, shaking her head, and speaking in a tone of indifference, as she began to think that Beryl's grand idea was, after all, nothing very delightful. "No, I don't remember nothing about it."

"Oh, Coral, and it was so plain!" said Beryl. "Don't you recollect that he said we could be workers with God, and that even a child could do something for the kingdom?"

"Of course not; but that was what made me think of it. Coral, I've been thinking how nice it would be if we could keep a little Sunday school."

"Why, don't you know that Mr. Gilbank said, what a pity it was that there was no Sunday school at Egloshayle, and the children were left to play about on the beach all Sunday afternoon? Now, I think you and I might keep a sort of school, just for the very little ones, you know."

"Oh, Beryl, do you really think we could?" exclaimed Coral, delighted, as all children are, with the idea of keeping school. "But do you think we are big enough? What could we teach them?"

"Oh, we could teach them something," said Beryl, confidently. "We must know more than they do;—at least we ought to," she added, with a momentary sense of her own mental poverty. "Anyhow, we could read to them, and teach them hymns. There's—'Around the throne of God in heaven,' and 'When mothers of Salem';—I could ask Lucy to lend us her hymn-book, which has them in."

"Oh yes, that would be very nice," said Coral; "but where could we have the school?"

"We must have it somewhere on the beach," said Beryl; "it would never do to bring the children into the house. Aunt Cecilia would be in a rage. Oh, I know what, Coral. There's that cave which runs such a long way back, that would do splendidly. The rock at the entrance would do nicely to put our books on, and the children could sit on the ground, or stand. Yes, that is the very thing."

"Yes, when the tide is high," said Beryl; "but it is very often empty, and when it is high water we must go somewhere else. Come, Coral, let us run and have a look at it, and then we will try and find some nice little children, and ask them to come to us there next Sunday afternoon."

The appearance of the cave was considered to be satisfactory, on the whole, for though its walls were damp and slimy with seaweed, Beryl declared that no one need sit close to them, and the rock in the middle would do equally well for a table or a seat.

Having decided on the place of meeting, Beryl set to work to form a class. There were a number of children playing rather noisily at the further end of the beach. She walked towards them, followed by Coral, and as the young ladies drew near, the rougher children ceased their play, and stared wonderingly at them. Beryl was always very dignified in her approaches to the fisher-folk and their children, but at the same time, she was gracious, and the young people of Egloshayle admired the young lady greatly, though they stood rather in awe of her.

When Beryl, addressing one of the little ones, began to explain her scheme for a Sunday class, the child shrank away frightened, and would say nothing but "No" in reply to her invitation. The others to whom she spoke were just as unresponsive. This was discouraging, but Beryl, undaunted, proceeded to take the elder sisters into her confidence, and got them to promise to bring the little ones to the cave on the following Sunday afternoon. Then, contented with the arrangement they had made, she and Coral went home.

During the rest of the week, Coral and Beryl talked and thought of little else but the Sunday class. They did not say a word about it to Lucy, for fear she should oppose their plans; but whenever they were alone they discussed the matter at great length. They hunted through the house for books suitable to read to their Sunday scholars, but could find hardly any that seemed of the right kind. Many a book was thrown aside, because the words were too long and difficult, and the matter they expressed was often quite beyond the comprehension of those who were taking upon themselves the work of teachers. At last, Beryl decided that it would be best to dispense with all books except the Bible and Lucy's hymn-book, which she lent them readily enough, without asking any questions as to the purpose for which it was required.

The children watched the sky with some anxiety on Saturday afternoon. How annoying it would be if rain came and spoiled all!

But Sunday dawned fair and bright, and the children's hearts beat high at the thought of their grand undertaking. Lucy took them to church in the morning, and she thought she had never known them so restless and fidgety. Miss Beryl, who had so improved of late, seemed suddenly to have returned to all her tiresome ways. The fact was the children were impatient for the long service to be over, and the afternoon to come.

As soon as they could, after dinner, Coral and Beryl escaped from Lucy's care, and went into the garden. From the garden, they soon made their way to the beach, and hurried along in the direction of the cave.

Early though they were, their scholars were earlier. There was quite a crowd of children gathered about the cave. And now Beryl began to feel nervous and doubtful of what she was going to do, though she would not allow Coral to suspect the least failure of self-confidence. She was dismayed to see so many great boys and girls in the party. Summoning her courage, she addressed herself to the little ones, and tried to coax them to sit down within the cave. This was a difficult matter, for they were shy and frightened, and seemed to have no notion of sitting still and keeping quiet. If one child was settled for a minute, another would start up and run away, and as soon as that one was brought back there would be a fresh defaulter. Beryl grew hot and cross in her endeavours to reduce to order this unruly school.

To add to her embarrassment, the elder boys and girls hung about the place, and seemed to derive great amusement from observing what was going on. In vain Beryl told them to go away. They moved off a few yards in obedience to her command, but had evidently no intention of going out of sight and hearing of what passed between her and her little scholars.

At last, after a great deal of trouble, Beryl managed to get the little ones seated in a row on the ground, with Coral closely guarding them to prevent their escape. Then Beryl began to read to them out of the Bible the story of Joseph. But Beryl's reading, as she stumbled over the long words, and paid not the least heed to punctuation, could not attract her audience.

The ignorant young scholars did not attend to her for a moment; they kicked and writhed, played the queerest pranks, pinched each other, and laughed and talked as if they had not the least idea of the purpose for which they were assembled.

This attempt was no more successful than former ones. But one child could Beryl persuade to repeat the words after her, and she only managed to imitate the sounds, and had clearly not the least notion of the meaning of what she said.

Beryl persevered as long as she could, in spite of a dreary sense of the futility of her efforts; but at last the attention of her brightest scholar was attracted by the sight of a sailing boat nearing the shore.

She started up, and, clapping her hands with delight, exclaimed, "Daddy's boat! Daddy's boat!"

Then darting out of the cave before Coral could stop her, she ran at full speed across the beach. The children outside also scampered off to meet the incoming boat, and this was the signal for the sudden break-up of the school.

"Never mind, Coral; let them go!" exclaimed Beryl, in a tone of disgust, as Coral attempted to hold back the runaways. "It is of no use trying to teach them anything; they are the stupidest little things I ever saw."

"Oh, what a pity!" said Coral regretfully. "And I thought that biggest one was just beginning to learn something."

"I wish I had not tried to keep school," said Beryl, tears of disappointment in her eyes. "I could not have believed they would be so tiresome. And I did so want to do something for the kingdom."

Beryl shook her head despondingly. She could not trust herself to speak, for she felt so inclined to cry, and she could not bear that even Coral should know how keenly wounded she was.

Without another word she quitted the cave, and with grave, downcast face marched homewards. Coral, taking up the Bible and hymn-book, which Beryl had forgotten in her despair, followed at a little distance.

Beryl strode on in silence till she reached the steps leading to the garden. There she paused, and waited for Coral to come up.

"Well, no one can say that I have not tried to do something for the kingdom," was Beryl's remark as Coral gained her side.

When they went into the house, Beryl slipped away from Coral and shut herself into their bedroom. She was there for a long time alone, and when she came down again she looked brighter and happier, though her eyes were very red, as though she had shed many tears in the solitude of her room.

"It is plain that those children will not listen to reading," said Beryl, in a tone of grave deliberation, "so I think I must try to tell them the Bible stories in my own words, and I've been thinking that if I could get some pictures, pretty coloured ones, you know, like those that I have in my scrapbook, it would make it easier for them to understand."

"Why, Bible pictures of course," replied Beryl. "We might be able to get one of Joseph in the coat of many colours, perhaps."

On the following day Beryl devoted much time to manufacturing a letter to her father, in which she begged him to procure her some beautiful coloured Bible pictures, the largest he could get, and to send them as quickly as possible. The letter, at which she toiled laboriously, was, when finished, a blurred, ill-written, and atrociously spelled epistle; but Beryl despatched it with but slight sense of shame. Her father would know what she meant, and that was enough, she thought.

Mr. Hollys, however, read his daughter's letter with considerable dismay. He forgot to wonder what had prompted her request in his horror at Beryl's peculiarities of orthography and penmanship.

"Dear, dear!" he said to himself, "This is a shocking production for a girl of eleven. Cecilia might have taught her to write and spell. But I must lose no time in finding a governess for her. I will call on Mrs. Everard to-morrow, and ask her advice on the subject. I dare say she can tell me how to secure the right person."

CHAPTER X

WHEN the next day came, Mr. Hollys was prevented from carrying out his intention of calling on his old friend Mrs. Everard, and asking her to aid him to find a governess for Beryl. But he did not forget the request which Beryl's ill-written letter had conveyed to him, and being in the city that day, he made his way to Paternoster Row, and there purchased some of the best Scripture pictures that he could see amongst the many tempting publications displayed in the windows of that narrow but important street. He ordered the pictures to be sent direct to his home at Egloshayle, and to the children's delight the packet arrived there by post the very next day.

With the greatest satisfaction, Coral and Beryl unrolled the pretty coloured prints.

They suited Beryl's purpose admirably, and were far larger and prettier ones than she had expected to get. There was a beautiful picture of the Good Shepherd carrying a lamb in His arms; a picture of the child Jesus talking to the doctors in the temple; another showing the tender Saviour taking the little ones in His arms, whilst their mothers stood watching Him with looks of eager love; and many others, all representing incidents of our Lord's life.

"There is no picture of Joseph after all," said Beryl, when she had examined the whole collection. "I wish there had been; but these all seem to be taken from the New Testament."

"I should think they would rather see pictures about Jesus than about Joseph," said Coral.

"I don't know; but I think I would rather," said Coral. "Don't you like that picture of the Good Shepherd, Beryl? He looks so kind and good."

"Yes, it is a beautiful face," said Beryl. "But I suppose the face of Jesus was really much more beautiful than that."

"Why, no, Coral, you must know better than that. Don't you remember that Mr. Gilbank said it was impossible for any one to make a true likeness of the Lord Jesus? He said he had seen many lovely pictures of Christ, but never one in which he did not feel that there was something wanting."

Coral shook her head. She did not remember it. Mr. Gilbank's words had not made so deep an impression on her mind as on Beryl's.

"Perhaps it is better the pictures should be all about Jesus," said Beryl, thoughtfully. "The children ought to learn about Jesus rather than Joseph; for Jesus is their Saviour, not Joseph. Still it is very nice about the coat of many colours, and I should like to have seen a picture of it. I like that picture of Jesus saying, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not.' We must tell them about that, Coral. And Mr. Gilbank said that Jesus was just the same still. Though we cannot see Him, nor hear Him, His arms are opened wide to receive little children, and He says to them, 'Come unto Me.' Oh, I wish I could tell them just what Mr. Gilbank said. I do hope they will be quiet and good next Sunday."

Beryl was looking forward with some tremor to her next attempt at keeping a Sunday school. She had so set her heart upon success, that the thought of disappointment was most painful to her. Many a childish petition for Divine help went up from the depths of her heart. She prayed that the weather might be fine, that the children might be good and orderly, and that she might be able to tell them in words they could understand about the loving Saviour whose arms were opened to receive them.

When Sunday afternoon came, it was in a very humble mood that Beryl went down to the beach to meet the children she had undertaken to teach.

The day was fine, and there was no falling off in the attendance of the scholars. Indeed, it seemed to Beryl that there were more present than on the previous Sunday. Beryl had very wisely decided to show them only one picture on each occasion, for she judged that the sight of many at a time might distract their attention from her words, and make them more unruly than ever. The picture she had chosen to show them to-day was that of Christ blessing the children.

There was much confusion and jostling in the class when Beryl unrolled the picture and laid it upon the flat rock. The little ones pressed round her, eager for the pretty sight; and the elder ones pushed their way into the cave, determined to see the object which was exciting such cries of admiration.

For a few moments, Beryl found it impossible to preserve order. She was obliged to rescue the picture from the rude and dirty hands that were laid upon it, and, holding it high above her head, declare that if they did not instantly sit down, and become quiet, no one should look at it again. The elder children, quite as eager as the little ones to see the picture, supported the teacher's authority, and by shakes, and pushes, and many an angry word, reduced their young brothers and sisters to submission.

Then Beryl arranged that only three children at a time should enter the cave and look at the picture. This plan answered admirably, and each child had a good look at the picture without any confusion or uproar. The exhibition of the picture occupied some time. When they had thus examined it, Beryl contrived by means of some pebbles to prop the picture up against the wall of the cave, so that all could glance at it.

Then, sitting down, she began to tell the children in simple, childish words, how the Jewish mothers had ventured to bring their little ones to Jesus, and how the disciples had tried to drive them back, but Jesus had stretched forth His arms to them in love, and said, "'Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'"

Beryl's simple talk was far more effectual than her reading had been. Her quick imagination gave many a graphic touch to the narrative, and as she pointed every now and then to the picture, and drew her listeners' attention to its various details, there was quietness and order in the class.

After awhile, of course, they grew restless and began to fidget, and then Beryl knew that she had said enough. She now tried to teach the children the first verse of "When mothers of Salem," and actually a few little ears caught the words and remembered them, and, led by Coral and Beryl, the scholars sang the verse in a queer, discordant fashion.

Beryl was well pleased with the success of her endeavour this afternoon. Her heart felt light and happy as, rolling up the picture, she told the children it was time for them to go home, reminding them, however, that she should hope to see them again on the next Sunday.

"Oh, Beryl, how nice it has been!" cried Coral, as the last child toddled away, and they were left alone. "Weren't they good to-day? That picture was splendid."

"Yes, how pleased they were with it!" said Beryl, her face aglow with delight. "I was dreadfully afraid they would tear it at first; but they were very good afterwards. And I really believe they understood what I said."

The hearts of the young teachers were glad and thankful as they went home. What a joyful thing life seemed that summer afternoon! The radiant sunshine, the shining waves, the bright sky, all spoke to them of love and joy. Even for these children, life was becoming a grander, more blessed thing, now that they were learning to care for the good of others.

Beryl did not always find her scholars so attentive as they had been on this occasion. As the pictures lost their novelty, she found them more troublesome, and often had her patience severely tried. But she persevered in spite of every difficulty, and did her utmost to make her class pleasant to the little ones.

Sometimes she felt discouraged, and fancied that her efforts were all in vain; but in this she was mistaken. The scholars, ignorant and untaught though they were, were beginning to know something of a Saviour's love, and fragments of Beryl's teaching were repeated by childish lips in homes where hitherto the name of God had been unheard save in blasphemous utterance. Truths grasped by the mind in childhood are not easily forgotten, and some of Beryl's little scholars remembered to the end of life what she told them of the love of the Son of God.

She was but a child herself, much too young, many would have thought, to be a teacher; but she was growing in the knowledge of the Lord Jesus whilst she was trying to teach others about him. Coral and Beryl had no one to teach them now Mr. Gilbank was gone; but the Lord Himself was their teacher; and as they read the Bible, and talked to each other of its words, His Spirit made things plain to their childish understanding. They found no difficulties, and fell upon no stumbling-blocks, for truths that are hidden from the wise and prudent were revealed to these babes in the faith.

Lucy made no enquiries as to the manner in which her young ladies spent their Sunday afternoons. She saw them go away with their books, and felt relieved to think that they did not require her attendance, but left her free to spend the time as she liked. She did not think that her young charges were likely to get into any danger, for Miss Beryl was well acquainted with the shore, and generally knew the hour at which the tide would turn; indeed, Miss Beryl was such a clever, shrewd little person, that it would have been absurd to feel anxious about her when out of sight.

Beryl had hitherto been careful to avoid being overtaken by the tide, which, when high, filled the cave in which she held her class.

During the few weeks since she began to keep a "Sunday school," the changes of the tide had suited her convenience tolerably well. But familiarity with danger sometimes engenders carelessness, and at last Beryl was thus betrayed.

One Sunday afternoon, when the class had been exceedingly interesting, and her scholars had said their hymns in the most satisfactory manner, she lingered in the cave talking it all over with Coral, long after the little ones had gone away, quite forgetful of the fact that the tide had been on the turn when they came down to the beach, and was now coming in fast. The cave in which the children stood was a large one, running far back under the cliff. Its extreme end was lost in darkness; but the subdued light sufficed to show a hollow opening at one side of the cave, just above a shelf of rock which ran around it, about four feet from the bottom.

"Coral," said Beryl, seized with a new idea, "do you see that hole in the side of the rock? Let's have a look at it; I fancy it would do nicely for a little cupboard to put our hymn-books in. It is such a bother having to carry them home every time."

They ran to the spot; but Beryl found that the opening was too high up to make a convenient cupboard. It was impossible for her standing on the ground to reach it, and she was planning how she should climb to it, when some words of Coral's startled her with a sudden reminder of her imprudence in lingering so long in the cave.

"Wouldn't the hymn-books get wet, Beryl?" she asked. "I thought this cave was full of water at high tide."

"So it is. Oh, Coral! And it must be almost high tide now. What are we thinking of to stay here so long? Oh, come quickly!"

As she spoke, Beryl darted towards the mouth of the cave; but alas, the warning was too late! At that very moment there was a roar, a rush, a sudden darkening of the light, as a huge wave burst into the cave and swept almost to the children's feet, ere it receded, to be followed by another as mighty.

Coral and Beryl saw their peril at the same instant, and a cry of horror broke from their lips.

"Oh, we shall be drowned! We shall be drowned!" was all Beryl could say. "There is no hope for us; none whatever. The cave will be full in five minutes, and no one knows where we are!"

CHAPTER XI

BERYL little thought how near her father was to her when she held her class on that eventful Sunday afternoon. Mr. Hollys had never been known to come home without giving due warning to his household; but for once, circumstances had led him to depart from his usual practice in this respect.

Business of an unexpected nature had suddenly called him to Bristol at the end of the week, and his business being accomplished by an early hour on Saturday, it struck him as a happy thought, that since he was half-way between London and Egloshayle, he might as well go on to the latter place, and spend the Sunday there with Beryl.

How surprised the child would be at his unexpected arrival! That it would be a glad surprise, he felt no doubt. His heart grew warm within him at the thought of seeing his darling again that evening, and hearing her joyous welcome.

But the plan which Mr. Hollys without further debate determined to carry out did not prove so happy a one as he deemed it.

The express for Plymouth had started an hour earlier, and the train by which he was obliged to travel was a slow one, stopping at every station. Mr. Hollys thought he had never made so tedious a journey, and his patience was severely tried, for, as it was market-day at almost every town on the line, the train was continually delayed, and when it reached Plymouth, half an hour after the appointed time, he found to his vexation that the last train by which he could proceed to Egloshayle had already gone.

Mr. Hollys thought that his plan had been a foolish one, when he learned that there was not another train that would answer his purpose till noon on the following day. He went to the nearest hotel, and finding comfortable quarters there, tried to solace himself with the anticipation of how amusing it would be to see Beryl's astonishment when he suddenly and unexpectedly presented himself at home in the middle of Sunday afternoon.

Mr. Hollys had ceased to feel any annoyance at the tiresome delay by the time he reached Egloshayle the next day.

He was in excellent spirits as he alighted from the train at the little country station. There was no conveyance to take him home, but he did not wish for one. He felt that he should enjoy the long walk on this bright summer day. He chose the longest path, which skirted the cliffs, that he might enjoy the strong sea air to be breathed on those heights. He thought, too, that by going this way he might perhaps surprise the children in some nook on the beach. But as he climbed the steep hill from the station he saw that the tide was high, and the waves breaking turbulently at the foot of the cliff. Not a strip of beach was visible.

"Ah, well, I shall find them in the garden," he said to himself, as he hurried on, eager to embrace his little Beryl.

Mr. Hollys had some news for Beryl, and he felt rather doubtful how she would receive it. He had found a governess for her at last, a highly-educated and accomplished young lady, whom his friend Mrs. Everard could highly recommend. He believed he was doing the right thing for his child in engaging this governess for her, yet in his foolish fondness, he felt sorry to think how Beryl's freedom would be curtailed and her actions restrained.

"Naughty little puss, she will not like it, I fear," he said to himself with a smile. "After running wild like a young gipsy for so long, it will be hard to settle down to regular lessons, and submit to rules and regulations. But it is high time some one took her in hand. I ought to have seen to it before; that letter was disgraceful."

Soon Mr. Hollys was within sight of his home. He looked about for the children, but they were not visible. The house appeared quiet and sleepy, as it stood with every blind closely drawn, in the glare of the afternoon sun.

He walked round the garden, hoping to find Beryl there; but the place seemed deserted. Then he entered the house by the glass-door leading into the garden. The Sunday peace of the house was perfect. Not a sound broke the stillness as he stood in the empty hall, and listened for the children's voices.

The quietness made him uneasy. He hastily opened the drawing-room door. The children were not there, and he quietly closed the door again, without rousing his sister, who was taking her afternoon nap.

Mr. Hollys now ran upstairs to the nursery. Lucy, who sat there reading, was startled at his unexpected appearance.

"Perhaps they are down on the beach, sir; they often like to sit there on a Sunday afternoon."

"That is impossible, for it is high tide. Do you mean to say that you do not know where they are?" demanded Mr. Hollys, with anger in his tone.

"I cannot say exactly where they are, sir," said Lucy, growing more frightened. "Miss Beryl likes to go away by herself, but I will find them."

Lucy left the room, followed by Mr. Hollys, in whose heart, anger was fast giving place to fear.

"You do not think they can have lingered in some corner of the beach till they were overtaken by the tide?" he asked in a low tone.

"Oh no," answered Lucy, white and trembling; "Miss Beryl would know better than that. She is very careful is Miss Beryl."

"You have no right to trust to her carefulness," returned Mr. Hollys indignantly. "It is your place to look after them, and you should not have trusted them out of your sight."

They went out of the house. Lucy turned to make further search in the garden, and Mr. Hollys hastened along the road leading to the village. Presently he met a child, and stopped to ask her if she had seen Miss Beryl lately.

Yes, the child had seen Miss Beryl; she had something to tell him, but Mr. Hollys, in his impatience, found it difficult to understand her broad, Cornish speech.

He made her repeat her words again and again, till their meaning grew intelligible. She had seen Miss Beryl on the beach that afternoon; she had been in the cave with Miss Beryl and another young lady and several children, and they had all been looking at a lovely picture.

As he thus made out the sense of her words, Mr. Hollys knew in a moment what had happened. He turned from her, and ran at full speed towards the group of fishermen who stood lounging against the low wall below which the waves were beating. Joe Pollard saw him coming, and stepped forward to meet him.

"Joe," said Mr. Hollys, as he came up white and breathless, "my little daughter is missing. I fear she has been overtaken by the tide in the long cave. Have you a boat at hand?"

A look of fear and pain crossed Joe's honest face as he heard these words. Mr. Hollys could understand that look only too well. He knew that Joe thought the children's fate already sealed, if indeed it was as he feared, and the tide had surprised them in the cave.

"Ay, sir," he replied. "My boat is moored just below, and we can be off in two minutes. But God grant you be mistaken, and the young ladies safe ashore! I saw the other children come up from the beach an hour ago, and I made sure the little missies had gone home too."

Joe led the way down the steps as he spoke, and in another minute they were in the boat. Mr. Hollys seized an oar, and began to pull with an energy stimulated by heart-sickening dread. Not a word was spoken as they rounded the rocks, and made for the mouth of the cave. Already the tide was on the turn, and so strong was the opposing current, that they had great difficulty in effecting an entrance. When at last the boat shot into the cave, they saw no sign of life there. The walls, lined with wet and slimy seaweed, showed the height to which the water had risen. It seemed clear that if the children had been there when the waves burst in, they must have perished.

"Beryl, Beryl!" cried Mr. Hollys in despair; and the hollow roof mocked him with a dull echo of his words.

Meanwhile Joe's quick eye had caught sight of a sheet of paper floating on the surface of the water. He leant forward, and with his oar drew it towards him.

Joe unrolled the paper, and handed it to him. Wet and stained though it was, Mr. Hollys recognised it at once as one of the coloured pictures he had purchased at Beryl's request. The sight of it seemed to confirm his worst fear, and he dropped it with a groan.

"Joe," he said presently, as if clinging to hope in the very face of despair, "Beryl could swim; is it quite impossible for her to have escaped?"

Joe shook his head. He shrank from the thought of the pain he must give, yet he spoke what he believed to be the truth. "I canna think her swimming would help her much, sir. The rocks are sharp and steep here, and she would need to swim a long way to find a dry footing. Besides, there is a strongish undercurrent just here."

"God help me!" cried her father, shuddering at the thought of his darling Beryl lying cold and dead in the depths of the sea.

For some minutes neither of them spoke, then Joe said gently, "We can do no good by staying longer in the cave. Don't you think, sir, I had better row you back to the shore? If it is as we fear, it is not here that we shall find the young ladies."

And Mr. Hollys knew that Joe meant him to understand that if the children were drowned, the swiftly-ebbing tide must have carried their bodies far out to sea.

He could not speak; but the boatman took his silence for consent, and without another word, rowed the still, sorrow-stricken man to the landing-place.

CHAPTER XII

AND what of the children, of whom no trace save the floating picture could be found? Had the cruel sea indeed borne them away in its winding-sheet to sleep beneath its waves, leaving a darkened house and a desolate heart to mourn their loss?

It seemed to the terrified children that such must be their fate, as they watched the hungry waves coming each minute closer to the corner where they crouched.

Beryl had ceased to cry, and was trying to bring all the force of her mind to bear upon the contrivance of some plan of escape. The only idea which occurred to her was that she should have recourse to swimming, and try to get to land in time to secure succour for Coral ere it was too late.

But when she looked at the rough waves, battling together as they forced their way into the cave, and remembered at what a distant part of the beach the cave was situated, and how far she would have to swim before she could find a landing-place, Beryl's heart failed her. She felt that her childish strength would be no match for the pitiless might of the sea's opposing current. Yet she would have made the attempt, hazardous though it seemed, had Coral wished it; but her little adopted sister cried out in terror at the mere suggestion of Beryl's leaving her.

"Oh, Beryl, do not leave me; please do not leave me!" she cried; "I dare not stay alone in this dreadful place. Let us keep together, whatever happens. If we must be drowned, let us hold each other tightly, and then, perhaps, it will not seem quite so bad."

The children clung to each other as the waves washed over their feet. How awful seemed the death which threatened them in that gloomy place! How many persons at Egloshayle would have hurried to their rescue, had they known of their peril! But here, beneath the rock, shut in by the relentless waves, they were out of sight and sound of every human being, and Beryl felt sure that no one would know of their danger till it was too late to help them.

Her heart sank within her as she thought of her father. Ah, if he, far away in London, could have known what was his child's position at that hour! But he would know nothing till they told him she was dead.

Beryl leaned against the rock and sobbed alone, as she thought of what her father's anguish would be, when he heard that his little daughter was drowned.

Then she remembered that though no human friend knew of their danger, a Father's eye was upon them, a Father's ear could hear their cry for help. She recalled the words Mr. Gilbank had spoken concerning the "Father-King, all-mighty and all-loving."

"Coral!" she exclaimed, hope ringing in her voice. "Let us pray to God. We ought to have thought of that before. He can help us, if no one else can."

"Do you think He really can?" asked Coral sceptically, as with frightened eyes she watched the progress of the waves.

"Why, Coral, of course He can," returned Beryl. "Don't you remember how He saved Daniel in the lions' den, and Moses when he was left by the side of the river in the ark of bulrushes? And oh! Don't you know the story Mr. Gilbank told us of how God made a path right through the Red Sea for the Israelites to walk over? I'm sure if He did that, He can save you and me from being drowned."

"I can't tell what He will do," said Beryl; "but I know He can save us if He will. And if He means us to die," she added, her voice suddenly faltering, "let us ask Him to make us good, and take us to heaven, for Jesus Christ's sake."

And so Beryl prayed in simple, childish words, coming from a heart strong in faith; and Coral tried to follow, but could not attend for her terror of the quickly advancing waves.

The water was already high about the children, a little longer, and it would sweep them away to death. As Beryl ended her prayer, her eyes fell upon the ledge of rock above her head, and the dark hole which she had fancied would make a convenient cupboard. The thought struck her that if they could climb to that, they would be for a time above the reach of the waves.

"Coral," she said, pointing out the place to her, "try if you can climb up there. Put your foot on my knee, and then catch hold of the seaweed, and draw yourself up. There, that's right; now are you safe?"

Yes, Coral was securely placed on the shelf of rock, and with some difficulty, Beryl managed to scramble up beside her.

Their courage rose on finding themselves a foot or two above the water, though Beryl felt pretty sure that it was only a temporary respite, and that ere the tide turned the waves would sweep over them where they sat. It was dull and melancholy work, sitting still to watch the rising of the water, and Beryl presently crawled along the ledge till she reached the hole which had before attracted her attention. It was a much larger opening than it had appeared from below.

The hollow seemed to extend a long way back, for stooping down and peering into it, Beryl could see light coming through, as if from an opening at a considerable distance.

Crouching down close to the rock, Beryl found that the aperture was just wide enough to admit of her crawling through, and having passed the entrance, she found herself in a larger place, a kind of natural tunnel, leading she knew not whither.

Feeling that she had made a great discovery, Beryl crawled back the way she had come, and called to Coral to follow her. Coral, being smaller, made her entrance even more easily than Beryl had done, but she was awestruck at the gloom of the place into which Beryl introduced her. The rocky passage would have been in utter darkness but for the faint, weird gleams of light which stole in at either entrance. The walls were so low that the children were obliged to bend their heads, as they groped their way along; a grown-up person would have been obliged to creep on all fours. The tunnel seemed to run through the rock for a great distance, and as they stumbled along, for the path was rough and uneven, Coral grew frightened and footsore, and began to cry and beg that they might go back.

But Beryl, who thought that this passage promised them deliverance from the threatening waves, was resolute in urging her forward, and soon, as they pressed on, the light before grew larger and clearer, and Coral no longer wished to return to the sea-washed cave. On they went, till daylight shone bright and beautiful before them, and they saw green leaves waving against the opening, and caught the gleam of a gull's wing as with a shrill cry of dismay the bird fled from the strange intruders who had invaded its sanctuary.

Beryl stepped very cautiously through the narrow doorway, half-hidden by low shrubs and coarse grass, and it was well that she was thus careful, for the tunnel ended on a tiny path in the face of the cliff, scarce a foot in width, below which the rock shelved off precipitately. Beryl had not been conscious of ascending as she made her way through the rough rocky passage, but now she saw to her satisfaction that the sea was far below them. To her surprise, also, she perceived that they had come through the heart of the rock to the other side of the cliff, into which the cave penetrated, and were looking down on the little cove where David Gilbank had been accustomed to meet his band of learners on Sunday afternoons. The narrow path on which she stood led by sharp zigzags to the beach, and it would be a comparatively easy matter to descend, when the waves had receded from the cove.

"Oh, Coral!" cried Beryl, as she clasped her hands in joy and thankfulness. "We are safe! The waves cannot reach us here; we have only to wait till the tide turns, and then we shall be able to go home."

How intense was the feeling of relief felt by these children, as they realised their deliverance from the peril which had seemed so near and awful. Tears came more readily than words at such a moment, and clinging together they kissed each other fondly, and cried as only children can cry.

But this violent emotion was soon exhausted, and as they sat in the shelter of the rock they began to talk over what had happened, and tried to imagine how Lucy would regard their long absence from home.

"I expect she will be very angry," said Coral; "and oh, Beryl, I am afraid she will never let us keep Sunday school on the beach again."

"We must try to find a safer place," said Beryl thoughtfully. "That old cave was not very nice, and now I feel as if I never wanted to see it again. Coral, have you thought how God has heard our prayer? He has saved us, although He did not make the waves go back. Was it not strange that I never noticed that hole at the back of the cave until to-day?"

"Yes," said Coral; "but what a nasty, dark place it was. I was so frightened till I saw the light at the other end. And oh, Beryl, look at my boots!"

"Never mind about boots," said Beryl, surveying her own cut and soaked shoes with the utmost indifference. "I shall be glad enough to take mine off, though, for my stockings feel as if they had stuck to my feet. I wish the tide would make haste and go down."

"Another hour, I dare say," said Beryl, as she peered down at the water below. "I say, Coral, what a good thing it is that papa is not at home! He would have been so frightened about us."

It seemed a long time to the children ere the tide receded. They watched the sun sink to rest, curtained by crimson and purple clouds, and not till the glow was beginning to fade from the summer sky were they able to descend from their lofty crag, and make their way across the wet, slippery stones to the stile, which commanded the nearest route home.

Beryl started in sudden fear, as she saw a dark figure leaning against the stile. What was her amazement when the figure turned towards her, and she saw that it was her father!

He had wandered there to look for her, though in his anguish, he believed all search would be vain, unless, indeed, it should reveal the dead body of his child. One moment he had been in utter despair, the next he heard a light step on the stones, and turning, saw Beryl by his side.

"Oh, Beryl, my darling! Is it you?" he exclaimed. "Where have you been all this long time? Ah, if you knew what your absence has caused me to suffer! Thank God, I see you safe and sound, my precious one!"

CHAPTER XIII

THE children's escape appeared well-nigh miraculous, and when the news of it spread through Egloshayle, numbers of the villagers flocked down to the beach to inspect the subterranean passage, of which scarce any one had been aware. Some of the oldest inhabitants, however, could tell, now that their memories were thus jogged, how in bygone days they had heard it said that there were two entrances to the long cave. They remembered that the place had for a long time borne the name of the Smugglers' Cave, because it was the lurking-place of a desperate band of men, who cunningly enriched themselves by a contraband trade.

An old man could tell how on one occasion, when the coastguardsmen had surrounded the cave, convinced that they had the smugglers in their power, they had, after long waiting, discovered that the culprits had given them the slip, and escaped from the cave, in spite of their constant watch at its entrance. Their mysterious flight had been a subject of marvel at the time; now it seemed plain that the hidden passage, discovered by the children, furnished the key to the mystery. It was strange that the existence of the tunnel in the rock should have been so long unknown, but doubtless the smugglers had done their best to keep it secret.

None save a few children could remember having noticed the hole at the back of the cave, and with them, it was evidently a recent discovery, so that it seemed probable that the place had only been disclosed of late. Mr. Hollys judged it likely that the rough seas and gales of March had swept away some barrier of rock or seaweed which had guarded the opening.

It was some days ere the children recovered from the effects of their strange adventure. Beryl was the first to shake off its ill consequences, but little Coral was poorly for more than a week. In her rough climbing, she had bruised her ankle, and the injury, which had seemed nothing at the time, now proved so troublesome as to oblige her to lie with bandaged limb on a couch in the nursery; whilst Lucy, full of remorse for the neglect from which had ensued such disastrous consequences, waited upon her and petted her with astonishing devotion.

Whilst Coral was thus laid aside, Beryl was her father's constant companion. Mr. Hollys prolonged his stay at home, for how could he bear to leave at once the child who had been given back to him from the arms of Death! Though it was the height of the London season, and he had many engagements in town, he sent excuses to his friends, and lingered at Egloshayle till he saw Beryl looking strong and bright again, and knew that the horror of her narrow escape from drowning had faded from her childish mind.

Those were joyous days for Beryl. Her father could not make enough of her, in his thankfulness for her restoration, and from morning till night his one aim seemed to be to give her pleasure. So anxious was he to spare Beryl any annoyance, that he made no mention of the governess who would shortly arrive at Egloshayle. It would be time enough to name that with other inevitable, though perhaps vexatious, truths, when he was about to leave home again. If Beryl fretted over them then, as was not improbable, he would at least be spared the pain of seeing his darling's tears.

One of these sweet June days was Beryl's birthday, and it was the first birthday, as far as she could remember, on which she had had her father's company. The anniversary of Beryl's birth had never been celebrated with the joyous festivities that form a bright spot in most of our memories of childhood. The day was one of gloom for her father, recalling as it did the darkest shadow that had fallen on his life. He had never cared to spend it at Egloshayle, and, now that it found him there so unexpectedly, he felt little disposed to plan a picnic or any such treat as Beryl hinted would be an agreeable way of marking the occasion.

So he promised the child that they would "keep" her birthday when he came home again in the autumn, and told her meanwhile to take counsel with Coral, and try to decide what would be the most delightful way of spending the day.

Beryl was perfectly satisfied with this promise. Her real birthday passed very quietly. The June roses were blooming in the garden, as on that day long ago when Guy Hollys had gathered them to place in the cold hands of his young wife. The sunshine was glorious, as it had been on that morn when its brilliance had struck so cruelly on the heart whose very light of life seemed gone. But now the healing hand of Time had done its work. That sorrow was but a memory. The wailing babe, whose presence had been held unwelcome on that day, had grown into the fine, fair girl whose beauty and grace gladdened her father's eyes. As Mr. Hollys' gaze rested on his child, he felt how great was his consolation, and his heart was not untouched by thankfulness to the Giver of all good, who had mercifully spared to him this precious gift.

Beryl made a wreath of the white roses, and went with her father to place it upon her mother's grave. She laid some flowers, too, upon the mound beneath which Coral's parents slept. The churchyard was no gloomy place to Beryl, but a familiar and loved spot, which she often visited.

"Papa," she surprised him by saying, when they had stood for some minutes beside her mother's grave, and her eyes were thoughtfully bent on the turf on which the roses made a spot of whiteness, "Papa, if we had been drowned the other day, Coral and I, where would you have buried us, do you think?"

"Would you have put me here by mamma's side, and Coral over there with her mother?" asked Beryl, indicating with her foot the place where she supposed her body would have lain.

"If it had been so, papa," she asked curiously, "would you have come sometimes to put flowers on my grave?"

"Oh, my darling! What can I say? You pierce my heart with your questions," he replied in a tone of pain. "Thank God, I have you with me still, my little jewel. You must never run into such danger again, Beryl. Promise me that you will take all care in future."

"Yes, I will be very careful," said Beryl, who had already given the promise several times. "And oh, papa, I am very glad I was saved! I should be sorry to go away, and leave you all alone. You would miss your Beryl, wouldn't you?"

The memory of that talk in the churchyard haunted his mind for some time after his return to London, making him look anxiously for the letters which came to tell him of his child's welfare.

Two days later, he left home. An hour before he went away, he had a serious conversation with Beryl, in which he told her of the governess who was coming almost immediately, and urged her to be a good and industrious girl, and try, by the utmost diligence, to gain knowledge and make amends for the precious time which had been wasted.

Beryl listened to his words with a long face. The prospect before her seemed a disagreeable conclusion to the holiday-making of the last few weeks. She had some difficulty in keeping back her tears; but she managed to do so, for she felt it would be babyish to cry over such an absolute necessity as education. Mr. Hollys thought she took the news well, and he told her she was a good child, and would be sure to get on nicely with her governess.

When she had seen her father drive away from the house, Beryl went upstairs, looking very grave, to impart to Coral the startling intelligence of the change which was about to take place in their lives.

"Oh, Coral, I have something so dreadful to tell you!" she cried, bursting into the nursery, where Coral, still treated as an invalid, was resting in Lucy's rocking-chair.

Coral looked up in alarm, for Beryl's face was so serious, and her tone so tragic, that the child knew not what to expect.

"Oh, Beryl! What is it? Please tell me quickly!" she exclaimed, as Beryl tried to heighten the effect of her words by an impressive pause.

"All our nice times are over," said Beryl solemnly; "We shall never be able to play alone again, or to go on the beach or anywhere without some one to look after us, or to do anything that we like. The governess is really coming at last, Coral!"

"Is that all?" replied Coral, in a tone of relief; for her imagination had been conjuring up all kinds of dire possibilities, so that the governess's coming seemed, in comparison, a slight evil.

"All! I should think it was enough!" said Beryl sharply. "Why, Coral, you don't think how horrid it will be! I am sure she will be a nasty, cross thing, and I shall hate her;—or, at least, dislike her very much," she added, feeling that hate was too strong a word to use.

"Oh no, of course not; he said she was a nice young lady, the daughter of a clergyman; but I know she will be cross—all governesses are," pronounced Beryl, who had an opinion of her own upon most subjects, and never allowed the narrow range of her experience to limit her conclusions. "I expect she will be just such another as Aunt Cecilia; only I dare say she will know more, for between you and me, Coral, I don't think that aunt knows very much. You see, it is so long since she was a little girl and went to school, that she must have forgotten all she learned there."

"When will the governess come?" asked Coral, who was now looking as troubled as Beryl.

"The day after to-morrow," replied Beryl; "is it not dreadfully soon? I wish I had known before. Fancy, we have only one more day to ourselves."

"There is another thing I must tell you," said Beryl, echoing the sigh. "Papa has made me promise to have no more Sunday schools on the beach. He laughed when I told him about it, Coral, as if it were something quite ridiculous. He said it was like the blind leading the blind, and I had better learn more myself before I tried to teach others."

"Oh, Beryl! What a pity to have to give it up!" exclaimed Coral. "And just as we are getting on so nicely, and they are beginning to understand about the pictures, and to sing 'When mothers of Salem' so well."

"Yes; and now they will forget everything we have taught them," said Beryl despondingly, "and no one will tell them about Jesus. It seems as if everything were against our doing anything for the kingdom."

This suggestion was not quite to her mind. It was hard to think of the work which was so dear to her being given to the hand of another. The rest of the day did not pass very happily for the children. The coming of the governess hung like a dark cloud on their horizon, and the forebodings which it awakened, made it impossible for them to enjoy the freedom of the present.

CHAPTER XIV

THE hour of the governess's arrival came all too soon for Coral and Beryl. The children wore very grave faces, as, fresh from the hands of Lucy, with clean white frocks and smoothly brushed hair, they went down to the drawing-room to await the coming of the stranger, whom they were inclined to regard as their natural enemy.

Tea-things stood ready on the drawing-room table, and Miss Hollys, very handsomely dressed, sat on a low chair languidly working at some embroidery. In her way, she was as anxious as the children with respect to the newcomer. The arrangement was one she had long desired, and from which she hoped to reap advantage. If Miss Burton proved an agreeable companion, it would be very pleasant to have some one besides the children to speak to; some one, too, who would be better able to appreciate her pretty dresses and the costly ornaments on which she prided herself.

Moreover, the presence of the governess in the house would set Miss Hollys free to leave home as frequently as she wished, and she had already planned a visit she would make as soon as she had seen Miss Burton comfortably settled with the children. Pleasant and self-congratulatory as Miss Hollys' reflections were, she was not so absorbed in them as to be unconscious of the severe shock to her nervous system, conveyed by Beryl's violently banging the door behind her as she entered the room.

"Oh, Beryl," exclaimed her aunt crossly; "when will you learn to close a door quietly? Thank goodness, there is a governess coming to teach you manners! If ever a girl needed to be well taken in hand, you do. I hope Miss Burton is a thorough disciplinarian, and will keep you in strict order."

Beryl could only guess at the meaning of the word disciplinarian; but she gave it credit for the most unpleasant significance. She pouted and scowled as she crossed the room to the side window, which commanded a view of the entrance-gate.

"I have no doubt she will be everything that is horrid," she muttered to herself.

"I hope she will teach you to be better-tempered, and to speak politely to your aunt," said Miss Hollys, unable to hear her niece's words, but guessing from Beryl's angry face that they were not of a correct nature.

The speech which trembled on Beryl's lips then was anything but a polite one, and would certainly have demonstrated her need of instruction in courtesy; but happily, she remembered how often she had had to repent of her hasty utterances, and checked this retort in time. As Beryl was quiet, and provoked no further reproof, Miss Hollys turned her attention to Coral.

"Leave that dog alone, Coral!" she exclaimed, speaking in the severe tone in which she generally addressed the child whom she regarded as an unwelcome addition to the household. "I hope Miss Burton will teach you how wicked it is to be cruel to poor dumb animals. How would you like anybody to treat you in that way?"

Coral thus detected in stealthily pulling the poodle's tail, with a view to rousing him from his lethargic state, coloured deeply; and finding herself quite unable to imagine what her feelings would be if she were in the dog's place, tried to escape from the uncomfortable speculation by running to join Beryl at the window.

But Beryl came to her defence. She could not resist this opportunity of giving her aunt an indirect hit in exchange for her annoying rebukes.

"It does not hurt that creature to have his tail pulled," she declared, eyeing the poodle contemptuously. "He is too fat to have any feeling. All he can do is to eat and sleep. I would not have such a stupid dog for the world."

"That is because you are a very silly girl," said Miss Hollys, colouring with anger at hearing her pet thus disparaged. "I am sure Coral did hurt him, poor fellow. Hear how he is moaning."

Beryl laughed, and gave Coral a glance, which plainly spoke her amusement at the idea of the poodle's sleepy grunts being interpreted as expressions of pain.

But Coral missed the glance, for she was looking intently for the phaeton, and at that moment she exclaimed hurriedly, "Oh, Beryl, here comes the carriage! I can see Andrew's head above the wall; but I can't see the governess. Do you think she has really come?"

"Yes, I can see somebody else," said Beryl, as the horse stood still at the entrance, and Andrew alighted to open the gate. "Let us go to the front door. Come along."

The children darted out of the room with such speed as awakened fresh reprimands from Miss Hollys. Standing at the open door, they directed curious glances at the phaeton as it rolled lightly along the gravelled path.

The little form seated beside Andrew did not at all resemble their preconceived notions of the governess's appearance. This was no grim, gaunt, sour-looking individual. The spectacles which Beryl had deemed indispensable to the work of an instructress were wanting, and the bright brown eyes, which looked down on the children as the carriage drove up, seemed to know no need of them.

"Can she be the governess, do you think?" whispered Coral, looking wonderingly at the bright face smiling on her from beneath the little round hat which suited it so admirably.

As soon as the phaeton drew up, the young lady sprang down from her seat as lightly as a child, without waiting for Andrew to help her. She looked scarcely more than a child, indeed, as she stood beside her new pupils, for she was only a few inches taller than Beryl, and her trim little figure and round rosy face had the most simple, girlish look.

"How do you do, young people?" she said, in a clear ringing voice, as she kissed first Beryl, and then Coral. "What are your names, if you please?"

"I am Beryl, and that is Coral. But are you really the governess who is going to teach us?"

Miss Burton laughed merrily. "What! You do not think I look old enough to teach you," she said; "but I am older perhaps than you think, and you will soon find out how cross and strict I can be when I begin to give you lessons."

Beryl did not look dismayed as she echoed Miss Burton's laugh. She began to think that her conclusions respecting governesses were not well-founded. Miss Burton was certainly by no means disagreeable-looking, nor did she in the least resemble Aunt Cecilia. Both the children were delighted to find the governess so utterly different from what they had expected.

Miss Hollys now came forward to receive the stranger. She was as surprised as Beryl at the pretty, girlish appearance of the governess. She had some misgivings as she looked at Miss Burton.

"I fear you are rather young for the work before you," she said to her, as she took the young lady upstairs, having ordered the children to stay below; "for you will not find your pupils easy to manage. Beryl is dreadfully ignorant, and a most unruly, self-willed girl. And I am afraid Coral is little better. You will have to be very firm with them, and punish them as often as they require it."

"I am nearly twenty-five; that is not so very young," said Miss Burton, with a smile. "I think I shall be able to get on with the children. I have managed worse girls than they are, if one may judge by their looks."

"Well, you have your work before you," returned Miss Hollys, with an ominous nod.

"How lovely it is here!" said Miss Burton, half an hour later, as she stood at the drawing-room window, and looked on the broad stretch of beach and the blue, heaving waves. "It is a delightful change from London."

"You will find it very dull when you have been here a little time," said Miss Hollys; "you will long to get back to town."

"I think not, for I am fond of a country life," said Miss Burton. "I was brought up in the country. It is only for the last few years that we have lived in London. Oh, how beautiful the sea looks! It makes me long to swim in it."

"Yes, of course, why should I not? I am rather proud of my swimming," said Miss Burton.

"I did not think governesses ever did such things as that," said Beryl wonderingly.

The tone in which Beryl said this struck Miss Burton as so droll that she burst into a merry laugh, which lasted some seconds.

"Why, what a funny notion you have of governesses," she said, as soon as she could speak. "Who has been talking to you about them?"

"No one," replied Beryl, as she turned away with hot cheeks, her pride uneasy under the fear that she had made herself ridiculous.

But she soon forgot her annoyance, and returned to Miss Burton's side to listen with intense enjoyment to her cheery talk. Beryl was getting quite fascinated with her pretty young governess.

"Do you know my papa?" she asked presently. "That is his portrait, taken many years ago, before I was born," and she pointed to a head in oils which hung against the wall.

"No, I have not seen your papa," said Miss Burton, rising to look at the portrait. "Mrs. Everard made every arrangement for my coming here, and I had no interview with Mr. Hollys. I can see that you are like your father, Beryl."

"Have you a father, Miss Burton?" asked little Coral, looking earnestly at the young lady.

"No, dear, not on earth," replied Miss Burton, dropping her voice, whilst a momentary shadow passed over her face; "my father died five years ago."

"My father is dead too," said little Coral, making the statement in the simple, matter-of-fact tone of childhood, "and mamma as well."

"Are they, dear?" said Miss Burton, instinctively drawing the child closer to her. "You must tell me about them some day."

But Coral felt no need of further knowledge of her new friend before giving her entire confidence, nor did Beryl. With eager utterance they began to tell Miss Burton the history of the shipwreck and all that dated from it. What one did not think of the other supplied, and their tongues went so fast that Miss Hollys had several times to reprove them for making too much noise. But Miss Burton listened with interest, and felt almost as sorry as the children when Miss Hollys decided that it was time for them to go upstairs.

"How nice she is!" said Beryl to Coral, as they went away. "I had no idea a governess could be so pleasant."

"What do you think of Miss Burton, Lucy?" said Beryl later on, when the nurse had for some time been listening with quiet amusement to the children's comments on their governess, and contrasting them with the remarks she haft heard earlier in the day.

"Oh, I think she is as nice-looking a young lady as ever I saw, and very pleasant-spoken too," said Lucy.

"Oh, I like her so much," said Beryl again; "I am quite glad that papa thought of getting me a governess. I like Miss Burton a great deal better than Aunt Cecilia; don't you, Coral? I am sure it will be delightful to learn of her."

"Well, Miss Beryl, I only hope you will always be so fond of your governess," remarked Lucy.

"What do you mean?" asked Beryl quickly, for her nurse's words seemed to be charged with special significance. "Do you think I shall change?"

"But I shall not change," returned Beryl indignantly; "and you need not speak as if you thought I should, Lucy."

CHAPTER XV

THE children settled very happily to their daily tasks with Miss Burton. At first, the long hours of confinement were felt to be irksome. Beryl's pen was apt to drop from her fingers, and her mind to wander from her work, as the sound of the sea came to her through the open window, and the warm sunshine and fragrant breeze made her long to fling books aside, and roam abroad at will again. But a word or touch from Miss Burton would recall her attention, for Beryl was really anxious to do well and please her governess. She felt ashamed of knowing so little, and was anxious by great endeavours to make up for lost time. Miss Burton made their steps to knowledge as smooth and pleasant as possible for her young pupils.

On sounding the depths of their ignorance, she was appalled to discover how profound it was; but happily, the children, though backward, were neither slow nor dull. No one could call Beryl a stupid child. If she knew little of books, she had picked up a good deal of information about the common things of life in the course of her free-and-easy childhood.

Miss Burton was surprised to find how quickly Beryl learned when once she began to apply herself. The soil of her mind promised to yield all the richer harvest for having lain fallow so long.

The children were fortunate in the governess chosen for them. Hettie Burton was too young and too childlike to have acquired any formal, pedantic mode of imparting instruction, whilst, at the same time, her intellectual powers were such as would have qualified her to teach far older pupils. She had a natural aptitude for teaching, and did not find her work a drudgery. She varied the children's tasks so skilfully, that neither mind nor body could grow weary before lessons were over. She laid no unnecessary restrictions on their freedom.

Coral and Beryl still took their morning dip in the sea, and had a run on the beach afterwards before they went to lessons, and, weather permitting, there was always a long, pleasant ramble in the evening. The children enjoyed their walks all the more when Miss Burton accompanied them.

She was not of Miss Holly's opinion, that it was unladylike to run, and vulgar to jump or climb. She let her pupils make free use of their limbs, when school hours were over. Hettie was not too old to enjoy a run herself, and the nimble way in which she scaled the rocks excited Beryl's strong admiration.

One day, shortly after her arrival, the children took their governess to explore the depths of the long cave, and then poured into her astonished ears the story of their marvellous escape from drowning. Beryl was disposed to suppress the fact of their having tried to keep a Sunday school in the cave. She was afraid lest Miss Burton, like Mr. Hollys, should see something ridiculous in the idea. But Coral soon let out the fact; and though Miss Burton seemed very surprised to hear of it, she did not appear inclined to laugh.

"Beryl thought of it," said Coral. "She wanted to do something for the kingdom."

"It was Mr. Gilbank made me think of it," said Beryl, colouring as she spoke; "he said it was such a pity there was no Sunday school for the children at Egloshayle."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Beryl. "Mr. Trevor is our clergyman, and he is not in the least like Mr. Gilbank. You could never guess what Mr. Gilbank is like. He is the nicest, kindest man in the world, I think; except papa, of course, I mean."

Then, as Miss Burton began to ask further questions, Coral and Beryl told her all about the artist's visit to Egloshayle, and how he had taught them the meaning of the Lord's Prayer, and made them long to become children of the kingdom.

Miss Burton listened with surprised interest. Here was a subject on which the children were not ignorant. Young as they were, they had taken their place at the Master's feet, and had begun to learn of Him.

Hettie Burton stood silent and thoughtful for a few minutes, scarce heeding what the children said.

She, too, aspired to be a worker in the kingdom. She was thinking that perhaps the care and training of these two children did not represent all the work she was called to do at Egloshayle. It might be that she could work with Coral and Beryl as well as for them.

"Oh, would you help us? Do you really mean it?" cried Beryl, in joyful surprise.

"Yes, certainly. I should be only too happy to help," said Miss Burton. "I have been used to teaching in Sunday schools all my life; at least, I mean, ever since I arrived at years of discretion."

"Then we can begin at once!" cried Beryl eagerly. "Oh, but I forgot," she added, with a sudden change of tone; "I promised papa that I would not keep Sunday school again."

"Then we must do nothing in the matter till we have obtained his permission," said the governess decidedly.

"But he will not be home till September; it is such a long time to wait," returned Beryl disconsolately.

"Only a few weeks," said Miss Burton, "and we shall have time to think of some plan to which Mr. Hollys may not object. It is never well to begin things in too great a hurry."

"Oh, I do not promise to take that upon me," said Miss Burton, with a little laugh.

After this, the arrangement of a Sunday school was eagerly discussed by the children, and many a grand idea conceived, which proved upon examination to be impracticable.

Meanwhile, the Sunday afternoons, which the children passed with their governess, were very pleasant. Miss Burton gave them little formal religious instruction. She did not believe in teaching children catechisms, or in giving them doses of theology, however infinitesimal. She had no desire to make Coral and Beryl precociously self-conscious. But she did try to keep them healthy, happy children, whose child-life was all the more beautiful and joyous because they loved and trusted the children's Friend. She taught them to sing glad hymns, such as in all ages children have loved to sing. She tried to make the "old, old story" real and clear to their childish minds.

She had brought many books with her to Egloshayle, such as all children love, and she used to read them to her young charges on Sunday afternoons, as they sat in the garden or in some safe and shady nook on the beach. In this way, Coral and Beryl became acquainted with "Ministering Children," "The Wide, Wide World," and the charming stories which make up "The Golden Ladder."

Beryl enjoyed these readings intensely. She was so interested in the lives of the various heroines that she scarcely knew how to wait from week to week for the unfolding of their experiences, and at last her impatience in this respect proved a means of temptation to her.

For the first few weeks things had gone very pleasantly in the schoolroom. Beryl, influenced by the charm of her governess's winning manner, and her own eager desire to improve, had been so industrious and obedient, that Miss Burton began to wonder what could have made her aunt describe her as an unruly, self-willed child.

But a change became apparent. In the hot days of August, Beryl grew listless and careless, and seemed to lose interest in her lessons. Up to this time, a word from her governess had been sufficient to control her; but now Beryl's old habits were regaining power, and she showed plainly that she had not yet learned to appreciate the virtue of obedience. Miss Burton often had to speak twice and even three times before she could command her pupil's attention. Beryl fancied she could treat her governess's commands with the indifference she had always shown to her aunt's.

But it was not Miss Burton's intention to allow such conduct to continue. She was, as Miss Hollys had hoped, a thorough disciplinarian, though her mode of maintaining discipline was not, perhaps, such as that lady would have advised.

Miss Burton made every allowance for Beryl's naughtiness. She did not resort to punishment till she had tried ineffectually the influence of firm words and kind persuasions. But when these failed, and she saw that Beryl was not ailing in health, and had really no excuse for her perverseness, Miss Burton thought it was time to try the effect of sterner measures.

One Monday morning, Coral and Beryl were together in the nursery, now dignified by the name of schoolroom. Books, slates, and pens lay ready on the table; but it wanted ten minutes to the hour at which they began lessons.

Coral was busy putting her doll into the little wicker cot in which she was to repose during schooltime. Beryl stood before the bookshelves, looking with eager, longing gaze at a brightly-bound volume standing high on the top shelf. The books on that shelf belonged to Miss Burton, and the children were not allowed to take them without leave. Beryl's eyes were upon the book, which had been begun on the previous day. She was longing to know how the story went on.

She must just take a peep, to see what the next chapter was about. So, regardless of the fact that this was a forbidden pleasure, Beryl bounded on to a chair and had the book in her hand in a moment. Then, standing there, she was soon deep in the second chapter.

"Beryl!" she exclaimed, astonished at the audacity of her pupil. "What are you doing on that chair? And what book is that in your hand? I thought I had forbidden you to take those books without asking my leave."

"Oh yes," said Beryl, looking a little startled, but not much abashed; "but I did so want to know what the next chapter was about."

"That is no excuse for disobedience," said Miss Burton gravely; "you must learn to control your wishes when it is wrong to indulge them. This is not the first time that I have found you disobedient of late, and I cannot let it pass unpunished. You will stay in this room for half an hour after school, and learn a lesson that I shall give you."

Beryl looked both surprised and angry, as she jumped down from the chair and went to take her place at the table. It was soon clear that she did not mean to submit meekly to her punishment.

CHAPTER XVI

BERYL sat down to her lessons with a frown upon her brow. If she was at all ashamed of having provoked such a reproof from her governess, pride kept her from manifesting the least contrition.

Miss Burton soon knew that Beryl could be as naughty and refractory as any child she had ever had to control. Everything went wrong that morning. Either Beryl had prepared her lessons very carelessly, or her recent annoyance had driven out of her mind what she had learned. She stammered and hesitated, made the most stupid blunders, and called forth frequent expressions of astonishment from her governess.

Beryl's temper did not improve under these humiliations. Since she found it impossible to display striking intelligence in the course of this morning's study, she resolved to aim at the other extreme and show striking stupidity. If Miss Burton were inclined to find fault, occasion should not be lacking. So Beryl hardened herself into a state of sulky obstinacy, purposely misunderstood what was said to her, found difficulties in the easiest of sums, and made blots and smudges in her writing at the rate of one a minute.

Miss Burton tried to be patient with the child, hoping that she would soon recover her temper and see the absurdity of her conduct. But as Beryl's blunders showed more and more plainly that they were made by design, the governess felt her own anger being kindled. Fearing that an outburst of indignation might make matters worse, she suddenly surprised Beryl by refusing to teach her any more that morning.

For the rest of schooltime, Beryl sat idle in a corner of the room, looking strangely unlike herself, with the sulky, stubborn look which had settled on her face.

"Beryl," said Miss Burton, when Coral was putting away her books, "I was sorry to find fault with you when I came into the schoolroom this morning, but if you had been a wise girl, you would have resolved that it should not happen again, and have tried, by being good and industrious, to make me forget my annoyance with you. But as you have chosen to waste the whole morning by giving way to ill-temper and naughtiness, I feel that I must increase your punishment. I shall double the lesson I intended giving you, and you must stay in this room by yourself for a whole hour. It grieves me to treat you thus, for I had hoped we might have got on together without punishments and penalties."

Miss Burton looked in vain for any sign of softening on Beryl's part. Yet, in truth, it was all the child could do to keep her composure. No sooner did she hear Miss Burton close the door, and know that she was alone, than she burst into passionate tears. But they were not tears of penitence. Pride still ruled her spirit, and she angrily resented her governess's treatment of her. Beryl had never before experienced punishment, and, like a colt first made to feel the bit, she chafed and fretted, giving herself far more pain than she would have felt had she quietly submitted to control.

In her indignant, defiant mood, Beryl was of two minds about learning the lesson Miss Burton had set her. It was by no means a difficult task, and she might soon have mastered it, had she chosen to do so. But she felt strongly disinclined to the effort, as she sat with the book closed over her fingers, swinging her feet to and fro, an action soothing to her in her present state of mind. She was gradually growing calmer and more rational, when the door opened and Lucy appeared. She came, duster in hand, to set the room tidy, as her custom was when lessons were over.

"Yes, I'm here,"' replied Beryl, not very amiably, giving her feet a determined swing, meant to express supreme indifference. "I have a lesson to learn."

"Then you've been a naughty girl, I suppose," said Lucy, taking in the situation at once, and showing little regard for Beryl's feelings.

"I only took a book off Miss Burton's shelf," said Beryl, in an injured tone. "It was very horrid of her to make such a fuss about it. She's as cross as she can be."

"Oh, I dare say you think you did nothing wrong," remarked Lucy; "you always say that. But you won't be any the worse for a little punishment; I'm glad Miss Burton knows how to manage you."

"She doesn't then; she is a horrid, cross thing; I can't bear her!" exclaimed Beryl, uttering the first words which came to her lips, in the irritation excited by these words, which stung her pride sorely.

"There now, Miss Beryl; what did I tell you?" exclaimed Lucy triumphantly. "I said you would not be fond of your governess long. I knew your love was too hot to last."

With these words Lucy went away, leaving poor Beryl more completely under the dominion of the evil spirit of pride and self-will which had taken possession of her. But for her nurse's ill-chosen words, Beryl might soon have been humble and contrite, and the rest of the day might have passed more happily for her than it did. Now, however, all her worst feelings were stirred up anew. She did not care. She would do as she liked. She would not learn the lesson. She would show Miss Burton, and Lucy too, that she was not going to be "managed"; and, reckless of consequences, Beryl dashed her lesson book on the floor, and looked round for some pleasanter mode of passing the time.

Something drew her eyes to the bookshelf. They rested on the brightly-bound book which had led her into this trouble. Here was a grand opportunity of at once daring Miss Burton's anger and gratifying her own wishes.

Beryl gave herself no time for reflection. She flew across the room, climbed on a chair, reached the book, and sat down to read it. Her cheeks were flushed and her heart was beating fast as she opened it. She was feeling half proud of her spirited defiance, and half frightened at it. The story thus read had little charm. It was difficult, indeed, to keep her attention fixed upon it in her excited state of mind. Her own situation just now was more interesting to her than that of the heroine of the story.

Moreover, in her reading, she came to passages which she was glad to skip, for she knew their teaching would awaken conscience, and she did not want to listen to the reproaches of conscience. Beryl was not so absorbed in her reading that she did not catch the first sound of Miss Burton's approach. She trembled and grew pale as her governess opened the door. She suddenly became fully conscious how bad her conduct was.

"Well, Beryl," said Miss Burton, coming towards her, and speaking with her usual gentleness, "do you know your lesson?"

"Not learned it!" repeated Miss Burton, in a tone of the greatest surprise. "Why, what is this?" she added, as her eyes fell on the story book, which Beryl had hastily pushed from her as her governess entered. "Have you been reading this, Beryl, instead of learning your lesson?"

Miss Burton was silent for a few moments from sheer astonishment. She was quite unprepared for such an outbreak of wilfulness on the part of her pupil. She could not understand how it was that Beryl thus persisted in defying her authority.

Beryl, glancing timidly at her governess, saw an expression of pain and perplexity on her face, the sight of which did more to soften the child's mood than any words which had yet been spoken.

"I could not have believed it of you, Beryl," said Miss Burton at last, without raising her voice or showing any sign of anger. "What can have come over you to make you behave thus? Do you find pleasure in giving me trouble?"

Beryl did not answer. She hung her head now in genuine shame. Oh, how she wished she had acted differently! If only what had happened could be blotted out, and she could begin the day afresh!

"Go to your bedroom, Beryl, and remain there for the rest of the day," said Miss Burton, in her quiet tone of decision; "I will send your dinner to you there. We must go to the woods without you this afternoon. I hope when I see you in the evening, you will have thought over what has passed, and feel sorry for having behaved so badly. You do not need me to tell you how wrong you have been."

Beryl said not a word, but left the room at once in obedience to her governess's command. She went away, feeling as hopelessly miserable as a child could feel. There was no anger in Miss Burton's mind towards her as she noted her unhappy look. She could have forgiven her there and then, but she judged it best to leave Beryl to herself for a time.

What a long, sad afternoon that was for Beryl! The expedition to the woods in search of the blackberries, which were just beginning to ripen, had been talked of for days, and now, instead of the anticipated pleasure, Beryl found herself a prisoner in her room, in sore trouble and disgrace.

From her window she watched the others set off, Coral seated on the pony, which Andrew led, Miss Burton walking beside her, and Lucy bringing up the rear with baskets and shawls, for they were to have tea in the wood.

Coral's face looked grave and troubled. Beryl felt sure she would not enjoy the blackberry-picking half so much without her. Miss Burton, too, looked less bright than usual; but Beryl fancied she read a look of triumph on Lucy's face, as she glanced up and saw the young prisoner peeping from the window. No doubt Lucy was pleased to think she was being thus "managed."

But the indignation stirred by Lucy's appearance quickly died out. Beryl's conscience was awake now, and made itself forcibly heard. She no longer said that her governess was unkind, and held herself aggrieved by her treatment. She saw now how very bad her conduct had been. She wondered, with a desponding sense of her own weakness, how she could have behaved so badly to one whom she loved as she loved Miss Burton; for Beryl's words to Lucy had been uttered in passion and bravado, and it was not true that she could not bear her governess.

As she remembered Miss Burton's great kindness, and the many happy hours they had passed together since she came to Egloshayle, Beryl felt more and more ashamed of herself. She longed for the party to return, that she might ask her governess to forgive her.

As if to intensify her contrition, there suddenly fluttered on to the floor from a cupboard in the room, so crammed with toys and books by the untidy owners that it would not be made to shut, a large sheet of paper. Startled by the sound it made in falling, Beryl looked to see what it was. She took up the sheet and unrolled it. It was a picture of the Good Shepherd, one of the coloured prints she had used with such success in her Sunday school. Beryl dropped it suddenly, and her face reddened with fresh shame. The memory of the day when she had tried to teach her little scholars about the Good Shepherd pierced her to the heart. She did not need to be told that example is better than precept.

How often had she made use of her quick observation to weigh the comparative merits of the words and deeds of others. The thought of her little scholars brought the keenest stab of remorse she had yet felt. A nice one she was to try and teach others! If those children could have seen her to-day, what would they have thought? And she had called herself a child of the kingdom! Beryl broke down utterly at the thought. Kneeling beside her little bed, she hid her face in her hands, and sobbed till she could sob no more. She was young, poor child, to know the keen pain and shame which comes with a sense of failure in realising our own cherished ideal of worthy living.

When Miss Burton entered the room some hours later, she had no need to utter words to draw forth Beryl's avowal of repentance. Beryl ran towards her with pale, tear-stained face and look of utter misery, crying, "Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry; I hate myself; I am a bad, horrid thing!"

Hettie Burton clasped her in her arms, and Beryl's words were lost in sobs, as she leaned her head on her governess's shoulder. Not a word of reproach or blame was spoken. Miss Burton did not try to improve the occasion. She saw that Beryl was truly sorry for her naughtiness, and she tried to make her feel that she was fully forgiven. So she soothed the child with tender words and caresses; and when she had helped her to bathe her face and set her hair in order, she led her to the schoolroom. Here stood ready the children's supper of bread and butter, milk, and blackberries, and Coral was waiting, eager to see and comfort Beryl.

Her little sister's joyous welcome and loving kiss made Beryl cry again. She felt more humble and sorry than ever, now every one was so kind to her, for even Lucy seemed to feel a little sympathy for her. Coral had picked out the finest and ripest blackberries for her enjoyment; but, fond as she generally was of this fruit, Beryl was indifferent to blackberries now. Her chief thought was that she loved her governess better than before, and she would never, never be naughty to her again.

CHAPTER XVII

FOR some days Beryl "went softly" in her humiliation and repentance. But sins as well as sorrows are easily forgotten by children, and when Miss Burton had so heartily forgiven her recent outbreak of naughtiness, and was as kind and as loving to her as ever, how could Beryl retain a depressing sense of shame? Yet the thought of that unhappy day was not banished to a land of utter oblivion. Its memory revived again and again to give a timely warning, when Beryl was tempted to fight hard for her own way, or assert her independence by disobeying commands.

The year glided on to that delightful season when summer and autumn join hands and mingle their gifts of warmth and colour. The corn grown on the upland fields were all cut and stored. The woods were mellowing with tokens of summer's waning, and promised a rich harvest to the nutters. But the sun still shed warmth and beauty along the shore, and it was only at evening that the cold breath of autumn was felt. The sound of sportmen's guns re-echoed from the stubble lands, and Egloshayle was at its gayest time, as far as visitors were concerned.

Mr. Hollys did not come home till the day before that fixed for the arrival of the guests he had invited for the shooting. Miss Hollys had returned from her visit a week earlier, and was anticipating with pleasurable excitement the task of entertaining her brother's guests. She was prepared to forget for a time that she had nerves, and make exertions from which she would generally have shrunk.

To Beryl the coming of these visitors was an annoyance. She wanted her father to herself, and it vexed her to think that his time and attention would be monopolised by a number of strangers. She was inclined, moreover, to regard the sport of shooting from the birds' point of view, and denounce it as a very cruel kind of amusement.

To secure at least one quiet talk with her father, Beryl asked permission to drive with Andrew to the station to meet him. Her request was granted without demur.

She could squeeze herself between Mr. Hollys and Andrew, even if her father's luggage should demand the whole of the back seat of the phaeton, and he would certainly be pleased to have her company. Miss Hollys, being in an amiable mood, allowed Beryl to do as she liked.

So Beryl drove off, looking bright and happy. Andrew, being one of the most cautious of servants, had allowed so much time for the drive, that they arrived at the station long before the train was due. Beryl did not mind that. She had a pleasant sense of being a person of importance as she walked up and down the platform, feeling sure that the stationmaster knew who she was, and had communicated this knowledge to the countrywomen who stood by regarding her with glances in which she fancied she read admiration.

At last, when Beryl's patience was beginning to fail, the train came up. But a disappointment awaited Beryl. When she saw her father step on to the platform, and rushed forward to meet him, she discovered, to her dismay, that he was not alone. A tall, lanky-limbed youth, probably about sixteen, sprang out of the train after him. He was of dark complexion, with dark eyes and black hair, and held himself awkwardly, as boys do who suffer the disadvantage of too rapid growth. At the first glance, Beryl decided that he was very ugly, and she did not like him at all.

"Why, Beryl, my child!" exclaimed her father. "It is good of you to come and meet me. I need not ask if you are well; you look so bonny. This young gentleman is the son of my friend Mrs. Everard, of whom you have often heard me speak. This is my little daughter, Percy."

"Not so very little," he replied, nodding carelessly to the child, and surveying her with a cool gaze, which Beryl inwardly resented.

"No; she certainly is not, she grows like a beanstalk," said her father, surveying her with pride. "How is Coral? Is Andrew here?"

Beryl answered "Yes" to the second question, and led the way to the gate at which the phaeton was drawn up.

"Now, how are we all to find room?" said Mr. Hollys. "You get up behind, Percy, and then we will see where the portmanteaux can go. Where will you sit, Beryl?"

"There's room for her here," remarked Percy, drawing his long legs aside, and showing a small space into which Beryl might squeeze herself.

But Beryl turned away from the long-limbed youth with a decided air of disapproval.

Though she turned her back on him, Beryl felt sure that the long-legged youth was laughing at her. But she was not going to sit squeezed up there with him, if she knew it, she declared to herself.

Room was found for Beryl on the front seat; but she had not a very pleasant place, for the piled-up portmanteaux blocked her view. She felt cross and disappointed. She would have no nice talk with her father after all; for it was impossible to say what she wanted to say to him with that horrid boy listening.

"And how do you get on with your governess, Beryl?" asked her father, as they drove along.

"Oh, so well, papa! You can't think how nice she is! We both like her so much," began Beryl eagerly, checking herself, however, as she remembered the unwelcome listener.

"That's right; I'm glad to hear that," said Mr. Hollys, who had expected rather a different answer.

"You haven't been trying to get drowned again lately, have you?" asked Percy, leaning forward to address the child.

"Yes; are not you the girl who got swamped in a cave, and managed to escape in the most mysterious way?" he asked.

Beryl's cheeks grew crimson. She knew he was laughing at her. How horrid that he should have heard of that adventure!

"Do you still play at Sunday schools on the beach?" asked the persistent questioner, his voice betraying amusement.

"Play at Sunday schools?" Beryl's face grew hotter and tears came into her eyes. She could not bear to think that this horrid boy knew all about her doings, and was making fun of them. It was unkind of her father to have told him. She lifted an appealing, almost reproachful glance to him at the thought.

"Come, come, Percy; you are touching a painful subject," said Mr. Hollys, as he saw Beryl's look of annoyance. "We none of us like to be reminded of past follies, you know."

The youth laughed a loud, discordant laugh, which Beryl felt to be full of derision. Her father's mention of past follies was not agreeable to her pride. The drive which she had expected to be so pleasant was proving quite the reverse.

They drove on in silence, broken only by an occasional remark from Mr. Hollys to his young guest. At length they reached Egloshayle, and began to descend the steep hill to the house. It was evening, but still light enough for the garden to be clearly visible, and they caught sight of Coral and Miss Burton enjoying a lively game of battledore and shuttlecock on the lawn.

"That Miss Burton," he exclaimed in surprise. "Why, she seems a mere child. She is not at all my idea of a governess. I am afraid I made a mistake in engaging her."

"Now, papa, you don't mean that," said Beryl. "I am sure you would not say it, if you knew her."

"She does not look like a blue-stocking," observed Mr. Hollys, with a merry look in his eyes as he watched the light, little figure that was tossing the shuttlecock with grace and ease.

A loud laugh from the back seat made her aware that she had said what was foolish.

"I am afraid your mother deceived me, Percy. She gave me to understand that Miss Burton was a female pedant, acquainted with all the ologies, who had passed ever so many examinations, and held innumerable certificates. I did not expect to see such an ordinary-looking mortal."

"It is certainly marvellous that she can condescend to battledore and shuttlecock," observed the youth, with a laugh.

By this time the players had become aware of the approach of the vehicle, and throwing down their battledores, they came forward to meet it. Mr. Hollys alighted and lifted down Beryl, then turned to shake hands with the governess.

"I am glad to see that your studies have not made you too wise to enjoy a game, Miss Burton," he said playfully.

"I am afraid I shall never attain to such wisdom," she answered brightly. "I shall always be fond of play, or at any rate, till I am a very old woman."

She had rather dreaded his coming, fancying that she would not like him. As is so often the case, however, she found the real man utterly different from her preconceived notion of him. He did not seem cold and proud, as she had imagined him, nor at all like his sister, whom she could not admire. She could find no fault with his easy yet courteous bearing, and she thought him not merely a handsome, but also a pleasing-looking man.

"Who is that, Beryl?" asked her little sister, indicating the young stranger, who had greeted her by stroking her chin, and pulling her hair. "Did you know he was coming?"

"No, he is as horrid as can be!" was Beryl's whispered confidence. "I wish he had not come. I can't think why papa brought him."

"How is he horrid?" questioned Coral, wishing to arrive at a clear understanding of Beryl's reasons for objecting to the presence of the young guest.

CHAPTER XVIII

BERYL was very vexed to have missed the quiet talk with her father which she had hoped to secure by going to meet him at the railway station. She was anxious to consult him on a subject which to her seemed of the utmost importance. It was too provoking that the presence of "that tiresome boy" should have deprived her of the opportunity.

The children had not forgotten Mr. Holly's promise that Beryl should have a birthday treat, when he came home in the autumn. They had often talked of it, and there had been much discussion as to what would be the nicest kind of treat they could enjoy. One pleasure after another had been planned and then thrown aside at the suggestion of something better.

But at last a hint given by Miss Burton had been hailed as the most charming idea possible. The suggestion was that Beryl should give a birthday party.

Now an ordinary children's party would have been a difficult matter to arrange in that quiet Cornish village.

The houses of the gentry lay at wide distances, many miles apart, and Beryl knew nothing of the children of those homes except an occasional sight of them at church. It was not these children that she intended to invite to her party.

Her plan was to have all the children who had come to her Sunday class, little ones and older ones, to spend a long afternoon and take tea in the garden at Egloshayle House. Miss Burton had seen many such entertainments, and knew just how everything should be managed.

There would be no difficulty in amusing the little guests. Coral and Beryl, delighted with the notion, made numberless plans for their diversion.

Beryl's only fear was that her father might object to this mode of keeping her birthday. He might laugh at it, as he had laughed at her idea of having a Sunday school. She knew that she could not give her party whilst Egloshayle House was full of guests; but she wished to gain her father's consent to her doing so at some future day, when the shooting-party had separated and the house was quiet once more.

But Beryl's patience was severely tried ere she could name the subject to her father. His guests and the shooting made great demands on his time.

For some days Coral and Beryl saw scarcely anything of Mr. Hollys, except when they went down to the dining-room in the evening for a few minutes.

It was impossible, of course, to mention her cherished scheme then, in the presence of the company gathered around the table. And if ever Mr. Hollys found leisure for a few minutes' chat with the children, that "horrid boy" was sure to be within hearing, and Beryl would not for the world have had him know what she wished to say to her father.

Beryl did not regard Percy Everard with more favour as she became used to his presence in the house. Yet he paid her more attention than boys of his age usually accord to little girls. His attentions, however, were not always of an agreeable kind. If Beryl had had a brother, she would probably have known how to take Percy's teasing with a better grace. But it was a new experience for her to have her hair pulled without the least warning, her ears tickled with a straw, or to find herself tripped up by a sly foot just as she started for a run, whilst her tormentor seemed to derive the utmost amusement from seeing the annoyance he created.

This form of provocation was more annoying to Beryl than it would have been to many girls, because, as we have seen, she was inclined to esteem herself a person of considerable importance. Even as a little child she had displayed much personal dignity. Percy saw that she was what he called "a conceited little mortal," and he found more delight in tormenting her than in teasing Coral, who had less pride to be kindled into wrath.

Though she was often betrayed into bursts of passionate indignation, Beryl really tried to keep her temper under Percy's constant exasperation. She avoided his company as much as possible; but Percy, suspecting this, often thrust himself upon her in the most unexpected and unwelcome manner. Beryl's greatest comfort was the thought that this state of things could not last for ever. Percy's visit must come to an end some day.

At last her longing for his departure seemed about to be gratified. One day, towards the close of the third week of his stay, she heard him name the following Monday as the day of his return to town. Beryl was so pleased to hear this that she looked across the table at Coral with a beaming smile of congratulation.

Percy caught the look. "So you are pleased that I am going away," he said, looking at Beryl.

"Now, Beryl," said her aunt sharply, "don't behave in that absurd way. Say at once that you are sorry Percy is going to leave us."

But Beryl was too truthful to say that she was sorry, when she was feeling very glad. She remained silent.

"Oh, very well," said Percy carelessly; "I'm sorry my company is so unpleasant to you, for I was going to ask Mr. Hollys to bring you with him the next time he comes to town. But I dare say you would rather not stay at my mother's house, as you dislike me so much. You could not avoid seeing me sometimes whilst you were there."

This remark made Beryl uncomfortable. She had a great longing to go to London, and had often asked her father to take her with him when he went. There was nothing she would like better than a visit to town. But the prospect of staying at Mrs. Everard's was not altogether alluring. If Percy would be likely to tease her there, as he had teased her during the last few weeks, she would certainly prefer to remain at Egloshayle. She judged it better to preserve a strict neutrality on the subject, and said not a word, though Percy's suggestion had stirred new longings.

"It is very kind of your mother to be willing to have her," observed Miss Hollys; "but I am afraid she would repent of her kindness when she found what a troublesome charge Beryl is."

"Beryl must get a little more knowledge before she goes to London; do you not think so, Miss Burton?" observed Mr. Hollys. "It will not do to display her ignorance there."

Much disconcerted at finding herself thus made the subject of conversation, Beryl hastily finished her breakfast and escaped from the room as soon as possible.

Beryl's spirits rose as Monday drew near. There was no reason why her birthday party should not be given at the close of that week, if her father would give his consent, for already many of the guests had gone, and the last would have left by then.

She watched for an opportunity of speaking to her father, and managed to secure his company as they walked to church on Sunday morning; Miss Burton aiding her by monopolising Percy's attention, and keeping him by her side all the way.

"That will be rather an odd sort of birthday party, Beryl," said Mr. Hollys, when she had explained her scheme to him. "Shall you know what to do with such visitors?"

"Oh yes, papa, Miss Burton knows how to manage everything, and we have thought of all sorts of ways of amusing the children."

"Then Miss Burton is ready to second your wishes; she approves of this wild idea?"

"Of course, papa. Why, I believe she was the one who first thought of it," said Beryl. "Please don't call it a wild idea; I do so want you to say 'Yes.'"

Mr. Hollys did not hesitate long. Like many kindhearted, easy-tempered men, he enjoyed giving pleasure to others, when it could be done without inconvenience to himself. He was one, moreover, who liked to be popular with the people amongst whom he dwelt, and he knew that Beryl's entertainment would highly please the parents of the children she invited.

"Well, Beryl, I dare say it can be managed," he said. "I must talk it over with Miss Burton, and hear how she intends to arrange the affair."

"Oh, thank you, papa, I am so glad!" exclaimed Beryl, feeling sure that she had gained his consent. "Do you think we might fix it for Friday? Every one will have gone by then."

"Yes, I should think Friday will suit," said her father; "but is it not a pity you did not plan it before Percy left us? He could have helped you finely."

"I would not have had the party whilst he was here for the world," said Beryl vehemently. "He would have spoiled everything. I don't want him to know anything about it. You won't tell him, will you, papa?"

"Certainly not, if you would rather he did not know," said Mr. Hollys, laughing to see the indignant glances Beryl cast at the back of the tall, slim youth who was walking some yards in front. "But how is it you dislike Percy so much, Beryl? He is very kind to you."

"Kind!" retorted Beryl, with a toss of the head, which made her father laugh again. "I don't call him kind. I'm so glad he is going to-morrow. But about Friday, papa. If you and Miss Burton think Friday will do, Coral and I might go and ask the children this afternoon. They ought to know soon."

"Oh yes; you had better give them a long invitation, for fear they should make engagements," said her father satirically.

Beryl saw the absurdity of this remark, and laughed heartily. By this time they were almost at the door of the church, and hearing her laugh, Percy turned round to discover the source of her merriment.

"What were you laughing at, little Duchess?" he asked, noting Beryl's radiant look as she came up to him.

"Nothing," she replied coldly, her indignation excited afresh by the ridiculous title which Percy chose to give her.

"Then you mean to say that I am an idiot!" she said, flashing an angry glance at him.

"Not at all; for I cannot believe that you were laughing at nothing," he replied.

"Then you own you were laughing at something, and what you said first was not true," returned Percy.

To Beryl's vexation it was impossible to continue longer this amiable sparring, as they were about to enter the church, so Percy had the last word, and his triumphant, mischievous look, as he seated himself opposite to Beryl in the large square pew, showed how he appreciated the advantage he had gained.

Mr. Hollys had some talk with Miss Burton as they walked home from church. She told him her plans for the children's party, and he became quite interested in them, and had not the least objection to make.

To Beryl's delight, it was decided that the fishermen's children should be invited for the following Friday. That afternoon she went with Coral down to the beach, where many of their little scholars were playing, and as the children gathered eagerly about her, she told them of the treat in store for them, and made them all promise to come to her home on Friday afternoon. The children could not readily express their pleasure; but their surprised, delighted looks showed how pleased they were.

Leaving the children to talk freely about the grand idea of taking tea with the little ladies at Egloshayle House, Coral and Beryl strolled along the beach in the shadow of the over-hanging cliffs.

"Of course they were," returned Beryl; "it will be delightful. Oh, isn't it nice to think that by this time to-morrow that horrid Percy will have left us, and we shall have no fear of his interfering to spoil everything. I'm longing to see him drive away."

Beryl little thought that "that horrid Percy" was even then within sound of her voice. They were passing a mass of rocks which shelved away from the side of the cliff, and as Beryl ended, Coral exclaimed, "Hush! Didn't you hear some one call?"

As they waited in silence for a few moments, their ears caught the sound of a faint "Hallo!" which seemed to come from behind one of the rocks.

"What's the matter? Who's there?" called Beryl, as she advanced towards the spot whence the sound came.

"I believe it's that horrid boy," said Beryl in a tone of annoyance. "And yet it does not sound quite like his voice. I dare say it's some stupid trick of his."

Advancing cautiously round the rock, they soon saw that Beryl was not mistaken in imagining that the voice was Percy's. But he had not the appearance of one playing a trick. He was lying on the stones beneath the cliff, his clothes strewn with dust and fragments of rock, and his face utterly colourless.

"Yes, I was trying to climb the cliff, and the path gave way beneath me," said Percy faintly. "Give me your arm, will you, Beryl, and I will try to raise myself?"

Beryl willingly gave him all the help she could, and he dragged himself up into a sitting posture, but turned so sick and faint in consequence, that he was obliged to lean against the child for support. All the tenderness of Beryl's nature came out now. She forgot that it was her tormentor who was brought thus low. Kneeling by his side, she made Percy lean his head upon her shoulder, whilst she gently wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Yes, my foot hurts me awfully. The rock fell on it. I don't know how I shall get home."

"Coral, you must run home as fast as possible and tell papa," said Beryl, turning to Coral, who stood looking on in silence, her little face white with fear, and tears of distress in her eyes.

Coral ran off without a word. In a few minutes Percy's faintness began to pass away, and he could sit up without Beryl's support. But he was evidently in intense pain.

It was no easy matter to remove the boot from the swollen foot on which it pressed so cruelly, but Beryl set to work, not unskilfully, and with the help of Percy's penknife managed to release the injured part. But, careful though she was, this could not be done without giving more pain, and though Percy bore it bravely, he several times turned so white that Beryl feared he was going to faint.

"I am so sorry for you," she said gently. "I wish they would come. It seems so long to wait, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it seems an age; but we must try to bear it," said Percy, setting his teeth together to keep back a groan. "You are a good little woman, Beryl, to wait with me so patiently. I am very much obliged to you."

She was so full of pity for him that she began to think that he was really rather nice after all, and she had made a mistake in disliking him so much. She would willingly have kept watch beside him for a longer time, but she was very glad for his sake when at length she heard the sound of steps coming quickly across the shingles.

CHAPTER XIX

WITH the united help of Mr. Hollys and Andrew, Percy was at last able to get back to the house; but not without much suffering. Every movement gave him pain, and though he limped along bravely, and tried to bear up like a man, his strength was almost gone by the time they reached home. Beryl's heart grew tender with pity as she watched him. Her feelings towards Percy had been undergoing a rapid change within the last hour. She felt so sorry, that for the time she quite forgot how he had teased and plagued her since he came to Egloshayle.

The fortitude with which he endured his pain seemed to Beryl quite heroic. She was conscious only of compassionate admiration as she lingered by his side during the long half-hour whilst they awaited the coming of the doctor. There were actually tears in her eyes as she stood there, and it was only by exercising strong self-control that she could keep from crying aloud.

At last the doctor came, and then Beryl was banished from the dining-room where Percy lay, and bidden to keep herself out of the way, like a good child. But, like many other children, she had a great objection to keeping out of the way, "like a good child," and she and Coral hung about the hall, and finally took up a position at the top of the staircase, whence they could watch the dining-room door, and observe and question all who passed in or out of it.

It was exciting to see how many things the servants handed in at that door. Hot and cold water, sponges, towels, linen-rags, Eau de Cologne, a scent bottle, cotton-wool, plaster, scissors, such were the articles called for from time to time, and supplied as quickly as possible. It was generally Miss Burton who opened the door, and took them in.

Miss Hollys' nerves made her useless at such a time. All she could now do was to shut herself up in the drawing-room, and sob hysterically.

"I wish they had let me stay in the room to help," remarked Beryl, in rather an injured tone.

"Could you have helped?" asked Coral. "Wouldn't it have made you feel bad? His foot was bleeding dreadfully when he came in. You can see the marks now on the doorstep."

"Yes, I know," said Beryl; "there was a cut just above his boot. I tied my handkerchief round it. Aunt Cecilia said it made her feel faint to see the blood; but I should not be like that. What would be the good? If every one felt like that, there would be no doctors, I should think. Miss Burton does not mind it, you see."

"I am afraid not," said Beryl, suddenly remembering how she had counted on his departure.

"You don't think he will stay till Friday?" asked Coral anxiously. "It will be tiresome if we have to give up the birthday party."

"Yes; I've just thought of that," said Beryl, looking grave; "I can't tell at all how it will be. I shall be vexed if we have to give it up. And we have told the children about it—oh dear!"

"After all, Coral," she added presently, in a softer voice, "it is worse for Percy than for us. I am sure he must be in dreadful pain. And he will be sorry not to go to-morrow, for his school begins on Tuesday, and I heard him say that he likes to be there on the first day."

It seemed to the children, as they waited anxiously on the staircase, that the doctor was a very long time attending to Percy. But at last they saw Mr. Hollys come out of the dining-room, followed by the medical man. The two gentlemen went into the library for a little private talk, and Beryl, judging that operations were suspended for a time, crept quietly downstairs to inquire into Percy's condition. She was pleased to learn that he was in less pain, and that the doctor hoped that his injuries were not serious. After hearing this news, Beryl consented to take her tea in the nursery, though before she had decidedly negatived Lucy's suggestion that she must be feeling hungry and faint.

Percy passed a night of pain, and was far from being in condition for a journey on the following day. But happily no bones were broken, and though his foot was badly bruised and cut, and his ankle slightly sprained, there seemed no cause for great anxiety concerning him. Miss Burton was his careful nurse, and shoved great skill in dressing and bandaging his wounded foot. He kept in his room all day. Beryl continued to feel the deepest interest in his sad case, and harassed her governess with innumerable questions regarding him at every opportunity.

Beryl did not suppose for a moment that she should be allowed to see Percy, and it was a great surprise to her when Miss Burton said that evening, "Beryl, Percy says that he would like to see you, if you will go into his room for a little while."

"Me, Miss Burton?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Are you quite sure he said he should like to see me?"

"Yes, indeed, I have made no mistake," said Miss Burton; "why do you ask? Do you not wish to see him?"

Beryl scarcely knew whether she wished it or not. It seemed to her at that moment as if there were two Percys—the Percy who had been her tormentor and plague, and the Percy who had borne his pain with such courage, and thanked her so gratefully for the help she had given him. She felt rather shy of going into the presence of the Percy whose pale, suffering face had haunted her, ever since she watched him lying still and exhausted on the sofa in the dining-room.

"Yes, I should like to see him," she said, in reply to her governess; but still she lingered, till Miss Burton, with a view of relieving her embarrassment, said, "Stay, I will give you some grapes to take to him. He has been complaining of thirst all the afternoon."

Bearing a beautiful cluster of purple grapes, Beryl hastened upstairs, and gently rapped at Percy's door.

Beryl went in. Percy was lying on a low couch by the window, clad in a dressing-gown of Mr. Hollys, which fell in loose folds over his long, slight figure. The injured limb, swathed in bandages, was raised on a pillow.

Percy looked far more like his own self than when Beryl last saw him; but his face was still very pale, and there were dark lines beneath his eyes, telling of the pain he had suffered, and still had to bear, though in a less degree.

"Oh, it is the Duchess!" he exclaimed, as Beryl appeared, "and bringing me grapes too! The very thing I should have named, if I had been asked to mention the fruit most to my desire at this moment. It is very good of your Grace, I am sure."

"How do you feel now? Is the pain any better?" asked Beryl, looking at him with grave anxiety, and quite forgetting to be angry with him for calling her "the Duchess."

"Yes, it is better than it was, but I feel rather seedy," said Percy, shaking back the long loose locks that were falling over his forehead. "This is a pretty go, isn't it? It's a confounded bore to think that I can't get to London to-day! I'm awfully vexed not to be at school on the first day. I shall get put down in my form. And you're sorry not to get rid of me to-day, aren't you?"

"No, I am not sorry," said Beryl, without a moment's hesitation, though her cheeks grew red as she spoke.

"Don't tell polite fibs; it's not like you to do that," said Percy. "I know you looked as pleased as Punch the other day when I said that I should go home on Monday."

"Yes; but then—" began Beryl; but suddenly stopped, not finding it easy to explain that her feelings towards him had changed since that day.

"Do you mean that you have changed your mind since then?" asked Percy, looking at her curiously. "Do you know, Beryl, I believe you like me better than you think? I know I saw your eyes near brimming over last night when I was in such pain."

"There is nothing absurd in mentioning a fact that passed under my own observation," said Percy calmly. "Come, you can't deny that you were inclined to cry over this miserable foot of mine."

Beryl was silent for a few moments, and Percy watched her with a smile which was not satirical.

"Won't you eat your grapes?" said Beryl suddenly, feeling that the silence had lasted quite long enough.

"Thanks. They are certainly too good to be only looked at," said Percy; "but you must help me;" and he pulled off a fine bunch and handed it to her.

"But I don't want them all," said Percy decidedly; "if you won't have any, I won't either, so you may just carry them down again."

"That is silly," remonstrated Beryl; "because you are ill, and want them more than I do."

"No, I don't; you want them too," persisted Percy. "Come, sit down here, and put the plate between us, and we'll see who can eat the most."

There was no resisting Percy; he would have his own way. Happily there was an abundant supply of grapes, and the two were soon chatting in the most friendly way as they enjoyed the fruit together.

"Oh, you know," he returned, "you've planned something for Friday. What is it—a picnic?"

"What makes you think there is anything planned for Friday?" asked Beryl, anxious to discover how much he knew. "Has any one told you?"

"No one save your Grace," he replied. "You should not talk so loudly on the stairs, if you wish to keep your plans a secret."

"Oh, what have you heard?" asked Beryl, thinking that there was no keeping anything from this dreadful boy.

"Only you and Coral saying—'Do you think we can have it on Friday, after all? Would it be better to put it off? Perhaps it may rain next week.' From which I gathered that there was some grand excitement planned for Friday, and when I asked Miss Burton she did not deny that it was so; but only referred me to you for further information. So now tell me, what is it?"

"What ears you must have to hear that!" observed Beryl, pouting a little in her vexation.

"Yes, my sense of hearing is by no means defective, I am happy to say," said Percy complacently; "and now I am waiting to hear what is the ticket for Friday."

"Now that is unkind," said Percy, "after all the pain I have had, and the dreary time I have passed in this room to-day, to think that you won't tell me a little news that might cheer me."

"I don't fancy you will care for this news," said Beryl relenting; "but I'll tell you, if you will promise not to laugh at it."

"Not I; I'll keep as sober as a judge," replied Percy, pulling a ridiculously long face; "now then, what is it?"

Whereupon Beryl began to explain her plans for a birthday treat. Percy kept his word, and listened with the utmost gravity. Not a smile crossed his face, though he made some amusing comments, which set Beryl laughing. It was clear that he was not inclined to ridicule the affair, as Beryl had feared.

"And I will tell you mine when the right time comes," returned Percy; "if only I can get well enough to hobble about a little on Friday, you shall see what I will do."

But Percy shook his head, and would not be persuaded. Beryl had to go away with her curiosity unsatisfied, but yet she felt convinced that Percy was a much nicer boy than she had before imagined.

When Beryl told Coral how Percy had discovered their secret, and repeated what he had said, her little sister seemed very dismayed.

"Oh, Beryl!" she exclaimed. "He will do something dreadful, and spoil everything; I know he will. Oh, I wish he would not interfere."

"I don't think so," said Beryl decidedly. "I believe Percy means to be kind and help us. Indeed, I am rather glad now that he knows all about it."

"Why, Beryl, how can you?" exclaimed Coral in the greatest surprise. "And you used to hate him so."

"No, I didn't," contradicted Beryl; "at least I ought not to have. It is wicked to hate people, Coral."

But it is to be feared that Miss Beryl would not have been so conscious of the sinfulness of hatred if she had not discovered that there was something amiable in Percy Everard's character.

CHAPTER XX

PERCY'S bruised and sprained foot healed slowly, and the doctor enjoined rest for many days to come. It was no small trial to the active, restless youth to be thus kept a prisoner in his room; but he bore the confinement with tolerable patience. His injuries brought him much attention and commiseration. Miss Burton continued his faithful nurse, and dressed his wounds, and waited upon him with gentle care and skill. Mr. Hollys showed the greatest solicitude for his comfort, and even Miss Hollys made a daily visit to his room to enquire how he felt, and whether there were anything she could do for him. To the latter query, which was merely formal, Percy always responded by a decided negative. Once, by way of experiment, he offered to unbandage his wounded limb for her inspection, whereupon the lady hastily retreated, declaring that she should faint if she saw so dreadful a sight.

Perhaps Percy found his chief consolation during the monotonous course of these days in the visits which Coral and Beryl paid him. The children's society seemed to amuse him greatly, and he coaxed Miss Burton into shortening their school hours, that he might see more of them. They managed to play dominoes beside his couch, and he began to initiate Beryl into the mysteries of backgammon; and after declaring repeatedly that it was a stupid game, and had no fun in it, she discovered its fascination, as she came gradually to understand it.

With such diversions, the hours passed swiftly, and Friday drew near—the day so eagerly anticipated—without Beryl's gaining the least clue to the "splendid idea" which Percy was determined to keep from her. It was very tantalising to be thus in the dark regarding it. She was sure that Miss Burton was in the secret, and she fancied that her father also shared it.

Mr. Hollys received several large packages from Plymouth, concerning the contents of which he refused to satisfy Beryl's curiosity. She knew that these packages were carried into Percy's room and unpacked there; and she shrewdly guessed that they had some connection with her birthday fête, as Percy chose to call it. But she could only whisper her conjectures to Coral, and wait patiently for time to reveal the mystery.

All Thursday the children were in the greatest excitement. They deserted Percy, in their eagerness to watch the various preparations for the grand event of the morrow, which were going on in the household. Cook quite entered into the spirit of the thing, and used her utmost skill in the making of cakes and tarts for the children's treat. A delicious smell of baking came from the kitchen, and the children, stealing frequently through the baize door, were delighted by seeing tins full of crisp, brown buns, or the most tempting of jam tarts lifted out of the oven. The occasion called for a large supply of such dainties, since general invitation had been given to the village children, and all who could come would be sure to avail themselves of it.

When they had seen what was doing in the kitchen, and tasted some of the good things, in order to judge if they were fit to set before their guests, Coral and Beryl would wander out of doors to watch Andrew's operations. He was making himself useful in various ways; they saw him hang a fine swing in the empty barn at the back of the house, and proceeded to test its soundness without loss of time. Then they followed him about the garden, and gave him much advice and assistance, with which he could easily have dispensed, as he arranged tables and seats for the expected guests.

"What shall we do if it rains?" exclaimed Coral, when they had seen all the tables firmly set.

And Andrew being a weather-wise man, was able to assure them that there was little cause to fear rain for the next forty-eight hours.

"Well, Duchess," exclaimed Percy, when the children came to his room that evening to say "good-night"; "is everything arranged to your satisfaction?"

"Oh yes," replied Beryl; "everything is perfect. Andrew has made the most delightful swing in the barn, and cook has made the most delicious cakes and tarts, and everything is scrumptious. Isn't that the word you say?"

"Well, I don't care if it's not. I'm not a duchess, and I hate to be called so!" said Beryl. "Oh, I wish to-morrow would make haste and come. I am sure I shall not be able to sleep for thinking of it."

"I say, Beryl," said Percy, "what do you think your father has been suggesting? He thinks I might be got downstairs to-morrow, and lie in state on a sofa on the lawn, so as to see something of the fun. What do you say to that?"

For a few moments Beryl did not know what to say. The idea of Percy's watching and commenting upon all that went on did not readily fall in with her preconceived notions of the treat. She was silent.

"Oh, I see," said Percy; "you would much rather I kept upstairs out of the way of everything."

"No, I would not, Percy," exclaimed Beryl, with sudden decision. "I should like you to be there."

"Because I was thinking," said plain-spoken Beryl; "I was not sure at first whether I should like your being there. But now I think that it will be very nice."

"Oh, well, if you are going to call me names, I'll go to bed at once," said Beryl. "Good-night."

But though she pretended to be offended, she went away feeling perfectly good-tempered. She had now not the least remnant of enmity towards Percy in her heart.

Restless and impatient though Beryl felt, her young, healthful fatigue prevailed over excitement, and she slept soundly that night.

The morning dawned as fresh and beautiful a September morn as any one could desire. The early breeze was cool and bracing; but by the middle of the day, the sun had gained great power, and all agreed that the weather was perfection, being neither too hot nor too cold.

Beryl and Coral were in the garden, ready to receive their guests, a full half-hour before the time appointed; but they had not long to wait, for scarcely one child arrived late, and many, in their eagerness to come, were unpunctual on the safe side.

The young guests made rather a formidable crowd as they gathered on the lawn. There were no less than eighty children of all ages, ranging from four to fifteen. For the first few minutes there was much shyness and constraint manifested by the young visitors; but Beryl, with Miss Burton's help, soon put an end to that. Parties were formed for croquet, hide-and-seek, and other games. The swing proved a great attraction, and was never once empty the whole afternoon. When Mr. Hollys and Andrew wheeled Percy on to the lawn, an hour later, the garden was echoing with the shouts of merry voices, and every one seemed thoroughly happy.

Delightfully engaged though she was, Beryl yet managed to slip out of the game in order to run and greet Percy, and enquire if he were comfortable on his couch under the walnut tree. The attention pleased him, though he would not let her stay more than a minute by his side, but sent her back to her guests.

The scene changed at five o'clock. By that time, the tables under the trees had been loaded with ample supplies of bread, cakes, tarts, ripe fruit, and rich Cornish cream. The servants brought large urns of hot tea and milk, and the young people, small and great, having been comfortably placed, began to enjoy the good things set before them.

Beryl presided at one table, Coral at another, and Miss Burton at the third. Mr. Hollys passed to and fro, and saw that every one was cared for. Miss Hollys also came to look on.

It was indeed a pleasant sight to watch the children's honest enjoyment of the feast. They came from their active games in the open air with hearty appetites. But though hungry, they showed no greediness.

Poor and untaught though they were, they were not ill-mannered. The honest Cornish race of which they came, though blunt in speech, and rough in deed, has a certain innate refinement of its own. Mr. Hollys was charmed with the behaviour of Beryl's guests.

"I have seen children of the upper classes whose breeding would be put to shame by the manners of these youngsters," he remarked to Miss Burton. She was too busy at the moment to do more than assent to his words; but she noted the remark, and hoped to turn it to good account at some other time.

It was not at tea-time that the children's enjoyment reached its highest point. That was gained later in the evening, when daylight faded and the stars looked out from the pale sky.

Then, at last, Percy's grand mystery was divulged, and Beryl learned what had been the contents of the curious-looking packages which had excited her curiosity. They were cases of fireworks, the best that could be obtained, and such as none of the children at Egloshayle had ever seen. The wonder and delight of the young people surpassed all bounds when, under Percy's direction, the first rocket was shot into the air, and breaking, shed a glorious shower of many-coloured stars. Some of the little ones were rather frightened by the noise and glare; but they quickly forgot their fear when they saw the pretty stars, and stood holding out their little hands to catch them when they fell to earth. They were sorry to find that this was impossible. There was a large supply of rockets of various kinds, famous Catherine wheels, and other imposing illuminations. Percy had made a capital selection of fireworks, and had not miscalculated the pleasure their display would give.

It was a delightful surprise to Coral and Beryl, and they enjoyed the sight quite as much as their guests. The garden rang with joyous acclamations as one wonder succeeded another. Nor was this all. When the fireworks were burnt out, and in the dim light the children could scarcely see each other's faces, suddenly lights began to gleam here and there amongst the foliage, and it appeared that Andrew, in obedience to Percy's orders, had been fastening bright-coloured Chinese lanterns at short distances along the garden walks.

With these brightly burning, the garden looked like a scene from fairyland. The novel illumination was hailed with the greatest satisfaction by all, and the children thoroughly enjoyed their last merry romp on the lawn. Then, when they had refreshed themselves with a repast of milk and cakes, the guests began to take their leave. The elder ones withdrew with evident reluctance; but their tiny brothers and sisters were growing tired and sleepy, and it was already past the hour at which their mothers expected them to return.

So with hearty good-will, and some rough attempts at thanks, Beryl's little scholars and their friends wished her and Coral good-night, and went gladly home to tell their parents what a wonderful time they had had.

Beryl and Coral were left tired out with the fatigue and excitement of entertaining and enjoying, but very pleased with the success of their party. Nothing could have gone off better, as they declared again and again. Every one had been pleased. There was absolutely no cause for regret.

"Well, Beryl, my darling,"' said her father, putting his arm around her as they walked together to the house, "has your birthday party come up to your expectations? Have you enjoyed it as much as you thought you would have?"

"Oh yes, papa, as much, and more," exclaimed Beryl; "nothing could be more delightful. It has been the happiest day of my life. How good of Percy to think of those fireworks? And the lanterns too!—who thought of them?"

"It was all Master Percy's planning," said Mr. Hollys; "you must thank him for the illuminations."

Beryl felt as if she could not thank him properly. How much he had contributed to the enjoyment of her guests! And she had actually wished him away, thinking that he would spoil everything! What a change had come over her feelings towards Percy within the last few days!

CHAPTER XXI

IT was the Sunday afternoon following that eventful Friday. The day was fair and bright, one of those last sweet days of summer, in which we rejoice with trembling, knowing that soon rough winds and sweeping rains will spoil the beauty of leaves and flowers, and the year's brightest hours be spent.

Under the walnut tree, on the lawn, a happy party was grouped. The central figure of the group was Percy, who lay at his ease on a low couch. The doctor still enjoined rest for his injured limb; but Percy was sufficiently free from pain and discomfort to enjoy fully the privileges and immunities of an invalid. On the grass, before his couch, sat the two children, ready, like willing slaves, to obey his least command. Beryl was even submitting meekly to having her long brown tresses tossed to and fro by Percy's fingers, and enduring with good humour the occasional sharp pull by which he tried her patience. Miss Burton sat on a chair close by, listening, and occasionally joining in the talk that was going on between the other three.

From the library window, unseen by them, Mr. Hollys was watching the little group so happily settled on the lawn. The children's bright, animated faces, and the equally bright and scarcely less childlike face of their little governess were pleasant to look upon. The sound of their voices, with an occasional ripple of childish laughter, came to his ears through the open window; but they were too far off for him to hear what they said. Mr. Hollys was strongly inclined to join the party; but the fear that his presence would be felt by them as a restraint for some time kept him away.

At last, however, when their talk appeared to become more earnest and absorbing, and the rapt look with which Beryl was regarding Miss Burton showed that her governess's words were of intense interest to her, curiosity got the better of other feelings, and he stepped out of the window and advanced towards the group.

It was as he had feared. His appearance at once put an end to the talk. Mr. Hollys felt almost vexed that Beryl left the others, and came running to meet him.

"You should not have disturbed yourself, child," he said, taking her hand to lead her back to the tree; "you were looking so delightfully cool and comfortable, resting there in the shade, that I thought I should like to join you."

"Oh yes, do, papa," cried Beryl, "that will be so pleasant. We have been having such a nice talk."

"Why, how grave you all look!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys, as he threw himself down on the grass beside little Coral. "What serious subject have you been discussing? I believe Miss Burton has been giving you a sermon."

"No, papa, but she has been telling us about her father, who was very good," said Beryl softly.

Mr. Hollys glanced quickly at Miss Burton. Her head was bent, and she was turning over the leaves of a book which lay in her lap, but Mr. Hollys could see traces of tears on her face. He wished he could recall his careless words. He tried to think of something kind that he could say to her about her father, but nothing suitable suggested itself to him.

There was silence for a few minutes, a silence which Mr. Hollys felt to be embarrassing.

"Then I suppose you have had some experience of Sunday schools?" he observed, without knowing in the least what prompted him to make the remark.

"Yes, I think I may say I have considerable experience of Sunday schools," said Hettie smiling. "I had to take the management of the largest class in my father's school, and very much I enjoyed the work."

"Have you ever heard the story of the ambition of these children to keep a Sunday school, and the dire plight it brought them into?" he asked, with a laugh.

"Oh, papa, don't bring that up again," exclaimed Beryl impatiently; "Miss Burton has heard all about that."

"And Beryl has my entire sympathy," said Miss Burton, eager to embrace this unexpected opportunity of saying what she had long wished to say to Mr. Hollys, but had lacked the courage; "I am as anxious as she is to see a Sunday school established at Egloshayle."

"Oh, I am sure of it," she said earnestly; "I believe Sunday schools have been an incalculable blessing to the world. It is such hopeful, blessed work to teach the little ones. We do not know how far any good we may do them may not reach. Oh, Mr. Hollys, I have been wishing so to ask you, if you would mind my gathering some of the children here on a Sunday afternoon, and teaching them for an hour. You saw how well they behaved on Friday. I will promise to keep my scholars in good order, if you will grant my request."

"Oh, do, papa. It would be so nice. Please say 'Yes,'" cried Beryl eagerly, before he could make any reply.

"Of course I can have no objection," he said, looking however, slightly perplexed; "it is very good of you to wish to teach these children; but have you thought what it will be? I should have fancied that these little people gave you enough to do."

"But, papa, we could help, we could teach the little ones," urged Beryl, with a seriousness which Percy found highly amusing.

"I should not mind the trouble, I am fond of teaching," said Miss Burton; "and if you will not think me over bold, Mr. Hollys, I will confess a plan that I have been turning over in my mind."

"Well, it has struck me," said Miss Burton, "that the empty barn behind the house would make a capital schoolroom, if it were furnished with a few rough benches."

"Upon my word, you are thoroughly in earnest," said Mr. Hollys. "I see now what you mean. You want me to turn my barn into a meeting-house, in which you may hold your Sunday school."

"Yes, you may put it in that way," said Hettie laughing; "I fancied the barn could be well spared. Indeed, I do not know why the building is called the barn, for nothing seems ever to be stored there."

"I could spare it easily enough, certainly," replied Mr. Hollys; "but I fear you would find it a rough, uncomfortable place for your class."

"I do not think it would be too rough," said Miss Burton; "fishermen's children are not likely to be over nice in their notions. We can hang up some pictures, to make the place look bright and pleasant."

"Oh yes, I have some lovely pictures!" cried Beryl joyfully. "You will let us have the barn, won't you, papa? I think it is a splendid idea of Miss Burton's."

"So it is," acquiesced her father; "a very good idea, as all Miss Burton's ideas seem to be. Let us go and have a look at the barn, and see what can be made of it. I shall have to give my consent, I suppose."

So they all moved off in the direction of the barn, with the exception of Percy, who was left helpless on his couch. He remained alone for some time, greatly to his dissatisfaction, for solitude was very irksome to him now. After awhile, however, Beryl remembered him, and came with radiant face to tell him all that had been arranged.

"Is it not good of papa?" she exclaimed, in a tone of delight. "He says that he will have a wooden floor put to the barn, and some benches made, and a proper window, and then it will make a charming room for our Sunday school. I am so glad Miss Burton asked him about it. I knew he would agree if she asked him."

"What a queer child you are, Beryl!" observed Percy. "You could not look more pleased if any one had given you a thousand pounds. Are you and Coral to be teachers in this grand Sunday school?"

"Yes; we shall teach the little ones," said Beryl, with proud dignity; "Miss Burton will need our help."

"Then you will be 'workers for the kingdom,' I suppose?" remarked Percy, looking at her with a quizzical expression, as he quoted the expression he had heard her use.

"That may be," said Percy; "but as I do not know, I think you ought to tell me."

"Perhaps I do, sometimes, in church," returned Percy, not quite prepared for such a question.

"I am afraid that doesn't follow," replied Percy, "I really do not know what is meant by 'the kingdom.' I wish you would explain it to me, Beryl."

"I can't explain it properly," said Beryl; "but it is the kingdom of God, and when any one is good and kind, and tries to do what is right, that is the coming of the kingdom."

But, queer though it was, he understood it, and did not soon forget it. Often in after days, as he listened to the familiar words of the Lord's Prayer, Beryl's childish explanation gave them a fuller meaning, and he remembered how she had said—"When any one is good and kind, and tries to do what is right, that is the coming of the kingdom."

CHAPTER XXII

HAVING consented to Miss Burton's plan for establishing a Sunday school, Mr. Hollys interested himself heartily in the necessary arrangements. No time was lost in setting about the work; but the Egloshayle carpenters were not the most expeditious of workmen, and a fortnight passed before the room was ready for use. Coral and Beryl watched the progress of the work with the greatest interest, and it was a glad day for them when at last they saw the barn in perfect order for the reception of their scholars.

It was a barn no longer, but a large and comfortable room, furnished with a table and chairs, wooden benches for the scholars, and some bookshelves; bright pictures adorned the walls, and sweet, flowering plants, standing on the window-sill, gave a cheerful, homely look to the room.

The children were delighted beyond measure with the new schoolroom. It was a disappointment to Beryl that Percy did not see its completion. He went back to London a few days before it was finished. His foot was not yet well, but he could manage to limp along with the aid of a stick, and his mother was so anxious for his return home, that he would not delay his journey after he had the doctor's permission to travel.

He and Beryl parted the best of friends. The child was not glad now at the thought of losing Percy's company. She regretted his departure keenly. Her face broke into a smile, however, when Percy, as he said good-bye, whispered to her that he would get his mother to insist upon Mr. Hollys bringing her with him, when he came to London in the spring. That was a charming idea to her, for Beryl had no longer the least fear that Percy's teasing ways would spoil the enjoyment of her holiday.

"He will, if you make a fuss," returned Percy, in an undertone. "You know you always manage to get your own way, Duchess."

Beryl could not feel that this statement was quite true; but she earnestly hoped that she might get her own way with respect to the visit to London.

She had certainly had things much her own way of late. She had never dreamed of anything so good as the manner in which her wish to have a Sunday school was now realised. On the Sunday following Percy's departure, the first classes were held. A good number of children obeyed the invitation to come, and their bright happy faces and orderly demeanour showed that they appreciated the arrangements which had been made for their reception.

Beryl felt very proud, when Miss Burton committed to her the instruction of six little children, all under seven years of age. Perhaps the lady's presence awed the restless little mortals; certainly Beryl found her present class much more manageable than the class she had tried to teach in the damp cave under the cliff. She found it a great advantage to have Miss Burton to appeal to in any disturbance or perplexity.

Coral also was entrusted with the charge of some little ones, whilst Miss Burton taught the elder scholars.

Thus was commenced the first Sunday school at Egloshayle. To many of the dwellers in that out-of-the-world place, the very idea of such a thing was astonishing, and its novelty was alone enough to set them against the arrangement. But there were people, who had come from other villages, where Sunday schools were as unquestioned a fact as the Sunday services at the church, and they were thankful that their children should be cared for and taught on Sunday afternoons.

The establishment of the school tended to increase Mr. Hollys' popularity with the simple fisher-folk of Egloshayle.

As the children talked about their school, and the thing became better known, one new scholar after another was added to the number who gathered in the barn, till at last there were as many as the room could conveniently hold.

Beryl had a pleasing proof that Percy did not forget his little friends as soon as he found himself in London again.

Perhaps he had been more interested in their plans for establishing a Sunday school than he cared to appear. It seemed so, when one day, about a fortnight after his departure, the country carrier brought to Egloshayle House a large square parcel, directed to Miss Beryl Hollys, which had come by rail from London.

In a flutter of curiosity, Beryl cut the string and unfastened the package. As she pushed back the many folds of paper, a pile of bright-covered books came to view. They were well-chosen story books such as all children love. A note from Percy lay above them, in which he explained that as he believed a lending library was considered to be an important addition to a Sunday school, he had sent a few books, which Beryl might devote to the use of her scholars if she thought fit. He could not say that the books were worth reading, as he was not responsible for their selection. His mother, who knew more about such things, had chosen them at his request.

Beryl was highly pleased with this most unexpected gift. The idea of a lending library had not before occurred to her; but she hailed it with delight, and felt very grateful to Percy for at once suggesting it and aiding its accomplishment.

She and Coral were soon at work covering the books in neat brown paper covers, and when they were duly numbered and placed on the shelves in the new schoolroom, with some of the children's own books added to them, they made a good foundation for a school library.

After this, the weeks passed very happily and swiftly for the children at Egloshayle House. With their own lessons to do, and their Sunday scholars to care for, they had no lack of occupation.

To Beryl's joy, her father remained at home from September till Christmas, with the exception of a fortnight, during which he was absent on a yachting trip with a friend. Many friends visited him during the autumn; but when they were gone, and rough gales and icy breezes changed Egloshayle into a bleak and uninviting place, he still found attractions in his home there.

It was often at the risk of their lives that they went out to catch the fish, whose sale brought them but small profit.

This year there was even more distress than usual amongst the Egloshayle villagers.

It was well for them that Mr. Hollys was at home at the time. No story of want which reached his ears failed to stir his compassion. He made Miss Burton his almoner for the needs of his poor neighbours, and she distributed his generous gifts with kindness and discretion. She had become well known to the villagers.

They had learned to look upon her as a friend, since she began to teach their children, and there were few homes in the place to which she was not welcomed.

It was therefore easy to find out the true state of the poor people's affairs, and how they might best be relieved.

One result of this time of distress was the development of a plan by which Miss Burton hoped to benefit Coral and Beryl, and also the poor children in whom they felt such interest.

Going suddenly into the nursery one day, Beryl was surprised to find her governess in grave consultation with Lucy, respecting some outgrown garments of the children's, which they were examining with much deliberation.

"I am trying to contrive new clothes out of old ones, Beryl," returned her governess; "and I shall want you and Coral to help me. I am thinking of starting a Dorcas meeting."

"Don't you know? Have you never read in the Bible about Dorcas, and what she did?"

"I know," put in Coral eagerly. "Dorcas was the woman who made clothes for the poor, and Peter brought her to life after she was dead. And they showed him all the coats and garments which she had made."

"Yes, you are right," said Miss Burton, smiling at the child's hurried explanation. "I am glad you remembered about her, Coral. A Dorcas meeting is called by her name, because it is a gathering at which clothes are made for the poor. I want you and Beryl to be little Dorcases, and make garments for the poor children. I was quite distressed yesterday to see how bare of clothing some of them are obliged to go this bitter weather. Now, some of these cast-off things of yours will cut up nicely for smaller children, and others with a little mending will do as they are. We must have a working meeting once or twice a week, and see how much we can do."

Beryl did not at once reply. She was feeling vexed that Coral should have known about Dorcas when she did not. Moreover, Miss Burton's proposal did not seem a delightful one to her. She was not, like Coral, fond of needlework. Coral could sew pretty well for a little girl of her age, and would amuse herself for a long time with a needle and cotton making doll's clothes, which were often of a very queer cut. But if Beryl undertook any work of the kind, she soon threw it down in disgust. She disliked sewing, and had not sufficient patience to overcome its difficulties. When she worked, her needle was sure to break, or her thread to get into a knot, and her task was never finished unless Miss Burton insisted upon its completion—an exercise of authority fatal to Beryl's good temper.

Miss Burton had hoped that Beryl would interest herself in the proposed Dorcas meeting, and that it would prove a means of overcoming her indolent dislike of sewing.

Perhaps Beryl suspected that there was some such thought in her governess's mind, and felt inclined to resent it. She made no pleasant response to Miss Burton's proposition.

"I dare say Lucy will give us a little help," said Miss Burton; "but she has almost as much work as she can manage to do for you and Coral. I don't think you will dislike sewing so much, when you have learned to use your needle more skilfully."

"I am so sorry," returned Miss Burton; "I thought you would have liked our little scholars to have some warm clothes."

"I like them to have the clothes, of course," said Beryl; "but I don't want the trouble of making them."

Lucy had carried the children's frocks back to the wardrobe, and Beryl and her governess were alone.

"So, Beryl," said Miss Burton softly, "you are not willing to do any sort of work for the kingdom?"

"It is the King who gives us our work, Beryl," said Miss Burton, "the little duties as well as the great ones. Don't you think that it is His will that you should learn to sew properly? Don't you think that in our sewing meetings, as well as in our Sunday school, we may be workers for the kingdom?"

"Yes, Miss Burton," said Beryl, ashamed and convinced; "I did not think of that. I will try to like making the clothes, but I do so dislike sewing."

But when the Dorcas meetings were commenced, Beryl found that she could like them without much trying.

Miss Burton did not give the children too difficult tasks. She did all the awkward bits herself. There was always some pleasant story in hand, which they read by turns, so that the children learned to look forward to the afternoons on which they held their Dorcas meeting; and as Beryl grew more expert in the use of her needle, she liked sewing better, and took a pride in the neat little garments which she helped to make.

CHAPTER XXIII

CHRISTMAS, with all its joys, its gifts from Santa Claus, its festivities and charities, had come and gone, and spring no longer seemed a distant prospect, when to Beryl's delight, there arrived the invitation from Mrs. Everard for which she had been longing ever since Percy spoke of it.

That lady wrote to beg Mr. Hollys to bring the two children with him when he came to town, and leave them in her charge for at least a month. She promised to take the greatest care of them, and to give them all kinds of novel pleasures, which, as country children, they would be sure to enjoy. She added that Mr. Hollys need have no fear that their presence in her home would cause any trouble, since her eldest daughter, the widow of an Indian officer, had lately returned to live with her, and she doated on children, and, having none of her own, would find the greatest pleasure in caring for the two little girls as long as they were her mother's guests.

Mr. Hollys hesitated about accepting this invitation for the children; but Beryl, hearing of it, gave him no rest till he promised that they should go to London. His consent once gained, Coral and Beryl thought and spoke of scarcely anything except their visit to town. Miss Burton had very inattentive pupils during the next few weeks. Beryl could not give her mind to her lessons; but she took the liveliest interest in the various preparations which were being made for their leaving home. Lucy's needle was now never idle, so much making and mending had she to do for her two young ladies.

And one bright morning, the children were excused all lessons, that Mr. Hollys might drive them and their governess to Langport, the nearest town of any size to Egloshayle, where, for more than two hours, they were going with Miss Burton from shop to shop, as she purchased dresses, boots, gloves, and the various articles they needed to equip them for their London visit, while Mr. Hollys attended to business of his own in the town.

When, at last, the eagerly expected day arrived, it was a large and merry party which started from Egloshayle House en route for London. Hettie Burton was one of the travellers, for her home was at Hampstead, and she was going to spend there the weeks during which her pupils were at Mrs. Everard's. Lucy, too, was in attendance, for Mr. Hollys wished to spare Mrs. Everard and her daughter any unnecessary trouble in the management of the children.

Coral and Beryl were in the gayest spirits, as they set forth to make acquaintance with the great world lying beyond their quiet Cornish home. The journey was an event in Beryl's life, for she had never been many miles from peaceful Egloshayle. What a long, long journey it was! The children were both too weary to receive any clear impression of their new surroundings, when they were lifted out of the carriage at the door of Mrs. Everard's house in Hyde Park Gardens. Having given them into his friend's care, Mr. Hollys drove off to his own rooms in Russell Square, promising to look in early on the following day to see how the children were getting on.

The little girls woke bright and well the next morning, though at a rather later hour than usual. They came downstairs, however, in time to see Percy ere he started for his tutor's, and joyfully renewed their acquaintance with him.

Beryl was delighted with all she saw in Mrs. Everard's home. Especially did she admire the handsome King Charles spaniel, which sat on a chair by Mrs. Everard's side as she took her breakfast, and was treated to dainty morsels from her plate. Beryl wanted to make friends with him; but, to her surprise, he would not respond graciously to her overtures. Prince was an aristocrat, keenly alive to his own dignity. By a low growl, and a sudden display of his delicate white teeth, he expressed his resentment of the familiarity of Beryl's touch, and when Mrs. Everard lifted little Coral on to her lap, his jealousy broke forth in a storm of indignant barks. It was evident that he viewed the children with disgust as unwelcome intruders.

After breakfast, the children went up to the large room at the top of the house which had once been Percy's nursery, and was now given to them as a playroom. The windows commanded one of the entrances to the Park, and as it was a bright, sunshiny morning, the children found great entertainment in watching the many carriages and still more numerous riders that passed in and out of the wide gates. It was a wonderful scene to them, so different from the quiet beach at Egloshayle, and Lucy enjoyed it no less than her young charges. Whilst they were thus engaged, a lady came into the room and greeted them brightly and fondly.

This was Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. Everard's widowed daughter. She seemed inclined to pet and indulge the children. She said she would take them out in the afternoon, and asked them which they would like best—to go to the Zoological Gardens or to Madame Tussaud's. As they knew nothing of the attractions of either place, it was rather difficult to decide. Whilst they were discussing the important question, a servant brought the news that Mr. Hollys was below.

"How good of your papa to come so soon!" said Mrs. Campbell. "But I hope he will not want to take you away from me."

Accustomed as she was to be petted and indulged, Beryl was charmed beyond measure by Mrs. Campbell's sweet, caressing manner and winning words. As she went downstairs, holding that lady's hand, she thought that she had never known any one so kind and pleasant. Coral, who walked behind, and had been less noticed, was not so favourably impressed with their new acquaintance.

Mr. Hollys had come with the intention of taking the children into the Park, to amuse them with a sight of the beautiful horses, and fair and stately riders, to be seen at this hour in Rotten Row. But Mrs. Campbell had so much to say to him that it was some time ere he could get away, and Beryl's patience was sorely tried.

"Well, Beryl, how do you like your present quarters?" asked Mr. Hollys, as with the two children, he left the house, having promised to return there for luncheon, and afterwards join in the excursion to the Zoological Gardens, which Mrs. Campbell had planned for the children's pleasure.

"Oh, papa, I think everything is delightful," exclaimed Beryl rapturously, "and Mrs. Everard is so kind, and Percy, and Mrs. Campbell."

"Why, yes, of course I do," exclaimed Beryl; "I think Mrs. Campbell is the nicest woman I have ever known; don't you, Coral?"

"Well, no; she is not nicer than Miss Burton; no one could be; but Mrs. Campbell is very kind and very pretty; don't you think so, papa?"

"She is not so pretty as Miss Burton," remarked Coral; who, for some reason or other, was not enchanted with the fair widow, as Beryl was.

"I don't know," returned Beryl; "Miss Burton has not such golden hair. Which do you think the prettiest, papa: Miss Burton or Mrs. Campbell?"

The children thoroughly enjoyed walking through the Park, and gazed with charmed eyes on the novel sights they saw there. True, the wind was in the east, but what do children reck of east winds, if only the sun be bright!

The weather continuing fine, they had plenty of sight-seeing in the days that followed. Mrs. Campbell was indefatigable in her efforts to amuse them. She took them to all the sights and shows that children love, marched them through the bazaars, and purchased for them many of the pretty and curious toys which decked the stalls. It was evident that Beryl held the first place in the lady's regard. The presents given to her were generally more handsome and costly than those bestowed on Coral. Beryl was not so well aware of this as Coral was. If she noticed it, she did not think it strange that she should have better things than her little sister. She was accustomed to have the first consideration.

Though he liked little Coral, and was kind to her, Mr. Hollys could not treat her quite as he treated his own child.

The weeks of the children's stay in London passed rapidly away. Mr. Hollys did not have a great deal of Beryl's company, although he was a frequent visitor at the house in Hyde Park Gardens, but he heard much of his child's sayings and doings from the lips of Mrs. Campbell. Beryl was vexed that her father had so little leisure to bestow on her. He would readily promise to take her anywhere she wished to go; but the time for doing so was seldom found. Perhaps Beryl would not have minded this, could she have seen more of Percy. But Percy at home was a different person from Percy at Egloshayle. He was working hard for an examination, and could spare scarcely any time for trifling with the children.

Mr. Hollys had promised Beryl before they left home that he would take her to see her friend David Gilbank during her visit to London; but week after week went by, and the promise was not redeemed, although Beryl did not fail to remind him of it.

One day in the first week in May, when Mr. Hollys was lunching at Mrs. Everard's, some one mentioned the Royal Academy Exhibition, just opened, and Mrs. Everard invited Mr. Hollys to drive there, with herself and her daughter, that afternoon.

"I shall be very happy," said Mr. Hollys, with careless politeness; "the pictures are said to be well worth seeing this year."

"Oh, papa," cried Beryl eagerly, "do you think that any of Mr. Gilbank's pictures will be there?"

"Do take me with you," exclaimed Beryl impetuously; "I should so like to see Mr. Gilbank's pictures."

"I don't know about that, Beryl," replied her father; "you must ask Mrs. Everard's permission. It may not be agreeable to her to have the company of such an importunate young person as you are."

He glanced at Mrs. Everard as he spoke, and she was about to reply that she would be very pleased to take Beryl, when her daughter's soft, sweet voice interposed.

"We should be delighted to take dear Beryl with, us, should we not, mamma?" said Mrs. Campbell; "but I think we must consider what is good for her. The galleries of the Academy are so hot and crowded of an afternoon that it is scarcely the place to which to take a child. She could not see the pictures for the people who would be around her, and I fear the poor darling would grow very weary, especially as she has been in the Park all the morning."

"Ah, to be sure, you are right; it would not be a good place for her," said Mr. Hollys.

"I am not a bit tired, papa," protested Beryl, her cheek flushing with anger at what she considered Mrs. Campbell's interference; "it would not hurt me, I am sure."

"My darling, you are hardly old enough to know what will harm you and what will not," said Mrs. Campbell in her gentlest tones. "We older people must judge for you. I tell you what I will do, Beryl; I will take you myself some morning early to the Academy, and we will have a good look at Mr. Gilbank's pictures before the crowd begins to gather. I will look for them to-day, that I may know where to take you."

"Thank you; but I would much rather go this afternoon," said Beryl ungraciously.

"It is better you should not go. Say no more about it, Beryl," said Mr. Hollys, in his most decided manner.

"Poor darling, I wish we could let you have your wish," said Mrs. Campbell fondly, as she placed on Beryl's plate some crystallised apricots, a dainty of which the child was fond.

But Beryl was not in a mood to be solaced by sweetmeats. Her cheek crimsoned, and she bit her lips to keep from crying; but the tears which had sprung to her eyes were called thither by anger rather than by sorrow.

"I should have gone if it had not been for Mrs. Campbell," she complained afterwards to Coral; "Mrs. Everard was willing to take me, and papa would never have thought about its being hot and crowded. But Mrs. Campbell did not want to have me with her; I could see that plainly enough, although she pretended to be sorry for me. I don't like her as I did; she is not nearly so nice as Miss Burton."

CHAPTER XXIV

MRS. CAMPBELL, as, conducted by Mr. Hollys, she moved through the crowded picture galleries, was congratulating herself on the clever way in which she had avoided the trouble and distraction which Beryl's presence would have caused. In the second room, they found one of David Gilbank's pictures.

"Why, I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys, as his eyes fell on it. "It is Egloshayle! And he has painted Coral and Beryl."

It was a boldly-painted sketch of a seabeach, lying bathed in summer sunshine. The tide was receding the beach, the waves in gentle, sportive fashion rippled back from the glistening wet pebbles. Half-way up the beach, keel upwards, lay a stoutly-built fishing-boat, and seated in its shadow were two children, whom Mr. Hollys recognised as Coral and Beryl; for, small as was the scale on which they were painted, the resemblance was striking. The free, unrestrained grace of the children's attitudes was admirable. Nothing could be more natural than Beryl's pose as she leaned against the side of the boat, her bright hair falling over her shoulders in vivid contrast to the dark wood, and her feet firmly planted against the shaggy back of old Lion, who lay just beyond the edge of the shadow, in full enjoyment of the sunshine. Beryl's face wore a look of lazy content; but Coral, who was leaning forward and gazing at the sea, had an expression of wondering, childish reverie in her large dark eyes.

"It is lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell. "I never saw a prettier picture. The children must have sat for it."

"I believe they did," returned Mr. Hollys, "for I remember now that Beryl told me that Gilbank painted them whilst he was at Egloshayle; but I did not think of anything so good as this. I must secure this picture."

So, asking the ladies to excuse him for a few minutes, he went away to make arrangements for purchasing the painting. But he quickly returned, his face wearing a look of vexation.

"Is it not annoying?" he said. "The picture has already found a purchaser. It was sold not half an hour ago."

"How very tiresome!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell. "But perhaps you can come to terms with the purchaser."

"I fear not," said Mr. Hollys; "it is no dealer who has bought it, but a gentleman who has taken a fancy to the picture. Robert Harvey is his name. I do not know him, though I seem to have some strange association with the name that I cannot define."

"A very ordinary name!" remarked Mrs. Campbell. "Yes, certainly. Well, I wish Robert Harvey, whoever he is, had not bought that picture."

As he spoke the Robert Harvey who had forestalled him in the purchase of the picture was standing within a few yards of Mr. Hollys. He was a tall, somewhat stern-looking man, with greyish-brown hair and a long sweeping beard of the same mixed hues. His face was deeply coloured, as if from constant exposure to the elements, and had, moreover, a withered, wrinkled appearance, which made him seem older than he was. An expression of melancholy was on his countenance, and, as he moved through the crowd, his shy, awkward bearing betrayed a sense of isolation even in the midst of his fellows.

He paused before the picture which he had made haste to purchase, and looked at it with a long and earnest gaze. It had a strange fascination for him, and the secret of the charm lurked in the grave, sweet face of little Coral. He could not have explained how it was that that childish face exerted such an influence over him.

It seemed to bring to life again his boyish days, so long, long buried in the past. He saw himself a rough, strong lad leading with gentle hand his tiny, dark-eyed sister along a pebbly shore by just such a sunlit sea as shone in the picture. She had been very like that little girl, only prettier; yes, he was sure that his sister was prettier. How he had loved her, his darling, only sister! Yet he had tyrannised over her; he had always made her will bend to his, till a time came when her woman's will, growing strong under the stimulus of love, had dared to rebel against his authority. She had taken her own way in defiance of him, and he had vowed that he would trouble himself no more about her. Now, he knew not if she were dead or alive.

He had returned to London, after being absent for many years from England, hoping to find his sister, but had failed to do so. He had lived to regret, with keen self-reproach, the severity with which he had treated her. He regretted it more than ever, as little Coral's face brought to mind one and another tender memory of his childhood.

Coral and Beryl were astonished to learn that their friend Mr. Gilbank had put them into his picture. Of course they were eager to see the painting, and Mr. Hollys, after some coaxing, agreed to take them to the Academy at an early hour the next morning.

The children were very pleased with David Gilbank's work. Their childish vanity was gratified by his exact representation of them as they had appeared last summer, even to the very sun-bonnets, which they had thought so ugly when Lucy had insisted on their wearing them for the sake of their complexions. Beryl was delighted too with the excellence of Lion's portrait.

"Now, papa, you will take us to see Mr. Gilbank, will you not?" Beryl exclaimed.

"Certainly I will; it is a promise, you know," he replied. "I will try to manage it to-morrow."

"Why not?" asked her father in surprise. "I thought you were so very fond of Mrs. Campbell."

"I am not so very fond of her now," said Beryl, with an odd emphasis on the very.

In truth, Beryl's feelings towards that lady had so changed that, instead of being fond of her, she was beginning to dislike her. She watched Mrs. Campbell's words and ways with a child's keen observation, and found much to criticise in her confidences with Coral. Moreover, something scarce definable in the words and looks of those about her made Beryl fear that Mrs. Campbell would exercise a disturbing influence on her childish future. This fear took definite form on the evening following their visit to the Academy.

Beryl, who complained of a headache, had been sent to bed rather earlier than usual by Mrs. Campbell. She was not in the best temper at this, despite the honeyed words with which that lady had dismissed her. As she approached the nursery, she found that Lucy was enjoying a gossip with Mrs. Campbell's maid. Ere she entered, Beryl's quick ears caught the words uttered by Lucy:—

To which the other servant replied, "I feel pretty sure of it. You should see how particular my lady is about her dress whenever she is going to see Mr. Hollys. Poor Miss Beryl! I wonder how she will like to have a stepmother."

Lucy thought that the child could not have heard; but as she began to undress her she wondered what could have put the young lady so much out of temper.

"Oh, nothing particular, Miss Beryl!" replied Lucy evasively. "Leastways, nothing that concerns you."

"That's not true, Lucy," returned Beryl hotly. "I heard what you were talking about. You were saying that papa would marry Mrs. Campbell. But it's not true; I know it's not."

"Well, I never, Miss Beryl!" exclaimed Lucy, in affected astonishment. "I'm sure you can't say that you heard me say that!"

"You may not have said exactly those words, but was what you meant," cried Beryl excitedly; "but it's not true. I know it can't be true."

Beryl's emotion quite overpowered her, and she burst into hot, passionate tears. Lucy did her best to soothe her.

"Come, come, Miss Beryl; don't cry for nothing!" she said. "You're overdone, that's what it is. You've had a long, tiring day. You'll feel better when you get to bed."

But she did not tell Beryl that it was unlikely she would have a stepmother, and Beryl, whose ideas of stepmothers had been gathered from story books, regarded such a possibility with the utmost dread. Especially did she dislike the thought of Mrs. Campbell's filling such a position towards her.

Beryl woke the next morning with a heavy sense of trouble; there came a gleam of comfort, however, with the recollection that she should see Mr. Gilbank that day.

But, unfortunately, as Beryl had feared, Mrs. Campbell contrived to make one of the party who set out for the artist's studio. As they drove to St. John's Wood, Beryl gravely eyed her father and the lady, as they sat side by side on the opposite seat. She was watching for some sign that should confirm the rumour that had caused her such uneasiness. Presently Mr. Hollys was struck with Beryl's unusually grave expression.

"That is an extraordinary proceeding on your part, I suppose," he said lightly; "a penny for your thoughts!"

"Oh, I could not tell you them now," said Beryl blushing, and involuntarily glancing at Mrs. Campbell.

"Ah, I am afraid Beryl's thoughts concern poor me," said that lady with a laugh; "she is going to find fault with me when my back is turned."

Beryl's cheeks grew hotter, and she looked so guilty that her father hastily introduced another subject, in order to cover her confusion.

David Gilbank's studio was neither grand nor luxurious, but it struck the children as one of the most charming places they had ever visited; for it was furnished in simple, artistic style, had plenty of pictures, and a large supply of the picturesque knick-knacks artists love.

The artist was at work when they entered; but he cheerfully laid aside his brush to give his visitors a cordial greeting. It was an unexpected pleasure to him to see his little friends from Egloshayle, and he greeted them warmly.

"I wish I could have had it," he said, almost impatiently. "You might have let me know that you had painted the children."

"I would have done so had I considered the faces to be portraits," said Mr. Gilbank. "But the picture is little more than a sketch made on the beach at Egloshayle. It was after considerable hesitation that I decided to send it to the Exhibition."

"He is a man named Robert Harvey, who has made a fortune out in Australia," said Mr. Gilbank. "I wonder what made him take a fancy to my picture."

"Robert Harvey," repeated Mr. Hollys; "what is it makes that name seem so familiar to me?"

"Why, papa!" burst in Beryl eagerly. "I remember Coral's mamma told you that her brother's name was Robert Harvey. I was in the room when she said it."

"To be sure! How strange that I should have forgotten it!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys. "The child is right. Robert Harvey was the name I advertised so freely, and without result. We came to the conclusion that he was dead. Surely this man cannot be Coral's uncle!"

"Yes, she did," replied her father; "but Australia is a large place, Beryl, and there might easily be more than one Robert Harvey there. However, I will try to find this man. Do you know his address, Gilbank?"

"Yes, no; they have it at the Academy; but I omitted to take it down; I am so careless in regard to these matters. But I will get it, and send it to you."

"Thank you," said Mr. Hollys; "I had better call on him, though I do not at all expect to find that he is Coral's relative."

The children were so eager to talk to Mr. Gilbank and examine his pretty things, that Mr. Hollys was persuaded to leave them with the artist for a little time whilst he went to his club. Mrs. Campbell drove away to do some shopping in Regent Street, so Coral and Beryl, greatly to their delight, were left alone with their friend. They had so much to tell him, and talked so fast, that Mr. Gilbank did not find it easy to understand them, as they told him what a good angel Miss Burton had proved to them, of the Sunday school they had started at Egloshayle, and of their labours at the Dorcas meeting.

"So you still strive to live as 'children of the kingdom,'" he said gently; "I am glad to know that."

Beryl's cheeks flushed, and she hung her head. She suddenly became aware that she had thought little of the kingdom since she came to London. She had indeed daily uttered the petition, "Thy kingdom come," but with scarce a thought about the meaning of the words. Amid the excitements of her new life she had found no time for reading the Saviour's words, and thinking upon His blessed life. And meanwhile there had been springing up in her heart anger and hatred and strong self-will.

"Mr. Gilbank," she said humbly, "I don't think it is so easy to be a 'child of the kingdom' in London as it is at Egloshayle."

"Because there is so much else to think about," she said; "shopping, and dressing, and seeing sights. And then people are so horrid, one cannot help getting cross sometimes."

"A child of the kingdom has no excuse for getting cross, however 'horrid' people may be," said her friend; "and shopping, dressing, and sight-seeing are poor things to keep one from communing with the King. God, your Father, is as near to you in London as at Egloshayle; and if you have greater temptations, He will help you to overcome them if you ask Him. Remember, child, that being good comes before doing good. The kingdom of God is righteousness and peace and joy; and unless that kingdom is within you, you cannot serve the King."

"But, Mr. Gilbank," said Beryl, "how can you feel peace and joy, when your life seems to be going all wrong, and you are afraid everything will be spoiled for you?"

"What, child, have you come to that thus early?" said Mr. Gilbank, looking at her with a tender smile. "Well, I know of but one way of keeping calm amidst threatening troubles,—it is by trusting the love of God. Your Father in heaven loves you; He will not let anything really harm you, and nothing can happen to you but with His knowledge and by His will."

And Beryl resolved that she would try thus to trust God. And though, when her father presently called for them, she left the artist's studio feeling sad and humbled, she was in a happier and better frame of mind than that in which she had started for the visit.

CHAPTER XXV

DAVID GILBANK lost no time in sending Mr. Hollys the address he wanted; but Mr. Hollys suffered some days to pass ere he went in search of Robert Harvey. When he did call at the private hotel at which that gentleman had been staying, he learned that Mr. Robert Harvey had sailed for Canada on the previous day. He had stated that business called him suddenly away, but that his visit would be brief, and he hoped to return to London by the end of the summer. But Mr. Hollys, having made up his mind that this could not be Coral's uncle, concerned himself very little about Mr. Harvey's doings. He told the children the result of his enquiries, and then dismissed the matter from his mind—an example they speedily followed.

Beryl found a pleasant surprise awaiting her on her return from visiting Mr. Gilbank, in the shape of a kind note from Miss Burton inviting her pupils to spend a long day with her at her home. No prospect could have seemed more delightful to the two children, and when the day arrived, they enjoyed it fully as much as they expected.

Space does not permit us to dwell upon the pleasures of that long day at Hampstead—the kindness of Miss Burton's mother and sisters, the freedom in which they were allowed to make acquaintance with every corner of the little old-fashioned house, and the delightful ramble over Hampstead Heath, which set the children longing to return to the country.

Too quickly the day passed. As they came back from their walk, their tongues still busy—for it seemed as if they could never say all they wanted to Miss Burton—they were dismayed to find Mrs. Everard's carriage already awaiting them at the gate of the cottage.

But, to their surprise, it was not Lucy, but Mr. Hollys, who had come to fetch them. They found him in the little drawing-room talking to Mrs. Burton. He had come, he said, in order to have a few words with Miss Burton. He wanted to make arrangements for the children's return home with her early in the following week.

"Oh, are we going home?" exclaimed both the children at once. "That will be nice!"

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys. "What strange creatures children are! You were glad enough to come away, and now you are just as delighted to go back."

Little Coral was wearied with her long day of enjoyment, and as they drove home she fell asleep in her corner of the carriage. But Beryl was wide awake, and her mind working busily. Suddenly she perceived that this was a favourable opportunity of putting to her father a question she had resolved to ask him, though she had much dread of what his answer might be.

Mr. Hollys' thoughts must have been very absorbing at that moment, for he started and looked round with the expression of one who had forgotten for a time where he was.

"Papa, I want to say something to you," whispered Beryl; "but don't speak loudly, because Coral is asleep."

"I want to ask you a question, papa," said Beryl, with unwonted timidity. "I hope you won't mind my asking it; I feel so very anxious to know."

"Of course I shall not mind, child," returned her father carelessly; "why make such a fuss about it? You are not generally shy of asking questions."

"Really! I am curious to hear what it is," he said playfully. "Out with it, Beryl."

"What?" he exclaimed, in a tone of profound astonishment. "What do you say, Beryl?"

Then Beryl repeated to him the words she had heard pass between the two servants.

"Whatever will people say next!" he exclaimed. "I never knew anything like the mischief women will make with their tongues. I hope you have not said a word of this to any one, Beryl?"

"Oh, I don't know—she did not say much—only that I must be a good girl and try to make the best of it," said Beryl.

"I am very glad it is not true," observed Beryl presently. "I could not bear to have a stepmother; I hope you will never marry again, papa."

"Why should you hope that?" he returned almost sharply. "I might marry a good woman whom you would love and who would make you happy."

"Oh, I could not be happy with a stepmother," exclaimed Beryl confidently. "They are never good. I should hate her—I know I should."

"That is a foolish notion you have picked up," said her father. "You should not speak in that positive way about things you know nothing of."

"But, papa, you are not thinking of marrying, are you?" asked Beryl, getting alarmed.

"You need not be afraid, Beryl," he said, at last, rather constrainedly. "I do not think I am likely to marry again."

Beryl was hardly satisfied with this reply; but she had not time to say more, for the carriage was drawing up at Mrs. Everard's door, and Coral woke with a start.

A few days later the children, with ill-concealed elation, said good-bye to Mrs. Everard and her household, and started on their journey homewards. Mr. Hollys drove with them to the London terminus, where Miss Burton met them, as arranged. Mr. Hollys seemed sorry that he was not going with them.

"I shall soon follow you, Beryl," he said. "I feel that I have had enough of London."

Beryl's spirits did not flag through all the long journey to Egloshayle. When she sprang out of train at the little country station, she appeared almost as fresh as when she started, from London.

How pleasant it was to be at Egloshayle again! The cool evening breeze which greeted them was so much sweeter and purer than any air to be breathed in London. And then to catch the distant murmur of the waves, and see them tumbling in merry haste upon the shore—what pleasure in town could compare with that?

Miss Burton smiled to see the rapture with which the children welcomed each familiar sight and sound as they drove home in the waning light.

"How true it is that there is no place like home!" remarked Beryl, as Egloshayle House came in sight.

"It is worthwhile to go away to have the pleasure of coming back," said Coral sagely.

In her joy at finding herself at home, Beryl threw her arms around her aunt's neck, and gave her an unusually warm embrace, till that lady implored her niece to have mercy on her pretty lace frill. She even had a kind word and caress for the fat, lazy poodle, and soon—as followed by Coral she ran through the house, looking into every nook and corner, and making enquiries concerning all that had happened in her absence—the whole household had cause to know that Miss Beryl had come home.

CHAPTER XXVI

CORAL and Beryl received a hearty welcome home from the good folks of Egloshayle. Every one seemed glad that they had returned. The little Sunday scholars were delighted to see their teachers again, and to learn that the school was to be re-opened on the following Sunday.

After their long holidays, Miss Burton found that her pupils settled to their lessons better than she could have expected. She kept them well employed, and so busy and happy were they that the days seemed winged, so swiftly did they pass.

At the end of June, Mr. Hollys returned home, but he did not remain more than a few weeks at Egloshayle. After he had gone, in the warm August days, the children almost lived in the open air, reading and working, or learning their lessons in some shady nook in the garden, and often coaxing Miss Burton to allow them to have their tea or supper there. Sometimes they would picnic at some pleasant place along the shore; Andrew would go with them loaded with various requisites, and with his help the children would kindle a fire in some sheltered corner amongst the rocks, and boil the kettle for tea in gipsy fashion. When this enjoyable repast was over, Coral and Beryl would amuse themselves by clambering about the rocks, or wading in the waves in search of shells or seaweed.

Though she was now in her teens, and growing a tall girl, Beryl did not disdain these simple pleasures. She was perfectly satisfied with the life she led, and no thought of change, or trouble ever crossed her mind. But whilst she was thus fearless of the future, the coming days were bringing her change and trouble of a kind that would be very hard to bear.

Mr. Hollys came home again at the beginning of September, and, as usual at this season, he had many visitors. Engaged though he was, he managed to find time for many a visit to the schoolroom, and showed much interest in the doings of the children and their governess.

It happened one day, at this time, that Miss Burton and the children, returning through the village from a walk, noticed a strange gentleman standing at the door of the "Blue Anchor Inn." There was nothing remarkable in his appearance; he was merely a tall, dark man, with a long brownish beard, and they would not have given a second thought to him, had he not attracted their attention by starting forward as he caught sight of the children, and regarding them, as they passed, with an earnestness which they found rather embarrassing.

"How that man stared at us!" exclaimed Beryl loftily. "I think it was very rude of him."

"Some one who is staying at the inn, I suppose," replied Miss Burton; "an artist, perhaps, like your friend Mr. Gilbank."

"Oh, I dare say he knew us by the picture in the Academy!" said Coral, hitting the truth in her childish simplicity.

The others laughed at this suggestion, and then, beginning to talk of Mr. Gilbank, soon forgot the stranger they had seen.

But the next day they saw him again. This time he was on the beach, standing with Joe Pollard on the rocks below Sheldon Point, and listening earnestly to the fisherman, who appeared to be telling him a long story.

As she gazed at the two, she saw the stranger grasp Joe's hand, and shake it heartily; then turning, he hastily made his way across the beach in the direction of Egloshayle.

"I shall go and ask Joe who he is," said Beryl; and bounding over the shingles, she was soon at Joe's side.

Joe was startled by the child's sudden appearance and eager questions. He drew the sleeve of his jersey across his eyes, and cleared his throat twice ere he answered her.

"It's the strangest thing, Miss Beryl," he said. "That gentleman has come down from London to find out about the vessel that was wrecked here last March twelvemonth. It seems he has just come back from Canada, where he has been in search of a sister whom he had lost sight of. He learned there that his sister had come to England in this ship—the one as was wrecked here, I mean. So he came, asking me to tell him about the wreck."

"Oh, all there was to tell, miss—about the poor lady who died up at the house and little Miss Coral. He'd heard something of it before from the shipowners, I reckon. He's gone off in a grand hurry now—to find Mr. Hollys, I suppose."

"Oh, Joe, what a wonderful thing!" cried Beryl. "He must be Coral's uncle. How surprised she will be to hear it! I must run and tell her."

And Beryl scrambled over the rocks with perilous haste in her eagerness to join Coral. Her mind was thrown into such a state of wonder and excitement by the news she had heard that she could not pause to think how it might affect her own personal history.

Miss Burton and Coral were astonished to hear what she had to tell them. Little Coral looked frightened. Her uncle had become a sort of mythical personage to her, and she had never thought that he would really appear.

"We had better go home at once, Beryl, and tell your father what you have heard," said Miss Burton.

So they hurried to the house as quickly as possible, and surprised Mr. Hollys with their intelligence. Beryl had hardly finished repeating to her father what Joe had told her, when there came a loud ring at the house-bell.

"But he won't take me away, will he?" asked Coral, looking dreadfully distressed.

"Not to-day, certainly, my child; don't look so alarmed," said Mr. Hollys kindly, as he took up the card a servant now brought him, and read on it the name of Robert Harvey. "You ought to be glad your uncle has come."

But Coral felt anything but glad as Miss Burton hurried her upstairs to be made presentable by Lucy. A little later a servant was sent to bring Coral to the drawing-room. Coral's face grew white.

"You will come with me, Beryl?" she said, turning with an appealing look to her adopted sister.

Beryl was quite ready to accompany her; but the servant interposed. "Mr. Hollys said that only Miss Coral was to go down," she said.

Beryl dropped Coral's hand with a look of disappointment, and poor little frightened Coral had to go alone to meet her formidable uncle.

"Oh, Miss Burton!" exclaimed Beryl, when they were alone. "Do you think Coral's uncle will want to take her away from us?"

And Beryl felt that if her dear little sister were taken from her, she could never be happy again.

CHAPTER XXVII

BY Mr. Hollys' pressing invitation, Mr. Harvey became his guest for a time. Coral quickly lost all fear of him. His bronzed, bearded face had a kind look, and his manner to the children was gentle and winning. He could not make enough of little Coral, who reminded him so vividly of the sister he had lost, and it seemed to him that by goodness to her child he might, to some extent, make amends to his dead sister for the unkindness he now so deeply regretted.

It may be imagined what a blow it was to the children when they learned that Mr. Harvey had made up his mind to return to Australia in the following month, and that he meant to take Coral with him.

Beryl protested indignantly against the cruelty of taking Coral from her. Coral's sorrow was less demonstrative, but she grieved sorely as the parting drew near.

"Australia is such miles and miles and miles away!" Beryl would declare. "I shall never see you again, Coral, if you go there; I know I never shall. And I thought you were always going to be my dear little sister, and we should never be parted. Oh, it is too dreadful!"

"And to think that the great wide sea will be always between us," said Coral; "that will make you seem such an immense way off."

"I shall never look at the waves without thinking of you," said Beryl. "I shall fancy you are right away there, as far as one can see, and I shall call across the waves—'Coral! Coral!' But you will not hear me."

The children had their photographs taken before they parted, and as souvenirs they exchanged lockets, made of solid gold, with a wreath of forget-me-nots wrought in turquoise, which Mr. Hollys bought for them. Beryl's locket held Coral's likeness, and Coral's Beryl's, and each promised the other to look at the portrait and kiss it every morning and night. But we must not dwell on that sad parting. The children's last farewell was painful to see. Mr. Hollys had forcibly to separate them at last.

Coral disappeared with her uncle. She would have the relief of fresh scenes and new interests; but Beryl, left alone amid the familiar scenes, was as one broken-hearted. It was long ere Beryl could be roused from her sorrow. She missed her little sister at every turn, and all attempts to cheer her proved vain. She loved to dwell on her loss, and she would wander disconsolately through the garden or along the beach, thinking, with a heavy heart, of the happy times that had passed away for ever.

But every one was so kind to her, and so anxious to give her pleasure, that gradually Beryl's natural buoyancy of spirit returned. Her father took her for many a ride with him, mounted on her little grey pony. When the hunting season commenced, he allowed Beryl to ride with him to the various meets, consigning her to Andrew's care, whilst he followed the hounds. Beryl thoroughly enjoyed these glimpses of the hunt. She longed to be grown-up, that she might ride after the hounds, as did some daring young ladies of the neighbourhood.

Children are seldom observant of the demeanour of their elders, or Beryl might have seen that her governess was not so happy as she had been when first she came to Egloshayle. One day the truth came to her knowledge in a surprising way.

It was a bright November day, one of those late autumn days which have a beauty of their own. There was a crisp freshness in the still air, the sky was clear and gloriously blue, the sea calm and bright, whilst the trees in the garden showed the rich russets and yellows peculiar to this season.

Beryl had been longing for a walk; but Miss Burton had been obliged to insist upon a French exercise being first re-written, and she had gone to make some calls in the village, having arranged that Beryl should join her there as soon as the exercise was creditably written.

Beryl was not in a working mood, and the exercise took her a long time. When, at last, she pushed aside her books with a sigh of relief, she was dismayed to find how late it was. She hurried upstairs to get ready for her walk, when a glance from her bedroom window showed her that Miss Burton had already returned, and was walking in the garden with Mr. Hollys.

Something in their appearance made Beryl stand at the window to watch them. She wondered what her father could be talking about so earnestly as he gazed into Miss Burton's face. And Miss Burton looked pale, startled, unlike herself. Her father seemed to be urging some request, to which Miss Burton would not listen.

Now she appeared to utter a final word, and turning from Mr. Hollys, walked quickly to the house.

She hastily put on her hat and jacket, and ran downstairs to join her governess. But she was not to be found in the schoolroom, nor in any of the sitting-rooms, and after waiting a few minutes Beryl, growing impatient, went to Miss Burton's room.

Beryl did as children not seldom do. She knocked at the door, and opened it at the same instant.

"Can you come for a walk, now, Miss Burton?" she said, as she advanced into the room.

There was no reply, and to Beryl's dismay she saw Miss Burton kneeling beside the bed, her hands clasped, her face hidden, whilst stifled sobs shook her frame. At the sound of the child's approach she started and raised her head, but could not at once conquer her emotion.

"Oh, what is the matter, Miss Burton?" cried Beryl, greatly alarmed. "Are you feeling ill?"

"No, I am not ill," said Miss Burton faintly, as she rose from her knees and sank on to the nearest chair.

"No, no, dear; it is not that," said Miss Burton, struggling to subdue her sobs.

"I cannot, dear; so please do not ask me any more questions," said Miss Burton, trying to smile. "I have my troubles as well as you; but they won't bear talking about. Now run away, and take a walk by yourself; for I do not feel equal to going with you."

Slowly and reluctantly Beryl turned away. She went into the garden. Her father was still there, and she thought that she would join him; but as she came in sight, he turned hastily towards the stable-yard. Beryl felt sure that he had seen her, and she fancied that he too must wish to be left to himself. She did not follow him, but took a solitary and dreary walk.

Miss Burton did not come down during the remainder of the day, nor did she appear at breakfast the next morning. At that meal Mr. Hollys announced to his sister his intention of leaving home forthwith. This was a surprise both to her and to Beryl.

"You will not be away long, papa?" Beryl cried. "You will come back for Christmas?"

"I cannot say," he returned hastily. "I may be away some time—perhaps I shall go abroad."

Beryl was perplexed and grieved; but something in her father's manner restrained her from asking questions. He was given to making and carrying out his plans promptly, and in less than an hour he had driven away from Egloshayle House to catch the London express. Another painful surprise awaited Beryl. A few days later her governess told her that she would be obliged to leave her at Christmas.

"Yes, dear; it grieves me to say it, but I shall be obliged to leave you for good."

"Oh, Miss Burton, you cannot mean it! How could I do without you?" cried Beryl wildly.

"I will not; you shall not go!" exclaimed Beryl passionately. "Why are you going? Does papa wish you to go?"

"No, no, dear; you must not do that," replied Miss Burton, laying her hand on Beryl's arm. "Listen to me. I am obliged to go. Your father knows about it, and will not attempt to hinder me. It is painful enough to leave you; do not make it harder for me by your words."

Beryl could not understand why, if it was painful to her, Miss Burton should insist on going. Nor when she spoke to her aunt on the subject could she get any satisfactory explanation. Miss Hollys understood Miss Burton's reasons for the step as little as Beryl.

There was about it all an element of mystification which added to the pain with which Beryl contemplated the coming change. It was bad enough to lose Coral, but what would life at Egloshayle be like when Miss Burton too was gone? Miss Burton tried to cheer her by saying that perhaps Beryl would be able to come, and stay with her at Hampstead sometimes. But Beryl only shook her head. Nothing would ever be nice again. When the parting day came, it was a sad, despairful young face Miss Burton looked back upon as the train carried her out of Egloshayle station.

CHAPTER XXVIII

BERYL knew not what to do with herself after Miss Burton's departure. Miss Hollys tried to be kind to her niece; but her well-meant attempts to cheer and amuse the child only irritated Beryl. She would wander listlessly about the house, unable to settle to any occupation, and feeling as restless and unhappy as a girl can feel. Her aunt hinted that she would probably be sent to school in the course of a few weeks, a prospect which did not tend to raise Beryl's spirits.

One day Beryl roused herself from her moodiness, and started for a long walk. She had been thinking of Mr. Gilbank, and the words he had said to her when she had asked him how one could have peace in the heart when one's life seemed to be going all wrong. She knew that if her friend could speak to her now he would say, as he had said then, that she must trust God, her Father, and believe that He loved her, although He had permitted these changes that she found so hard to bear. The child was learning a lesson that no one, old or young, finds easy to learn—the lesson that God's love is as real and great when clouds shadow our pathway, as it is when we walk in sunshine. But with the first glimpse of the truth, leading her to look up to God with childlike trust and love, a feeling of sweet peace came to her heart.

Beryl walked along the shore as far as Sheldon Point. The day was bright, and though the wind blew high, it was not very cold. Beryl enjoyed contending with the boisterous breeze, which brought a warm glow of colour to her cheeks.

There were some children playing on the rocks beneath the Point, and Beryl lingered for a few minutes to watch their play. They were jumping from rock to rock, as the outgoing tide receded, and urging each other forward to one daring feat after another. It was not a very safe amusement, for the rocks were here and there slimed with slippery seaweed, and below them the sea flowed deep; but the children were accustomed to climb about the rocks, and had no sense of danger. Beryl had often performed such feats herself, and she did not think it necessary to utter a word of warning.

But suddenly she was startled by a shrill cry, followed by a great splash. A little boy of five, moved by an adventurous spirit beyond his years, had endeavoured to follow the example of his elders, but failing in the leap, had slipped on a treacherous edge, and fallen back into deep water.

The children screamed loudly in their fright, and Beryl echoed their cry as she looked round for help. No one was in sight; the beach was deserted at this hour. Before help could reach them from the village, the boy would surely be drowned.

What was to be done? Beryl hesitated scarcely a moment. She could swim; it was for her to make an effort to save the child. Throwing off her jacket and hat, Beryl leaped into the water as the boy rose to the surface. But already the swift-flowing current had carried him some distance from the rocks. Beryl struck out bravely for him, though she experienced unusual difficulty in swimming, encumbered as she was by clothing. Ere she could reach him, the child sank again, and when his head again appeared on the surface, it was still far from her.

And now, as the cries of the children rang in her ears, Beryl began to doubt her power to save him, and a sense of her own peril chilled her heart. But with a prayer for help she pressed on, and putting out all her strength, by a great effort managed to reach the child and grasp him, only to find that his weight immediately dragged her beneath the waves.

The children on the rocks uttered an affrighted scream as they saw them both disappear. But Beryl's head soon re-appeared above the waves as she tried to strike out for the shore. But her strength was spent, and the weight of her clothes dragged her down. The tide, too, was dead against her. She could make no way against it, whilst she held the child; yet she would not let him go.

Again both sank beneath the sea, and when Beryl again rose to the surface, she saw that she had drifted still further from the land. And now she saw that she must die, and oh! How dear life seemed to her at that moment! Her father's love, her happy home, all the precious things that were hers rose before her mind. But then came the thought of God, her Father, and a blessed sense that she was in His hands for life or for death. And Beryl passed into unconsciousness without fear or distress.

But the work of Beryl's young life was not yet over. God had heard her cry for help. A boat with two fishermen in it was rounding Sheldon Point, and the screams of the children on the rocks brought them quickly to the spot. One of them dived into the water, and clutched the children as they rose for the last time to the surface. With his comrade's help they were lifted into the boat, and rowed swiftly to the shore.

Both were apparently lifeless when lifted out of the water; but the men took prompt measures for their restoration, and Beryl soon showed signs of returning animation. She was carried into Joe Pollard's cottage, which was nearest to the spot where the adventure had occurred, and his wife did everything she could for her, whilst the news of what had happened was sent to Egloshayle House.

It was feared for some time that help had come too late for the little boy; but the persevering efforts made to restore him at last had their reward; he revived, and in the end fared much better than Beryl.

Lucy came in the carriage, and conveyed her young lady home. She was put to bed, and every precaution taken to ward off ill effects; but ere long shivering fits came on. By night she was in a high fever, and the doctor, who was summoned, did not disguise that he thought very seriously of her case. When, on his second visit the next morning, he found no improvement in her symptoms, he deemed it advisable to at once telegraph to her father.

Mr. Hollys was in Paris, and though he started on his journey homeward as soon as possible, he did not arrive at Egloshayle till the evening of the following day. He entered his home with a sinking heart. It was hard to miss Beryl's bounding step and rapturous greeting. He came in quietly, and refusing all refreshment till he had seen his child, stole noiselessly upstairs to Beryl's sick-room.

What a change met his eyes as he approached her bedside! Beryl's beautiful hair had been shorn off; her face was burning with fever, and her eyes, unnaturally brilliant, looked at him without the least sign of recognition. She was tossing to and fro, and talking incessantly in a wild, rambling way. Now she would cry out that Coral was drowning, and implore some one to save her. Then she seemed to fancy that she herself was sinking in the water, and stretching out her arms, would cry to her father for help, taking no comfort from his presence, though he bent over her with words of tenderest love. Presently she would be calling for Miss Burton, and beseeching her not to go away.

The scene soon became too painful for Guy Hollys, and he left the sick-room and went downstairs, looking worn and haggard from the effects of his long Journey and distress of mind. He made enquiries, and soon learned all that could be told him of the cause of Beryl's illness. He was moved with sorrowful pride to think how bravely Beryl had thrown herself into danger in the hope of saving another's life. But how could he bear it, if that little life had been won at the cost of her own? The fisherman whose boy had so narrowly escaped drowning had many other children; but he, Guy Hollys, had only this one precious child.

"Oh, what a pity it is that Miss Burton is not here!" said his sister to him. "She is invaluable in sickness; she has such health and such strong nerves, not like poor me, whom the least thing upsets."

"Yes; she is a good, reliable woman—a woman in a thousand," said Mr. Hollys gravely. "I too wish that she were here."

"She would come, I have no doubt, Guy, if you were to ask her," suggested Miss Hollys. "Additional help is really wanted, for Lucy cannot do everything. Of course we could hire a nurse, but it would be much better to have Miss Burton."

"But how can I ask her for our sakes to leave her home now?" said Mr. Hollys. "You forget that to-morrow will be Christmas Day."

"No, I do not," said Miss Hollys; "but she is very fond of Beryl. I believe she would gladly come for her sake."

And then he sat in silence for a while, musing over the suggestion his sister had made. Presently he rose and went to the library, and having paced to and fro that room for some minutes in anxious deliberation, he sat down at his writing-table, and taking pen and paper, wrote a letter to Miss Burton.

And though it would hardly be true to say that he asked Miss Burton to come, for he did not venture to do more than hint how greatly she was needed, his letter had the effect of bringing her to Egloshayle two days later.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE stillness of night had fallen on Egloshayle House. All the household had retired to rest save two, who were sitting up for Beryl's sake. Hettie Burton sat beside the bed in the dimly-lighted room. Beryl had not recognised her since her coming. The child was muttering to herself whilst her head tossed restlessly on the pillow. Her nurse bent over her and bathed her head, uttering gentle, soothing words, which Beryl seemed not to hear. Yet gradually, as she continued her loving services, the child grew quieter. She moved less often, her talking ceased, her breathing became more regular, and at last, with deep thankfulness, Miss Burton saw that she slept.

She dared not leave her place, lest the least movement should disturb the sleeper. Sleep was so good for the child.

Beryl slept for nearly an hour. Then she opened her eyes and looked calmly at her governess. Short as had been her slumber, its beneficent influence was plain. Delirium had ceased; there was recognition in the glance of content which rested on Miss Burton's face.

"Miss Burton," she whispered in a faint, weak voice, "you won't leave me, will you? You won't go away?"

"No, no, darling; I will not leave you," said Miss Burton, bending to give her some jelly. "Now take this and then close your eyes, and try to sleep again, whilst I watch beside you."

"But you won't go away," repeated the child; "because if you do, they will put me in the water; they mean to, I know."

"No, my darling, I will not leave you," Miss Burton assured her; "no one shall put you into the water; I will take care of you."

Beryl looked satisfied. Her nurse arranged her pillows more comfortably, and in a few moments Beryl's eyes again closed, and her quiet, regular breathing showed that she was sound asleep. Miss Burton stepped lightly to the door and opened it. Slight as was the sound, Mr. Hollys heard it, and came from the next room.

"Better, really better, I believe," replied Miss Burton in a low voice. "She is fast asleep; come and look at her."

Mr. Hollys followed her into the room, and tears rushed to his eyes at the sight of Beryl peacefully sleeping. He sat down at one side of the bed and Miss Burton at the other, and together they thus watched the child for several hours, till Beryl woke, weak and helpless as a baby, but without fever and free from delusions.

Yet the days which followed were anxious ones. There was fear lest the child should slip away from life through sheer exhaustion. She needed the utmost care; and now it was that Miss Burton's capacity as a nurse was fully tested. But for her constant watching and unwearying devotion, Beryl's illness might have ended otherwise than it did. But her governess was ever at hand to administer medicine or nourishment just when they were needed, ready, too, with wise and loving words to soothe the nervous depression which troubled the child, to whom weakness and weariness were such strange experiences.

"Do you think I am really getting better, Miss Burton?" Beryl asked one day. "I feel just as weak as ever. You don't think I shall die, do you? I hope it's not wicked of me, but I don't want to die. I would so much rather get well and live with papa."

Mr. Hollys, who was sitting at the further side of the bed, half-hidden by the curtain, leaned forward and looked anxiously at his child as she said this, but Miss Burton replied cheerfully, "It is not wicked, dear; but only right that you should wish to get well. You are stronger, although you may not feel it yet. You have a better pulse, and there is a tinge of colour stealing back into your cheeks. Yes, you are getting on."

"I am so glad," said Beryl with a smile. "I have been trying to think about the kingdom; but my head is so stupid that I cannot remember anything properly. I can't even say that text, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me.'"

"'Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God,'" said Hattie Burton. "Don't be surprised that you forget things, dear; it is always so after such an illness as yours, and you will soon get the better of it, and find everything coming back to you."

"'Of such is the kingdom of God,'" repeated Beryl. "That does not mean that the kingdom is for children only, does it, Miss Burton?"

"No, dear; that would be a sad thing for most of us," she replied with a smile; "it means that it is a kingdom of childlike, true, and loving spirits, and it is only by becoming like a little child that any one can enter therein."

"Miss Burton," said Beryl softly, forgetful of her father's presence, "I wish papa were in the kingdom. Do you think he ever will be?"

Miss Burton coloured, and felt herself painfully embarrassed by the child's question; but Beryl was looking at her wonderingly, so she replied in a low voice, "I hope so, dear."

"Papa here! I did not know it. I wish I had not spoken so. Will he be angry with me, do you think?"

"I do not think so, dear; no, I am sure he cannot be angry with you," replied her governess.

There was indeed no anger in Mr. Holly's mind as he went away. Beryl's words had pricked himself sharply; but he could not feel cross with the sweet young daughter whose life was so precious to him.

He went downstairs to the library, and began to pace to and fro the room in painful thought. Yes, the child was right—he had no place in the kingdom; his life lay outside it, and till lately he had preferred that it should be thus. And yet he was not an unbeliever; he had not fallen under the blight of scepticism; he professed to believe the truths of Christianity, and his intellect did hold them true. He could admire the influence of religious faith in the lives of others. The memory of his young wife's beautiful life of faith and love was still fragrant in his mind. He had taken pains to secure for Beryl religious training; for her sake, he had rejoiced in the grace and consistency of Miss Burton's character, and he had heartily approved of the good works in which she had interested the children.

Yet all the while he had had no heart religion; he had been satisfied to worship God coldly and formally, and had felt no desire to draw near to Him as His Father, and claim the divine sonship which was his inheritance in Christ.

But now, it was different. Of late, the depths of his spirit had been stirred by sorrow and disappointment, followed swiftly by the sudden, appalling dread of losing the child of his love. When in the anguish of suspense, he had tried to ask God to spare Beryl's life, he had found it impossible to pray. What right had he to expect that he would be heard, when he had never cared to pray before, but had fancied himself sufficient to meet unaided all that life might bring forth?

As he walked up and down the library, Guy Hollys owned to himself that he would gladly share his child's simple faith, and gain an entrance into that kingdom of which his child loved to think. But could he enter there? Was it for such as he, this kingdom of God?

As he thought thus, his eyes fell on a book high up on one of the bookshelves. It was his wife's Bible, which he kept sacredly for her sake, but which he seldom opened. Now, however, he lifted it down, wiped the dust from its gilt edges, and began to turn over the leaves.

As he did so, he looked eagerly for words concerning the kingdom of God. Verses on this subject were easily found when he began to search for them.

"The kingdom of God is not in word, but in power."

"Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God?"

"The kingdom of God is not meat and drink; but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Ghost."

"The kingdom of God cometh not with observation; neither shall they say, 'Lo here!' or, 'Lo there!' for behold! the kingdom of God is within you.'"

"Jesus answered, 'My kingdom is not of this world: if My kingdom were of this world, then would My servants fight, that I should not be delivered to the Jews: but now is My kingdom not from hence.' Pilate therefore said unto Him, 'Art Thou a king then?' Jesus answered, 'Thou sayest that I am a king. To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness to the truth. Every one that is of the truth heareth My voice.'"

"'Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.'"

The meaning of these passages was dark to Guy Hollys as he read them, yet he caught some glimpses of the grandeur and beauty of the spiritual life they set forth. The last verse he pondered long. How could he, Guy Hollys, become as a little child? That would indeed be a conversion. He knew that he was in spirit far from the kingdom of God. All his past life rose before him, visible now in its true light, his love of ease and pleasure, his pride and worldly ambition, his utter selfishness of heart and barrenness of life. Oh, to begin a higher, nobler life! But how, how?

A flash of light came from the Word. The leaves had opened at the first chapter of Matthew, and there were the words: "'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.'"

Here was his need met, here was a Saviour who could deliver him from the power of his sins. And as Guy Hollys bowed his head on his hands in unwonted humility, and breathed the most earnest prayer he had ever offered, he was conscious of the presence of One mighty to save, and felt that a Hand was stretched out to him, the hand of the strong Son of God, ready to uphold him in the new life he desired to begin. With the faith of a little child, he yielded himself utterly to the Saviour, and the angels of God rejoiced because another son was born into the kingdom.

CHAPTER XXX

SIX weeks of the New Year had come and gone, and already there were tokens of the coming of spring. Sickness and sadness no longer reigned at Egloshayle House. Beryl's fine constitution had asserted itself and shaken off all ill effects of the fever which had brought her so low. She had added some inches to her height during the weeks that she lay in bed, and now looked inelegantly gaunt and thin, but declared herself quite well, except when Miss Burton talked of returning to London, at which suggestion Beryl would change her tone, and say that she really was not strong enough yet to do without Miss Burton's care.

So Hettie Burton stayed on from week to week at Egloshayle, and found it impossible to fix a day for her departure in opposition to the warm entreaties which the mere mention of her going evoked. Mr. Hollys was as urgent for her remaining longer as his daughter, and Miss Hollys, whose nerves had been terribly shaken by recent events, put in a piteous appeal to the same effect.

One bright afternoon, when the air was so mild and the sun so warm that it seemed as if winter had already yielded the sceptre to smiling spring, Beryl, having just returned from a walk, was resting, with her long limbs comfortably curled up, on the sofa in the drawing-room. She was often glad to rest thus, for, not having yet regained full strength, she soon grew weary—a trying experience to her, who in former days had scarcely known what fatigue meant.

Beryl had found a letter awaiting her from Coral, which she was now eagerly reading. Coral wrote in good spirits. Her uncle had taken a beautiful house a few miles out of Melbourne. There was a large garden with lovely flowers and delicious fruit, very different from anything to be seen at Egloshayle. Her uncle had given her a pretty bay pony, and she often rode for many hours. He had also given her a fine dog, a monkey, one of the cleverest of his tribe, and a green parrot, which she had already taught to call her "Coral," and was now trying to persuade to say "Beryl." Her uncle had engaged a governess for her, who was very kind, but, of course, not so nice as Miss Burton.

It was clear that Coral was well pleased with her new life, and she declared that she should be perfectly happy, if only she had Beryl with her.

Beryl laid down the letter at last with a sigh. "Coral is quite gone from me," was her thought. "I shall never see her again. Well, she is happy enough without me. She does not really want me now she has that pony, and dog, and monkey, and parrot."

And, for a few moments, Beryl actually felt injured because Coral appeared to be enjoying her new life so much. But she soon was ashamed of the feeling.

"What a horrid, mean thing I am!" she said to herself. "To think that I should be cross because Coral is happy. As if her being unhappy could make my life any happier! I ought to be glad, and I am glad."

But the dreary feeling which had crept over Beryl could not at once be shaken off. The remarkable mildness of the day was making her feel very languid, and with languor came sadness.

"What shall I do when Miss Burton goes away?" she began to think. "I shall be miserable by myself. I suppose papa will send me to school when I am strong enough, and that will be horrid, I know. Oh dear! Oh dear!"

At this moment, a tap at the window attracted her attention. She started up, and saw her father and Miss Burton standing outside. Miss Burton had been gathering some snowdrops and violets, and held them up smilingly to Beryl's view. Then she and Mr. Hollys turned towards the hall door, and in a few moments appeared in the drawing-room.

They came forward with smiling, radiant faces to the sofa on which Beryl was resting. But if there was any special significance in their looks, Beryl was not in a mood to observe it. She sighed heavily as Miss Burton came to her side.

"I have brought some flowers to cheer you," said Miss Burton brightly. "You looked very disconsolate when I peered at you through the window. Is anything the matter?"

"Oh no," said Beryl, "only I'm tired and in the dumps. How lovely these snowdrops are! And oh, there are some violets too! Where did you find them?"

"At the bottom of the garden; I smelt them before I could see them," said Miss Burton. "So you have had a letter from Coral; how is she?"

"Oh, very well, and having such nice times," said Beryl. "Her uncle has given her a pony, a dog, a monkey, and a parrot. It's good to be Coral now."

"What a menagerie!" said Mr. Hollys, sitting down at the end of the sofa. "I hope you won't want me to get you a monkey or a parrot, for I dislike both of the creatures, and would rather not introduce them into the house."

"What would be the good of my having them? I could not take them to school with me, I suppose?" said Beryl drearily. "Oh dear, I wish Miss Burton would stay with me and teach me again."

"Whether she will take the trouble to teach you or not I cannot say," remarked Mr. Hollys, with peculiar meaning in his tones; "but, Beryl, I have good news for you. Miss Burton has promised to stay with us."

"Has she? Oh, I am glad! How good of you!" cried Beryl joyously, as she turned to look at her governess.

Hettie bent over the sofa, put her arms round Beryl and kissed her more than once. Perhaps she was glad thus to hide the blushes that had risen in her cheeks.

"Longer than that," returned her father with a smile; "she is going away for a little while, and then she is coming to stay with us always."

"Always!" repeated Beryl, in a tone of wonder. "Do you really mean always? How will your mother like that, Miss Burton?"

Covered with confusion, Hettie looked appealingly at Mr. Hollys. "You must tell her all; she will not be so pleased then, I fear," she said.

"Beryl," said her father, "you told me once that you could never be happy with a stepmother; but now, dear, you will have to make the experiment. I am going to marry again."

"Just this, darling—that Hettie Burton has made me very happy by promising to become my wife, so you see she will live with us always, and be a mother to you. You will be glad of that, will you not, Beryl?"

"Papa, is that it?" cried Beryl in excited tones. "Are you going to marry Miss Burton? I am surprised; I never dreamed of such a thing. Why, that is quite different. If I had thought Miss Burton would be my stepmother, I should not have said that I could not be happy with one. Oh, I am so glad, so very glad!"

And she threw her arms round Hettie Burton's neck, and kissed her again and again in an ecstasy of delight.

Surely no stepmother ever had a warmer welcome or a better prospect of happiness!

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Beryl's triumph

BERYL'S TRIUMPH

CHAPTER I