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Title: The secret of Oaklands

Author: M. Harding Kelly

Illustrator: G. Henry Evison

Release date: March 24, 2024 [eBook #73245]

Language: English

Original publication: London: R.T.S.--Lutterworth Press, 1919

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET OF OAKLANDS ***







[Frontispiece: 'WHAT A JOLLY LITTLE PLACE!' REMARKED MARGARET]



  THE
  SECRET OF OAKLANDS


  By

  M. HARDING KELLY

  _Author of "Philip Campion's Will," "Roy"
  "Tom Kenyan," etc._



  LONDON
  R.T.S.--LUTTERWORTH PRESS
  4 BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.4




  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS LTD.
  LONDON AND TONBRIDGE




  CONTENTS


  CHAPTER

  I. PARTING OF THE WAYS
  II. OAKLANDS
  III. TRIALS
  IV. INFLUENCE
  V. THE GREAT FIGHT
  VI. OLD FRIENDS
  VII. BOB IN TROUBLE
  VIII. DISCOVERY
  IX. A BOND OF UNION
  X. FIRE
  XI. AN OLD CRIME
  XII. HAPPINESS




THE SECRET OF OAKLANDS



CHAPTER I

PARTING OF THE WAYS

"Father, what _is_ the matter?"

The question came in sharp tones of distress from a young girl who at
that moment entered the breakfast-room.  Quickly she sprang to her
father's side and began chafing his cold hands, as she gazed with
fear-stricken eyes into the beloved face before her.

Cyril Woodford made no response, but sat as if stunned, staring with
apparently unseeing eyes at the newspaper before him, which his
nerveless fingers had just dropped.  His face was ashen, and there
was a nervous twitching about his lips as he tried to moisten them
with his tongue.

"Father dear, speak--tell me why you look like this!  Has something
terrible happened?"

No answer came in words, but with a shaking finger the man pointed to
the heading of a column in the newspaper in front of him.

  GREAT FINANCIAL CRASH
  FAILURE OF SAMPSON'S BANK, LTD.


For a few seconds Margaret Woodford looked at the words with a
puzzled expression wrinkling her brows, then something of the trouble
involved dawned upon her mind.

"Sampson's has failed, I see--does--does it mean you have lost some
money, dear?" she asked a little hesitatingly.

"All--_all_," he said huskily, while a shiver shook his frame as
though he were attacked with ague.

The girl's face paled.

There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then, rising
from her cramped position at his side, she said gently:

"I'm going to ring for some fresh coffee, father; yours is cold."

"I don't want anything; I couldn't eat," he answered.

But, ignoring this remark, she rang and gave her order, and in a few
minutes a fresh cup of the fragrant beverage was poured out and
brought to him.

"Drink it, just to please me," she said coaxingly, "you are so cold;
and presently you will explain it all to me, won't you?"

For a minute or two longer her father sat silent, then hastily
drained the cup before him, rose a little uncertainly, and went out
of the room, leaving his breakfast still untasted.

His daughter remained seated, mechanically eating a finger of toast,
and deep in painful thought.

She could not, of course, grasp the enormity of this thing, but that
it meant serious trouble was evident.  She had never seen her father
disturbed like this before, and those last words of his, repeated so
despairingly, had been enough to fill her with vague alarm.  It
surely _could_ not mean the giving up of their beautiful home?  Why,
the Abbey House had been in their family for generations, and every
stone of it was precious to her.  And she knew only too well how her
father loved it.

The Woodfords of the Abbey House were well known in the county, and
the thought that strangers might one day occupy it had never hitherto
suggested itself to anyone's mind.

Margaret started slightly as the idea for the first time presented
itself to her now.

She gazed with tear-dimmed eyes at the beautiful grassy terraces, and
the grand old cedar-tree rearing its head in front of the dining-room
windows and sweeping the lawn with its graceful branches.  It all
looked so peaceful outside in the morning sunlight, as though nothing
could disturb the calm serenity of the place.

Alas! for appearances--how poor an index they often are to the stern
realities of life!

Mr. Woodford scarcely saw his daughter any more that day; he remained
in the library until quite late in the afternoon, refusing admittance
to everyone, spending his time in writing letters, and sorting papers
in his desk with nervous fingers.

At last Margaret could bear the suspense no longer, and persisted in
knocking at the door until he responded to her entreaties to come in.

"There is something very wrong with the master to-day," said old
John, the man-servant, as he addressed his fellow-servants.
"Something _very_ wrong," and he shook his head dolorously as he
spoke.

"Yes--that there is, and no mistake," answered cook, "and as for Miss
Margaret, she looks as white as a sheet; just because the master
wouldn't come in to lunch she must needs go without."

"I wonder what it means.  It's something as come by post upset them,
because things seemed all right when the master came down this
morning; he looked as cheerful as could be, and when I set eyes on
him half an hour later, I never saw anyone look worse."

"Well--I'll tell you what _I_ think it is----"

But cook's explanations, or ideas, were cut short by the violent
ringing of the library bell, not once, but two or three times,
peremptorily.

"My! listen to that now, be quick, John!  Good gracious, I never
heard a bell tugged in that way before!"

John forgot he was getting on in years as he hurried breathless up
the stairs; he felt already a presentiment of trouble, but he was not
prepared for what he found.

"Why--what--what's the matter, miss?" he exclaimed, as he opened the
library door and hurried to his master's side.

"I don't know!---oh, I don't know! but father is very ill--send for
the doctor, John, quick--let George take the grey mare!"

John was shocked by what he saw, but he was a sensible man who knew
how to keep his head in an emergency.  Without further hesitation he
hurried back to the servants' hall even faster than he had left it,
and quietly issued his orders to the groom.

"Ride hard!--the master's very ill if I'm not much mistaken;" and not
waiting to answer any of the questions which were rained upon him, he
at once returned to his young mistress.

The time seemed interminable while the two watched by the master of
the house, longing and praying in the silence of their hearts for the
medical man's arrival.

At last the welcome approach of his gig sounded on the carriage
drive, and in a few moments more Dr. Crane was in the room--quiet,
calm, issuing his orders clearly and decidedly, and bringing with him
a sense of comfort to the frightened girl.

When the patient was at last in bed, and John installed to watch
beside him, the doctor called Margaret aside and placed an arm-chair
for her.

"Now tell me how this attack began, and what you think brought it on?"

In a few words Miss Woodford described the day's occurrences, and
explained that while her father was talking to her that evening in
the library, he suddenly cried out as though in great pain and put
his hand to the back of his neck, then he seemed to lose
consciousness.

"What _is_ it, doctor?"  Her sweet grey eyes looked anxiously into
his, as she asked the question.

Dr. Crane paused a moment or two before he answered, then he said
slowly:

"He has had a stroke consequent upon some unusual excitement or
shock."

"A stroke?" repeated Margaret.  "Does it mean then--that ... that he
is too ill to--to recover?"  And her voice trembled as she spoke.

"Oh, I do not say that at all," answered Dr. Crane; "he may, of
course, get over this quite well, but in that case he will probably
not be quite the same man again that he was before it happened.
Perhaps," he continued, "you do not know that your father has
consulted me more than once during the last year with regard to his
health?"

"No, I did not know that," she replied.

"I am sorry to say so; but he has not been robust for some time; his
heart is not what I should like it to be--but there, I am frightening
you, and I hope unnecessarily; so far as I can see, there is no
reason for serious alarm to-night.  Be brave, child; if there is to
be illness in the house, you will want all your strength; husband it
now by having a good meal and going to bed early, and try to sleep.
I shall send the district nurse in to sit up with Mr. Woodford, and
you can wire to town to-morrow for a permanent one--at least--you can
do that if--if it is necessary," he added hesitatingly, for as he was
speaking the remembrance of a hint of monetary difficulties in a
recent conversation with Mr. Woodford recurred unpleasantly to his
mind.

To think of his old friends, the inmates of the Abbey House, being
threatened with poverty seemed almost too extraordinary to be true.
Surely there must be a mistake somewhere!

The kind doctor shook off the unpleasant doubt, and, pressing the
girl's hand warmly, bade her farewell, with a last promise to call
later and not forget to send the nurse.

When he had gone, Margaret stole softly into her father's room, and
gazed silently at the still figure upon the bed.

The patient was breathing a little unevenly, but his eyes were
closed, and he seemed to be sleeping.

Old John sat by the bedside anxiously watching his master's face.

Reassured by her father's peaceful attitude, his daughter went
downstairs and did her best to do as Dr. Crane had told her.  For she
was sensible enough to realise that if there was trouble to be faced
in the unknown future, giving way at the outset would be both foolish
and cowardly.

After all, she was a Woodford, and with the courage of her race she
knew she must meet difficulties with a stiff lip.

But it was a relief when Nurse Somers arrived, with her cheerful air
of confidence and reliability, and took charge of the sick-room.

The next few days were like a dream to Margaret; she seemed to live
in another world.  Her father rallied from this first attack, and was
sufficiently recovered to spend some hours with his lawyer.  Then his
mind seemed to grow dull, and he talked feebly and childishly of the
old happy days when his wife was alive and his daughter a little
child--the sunbeam and plaything of the house.

A few days of weakness followed, then came the night when the spirit
took its flight from earth's habitation, quietly and silently, in
answer to God's summons, and fled to that sorrowless land where all
is joy and peace, and rest.  And in the dawn of the morning the
watchers saw only the hush of death's release for the master; "_God's
finger touched him, and he slept._"

Margaret did not break down; the sorrow seemed too much to bear, too
much to understand at first.  She felt numb with grief; her cold
apathy disturbed the kind nurse, who stayed until the funeral should
be over.

"I wish she would cry," she remarked to the doctor; "this terrible
calm is unnatural, and a fearful strain."

"Yes--yes--poor child, the reaction will, I am afraid, be all the
greater," he answered sympathetically; "but youth is bound to
recover."

But it was not until the day of the funeral that Margaret fully
realised her loss, when she knelt by her window alone, the pale moon
looking down upon her from the clear cold sky.  Then the greatness of
her bereavement came over her, and she felt, in all the sadness of
realisation, the desolation of her future.

Her dear, dear father was taken from her, the one being she loved in
all the world, the one who had been everything to her since she had
lost her mother, her darling companion as well as parent.  And as
though to mock at her grief she had learned that day for the first
time from the lawyer's lips that she was penniless.  Owing to the
great bank failure, her father's money had melted away into thin air;
and her home, the dear old Abbey House, must pass into other hands,
and be sold at once to meet the demands of her father's creditors.

To-night was hers--to-night she could wander through the rooms, and
take a last farewell walk round the gardens and park, and touch as
she had touched the friend of her childhood, the fine old cedar which
had silently watched many generations of Woodfords seated under its
sheltering boughs.  With tender, lingering fingers she had pressed
the smooth trunk, and then broken a tiny piece of the beautiful
evergreen, and put it among her own personal treasures.  It was that
which lay in her hand now, and upon which the fast-falling tears
dropped, as she said good-bye to the happiness of the old home, so
soon to pass into the possession of strangers.  She covered her face,
while silent sobs shook her, in the sorrow of those moments.

Presently she grew calm again, and, gazing through the window of her
room at those bright worlds which canopy our earth above, her lips
moved, and her voice whispered to the One Who knew all her trouble
and understood: "Father in Heaven, help me, Thy child, to do Thy will
wherever Thou seest fit to send me."

There was no outward answer to that prayer, but the answer was
speeding to her then, and strength to prepare her for the difficult
days to come.




CHAPTER II

OAKLANDS

"Oh, I wish the train would be quick," said a small child, addressing
an old man-servant who stood rather anxiously guarding her, as she
stamped impatiently up and down upon the platform.  "What makes it so
long, James?  I want to see her--because I shall know directly if
she's nice; if she isn't, I'll be naughty every day, and make her
just as unhappy as ever I can, and then she'll go away like all the
others have.  I told daddy so this morning."

"I expect you'll like her, miss," answered the man, with a grim
smile, as he gazed with affectionate amusement at the spoilt child in
front of him.

"If she's nasty, I'll hate her--so there."

"Come, come, missy, don't talk like that," he interposed.

"Yes, I shall--look! there's the train coming, the signal has gone
down, now let's see, James, who can find her first; I feel sure
she'll be horrid, and have an ugly old bonnet on."

The train steamed into the station, puffing and snorting vehemently
as it came to a standstill, and in a few minutes the carriages had
emptied themselves of their passengers.

The old man-servant and little Ellice Medhurst scanned carefully each
possible looking person who alighted, to see if they answered to
their ideas of the expected governess they had come to meet.

She had sent no description of herself, she had not thought of it,
and in fact her employer had forgotten her intention to send to the
station, until that afternoon Miss Woodford's future pupil, with a
wilfulness which characterised her, had insisted upon going herself
to meet her, not from politeness, but curiosity.  What sort of person
she was likely to expect she had not waited to inquire, but telling
James he was to come with her--"Mamma said so"--she set off with him
in the little pony-carriage to fetch the new governess to Oaklands.

* * * * *

The journey had seemed long to Margaret Woodford, as, occupied with
her sad thoughts, she gazed out of the carriage windows, taking only
a languid interest in the stations she passed.

She was still feeling the terrible shock of her father's death and
failure, and the loss of the dear old home.

This venture into the great unknown world was a great trial, and it
required all her courage to face it as bravely as she was doing.

Her heart glowed with gratitude towards Mrs. Crane, as she thought of
her parting words: "Remember, you are not to stay if you are not
happy, but to come back to us, and we will look for something else
for you."

Happy!  She didn't expect to be that, but she would try to be content
and to do her duty; she was sure the promise was hers, "I will be
with thee in all places whithersoever thou goest."  God knew the way
that she took, and He would direct her path.  That was the one great
fact which sustained Margaret Woodford's courage as she faced the
world alone for the first time in her life.

She had started for London that morning from her old home in the
North, and travelled by the 4.15 from town, and now in the fading
afternoon light she caught her first glimpse of the garden of
England, as the train steamed past country lanes, cherry orchards,
and hop grounds rising into renewed life as the season advanced.

The only other occupants of her carriage appeared to be two
farmers--at least she judged they were of that persuasion, by the
agricultural topics of conversation which seemed to engross them.
Her interest was aroused by their eagerness and enthusiasm; one of
them, drawing out of his pocket a little square parcel, hastily
untied the string, and, handing it to his companion, said:

"'Taste that, and tell me what you think of it.  I can assure you I
never grew a finer sample."

Margaret expected to see something eatable, and was more than
surprised to witness the man bury his nose in the parcel and, after
drawing a deep breath, gasp.

"Beautiful--beautiful, and if it wasn't for this foreign competition
eating our very pockets, you'd be making a fine price now on these
last years.  I think you did right to hold them up.  What we are
coming to, I don't know; trade is being driven out of the country,
and there's nothing but ruin staring most of us in the face.
Fortunately, I was in the swim when one got £20 per pocket; but
_now_, well--they are not worth growing; I've grubbed up several
acres this season."

There the conversation got quite beyond Margaret's comprehension, as
further technicalities in connection with the hop trade were
discussed, with summer fruit prices.

Already she felt in a new world, and a sense of loneliness oppressed
her.  Her thoughts passed from the subjects of her companions'
discussion to her own troubles, and a nervous unrest as to whether
she was getting near her destination.

The stoppings at small stations seemed frequent, and at each one she
gazed anxiously at the names written on the boards and seats upon the
platforms.

Her obvious nervousness presently attracted the attention of one of
her travelling companions.

"Can I assist you?" he asked her politely, as he saw her struggling
to get some of her property down from the rack.  "I suppose you are
getting out here?"  The train was slowing up as he spoke.

"Thank you very much," she answered, as the bundle of wraps was
deposited on the seat opposite, then continued anxiously, "I don't
know if this is my destination."

"What station do you want?" he asked.

"Steynham.  I don't know it at all."

"Oh, that is a little farther on; four more stations, and then
yours," he answered.

"Do I have to change at all?" she asked.

"No, this is slow from our last stopping-place."

"I am so much obliged," she answered, in a tone of relief.

After a little pause her companion continued, "I know Steynham very
well, and most of the people who live there; can I direct you
further?"

"Thank you, I'm afraid not.  I get out at that station, but I shall
be met there, I expect.  I am going on higher up the country beyond
Wychcliff, to a place called Oaklands--a Mr. Medhurst's."

"_Oaklands--Medhurst,_" repeated her interlocutor with a slight
start, which she did not fail to catch.

"Do you know anything about it--about them?" she asked somewhat
timidly, for the man's tone and expression as he repeated the words
had filled her with a vague disquiet.

"No--oh--no, I've never been there, never met Mr. Medhurst," he
answered, somewhat hesitatingly.

He offered no further remark, and remained apparently buried in his
newspaper until the train drew up, and he and his companion prepared
to get out.  As they alighted, he turned to Margaret Woodford.

"The next station is yours," and, lifting his hat, passed down the
platform out of her sight.

"Do you know anything of the place she's going to?" asked his friend,
as they descended the steps.

"Not exactly, but I'm sure I've heard no good of it; there's some
sort of mystery, or scandal attached to it, I believe, and folks say
the youngsters are terrors.  I am sorry that is the girl's
destination; she's young and pretty--evidently a lady, I should say,
and looks as if she's had trouble.  But there, one can't pick up
strangers' burdens, we've plenty of anxieties of our own just now."
And the subject of Margaret Woodford and her possible sorrows and
difficulties passed from their minds as they emerged through the
station door, jumped into the gigs awaiting them, and drove away to
their homes.

In a few minutes more the train reached Steynham.  The girl gazed up
and down the platform, feeling more friendless than ever now she no
longer heard the kindly voice of her fellow-traveller.  She felt she
would have been glad if she could have had his companionship until
she was safely under the care of her employers.

This tall, elegant-looking girl getting out at Steynham did not pass
unnoticed; her high-bred air and softly modulated voice quickly
attracted the attention of the railway officials, who gathered round
her as she stood, the one solitary passenger, beside her box.

"Is there a carriage to meet me?" she asked.

"I don't think so, miss," replied a porter, running to take a look up
the road.

"No, there is no vehicle here, and none in sight, miss.  Who were you
expecting?"

The question was put with a desire to render assistance, for the
Steynham porters knew all the surrounding gentry, and a good deal
about them too, if village gossip was to be relied upon.

"I am expecting someone to meet me from Mr. Medhurst's--Oaklands is
the address, near Wychcliff."

"Near Wychcliff--Oaklands!" repeated one or two of the officials.
"Don't know it, miss--don't know the name."

"Then--what can I do?" said Margaret, a slight quiver in her voice.

"I'll ask the station-master," said the first speaker, and, hurrying
to the ticket-office, he soon returned with a fresh authority.

"_What_ place was it you wanted?" he asked politely.

"Oaklands," repeated Margaret for the third time--"Mr. Medhurst's."

A shade of surprise crept over the station-master's face.

"Did you say _Oaklands_?" he repeated.

"Yes--yes, that is the name.  Oh, you do know it?"

"Certainly," he replied, "and I fancy a pony-trap from there met the
earlier down-train; a man-servant and a little girl came and watched
the passengers alight, and then drove off again."

"Oh, that is it then!  They must have made some mistake in the time
of the train.  Now, what can I do?  Is this place far away?" asked
Margaret, somewhat anxiously.

"Several miles, miss.  It's right up on the hills."

For a few moments nervous fear assailed her, and then she said
bravely, "Can you get me a cab?"

"I'll see, miss," one of the porters answered civilly.  "You come
into the waiting-room, and I'll go and fetch Mr. Cramp."

"Who is he?" she inquired.

"Oh, he's the man that has the fly.  If it isn't out, it'll be here
in half an hour."

Half an hour!  Her heart died at the prospect, as she followed her
luggage down the platform into the stuffy little waiting-room.  The
window was closed, and it looked as if it ought to have a poster up
with "TO LET" on the door.

"The station is more comfortable, I think," said the porter, taking a
considering look at the elegant figure in front of him, as, setting
down her bags a moment, he turned to her and motioned to the bench by
the entrance door.

"Thank you, I will wait here."

"I won't be long, miss," he continued encouragingly.  "I'll just give
these to the booking-clerk to look after, and I'll be back in no
time."

In a few moments more she had the satisfaction of seeing him start
out briskly, and pass through the white station gates.

Wearily she gazed out of the window.  It was a warm day, in early
summer, and the scene before her was not wholly dispiriting.  A
straight road from the station led up to the village; on the left was
a squarely built house with the words "Coffee Tavern" written upon it
in large letters; then came a few cottages.  The road was sheltered
at places by some fine old elms, and on the right hand she saw
something that made almost a thrill of hope pass through her, as she
drank in the sight and breath of its beauty.

Spring had long since awakened the sleeping trees, rich life-giving
sap had risen, and the sun coaxed them into opening their eyes to the
new season.  The orchard upon which Margaret was now gazing showed
her a wealth of promise, as the gleam of fruit clusters shining
through the green foliage caught her eye.

The outlook on the opposite side of the station, which she could just
see through another window, was the exact counterpart of that near to
where she was sitting, and presented a view prosaic enough, which
needed some conjuring of the mind to suggest any ideas of romance.

Margaret tried to be interested, but her thoughts were trailing back
to the dear old home surroundings when she heard the rumble of a cab.
A few minutes later a one-horse vehicle drew up at the door, and her
friend the porter jumped down, as she rose with alacrity and went to
meet him.

"It's all right, miss, he knows Wychcliff, and says he can find
'Oaklands' when he gets there--it's an old farm that has stood empty
for some time."

In a few minutes more Margaret had started upon her quest.

Steynham, quiet enough in the spring-time, but showing much more life
as the fruit and hop seasons come round, was soon left behind, and
the gradual ascent to Wychcliff was begun--a long drive through two
or three villages, and then a steep climb up a narrow, grass-grown
road, to the hills beyond.  There was only room for one vehicle at a
time, and Margaret was startled by suddenly hearing the driver
calling at the top of his voice, "Hie--back--there!--back!" and the
old cab came to a sudden standstill with a violent jerk.  A sharp
altercation ensued between the two Jehus, which sounded decidedly
uncomplimentary; then her vehicle was jerked backwards down the hill,
nearly overturning as it ran up on to the bank.

Miss Woodford was used to horses, and not easily frightened, so she
sat tight, preferring the chance of an upset to getting out on to
this unknown, narrow road, and in the darkness trying to find
standing-room in the hedge.  It was not a pleasant experience, as
those who have driven up, or down Wychcliff hill in the evening can
testify.  Here and there at long intervals there are wider spaces cut
back into the adjacent fields to allow vehicles to pass.
Fortunately, one was near, and after much jolting and noise, with a
good deal of argument on the part of the drivers, and a last shout
from Cramp, whose temper was now up, of "'Nother time I'll see you
back yer old caërt before I stop my currage for such as _yew_!"--and
the cab crawled on again.

Would it ever end? she wondered, and the remembrance of that dark,
lonely drive, with night settling down around her, never quite faded
from her mind, although she little knew then the fears and doubts
that were to await her later.

By dint of inquiry at a solitary cottage, which was passed at the top
of the hill, they discovered the whereabouts of Oaklands Farm.

In the gloom Margaret could not see what her future home was like,
the darkness being increased by the thick trees which surrounded it,
only leaving just room for the cab to draw up before the front door.

She got out and paid her fare, as the man set down her box on the
step, and then, after violently ringing the bell, climbed back to his
seat.

"Seems pretty lonely," he remarked, as he gathered up the reins; "not
much of a place for a young lady like you."

The girl shivered at his words.

"Look here," he continued, "if you want to get away whoam any time,
yew jest write to Mr. Cramp, Cab Driver, Steynham, and I'll come for
yer, miss--see?"

Tears rose in the back of Margaret's eyes at the mention of the word
home.  She thanked the kindly old man, who was always liked by his
"fares," but she did not explain her destitute condition to him.

He waited, after setting her box on the step, until the door opened,
and looked backward as he drove away to see she had entered.  Then he
vanished into the darkness.

As the door opened, Margaret was agreeably impressed by the bright
glow of the hall into which she entered.  The man-servant who
appeared was civilly polite; the dark oak furniture and rich red
carpet and walls, artistically decorated, gave a sense of warmth and
comfort to the tired girl.  Then she was startled by hearing a shrill
voice screaming over the banisters:

"So you are here at last, and I can't even come and look at you,
because I'm supposed to be in bed.  It is a shame!  I want----"

"Go back, Miss Ellice, now," said James reprovingly; "the master will
hear you."

"Who cares!" said the elf, leaning still further over the balustrade
until she was in danger of falling.

At that moment the dining-room door opened, and the child, in spite
of her boasting, disappeared, as a tall, dark, well-set-up man
appeared.

"Is it really Miss Woodford?" he inquired, holding out his hand.

"Yes.  I'm afraid I'm very late, but I had a difficulty in finding a
conveyance at the station.  I hope I've not caused any inconvenience."

"Indeed no; the fault is ours.  I must apologise.  We sent a trap to
meet you, but unfortunately Mrs. Medhurst made a mistake about the
train--we have only just found it out.  I'm sorry you've had the
trouble of finding your way here alone."

"Ah, here's Betsy," he added, addressing an elderly woman who at that
moment made her appearance in the hall.  "Will you take Miss Woodford
upstairs at once," he said, "and then," turning to Margaret, "we
shall be ready for dinner, when I can introduce you to my wife; your
little charge is in bed, and asleep by this time, I expect."

This last was received with a grim smile by old James, as the young
governess followed the woman to her bedroom.

A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, which was pleasant, for the
early summer nights were still cold.  Margaret glanced around her
room with pleasure.  The subdued green carpet, cream-tinted walls,
and shelf of goblin blue china all expressed a thoughtful kindness
and artistic taste.

As she laid her toilet requisites on the old Chippendale table,
Margaret's heart gave a throb of thankfulness that her environment
was so tasteful and pleasant.  There surely could be nothing to fear
here?  Mr. Medhurst was evidently a gentleman, while the servants she
had seen were of the good class so often regretted in this century.
Her future pupil might prove a handful, but that part of her life had
to be tested.

She felt she was travel-stained, but she did not wish to keep dinner
waiting, so, refreshed with a wash, and smoothing her hair which, in
spite of much brushing, would ripple in natural, careless waves over
her forehead, she prepared to descend.

Betsy was outside waiting, and in another moment threw open the
dining-room door, and announced "Miss Woodford."

There was a rustle of silk, a subtle scent of violet perfume, and a
tall, graceful woman rose from the table to receive her.

Mrs. Medhurst spoke a little languidly as she welcomed the governess,
giving her hand a slight pressure as she said kindly, "I am so glad
you have come!  You will excuse our beginning; we had almost given up
expecting you, but my husband has told me of my stupid mistake."

Margaret was a little disconcerted, as she took the seat offered to
her, to find her hostess in full evening-dress, the rich yellow
velvet throwing up the beauty of her dark eyes and olive-tinted skin.
A collar of diamonds flashed rainbow hues upon her white neck.

The conversation flagged, but from time to time Mrs. Medhurst
appealed to Margaret in her soft modulated voice.

She was a beautiful woman, exquisitely dressed, as though she might
be going to a dinner-party; the servants and appointments of the
house, so far as Margaret could judge, seemed all perfect in their
way.

Miss Woodford of Woodford Abbey knew how things ought to be done, and
she was pleasantly surprised at her surroundings.  But the thought
would present itself, why were these people living in this lonely
out-of-the-way place?  It seemed so utterly incongruous, considering
their style.  The girl tried to smother the thought, and, being
young, and withal hungry, was able to enjoy the meal in spite of the
sense of strangeness which pervaded the place.

"Will you come into the drawing-room with me?" said the hostess, as
she gave the signal to rise from the table.

Miss Woodford was glad the invitation had been given, as she was not
quite sure how much she was to be received into the family, or
exactly what her position was to be.

The drawing-room was a dream of cosiness, comfort, and taste.  The
chairs and couch were of the easiest, the dove-coloured walls,
against which stood some handsome cabinets of old china, the rich
pile carpet where one's feet sank softly, gave a feeling of rest and
luxury which reminded Margaret of her boudoir at Woodford Abbey.

Mrs. Medhurst sat sipping her coffee and lazily fanning herself at
intervals, until, presently, Margaret inquired if she might ask her a
few questions as to her future duties.

"Yes, certainly.  I don't think I have much to tell you," she
answered, "except I should like you to have breakfast in the
dining-room, and lunch with Ellice in the school-room, and dine with
us in the evening.  We are so quiet here, we shall be glad of your
society then.  I am having the rest cure," she said, with a strange
little laugh, "and although I am much better than I was, it really is
almost too quiet at times."

"I am so sorry you have been ill," said Margaret sympathetically.

"I have been dreadfully weak.  I'm gradually gaining strength now,
but I can't stand Ellice's high spirits, and so I pass her on to you.
Manage her as you like."

"I will do my best," said Margaret.  "You know I have had no
experience, but I love children, and always have got on with them."

"Oh, yes.  I expect she'll be good with you; you are young, and will
be able to enter into her pleasures better than I can--my poor head
is unable to bear much."

"And about the lessons?" asked the new governess.

"Teach her just as you like.  She's a fearful little ignoramus, I'm
afraid; she's made up of oddments.  Anything she can pick up from the
cottagers, or from her father, she retains with ease, but knowledge
she ought to have acquired she is quite deficient in, I imagine.  I'm
afraid you'll be horrified at her ignorance."

Margaret rose and placed a cushion at Mrs. Medhurst's back, as she
noticed she fidgeted restlessly in her chair.

"Thank you--thank you; that's heaps nicer.  How kind of you to
notice!" and the sweet smile that accompanied the words transfigured
the otherwise cold look of the speaker's beautiful face.

Mr. Medhurst came into the room soon after, and the conversation
became more general.  Several times he glanced anxiously at his wife,
and then he crossed to Miss Woodford:

"Mrs. Medhurst has not been very well to-day, and one thing she
enjoys more than anything else is music; we are so shut off from it
here.  Would it tire you too much to sing, or play?"

"I haven't unpacked my box, but I can remember some of Mendelssohn's
short things, if that will do?" answered Margaret readily.

"Yes, indeed, she likes them so much."

The piano was one of Brinsmead's best, and the musician soon lost
herself in the joy of her themes.  Her touch was exquisite, and she
seemed to pour her whole soul into the expression she produced from
her fingers.  She went from "The Bees' Wedding," thrilling with its
busy revellings, into quieter grooves, until gently there stole
through the room the subtle exquisiteness of No. 1 of "Songs Without
Words."

There was a hush over the room as she rose from the piano, and for a
moment she feared she had not given pleasure.  Then she caught the
grave glance of appreciation of her host as, offering her a seat, he
said quietly, "Thank you."

Mrs. Medhurst did not speak, but as she rose to say good night,
Margaret noticed something like the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

The girl was very tired when she went to bed, and the sun was
streaming in at her window before she awoke the following morning.

She sat up and looked round her room with a puzzled air, wondering
vaguely for a few moments where she was.  Then the remembrance of all
that had happened returned, and, looking at her watch, she discovered
with dismay it was nine o'clock.  She dressed hurriedly, and came
downstairs, feeling anxious as to what would be thought of her
unpunctuality if breakfast should be over.  No one last night had
remembered to tell her what hour it would be, and she had forgotten
to ask.

She encountered James in the hall with a tray in his hand.

"I am afraid I am late," she ventured.

"Oh no, miss; Miss Ellice is in the garden, and has not breakfasted
yet.  You're all right," he answered, a little patronisingly.

Margaret heard the words with a great sense of relief.

The dining-room looked delightful in the morning light; the casement
windows were thrown wide open, and roses peeped a welcome into the
room.

Miss Woodford noticed the table was laid for two only, and wondered.

Presently the door opened, and James appeared.

"Will you like breakfast now, miss?" he inquired.

"Oh--yes--but what about Mrs. Medhurst?" she inquired.

"She always takes hers upstairs, and the master has it with her when
she's had a bad night," he answered.

"I am sorry she is not so well?" she replied.

The interrogative tone of her voice brought no response from the
man-servant who waited.

"What about my pupil, won't she breakfast with me?" inquired Miss
Woodford.

"I can't say, miss.  I wouldn't advise you to wait for her; she's off
in the woods somewhere, and there's no knowing when she'll come back.
Betsy will keep something hot for her."

"Oh.  I see"--and the new governess realised something of the
difficulty of her position as she sat down--"I won't delay any longer
then."

She had not quite finished when she heard a child's laugh, and the
door was flung open,-and a sharp little voice exclaimed:

"There you are; I thought I'd find you here.  Good morning, Miss--oh,
what's your name?"

"Good morning.  I'm Miss Woodford, and you--you are my pupil Ellice,
aren't you?" said the new governess, with a smile.

"Yes.  I wonder what your other name is?"

"It's Margaret."

"Oh, that's rather nice; it's nothing like mine.  Isn't it stupid I
can't call you by it?  Mamma said I was to say _Miss_ Woodford when I
spoke to you."

"Yes, of course, because you are a lady, you see, and _ladies_ always
behave politely--they can't help it."

"Oh--yes--I--see," answered the child, drawling the words out in
surprised tones.

Here was a puzzle.  This new governess seemed to think she _couldn't_
behave rudely--because--because she was a lady!  It was awkward; she
hadn't thought of it like that before.  It looked as if the fun was
going to be spoilt.  A puzzled expression of disappointment clouded
her face for a moment, but in an instant it lighted with an
illuminating flash, as a thought rushed to her mind.  "I wonder what
she'll think on Saturday?"

She was an interesting looking child, but she had none of her
mother's beauty, the brilliant brunette which had so struck Miss
Woodford.  Ellice was a fairy-looking little creature, with dancing
blue eyes, tiny features, and tumbled ringlets.  She certainly looked
like an elf from the woods as she stood with the front of her dress
caught up in one hand, and filled with wild roses, tufts of yellow
vetch, scabious, bundles of dainty milkmaids which she had dragged
from the nettle-beds, regardless of their stings, and sweet clumps of
wild parsley--all in mingled profusion, while she carelessly swung a
straw hat by a broken elastic, the blue ribbon of which was stained
with cherry juice that matched the dye on her fingers.

"You have spoilt your hat trimming," said Miss Woodford, taking the
article (which evidently received little respect) from the small
owner.

"I did that jumping under the trees to get at the waterloos.  I _had_
a feast, but ever so many tumbled on to me."

"Well, now are you ready for breakfast?"

"I'm not very hungry.  James--James," shrilled the child, "bring me
some cake and milk--and be quick!"

"Better have your egg, missy," answered the man.

"No, I won't!  Cake--cake--_cake_----"

"But the master said you must have your proper meal, Miss Ellice."

"Then, I won't!  Get that cake--swish!" and she swung her skirts
round, scattering her flowers in all directions.

"Very well," answered the man hopelessly, turning to retire.

"Stay," said Miss Woodford firmly, "did I understand Mr. Medhurst
said Miss Ellice was to have an egg for breakfast?"

"Yes, miss, but she won't eat it when she wants cake."

"Then she isn't hungry, and had better wait until lunch," answered
the new governess.

James's eyes grew round with astonishment.  Two governesses had been
tried before, but they had both departed in a week, utterly defeated
by the small person who now stood between them, her eyes blazing
defiance.

"I don't care what you say, I _will_ have cake; I'll go and ask
Betsy."  With this the small figure flew to the kitchen, demanding
attention to her wants in a storm of passionate cries.

"Yes, yes, missy, I'll get the tin down.  Don't make such a fuss,
dearie, you'll disturb your poor mamma," entreated cook persuasively.

"Miss Ellice is not to have any cake, Betsy," said Miss Woodford's
voice decidedly.

The woman turned round to find the new governess standing by her
side.  She looked her amazement, and then dropped her hands from the
cupboard:

"Very well, miss."

The colour rushed to Ellice's face, words seemed to fail her for a
moment, then, with a stamp of her foot, the child turned and fled out
of the kitchen and disappeared down the drive, and was lost in the
adjacent woods.

A sigh broke from the cook.

"There you have it, miss.  You'll never be able to manage her, I'm
afraid; she's just too much for all the governesses what comes."

"Anyway I must try, mustn't I, Betsy?" answered Margaret, adding,
"It's my duty.  Poor little thing, she does need someone to help
her," finished Margaret, as she turned back into the hall.

"Someone to help her!--umph.  She's a bit different from the others.
James, think she'll do?" asked his wife, amazement in her voice.

"I--don't--know--I give it a week," answered the man grimly.
"Saturday is the test."

Miss Woodford went up to her room, and sat down by the open window
with, it must be admitted, a little feeling of despair in her heart.
She could see rocks ahead, and she had had no experience, and surely
the task here was going to be a big one.  A great homesickness came
over her; she felt the lump rising in her throat and almost choking
her.  This was to be her home now, and already the one being in whom
she had felt an interest, and from whom she had hoped to win
affection, had rushed from her with hatred in her heart and a
malignant expression of passionate dislike disfiguring her face.

Presently Margaret roused herself and commenced unpacking her box.
Beyond her clothes she had brought one or two personal treasures: the
bit of the old cedar-tree; a water-colour drawing of the Abbey House,
which she promptly hung up upon the wall, where an unused nail
remained driven in.  Her ivory toilet ware, with her name "Margaret"
traced in gold across the backs of the brushes and mirror, and a
beautiful dressing-case of the same lovely ware, which contained a
family heirloom in the shape of a ruby necklace, the stones of which
flashed their fire in the sun's rays, as now she lifted the lid.  She
took it out for a moment; the gems streamed from her fingers, held
together by tiny links of gold.

She had a memory of her mother with that very chain about her neck,
and she, a child, begging for it, and the laughing voice saying, "Not
now, darling, but it will be yours when I am gone."  How lightly the
words had been spoken, and how soon had the separation come!  Much as
she treasured the jewels, the stones felt cold in her hand to-day as
she gathered them up and replaced them in the case.

Her things disposed of, she drew a chair to the open window and sat
down.  The lilt of the birds' songs fell sweetly upon her ears; her
thoughts became a reverie over the past, an expression of pain lurked
in the depths of her eyes--and they were eyes full of womanly
tenderness, and yet capable of expressing undeveloped strength.

Presently her fingers touched the book which lay upon the table near
her.  With quick impulse she drew it towards her, an unspoken
petition rising in her heart: "Lord, give me a message from Thee."

She opened the book at random, and her glance fell upon these words:
"_I rose and did the king's business._"  She glanced back and read,
as she had often read before, of the solemn vision granted to the
prophet when he was shown something of the trouble to come in the
latter days, the distress of nations before the Kingdom of the Lord
should be established upon the earth.  In his grief he fainted, the
burden of the vision causing sickness to come upon him; then he
braced himself, and she read: "I, Daniel, rose, and _did the king's
business_."  The duty just there--the work to be carried on.

The words acted like a tonic.  A vision of the coming years of
loneliness and difficulty had dismayed her, and yet here--surely work
for the King of kings lay all around; the greater the difficulty, the
more insistent the call.  For a moment her head sank upon her hands,
and her heart was lifted up to Him Who ever waits to pour out a
sufficient supply of strength to His people, to meet every need.

Margaret Woodford believed this, and for that day at least she laid
her burden straight at her Saviour's feet, and rose calm and
determined to face the future bravely, and do the work nearest, to
which she had been called.

Meanwhile Ellice, a storm of passion raging in her heart, rushed into
the woods, pushing the tangled branches fiercely apart until she came
to the fairy glade, a moss-grown path where the trees parted in a
glorious avenue and the sunlight stole through in shafts of golden
light, and fell tenderly upon the child.  She flung herself down
under a venerable oak, the trunk of which, cleft by some old-world
storm, formed a hiding-place where she had often before sheltered on
rainy mornings, and whispered her secrets to the woods.

Short, gasping sobs almost choked her as she lay upon the ground.
The squirrels scampered in the branches overhead and, clinging to the
rugged trunk of the great Forest King, crept down to the foot and
peeped shyly at her, waiting wonderingly for her call, and the food
she so often temptingly offered them.  Her sobbing breaths of
distress presently ceased, she raised a tear-stained face, and
brushed away the tell-tale signs of distress.  A hard, sullen
expression swept all the beauty from her countenance; she looked what
her brother would have said, "real ugly," as she pursed up her lips
and stared aimlessly at the beauty around her.

The horrid pangs of hunger would make themselves felt, and she wished
now she had not come away in such a hurry; even an egg would have
been preferable to this hunger.  If she could be certain of not
meeting that hateful governess, she would steal back to the house.
She had almost made up her mind to make the attempt, when she was
startled by a footstep in the glade, and a voice calling her by name.
She set her teeth hard, and drew back further into the shelter of the
oak.

Miss Woodford, who was evidently bent on searching for her charge,
receiving no answer to her calls, presently sat down upon the mossy
ground at the foot of the very tree where Ellice was hidden.  Opening
a basket of sandwiches and jam-puffs, she commenced her lunch, while
the child, all unknown to her, kept watch, struggling with her pride
as she saw the tempting viands gradually disappearing before her eyes.

The trees tossed their branches in a light breeze which whispered
among the leaves; the day grew hotter.  Margaret felt tired as she
rested her head against the oak bark where she leaned.  This picnic
with her young charge had been arranged in her own mind, with a hope
of friendship and understanding, as a happy result.  As presently she
rose to shake the crumbs from her lap, a voice from somewhere
muttered, "She is a pig to eat it all up."

Margaret Woodford paused, in a thoughtful, listening attitude; then
she turned, and her eyes roved about the tree where she stood.  She
took a few steps round the trunk till she espied the cavity and the
gleam of muslin embroidery from the child's dress which escaped at
the opening, as she pressed her back against the inside of her castle
to avoid being seen.

"What a jolly little place!" remarked Margaret, as she caught sight
of the child.  "I wish I'd found this before, we might have had lunch
on the doorstep of your domain.  I've just finished mine.  Where will
you have yours?"

"You've eaten it all," muttered the child sulkily.

"No--look, I've kept some.  You surely didn't think I'd been greedy
enough to finish the lot," and, raising a serviette which lay at the
top of the basket, Ellice's eyes saw a vision of food which made her
mouth water.  She capitulated at once, slid down to the ground in a
hurry, and attacked the contents with avidity.  In a very few minutes
nothing but crumbs remained, and an empty lemonade bottle.

"Now, shall we have a rest while I tell you a story?" suggested
Margaret.

There was a moment's hesitation, for of all things Ellice loved
better than another, it was to listen to story-telling.  An eager
expression spread over her face for a moment, then it darkened again.

"I'm going home," she muttered, and, jumping up, she ran lightly down
the avenue a little way, then, turning into a denser side-path,
vanished.

"Defeated," said Margaret Woodford to herself, with rather a sad
little laugh.  "Ah, well, I must try again.  I'm on the King's
service, I must never forget that, and victory is of the Lord--of
course, that applies in every case."

It was not a very cheerful outlook for the young governess, but she
was determined to win through if possible.

She did not see her charge again that day.  Upon inquiring for her
after her return from the woods, she was informed she was taking tea
with her mother, and would not be down again that evening.

Mr. Medhurst returned later, and she managed to get a short interview
with him, and to obtain a more definite knowledge as to what her
supervision and powers with regard to her pupil might mean.  She
noticed a worried expression come into his eyes as she broached the
subject.

"Miss Woodford, I am afraid I must admit my little girl has been
spoilt," he answered.  "You understand my wife is not
strong--and--well, there it is----" and he spread his hands
deprecatingly as he spoke.

"Does it mean I am to have full control?" asked Margaret--"I mean in
this way," she added.  "My pupil had no lessons to-day; she ran away
to the woods this morning because I could not allow her to eat cake
instead of her breakfast, and----"

"Oh, I'm glad if you intervened in _that_ matter!  I have forbidden
that," he answered quickly.

"So I understood."

"And you supported the order?"

"Yes, and offended Ellice very deeply, I'm afraid," laughed Margaret.

"Never mind, you succeed if you get your way.  Go on as you have
begun, Miss Woodford; I cannot suggest anything to you,
but"--lowering his voice---"if you can win my child and gain control
over her, I shall be more than grateful."

His manner was earnest, but Margaret felt there was reservation when
he paused and suddenly changed the conversation.  The little she had
gathered strengthened her in her purpose.  There was evidently
trouble in this house which could not be fully explained.

She went to bed that night puzzled, but determined to try and do her
duty whatever the future might mean to her.

Ellice was like a different child at breakfast the following morning.
She appeared bubbling over with amiability and good spirits, and even
the presence of her governess at the breakfast-table brought no
frowns or sulky looks.  Margaret's proposal to take some lesson-books
to the woods was acceded to with apparent delight.

"Oh, do let's, Miss Woodford!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands with
joy; in fact, the suggestion was so novel, she forgot for a little
she was at enmity with her governess.  The call of the woods was so
strong within her.

With a luncheon-basket and armed with paper and pencils, governess
and pupil set out with enthusiasm for a beginning in the path of
knowledge.  They found the old haunt in the oak, and sat down to work.

After a grind at reading and arithmetic, Miss Woodford electrified
her pupil by the remark, "Now, shall we talk about the trees?"

"About the trees?" repeated the child in amazement.

"Yes, let me think what this old oak has to say to us about himself;
shut your eyes and listen, and I will tell you something of his
story."

"I've lived such a long, long life," whispered the oak, "but although
I'm getting very old, I can remember the days when I was young--more
than two thousand years ago"--(Ellice stirred as if to interrupt, but
the slight pressure of Margaret's fingers on her arm made her
relapse, and she breathlessly listened to this wonderful
statement)--"yes, more than two thousand years ago," insisted the
oak, "I was planted just here--a young sapling I was, strong and
sturdy, but small and tender, and had not much knowledge of the world
then.  But that has all opened up in the centuries I've lived, and
I've seen wonderful changes, I can tell you.

"There are not many of us left now, but it's been handed down to me
from my forefathers that, right back to the times of the ancient
Britons, there was a grove of us oaks in this very spot.  Those were
the times when we were thought a mighty lot of by the poor heathen
who dwelt in this country then; they didn't know anything about the
true God, and so they worshipped in their blindness the sun and the
moon and the stars and gods of their own creation.  Beside that, they
counted all of us oak trees sacred.  I don't know why that was, but
of course they couldn't help seeing we were the finest-looking trees
in all the forest, so they took care of us and blessed us, and even
the mistletoe (the seed of which sometimes drops upon us from a
bird's mouth and takes root and makes its home on our boughs), even
that the Druid priests used to revere, and only allow it to be cut
with a golden knife at their sacrificial feasts.

"But though they were considerate for us, they were very cruel to
their enemies, and often poor captives were brought out and judged in
the open courts in the woods, and offered as sacrifices in our
beautiful shady oak groves.  Stories have been handed down through
past generations of those poor people who suffered; but happier times
have come since.  Folks here don't worship their cruel gods Woden and
Thor now, though they seem to keep them in remembrance by still using
Thursday and Wednesday in their week's list of days, which names
mean, as I understand it, Thor's day and Woden's day.

"I'm very glad those heathen times are over here, and that the people
who come and rest in my trunk, or sit at my feet, know about the
wonderful true God Who created everything for His glory; not only the
boys and girls, but in His Book it says, 'The trees _of the Lord_ are
full of sap,' and I like that--trees of the Lord; it shows we belong
to Him.  He doesn't forget us, either, for He waters us with the rain
which we suck up into our roots, and drink into our leaves, through
the tiny mouths with which we breathe the beautiful forest breezes,
and by the warm yellow sun the great God sends the colour flushing
into all our veins, and into all the outer skin of the bark that
covers us.  Through our pores, which widen in the hot weather, the
sweet air rushes, and gives us fresh life and growth, and under the
tiny air-bags are the canals where the sap runs and rises in the
spring, right from the very roots, travelling over our branches until
it fills even our leaves, and makes us able to put forth new growth
and life.

"Yes, God is the gardener of the forest, summer and winter, year in
and year out.  He gives us all the power we need.  When the time of
singing birds comes, then a whisper and hum runs through the whole of
the forest, and all the big tree world wakes from sleep.  Everyone is
drowsy at first--some seem almost dead--but gradually we open our
eyes and cover our naked limbs, and get out our summer dress, and
shake our leafy garments in the sunshine, while the forest folk build
new homes in our branches and utter their thoughts of praise."  The
oak paused.

"We must stop story-telling now," said Margaret; "it is lunch-time."

"No, no--go on--oh, do, please go on, Miss Woodford!"

"Not now, dear; it's later than I thought," glancing at her
wrist-watch--"and besides, it seems to be getting dark; I think a
storm is coming.  We must hurry home."

"Not yet.  It doesn't matter if it rains."

"I think it does; anyway, we must go.  Come along quickly."

"Oh, you _are_ nasty!" muttered the child, her bright face clouding
over, and the former spirit of antagonism returning.

However, she said no more, perhaps because she saw it was useless.
She had at last come upon someone whose will was as strong, or
stronger than her own.  Well, she could afford to wait until the
afternoon, when she would be reinforced.  An unpleasant smile curled
her lips as she remembered again with glee that to-day was Saturday:
the absorption of the story-telling had meant a short obliteration of
that fact, but it suddenly returned with added force.

The two had a smart run at the finish of their walk, for the storm
burst above them suddenly.  There was a vivid flash of lightning,
followed instantly by a crash that rolled and echoed through the
forest, waking a hundred voices in its depths; then down came the
rain, in a perfect deluge.

As they entered the front door later, wet through, they encountered
Mr. Medhurst just discarding his mackintosh.

"Oh, you've been caught, I see!  Pretty big storm," he remarked to
Margaret.

"Yes, we are soaked," answered Miss Woodford.  "Come, Ellice, hurry
and get changed."

"I shan't bother," was the sharp answer; "things will soon dry."

"Go at once, child!  Don't stand and talk about it; do as you are
told, girlie"--and Margaret gently took the little girl's arm, and
led her towards the stairs.

Her father was about to hang up his mackintosh; he paused; then as
governess and pupil went to their rooms, a smile of quiet
satisfaction touched his lips, as he hung the garment upon the peg,
and turned and entered the dining-room.

A quarter of an hour later there was a violent ring at the front-door
bell, then a noisy stampede as someone entered with a good deal of
clatter, and some eager questioning of James, as the man shut out the
swish of rain and wind which with the newcomer rushed into the hall.

"I say, got another?" asked a boy's voice.  "Tall and scraggy and
glasses, eh?"

"I suppose you are referring to the governess, Master Bob?" said
James gravely, but with a slightly suppressed smile flickering in his
eyes.

"Of course I am! --I say, what is she like, though?"

"You'd better wait till you see her for yourself."

"Anyway, it means a little fun," continued the boy.  "She won't be
here long, that's pretty certain," and he commenced to whistle an
airy tune as he made to enter the dining-room.

"Stop that noise, and sit down quietly," said his father irritably.
"You are late as usual, I see."  Further remark was cut short by
Ellice rushing into the room and boisterously greeting her brother,
followed more gently by Margaret, who paused in astonishment at the
sight of the boy of whose existence she had not even heard.

"We've brought our luncheon home to-day, we didn't stay to eat it in
the woods, and the tarts are all sloppy," exclaimed Ellice, lying
glibly.  "You can have them.  Bob," anxious to shock Margaret, her
voice shrill with excitement.

"Thank you for nothing," answered her brother.

"This is my son, Miss Woodford.  You see the specimen he is," said
Mr. Medhurst, by way of introduction.  "I wonder if you remember the
advice of an old sage, 'When you see a boy, beat him, because he has
either just done something wrong, is doing it, or just going to do
it.'  Now I've told you this young man's character in one sentence."

The words were said smilingly, but the smile was ironical.

The boy's bright face clouded, and Margaret felt what a tactless
mistake the introduction had been, and wondered at the denseness and
unkindness of the remarks.

She turned to Bob pleasantly as she held out her hand.

"I don't believe in very bad boys--I never came across any, and if I
did, I shouldn't ask others for their character, Mr. Medhurst," she
replied; "I should judge them for myself."

"Wait till you know this one better, Miss Woodford," he answered; and
then, turning to Bob: "How about your report," he continued; "did you
bring it home?"

"No, sir," answered the boy sullenly.

"Tore it up, I suppose, on purpose?"

"Y-e-s," came the reply, slowly.

"Very well, you know the consequences."

"No, no, daddy; wait till he's done something _more_," interposed
Ellice, dancing round her father, and grasping his arm persuasively.

His face at once softened.

"You think it won't be long before the trouble comes, eh?" he asked,
pinching her cheek gently.  His small daughter always seemed able to
disarm his wrath.

"No--at least--I--mean----" she stammered.

"All right, old lady, I understand," he answered, smiling; then,
turning to Margaret, "Women's wiles, Miss Woodford.  Well, you are
let off this time, young man," turning to his son; "you can thank
your sister for it," and with this he left them.

For a few moments silence prevailed, and then Ellice, catching hold
of her brother's arm, whispered:

"Come on up to the schoolroom; I've heaps to tell you."

Margaret refrained from following them, to avoid hearing their
confidences, and still bewildered by the discovery of this new
addition to the family, which might mean further problems for
herself, with a little sigh of relief picked up a book and made her
way to a quiet cosy seat in the drawing-room.




CHAPTER III

TRIALS

Ellice Medhurst was full of mystery and excitement as she dragged Bob
towards the staircase, anxious to escape observation, leading him to
the seclusion of the schoolroom, where they could talk undisturbedly
of the new inmate of Oaklands, who had arrived there since Bob's last
week-end at home.

"Oh, I say, I _do_ detest her," said Ellice, as she sprang on to the
table, placing her feet upon a chair and her face in her hands
supported by her arms, her elbows resting upon her knees.

"She _looks_ pretty decent," remarked Bob; "she is a sight better
than the one who has just gone.  I say, what a shock I gave _her_,
didn't I?  She howled like a hyena."

A shout of laughter rippled from his small sister as a memory,
mutually considered humorous, roused this expression of mirth.

"I can see her _now_ dancing about, and shrieking,
'Help!--Help!--Burglars!' as if she was being killed," continued Bob,
spluttering with amusement.

"And when--you--came--and offered to call father," put in
Ellice--"saying, 'What's all this?  Whatever is the matter?'  I just
rushed back into my room and buried my head in the pillows for fear
she'd hear me laughing, and guess.  Just fancy, Bob, if she had?
Wouldn't daddy have been angry?"  And as she finished, a more sober
expression came upon her face as she pictured unpleasant
possibilities.

"If you don't act the little idiot by laughing, no one will guess,"
answered the boy.

"I won't--I promise I won't," she answered.

"But I say, do you _want_ this one to go?" continued Bob.

"Of course I do.  I don't mean to have a governess at all; I said I
wouldn't, and I _won't_."

"Well, you are a bit of a fool.  Nice dunce you'll be when you grow
up," came the brotherly response.

"I shan't," flashed Ellice.  "I can read all right, and when I get
older I'll just study, myself.  What's the use of all the silly old
arithmetic and stuff?"

"Very well, only don't blame me when you _are_ grown up," answered
Bob loftily.

"As if I should.  Come on; let's fix things," and, creeping softly
out on to the landing, and reconnoitring on the staircase, the two
stole up to Miss Woodford's room.

Ellice kept guard outside, while Bob evidently fixed matters to their
mutual satisfaction.  It only took a few moments, and the culprits
were back again in their own quarters, their plans duly arranged.

Ellice was wild with delight at the prospect of anticipated fun, as
she called it; but in the back of Bob's head there was a little sense
of doubt and discomfort.

"She seemed so jolly decent," he muttered to himself; "I hope she
won't be awfully frightened.  I think you are a little beast to do it
to her, Ellice."

"Oh, you don't know her like I do!  She was horrid to me, and I'll
just pay her out," replied the child.

"All right then.  Now shut up about it till to-night."

With this the conspirators went down, ready to behave in an exemplary
fashion at tea-time, to disarm suspicion.

Margaret was tired that night in spite of her rest in the afternoon;
it was a heavy, slumbrous day, thunder still threatened, and the
atmosphere seemed waiting for the refreshment of a cool breeze which
might, it was hoped, spring up in the night.  It seemed too hot to
sleep, and it was quite a long time before Morpheus closed Margaret's
lids, and led her into the land of dreams.

It was still dark when she was roused into semi-consciousness by
something which at first her senses hardly grasped, then, as full
wakefulness came to her, she became cognisant of a soft scraping
noise in her room, as if someone might be in her vicinity.  She was
startled for a few moments, and her heart quickened its beating, as
now, fully alert, she listened intently, anxious to discover the
reason of the unusual sounds.

This house had held many surprises for her, and she was not quite
satisfied in her own mind as to the kind of post she had accepted;
but Margaret Woodford was no coward, and therefore she never dreamt
of screaming, or getting into a panic, although the noise, which
continued at intervals, seemed to come from the ground near her, and
each moment to become more distinct.

Suddenly her tension ceased; she had caught the sound of muffled
voices outside her room, and in an instant she realised the
circumstances.  Perhaps her face at that moment would have surprised
the culprits outside if they could have seen the hot indignation
which surged into it.  She waited a little until it died down and she
felt calmer, and then, as quietly and stealthily as the enemy, she
crept out of bed, and, without lighting the gas, donned her
dressing-gown, and, ignoring further preparation, flung the door wide
open!

"What are you children doing here?" she asked quietly.

There was the instant flight of a small figure in white, and then
Bob, who was stooping down to the floor jerking a string, the end of
which issued from under the rug on the landing--Bob, with all the
blood in his body seeming to be rushing to his head, rose to his feet.

"Oh, you've tied that to a can under my bed, I suppose?" said Miss
Woodford witheringly--"hoping to frighten me?  And _this_ is the way
you treat lady visitors to your home?  And you call yourself a
_gentleman_, I presume?"  The tones were scathing--how scathing
Margaret scarcely realised herself.  "And with childish tricks of
this kind," she continued, "you encourage your silly little sister in
insubordination."

The door of Ellice's room stood open, and she was listening to every
word--"_silly little sister_."  She writhed as she heard the epithet
applied to herself; she had felt so clever and important just before,
and now she dived under the clothes, cringing with mortification.
The sarcastic contempt in Miss Woodford's voice was far worse than
the severest punishment Bob had ever endured, and he felt covered
with confusion and disgust at his invidious position.

"Go--go to your bedroom at once," finished Margaret, "and see that
you don't cause any further trouble."

At this moment Mr. Medhurst opened his door, and inquired if anything
was the matter.  "Now I shall get it," thought Bob to himself; but he
was mistaken.  Margaret had spoken in low tones up to now, being most
anxious the master of the house should not be disturbed.  She was
fighting her own battle in her own way, and did not need any court of
appeal at present.

"Bob and I both heard a slight noise, Mr. Medhurst," she answered.
"But it seems quiet enough now.  I don't think there is anything the
matter really."

"Cats, perhaps," he answered, smiling; "they do come up these stairs
at night sometimes.  You are not nervous, I hope, Miss Woodford?"

"Not in the least," she answered.  "I think we can all go to bed
again satisfied."

"Ah, that's sensible," he replied, adding, as he was in the act of
closing his door, "I am glad you came down to reassure Miss Woodford,
Bob.  I expect you remembered Miss Warner was alarmed in the same
way."

Margaret stole a glance at the boy, but he would not raise his eyes
to hers, but instead he turned swiftly and fled up to his room.  She
smiled to herself as she closed her door, then with a little sigh of
weariness returned to her slumbers.




CHAPTER IV

INFLUENCE

Sunday dawned fair and sweet.  A sharp shower during the night had
freshened the garden and watered the parched ground, which had drunk
the moisture up greedily, carrying it down to the roots of the grass
and already bringing back the resurrection colour to the brown dried
blades in the meadows.

Breakfast passed away without incident.  Beyond the usual morning
greeting, the young people remained very quiet, and gave only
monosyllabic answers to Margaret's attempts at conversation.

Ellice was doubtful as to the consequences of last night's escapade;
it was one sign of triumph for the new governess that the child was
already growing uneasy, uncertain of herself.  She had an
affectionate nature really, and it cost her something to steel her
heart so persistently against this certainly interesting looking girl
who had come to teach her.  If Ellice had spoken the truth, she could
have owned what she would not admit to herself, that she was longing
to make friends, and to get a chance of hearing more stories; but
having vaunted the fact to James and Betsy that she never meant to
have a governess, the cost to her pride prevented her from giving in.

Miss Woodford guessed her attitude of mind, and was determined to
wait patiently, although she had been tempted more than once to
resign the post; but--and there was always that but--if this was the
chosen work to which she was called, there must be no truckling with
a faint heart.  No looking back after once having put her hand to the
plough, however heavy the furrows might prove, or long and dreary the
appointed task.

Bob ate his breakfast in the greatest discomfort; he was really
burning with a sense of shame, and making up his mind to an
unpleasant duty.

The meal over, Margaret left the house and wandered out into the
garden.  It was a dear old-fashioned place, with grassy paths bowered
with pergolas of roses.  Great hedges of tangerine and amethyst
pea-blooms filled the air with sweetness.  Hollyhocks leaned their
tall stems against the ancient garden wall, the old brickwork--a
dream of subdued colour--forming a rich background to the brilliant
hues of the flowers.

Margaret drank it all in with a breath of delight.  The place was
rife with roses raising their heads in the sunshine, cooled by the
dew-drops glistening on their petals.  Zinneas in all shades, and
geraniums in massed pinks and scarlet, lined the borders, with gleams
of orange eschscholtzia and dainty violas all stretching upward to
the golden glory of the sky, while around them fluttered the
butterflies, and to Margaret's ears came the sweet hot sound of the
song of the humming bees and the murmur of insects talking in the
grass.

The girl herself gave just the needed touch of human life to
intensify the charm of the scene as she stood looking down at the
wealth of flowers.  One thought filled her mind with a thrill of
praise to the Giver of all good, "How can anyone see these wonders of
creation, and catch the sweet fragrance of roses, and doubt God's
love, I wonder?  Every flower that blooms proves that."

Unconsciously the thought filling her heart had been spoken aloud,
and Bob, coming softly down the grassy path, approaching her unheard,
caught the words and paused a moment, his attention drawn for the
first time in his life to the beauty of nature, and the love message
it brings.

Margaret was aroused by a voice at her elbow saying a little
nervously:

"Can I speak to you, Miss Woodford?"

"Oh, it's Bob!  Certainly!" she answered, an inviting ring in her
voice.

"I--I'm awfully sorry about last night--I want you--to--know," he
said hesitatingly, his face crimson with shame.  "Will you try to--to
forget it?" he stammered.

"Why, of course!" answered Margaret.  "I shall never think of it
again."

"I feel such a beastly cad," he finished.

"Well, for the future remember you are a gentleman, Bob, and that
'_manners makyth man_,' and you will find it easier to behave as one.
And shall we make up our minds to be friends?" she added, holding out
her hand with a winning smile.  "Come, what do you say?"

"Rather!" answered the boy, and then, breaking away, rushed with
lightning speed to the house.

Later in the day Margaret came upon the young people uninterestedly
turning over the leaves of story-books, weary of themselves and each
other, and not on speaking terms.  She had appeared upon the scene at
the close of a heated argument, in which Ellice considered Bob had
turned traitor by taking up the cudgels on Margaret's behalf.

When he left her so hurriedly in the morning, Margaret hoped she had
gained ground with him; but she little knew that the interview meant
a big victory, and that Bob Medhurst's allegiance was won for all
time.

Now, as she looked at the two, she ventured:

"I have a proposal.  What do you say to taking our tea to the woods,
and then I'll tell you a story, if you like?"

"Oh, yes--yes," exclaimed Ellice, full of animation at once, and
forgetful of all her former animosity.

"Come along then," said Margaret; "let's get a basket from Betsy."

In a few minutes everything was prepared, and the three set off for
Wychfield Glade.

It was a perfect afternoon, and Margaret's heart felt lighter as they
followed the mossy path which led through the forest to the avenue.
Bob's manner showed a subtle change:

"Please let me carry that for you, Miss Woodford," he said shyly,
holding out his hand for the tea-basket.

"It's awfully heavy," remarked his small sister, in a loud whisper.

He brushed the remark aside with a look which said plainly, "You shut
up."

Margaret accepted the offer with a smile of thanks as she gave up the
burden.

"It's very nice to have a gentleman to help one," she said quietly.

The boy coloured slightly.  After all, he was his father's son, and
knew the attitude of a young savage was unworthy of him, and the role
not really satisfactory to himself, although he was not aware that
one of the commands of God given in His Word is "Be courteous."

It was quite good fun hunting for wood and arranging a gipsy fire to
boil the kettle.

Finding it was too early for tea, Ellice clamoured for the promised
story.

"A fairy one," she demanded.

"Not to-day, dear," was the answer.

"Why?" asked the child vexedly.

"Because it's Sunday, and we might think of something more useful."

"Oh, bother! we don't want a Sunday one.  Miss Warner tried to make
us read a Bible chapter when she was here.  We wouldn't, so she read
one out loud, and then asked us questions.  We didn't answer, did we,
Bob?"

"No," replied Bob shortly, but he didn't look at Miss Woodford as he
made the admission.

"Oh, it _was_ dry," continued Ellice, "and we didn't understand it.
You are not going to do anything like that, are you?" and the child's
voice sounded a little entreatingly as she put the question.

"No," Margaret answered, with a smile.  "I want to tell you a little
bit about the life of a boy whom we read of in the Bible; there is
nothing dry in the whole of his history, at least I don't think so.
You can tell me what _you_ think afterwards, if you like."

Ellice seemed satisfied with this, and with a good grace settled down
to listen.  Bob showed no sign either way as to whether he was
interested or not.

The hush of the forest was all about them, the wind whispered in the
branches of the trees, insects chirped gaily in the undergrowth, and
birds and squirrels held busy conclave around their homesteads, but
there was nothing to interrupt Margaret Woodford as she began her
Sunday talk.

"At an old country house in Kent, when it was under repair, and the
workmen were putting down a new floor, in one of the top rooms,
underneath the worn-out boards, they found a letter dated 1600, one
that had been written to those who lived there centuries before.  The
letter was so discoloured with age, that although the men who
unearthed it stopped their work and stood looking at it for some
time, they were disappointed to find they were unable to read any of
its contents.  But they could not help wondering who wrote it, and
what it was all about.

"Now in your home you have got some much older letters than that one.
They were written to a young man nearly 2,000 years ago, and you can
decipher every word of them, and know where they were sent from, and
to whom they were written, and a great deal in connection with the
writer.  They are such interesting letters that I want to tell you
something about them, and then you can read them for yourselves.

"Nearly two thousand years ago there lived in a village in Asia
Minor, called Lystra, an old Jewish woman named Lois, and living with
her was her daughter Eunice, and her husband who was a Greek, and
probably therefore a heathen; and also their little son, a boy named
Timothy, and this boy was the one who had those wonderful old letters
you have got at home, written to him, all those long, long years ago.
You will find them in your Bible; they are called the First and
Second Book of Timothy.

"Now, in God's Word we are told something of what kind of a boy
Timothy was, and I think if you and I had known him then, we should
have been able to say, 'He's not a bad sort,' because he grew up to
be a very brave man, and a brave man generally means a plucky boy,
doesn't it?  We all of us despise cowards, don't we?  And so I think
we should have liked Timothy."

Bob nodded assent, and even Ellice was interested, although the story
was a Sunday one!

"Timothy's home was in a town in the country of Lycaonia," continued
Margaret.  "The district round it is rather desolate and bare of
trees, and as it was not a very big place, I expect it was fairly
quiet.

"Timothy would be busy learning lessons in those days, and, among
other things, he was taught by his grandmother and his mother the
stories in the Old Testament, a great part of which Jewish boys had
to learn by heart.  One day a great excitement happened in the
village, a missionary travelling through the country stopped at
Lystra to preach the Gospel, which means good news, that Jesus
Christ, the Son of God (Who had lately been put to death at
Jerusalem), was _their_ God and Saviour, Who had died and risen from
the dead, and gone back to Heaven, and would forgive all their sins,
and help them to live for Him, and afterwards receive them into His
glory.

"That _was_ good news, and if Lois and Eunice went to hear that
Gospel preaching, as I think they did, I know they must have enjoyed
it, for we also know that later they both became Christians.  The
missionary, who came to preach at Lystra, was really the Great
Apostle, St. Paul.

"We can picture the boy Timothy standing among the crowd, probably
listening to this new teacher, when presently St. Paul caught the
earnest eyes of a poor lame man gazing at him, with an expression
which seemed to convey to him that he believed all he was saying, and
could trust the power of this Great God Whom he preached--the Lord
Jesus.  And Paul, '_perceiving he had faith to be healed, said with a
loud voice, "Stand upright on thy feet."  And he leaped and walked._'
(Acts. xiv. 9-10.)

"Then the poor, ignorant people, when they saw what was done, cried
out, '_The gods are come down to us in the likeness of men._'  And
Barnabas, who was with St. Paul, and was the elder of the two men,
they called Jupiter, and the Great Apostle by the name of Jupiter's
son, Mercurius--you know, of course, there are no real gods of those
names, only the One true God we worship.

"But these poor heathen did not know that, so their priest brought
garlands to crown the Apostles, and oxen to sacrifice to them, and
St. Paul and Barnabas were dreadfully distressed, and rent their
clothes (a thing Eastern people used to do to show their distress),
and ran among them, exclaiming, '_Sirs, why do ye these things?  We
also are men of like passions with you, and preach unto you that ye
should turn from these vanities unto the living God, Which made
heaven, and earth, and the sea, and all things that are therein: Who
in times past suffered all nations to walk in their own ways.
Nevertheless He left not Himself without witness, in that He did
good, and gave us rain from heaven, and fruitful seasons, filling our
hearts with food and gladness._'

"'_And with these sayings scarce restrained they the people, that
they had not done sacrifice unto them._' (Acts xiv. 15-18.)

"What a commotion there must have been in the village, the people
crying out that the gods had come down from the sky to speak to them,
and rushing to help the priest to drive the animal to sacrifice, and
bring the garlands to crown the missionaries.  Perhaps the boy
Timothy saw all this.  I think he must have, as it happened near his
home, and if so, how interested he would be when St. Paul explained
to them about the One true God Timothy had read about in the old
Jewish law books--the Old Testament, which had taught him, that 'God
made the heaven and earth, the sea and all that therein is.'  And if
Timothy listened on those other days when St. Paul preached, he must
have learned too that the Great God he knew, was Jesus Christ, Who
had died on Calvary, and would save him from his sins and help him to
lead a Christian life.

"There was something else which happened at Lystra a few days after
the Gospel preaching: some men came to the village from Antioch and
stirred up the people of Lystra against St. Paul, and persuaded them
so strongly against him, that they took up stones and tried to stone
him to death.  When St. Paul was writing to the Corinthian people
long after, and telling them about his life and its sorrows, he said,
'_Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned._'  (2 Cor. xi.
25.)  And that was the time we have just been talking about.

"We can imagine Timothy rushing into the house and crying out, 'Oh,
mother, mother, they are stoning the great preacher to death!' and
possibly his grandmother and Eunice running back with him to learn
all that was happening.

"We know that St. Paul became unconscious, and was dragged out of the
city and left by his enemies for dead.  But presently the
disciples--the Christians who loved him--saw him recover
consciousness, and he was able to stand up, and went into the city,
and the next day left the town with Barnabas, and went to Derbe.  But
only for a little while, for he soon returned again to Lystra, and
visited the Christians there, talking to them and persuading them to
try and be very brave.  I think it was no doubt that then Timothy
gave up his heart to Jesus Christ, and decided to become his faithful
soldier and servant to his life's end.

"Shall I go on?" said Margaret, appealing to Ellice directly.

"Yes, please--I think I like it," answered the little girl.

With a smile Margaret continued:

"I said just now that Timothy was a plucky boy; I'll tell you why I
think so.  It is not pleasant to be laughed at for our religion, is
it?  We need a little courage when that happens; but think what it
meant to Timothy to be a Christian.  He not only risked being made
fun of by other Jewish boys in Lystra, but he stood a chance of being
put to death by the heathen, the worshippers of Jupiter, who lived in
the same town with himself.

"When he was a little older, he joined St. Paul, and went with him on
some of his preaching-tours, and was ordained a minister of the
Gospel, and was arrested in Rome and made a prisoner just because he
was a believer in Jesus Christ.  We read in the Bible about his
release from prison.

"Later he came to Ephesus, and was made Bishop of that great city
while he was still a young man, and in St. Paul's first letter to him
he writes and tells him how to manage his congregation; and to tell
all the children to be good to their fathers and mothers, and as they
get older to try and return some of the care they have received from
them, by helping them all they can.  He says, '_Let the children show
kindness at home, and requite their parents, for that is good and
acceptable with God._'

"And then he tells Timothy what he is to be like himself: how he is
to show the world--that is, all in his own home, all in his
congregations, all in that great heathen city--that he is really and
truly a follower of Jesus Christ.  He says, '_Let no man despise thy
youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word,
conversation, charity, spirit, faith, purity._'  Six things, you see,
in which Timothy could _prove_ his Christianity; six things God
wanted of him; six things God expects of _us_ if we are His soldiers
and servants.  It's no use our saying we love Him, unless we prove it
to Him by our lives.  I want you two, Bob and Ellice, to think about
that for yourselves.  Will _you_ love the Lord Jesus Christ?--will
you have Him for your King?"

The two appealed to so directly made no answer, but although there
was silence, the question had gone home.

"If so," continued Margaret, "_prove_ you are in earnest, for God
says, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments.'"

There was silence for a little.  Ellice moved uneasily, but Bob sat
gazing thoughtfully down the avenue, a new expression of seriousness
on his merry face.  He was a schoolboy, and not keen on pi talk, but
this was different from anything he had heard before.  Miss Woodford
again took up the thread of the story.

"Now, how was Timothy to prove the reality of his religion in
_Truth_?  He was to speak the truth, be honest and honourable in
_all_ he said; that was what it meant.  Think of that next time you
are tempted to tell a lie--will you?  God despises lies, He hates
them, He calls them an abomination--which is a big strong word, isn't
it?

"I know a boy who knew he could not be found out if he told a lie as
to the time he had spent preparing his lessons, saying he had given
an hour's study to them, because his master would accept his word
whatever he said; but if he admitted he had only given ten minutes to
it, he would be punished.  Yet that boy, when he was asked, 'Did you
give half an hour to this lesson as I told you?' answered, 'No, sir.'

"'How long then?'

"'A few minutes, sir.'

"The punishment followed, but when it was over, the boy was happy
with a clear conscience--far happier than if he had lied.

"That boy wasn't a prig--a namby-pamby sort; he was a thorough-going,
sporting Christian, the same sort as Timothy must have been.  The
sort God wants.

"A Christian in _word_.  In conversation.

"We are to be examples of Christians in all we say.  Are we always?
We fail by exaggerating things sometimes, don't we?  Perhaps we
declare we hate people when we only don't like them much."

Ellice coloured consciously.

"I know another boy," went on Margaret, "who, when his school-fellows
were talking nasty talk, not only wouldn't join in, but said to the
others, 'Shut up, we won't have anything of that sort here,' and by
his influence stopped it.  Even if he hadn't succeeded, in trying he
was doing what God wanted, wasn't he?"

Bob nodded thoughtfully.

"We must also show we are Christians, in charity--that is, love.

"Isn't it a rule in all bands of the Boy Scouts, or at least in some,
that everyone should do a kind action, at least once a day?"

"Yes, I've heard of that," said Bob.

"It's a good rule.  Supposing we three begin to-day to try and follow
it.

"In the paper some time ago, I read, a Boy Scout saw the wind blow
over a whole bale of goods outside a draper's shop, and immediately,
to fulfil his duty--not to get a tip--he crossed the road, set to
work to pick everything up, put it straight, and then went happily on
his way.  That boy was obeying God's command of love.

"We are also to prove our Christianity by _Our Faith_.  A little girl
told her clergyman _she_ knew she was a Christian, because she had
asked the Lord Jesus to blot out all her sins, and to give her a new
heart and save her.  The minister asked her, 'How do you know Jesus
heard you and saved you?'  She answered, 'Because He has promised to
do it in the Bible, and I am sure _He cannot break His promise_.'  In
that answer she showed she had faith, she believed in God, and what
He would do for her.

"There is one more thing mentioned in Timothy's letter which God
wants of us.  We are to be Christians, in purity.

"Not only are we not to say impure, or nasty words, but we are not to
do nasty things.  God is always watching, never forget it, and He
says '_Be ye holy, even as I am holy._'  And if we think _how_ pure
God is, Who cannot sin, we shall see how pure He wants us to try to
be, and He will certainly give us strength to resist all such
temptations it we ask Him.

"I have read of a boy who was being tempted to sin.  His persecutor
said, 'I will beat you to death if you do not give up this religion
which makes you refuse to do wrong.'  The boy answered, 'I would
rather be beaten to death than offend the Lord Jesus.'

"The brave answer made his persecutor release him, and not only that,
but he began to think there must be some great strength about these
Christians that they are able to resist evil.  Get your Bibles out
to-night, and read for yourselves 1 Timothy iv. 11, 12, a bit of
Timothy's old letter, and remember God has sent it to you both, not
only to tell you about him, but how to grow like him, and be a good
follower of the King of kings."

"Did Timothy stick to it all, Miss Woodford?" asked Bob interestedly.

"History answers 'yes,' for years after, when he was at Ephesus, a
very wicked city, where the inhabitants were given up to idolatry,
superstition, and sin, one day when he was preaching to a great
crowd, they set upon him in their heathen fury and killed him.  So
you see this brave man, who must always have lived in danger of
losing his life, this plucky boy, died a martyr's death--and so gave
up his life for the Saviour he had loved so long."

The story was finished, and no one spoke for a little while.  Ellice
moved away to gather wild flowers, and Bob busied himself throwing
acorns at the birds.  Presently he said quietly:

"I should have liked to have known that chap, Miss Woodford; seems a
pity he's dead."

"And yet alive, Bob, for evermore.  Perhaps you will know him in that
other life--choose the same King?" she said softly.  "Think what an
interesting world the next life means, and the number of Old
Testament people, as well as New Testament ones, we shall meet--and,
above all, Bob, live in the company of the Lord Himself."

"Umph!--I can fancy them all marching singing up to the throne, but I
don't think I--shall--ever get in; I shall never be fit."

The boy's voice was husky as he said these words, then he turned over
and lay face downwards on the ground.

"_If we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness,_" said Margaret.
"You see, He has promised, and He never fails us, though we often
disappoint Him--ask Him for yourself"; and with this Margaret went to
join Ellice, just pleading silently in her own heart that the Holy
Spirit of God would plant and water the seed she had tried to sow,
and cause it to spring up into everlasting life.

Half an hour later, when she and Ellice returned with a basket full
of wild flowers and fern roots, there was no trace of seriousness
about Bob; he just seemed overflowing with fun.  Margaret wondered;
but she knew how to leave all results with God.

The tea was a merry one--once only Ellice tried to be disobedient.
To her utter surprise Bob said sharply: "Shut up, and do what you are
told, and don't worry Miss Woodford."

Sheer astonishment held Ellice silent.  It looked as if her best
supporter was quite going over to the enemy!

From her bedroom window Mrs. Medhurst watched the trio, when they
started out to the woods, with an air of surprise.

"Do look, Gordon!" she exclaimed; "Miss Woodford has gone down the
drive with Ellice, and Bob has actually gone with them."

Mr. Medhurst rose from his seat and looked over his wife's shoulder.

"I think I can congratulate you on your choice of a governess this
time, Lucille; it really looks as if she'll stay"--and he laughed as
he spoke.  "Perhaps our youngsters are not much worse than other
people's after all," he continued.  "You spoil Bob, and I suppose we
both spoil Ellice; let's hope Miss Woodford will counteract the
mischief."

"Oh, you are always hard on Bob, Gordon!  I can't think why."

"Hard, am I?  There seems a good deal of necessity, I think; but
there, I confess I don't understand boys."

"I wish I was strong; I would love to have taken them out with me
like that," said Mrs. Medhurst; she spoke wistfully, with a far-away
look of unrest in her dark eyes.

"You might do a little more.  You could if you tried, don't you
think?"

"I can't--go--out," she said wearily, "but I like my flowers."

"The garden has done well, hasn't it?" he said.  "I did just what you
suggested, dear, simply massed all the brightest colours together,
and, as you say, Nature seems to be her own best artist, and makes
them blend perfectly.  You must come with me this evening and see
what the rain has done.  Now have a rest until tea-time."

He arranged his wife's cushions with deft fingers as of a nurse, and
Mrs. Medhurst lay down again upon her couch, while her husband
resumed his reading.




CHAPTER V

THE GREAT FIGHT

Margaret was quite sorry when Bob departed on Monday morning to
school, for although nothing further was said to assure her, his
attitude towards her was evidently changed, and she believed she was
now upon a friendly footing with the boy, and at least one of the
difficulties of Oaklands was partially overcome.

The days that intervened before his return upon the following
Saturday were not of the happiest.  She determined to insist upon her
charge having special hours for study, and for recreation, and this
meant a struggle of wills.  Ellice had hitherto had her own way
entirely, and any curtailing of that met strenuous opposition.

Monday morning was a lesson in patience to Margaret.  Ellice came
willingly to the schoolroom, and condescended (for that was her
attitude) to give her mind to lessons for about half an hour.  For
that length of time she seemed docility itself.  Bob's words as to
her ignorance had rankled in her mind; the child was full of pride,
and the idea of possibly being looked down upon as an ignoramus later
on was a detestable thought.  But half an hour every morning, she had
determined, would be sufficient for her concentration.

She worked busily and happily at first, and showed an intelligence
which pleased her teacher; then she grew a little restless, and cast
furtive glances at the clock.  Margaret noticed the slackening of
attention, but made no remark.  An hour and a half she thought would
be sufficient for the first week's morning's work: with such an
undisciplined pupil it might be wise to go slowly.

Suddenly Ellice threw down her book.

"It's ten, Miss Woodford.  I've done enough for this morning.  I
don't want to do any more."

"Oh, you've only just begun!" said Margaret quietly.  "You started at
half-past nine; at eleven we will put the lessons away, and go into
the woods, or orchard, as you like."

"I know I'm not going to work until eleven," was the impertinent
reply.

Jumping up from her seat, the child made for the door.  But her
governess was too quick for her.  Margaret had been fully on the
alert for a possible attempted escape, and in a moment she
intercepted the flight.

"I am sorry, Ellice, but you cannot go yet," she said firmly.  "Sit
down, child, and make the best of it; only an hour more, and you will
be free."

For the second time in her life astonishment bereft Ellice of speech
for a few seconds, then her indignation vented itself in words as she
stamped her feet in her rage.

"I hate you!--I hate you!  I will go out when I want to!' she
stormed, tears of passion shining in her eyes, and sobs half choking
her.

"Stop that noise at once, Ellice," said Miss Woodford.  "I am ashamed
of you.  Sit down, and understand you will remain here for one hour
longer as I said; but unless you obey me now, it will be two."

With an abandonment of temper the little girl flung herself into a
chair, throwing her arms across the table and hiding her
tear-scorched face in her hands.  There was still the sound of
suppressed, gasping sobs, which gradually died down into silence.  It
almost appeared that, wearied out with her own temper, she had fallen
asleep.

No sound now disturbed the quiet of the schoolroom, but the tick-tock
of the clock on the mantelshelf.  Margaret remained silent,
apparently reading.  Presently she glanced up at the time, laid her
book down, and, rising quietly, went and stood by her pupil.  Unshed
tears glimmered in her eyes as she looked down upon the child whose
uncontrolled temper meant such misery to herself.

"Girlie," she said softly, "it is almost eleven, but before you go, I
want to ask you to forgive me for being, as you think, unkind and
nasty.  Listen, Ellice.  When your mother engaged me to come here as
your governess, she offered me a salary in exchange for giving so
many hours a day to teaching you.  I agreed to her wishes, and I
should not be honourable if I took her money and did not fulfil my
promise to do the very best I could for you--can you understand that?"

"But I don't want to be taught," muttered the child; "I can teach
myself when I am older."

"If you were allowed to do as you wish, you would find presently,
when you were growing up, you would be despised by all the other
girls of education, because of your ignorance; you would be behind
them probably in everything.  I don't think you would like that.
From what I have seen of you, I believe you would want to be first
rather than last.  Isn't that so?"

A half-murmured assent greeted this last.

"Can't you see, child, I want to help you?  But you must be willing,
and try too if we are to succeed.  How proud your dear father will be
if his daughter grows up bright and intelligent, and is able to be a
companion to him some day!  He cares ever so much about that; he has
told me so."

A slight movement indicated Ellice was listening.

"There is something else he cares about; he wants you to grow up
sweet and gentle, and to get over these selfish ways--do you know,
trying to please and help others always makes people happier than
trying to please themselves.  You do it, and see.  It just makes
people love you.  Then there is one other thing I want to say; you
are very fond of flowers.  I know you look at the garden when you go
out, and bury your face in the sweetness of the lavender bed, and
smell the fragrance of the roses.  Just think how God loved you when
He made the flowers so sweet to please you--and gave you your garden
and the woods and everything nice you love best.  You remember the
hymn you sing sometimes:

  "'All things bright and beautiful,
  The great God made them all.'


"_All_ things--and for you--and in His word to us He sends you this
message--this morning: '_Study to show yourself a workman approved of
God._'  He has done so much for us, dear--He has given us every good
thing we possess.  He came to this earth to die for us--to win our
love and our allegiance, and He asks us to show our gratitude by
making a life-study of how to prove our love to Him, as good workmen.
He wants our best.  Ellice, shall we both make up our minds to try to
give Him that always, to fight against our tempers, our selfishness;
to do even the dry lessons as well as we can, to please Him?  I have
to try too--all the grown-up people who love Him have to fight this
battle with self.  It is difficult sometimes, and we often fail, but
God has promised to give us His Holy Spirit, to enable us to be brave
and strong to do good, if we ask Him."

Margaret paused a moment as she gently stroked the child's bowed head
with her hand.  Then:

"Ask Him now, darling, to help you all your life to be a workman
approved of God."

Again there was silence.  The old clock ticked those precious moments
away, but at the same time registered a child's desire for a nobler
life.

The lesson-time was over as the hour struck.  Lesson books had not,
after all, played a great part in the morning's work; but was not
something learned of greater worth?

"Off you go," said Margaret brightly, and, pressing a light kiss upon
the tumbled curls, she turned and went out quietly, leaving her
charge to her own devices.

When they afterwards met at luncheon, all traces of the storm were
past, and Ellice chatted responsively to the governess she had
intended earlier to hate for ever and ever.




CHAPTER VI

OLD FRIENDS

Nothing was allowed to disturb Dr. Crane during his breakfast-time;
his wife took her meal in silence, while he studied his letters and
newspaper.  This morning was no exception to the general rule, but
suddenly he laid down his correspondence, and said abruptly:

"By the way, Mary, have you heard anything from Margaret Woodford
lately?"

"A few days ago," she answered.  "Why do you ask?"

"To tell you the truth, I've never felt quite satisfied about her
going to that post she accepted.  I really owed it to her father to
find out what kind of people her employers were."

"Well, dear, she didn't give you much chance of doing that.  You
remember she answered the advertisement, and got the situation
through an agency, and we knew nothing about it until everything was
settled."

"Yes, but I still feel I ought to have made a point of inquiring
personally.  Does she seem happy?"

"I don't know about happy--I should imagine not very; one can hardly
expect that, perhaps--but she mentions the people are kind, and the
country lovely.  It is evident she is leading a quiet life; her
employers for some reason seem to wish to live in retirement."

"Now, I wonder why?  I don't quite like that fact," said the Doctor,
a little testily.

"Why, John, surely you are unreasonably suspicious; the child is
evidently in a comfortable home, and I think must be interested in
her work, or she would not have stayed so long.  I made her promise
to come away to us at once if she found anything wrong--in fact I
asked her here for the holidays in August."

"Oh, I'm glad you did that!" he interposed in more satisfied tones.
"And what does she say?"

"I think she fears it would be painful to see the old home again so
soon; she says she has been asked to stay where she is, and she would
rather remain, and in fact she does not need rest yet."

"I hope it is all right then," answered Dr. Crane.  "Ask her in your
next to tell you everything unreservedly about the people, and if she
is quite content?  Seems strange Woodford's daughter should be out in
the world like this, doesn't it?" he finished musingly.

"Yes--and how different it might have been if Jack--had--lived," said
Mrs. Crane sadly.

"Our hopes were certainly shattered in more ways than one," he
assented, with a sigh; "but, old lady, we wouldn't have it otherwise,
would we?  God called him for the service of his country, and when a
man answers that call in His Name, all must be well.  You miss the
boy, I know--and well--so do I, more than I can say; but we are
getting on, and it will be a grand homecoming when he stands, as we
know he will stand, with outstretched hands to welcome us on the
other side.  I expect we shall be glad then he went over there first;
what do you say, old dear?" he finished gently, and coming round to
where Mrs. Crane sat, the tears slowly coursing down her cheeks, he
stooped and kissed her forehead.

"Thank you, John," she answered.  "I forget sometimes the joy that is
coming, the waiting seems so long, and yet it's a lovely thought, the
King may come into the air any day bringing our darling with Him.
There is nothing necessary to be fulfilled before that event, is
there?"

"No, I think not; scripture gives us nothing, but we must wait
patiently, and be content with God's time and choice."

"I love those lines, John:

  "'At midnight, eve, or morning,
  We may hear the victory song.
  Filling the heavens above us,
  From Redemption's white-robed throng.'"


"I wish there were more stricken hearts comforted with the
Thessalonian promises," he answered thoughtfully.  "I am amazed at
the numbers of people I come across in my profession who are
apparently content to live their life as if it were the fulfilment of
all hopes and ambitions, and not merely a pilgrimage here, an
incident in eternity; but there, I must be off to the surgery," he
concluded, suddenly changing the subject as the clock struck nine.
As he was closing the door, he called out hurriedly:

"My old friend Hatherley is coming down here in August to spend his
holiday with us."

"Oh, I _am_ glad!" murmured Mrs. Crane to herself; "John will enjoy
that."

Then gathering up her correspondence, she went to interview cook.  A
thought was in her mind to write Margaret a long motherly letter of
sympathy, giving her all the home news of interest she could think
of, and especially the Doctor's message.




CHAPTER VII

BOB IN TROUBLE

Weeks drifted into months, and Margaret, much to the satisfaction of
the inmates of Oaklands, was still at her post.  Mrs. Crane had
written and invited her to spend the summer holiday with her in
August, but the thought of seeing the Abbey House again seemed more
than she could bear just then, and so her old friend's invitation had
been refused, and Margaret stayed on in the new environment, each day
becoming more necessary in the home of her employers.  Another letter
had arrived from Mrs. Crane this morning, which yet remained to be
answered when she felt there was more news to write about.

The one big fight to gain ascendancy over her pupil had been worth
while.  It is true Ellice did not give up her opposition without some
further struggle, but her wilfulness never again carried her so far.
Lesson-time became more pleasant both to governess and pupil, and
gradually all thought of direct disobedience passed, sulky silence
presently giving way to an interested co-operation.

Mr. Medhurst was not unobservant as to the friendship springing up
between Margaret and his small daughter, and was well pleased with
the way things were going.  His wife spent most of her time in her
own room, although she was not a confirmed invalid.  She did not give
herself much chance of knowing or understanding her children's
characters, but she could not help noticing a subtle change in Ellice.

Summer days were quickly passing away, the plentiful green brambles
which grew so luxuriantly on the common had ripened into a rich berry
harvest; the dainty gossamer houses of the spiders glistened on the
hedgerows, the tiny ropes of which caught Margaret Woodford's face as
she walked quickly across the spongy turf to the woods.  She brushed
the irritating threads aside, an anxious expression clouding the
usual brightness of her countenance.

She had come away from the house this morning perturbed in spirit,
and more worried than she liked to admit to herself.  She had not
waited to find her pupil, but was wanting to be alone and have time
to think quietly.  That something serious had happened was easy to
see from the trouble discernible in her face.  She had had a wakeful
night, and a not too pleasant interview with Mrs. Medhurst this
morning.

The evening before she had gone up to bed early and sat reading for
some time in the quiet retreat of her room--Mr. Medhurst had not
returned from town, Mrs. Medhurst had dinner upstairs, and Ellice was
in bed.  It was Wednesday, and Bob would not be home until the
week-end, the September term having just begun.

Upon putting down her book, Margaret had gone to the dressing-table
and opened her small jewel-box to put away the brooch she was
wearing.  For a few moments she had stood still, gazing helplessly at
the case before her, astonishment depicted upon her countenance, her
expression gradually changing to consternation, as she grasped the
unpleasant fact that her beautiful ruby necklace--her mother's chain
of rare jewels--the heirloom which had descended to her--was missing.

Then, with fingers that trembled a little, she had turned the box
upside down and shaken out her other jewellery upon the table,
although it was obvious the chain was not there.  She remembered
having taken it out the previous day, and carelessly left it lying on
the dressing-table.  Hastily she opened the chest of drawers and
swept the contents aside, hoping to find it had been placed in safe
custody by Betsy.  Then she had stood up, looking down upon the
disorder she had created among her possessions, her breath coming a
little gaspingly as she murmured to herself:

"It is gone--_stolen_----"  And a thought, so ugly, so disconcerting,
had rushed unbidden to her mind, making her heart beat unpleasantly
at the mere suggestion which came as a flash of illumination, to be
followed by a cloud of doubt, which enveloped her mind and filled her
with untold misery.

She had come to this house a stranger, she had been kindly treated,
and had grown fond of the young people who had entered into her life.
The household had appeared a strange one, and things had puzzled her.
Now something of bitterness sounded in her voice as she spoke her
thoughts aloud.

"I trusted them--I trusted them _all_," and now--the fact could not
be doubted, it had to be faced, and faced bravely, she had been
robbed, it seemed, by someone in this house who must be a thief.  And
yet--Could she think it of any of them?  The very suspicion sent the
hot blood surging to her face--she had felt shamed by the idea of
doubting her friends--for they had now become that to her.  Even
Betsy, the old and valued servant, had lately been ready to do
anything for her, and James, too, did many little things which added
to her comfort.

She was miserable and upset when she lay down to rest; she did not
suspect anyone particularly, and yet the horrid fact that the jewels
were gone could not be got over.

Margaret awoke the following morning with a headache; much of the
night had been spent in restless, wakeful tossing.  Not until the sun
was shedding its soft beams through her lattice window did she fall
into a troubled sleep.

Immediately after breakfast she asked to see Mrs. Medhurst, and
poured out the story of her loss into sympathetic ears.

"My dear Miss Woodford, no wonder you are upset," she said.  "Your
beautiful necklace you showed me one day--you remember--gone?  I can
scarcely believe it.  I can assure you there are no thieves in this
house--at least I have every reason to believe Betsy and James to be
above suspicion, they have been so many years in our service, and we
have so trusted them--but of course one can never say one is
_perfectly_ sure.  I suppose you have searched everywhere?  Could it
have fallen behind the dressing-chest?"

"No, I have looked; I don't think I have left a corner unsearched,"
answered Margaret.  "I have not mentioned the matter to Betsy; I
thought it better to speak to you first; I should not like to offend
or hurt her, or James, by letting them imagine for a moment I
suspected them."

"Quite right, my dear; I think the bare questioning would upset them;
and my husband will be deeply concerned; I almost think I would say
nothing about it to him just at present, he is not very well, and I
am certain it would worry him.  I quite expect you will find it
somewhere.  The children would not steal.  Ellice might have looked
at it, but beyond that----" and Mrs. Medhurst shrugged her shoulders
expressively, denoting the impossibility of her child being
implicated in the loss.  "My little girl is troublesome, Miss
Woodford, I admit it, but--not a thief," she added coldly, with a
quick glance at Margaret's face, and a note of almost challenge in
her voice.

"Oh, no--no, Mrs. Medhurst, I do not think little Ellice has had
anything to do with it," answered Margaret.  "She has come into my
room sometimes with me, and looked at my things, but I am quite sure
she would not dream of taking anything--please do not suppose I
imagine it for a moment?"

"Ah, well, let us leave the matter for a little, and both of us keep
our eyes open; at present I can see no explanation, but I have no
doubt you _will_ find your necklace.  I should not mention the matter
to the child, but have another good search.  Ellice can be very
troublesome, and she may have hidden it; if so, she must be punished."

Margaret could get no further definite help or suggestion from Mrs.
Medhurst--in fact the above conversation had given her an uneasy
sense of discomfort; it seemed as if her hostess, although she had
sympathised, almost doubted her loss, and considered her personal
carelessness was alone responsible.

This morning, as she made her way across the fields, she felt
homesick, and almost wished she had never accepted her present post.
Mrs. Crane had written more than once to ask if she was happy, and if
everything was satisfactory in connection with this household.  In
fact, now she thought things over, it appeared as if some possibility
of her environment not being satisfactory lurked in the minds of her
old friends.  In her last letter Mrs. Crane had said, "_Be sure, my
dear child, to tell me exactly all your views, and just what this
situation means?  Are the Medhursts the right kind of people?  Your
previous communications are rather vague; give us your full
confidence--you know how dear you are to us.  The Doctor wants
especially to hear if you are quite content in every way with your
surroundings; if not, be sure and come away to us at once._"

Margaret had smiled when she had first read the above.  Mrs. Crane's
evident anxiety about her had seemed quite unnecessary at the moment;
but now, in the light of her loss, she wondered if her old friends
could possibly have heard anything disquieting about Oaklands.

"I won't answer that letter just yet," she murmured to herself.
"What _would_ they think if they knew?  But oh, how I wish I could
ask their advice!"  She walked on unheeding the glory of the trees
flushed with harlequin tints, and the rare sweetness of the fresh,
hill-cooled breeze which swept over the common, dying into stillness
and warmth as she entered the shelter of the woods.  She presently
sat down by the old oak, and, opening the book she had brought with
her, tried to lose herself in the troubles of the heroine of
_Stepping Heavenwards_, where the daily round and common task is so
naturally described by an author who realised how truly these things
furnish all we need to provide a battleground for those of us
fighting the fight of faith, on our way towards home.

A rustle in the brushwood near presently roused Margaret's attention,
and to her utter surprise Bob's face peered through the wooded
density, and in another moment he had pushed his way into the open
and flung himself at Margaret's feet.

"_You_, Bob!" she exclaimed, in amazement.  "Why--where do you come
from?  This is only Friday--you are not due until to-morrow."

There was no answer.  The boy had thrown himself face downward upon
the mossy turf, and buried his face in his hands.

Margaret waited for a little, then, realising this meant something of
moment to the boy, said gently:

"Bob, what _is_ it?  What has happened?  Won't you tell me?"

A sound like a smothered groan fell from the boy's lips, then,
bending her head, she caught the words:

"Miss Woodford--I'm--I'm in trouble."

"Yes, I guessed so.  Can't I help you?" she added, the rare sympathy
of her voice reaching his ear.

The boy rolled over, and sat up, and something she saw in his face
filled her with a nameless anxiety.

"Tell me all about it.  I---I shall understand," she said kindly.
"However bad it is, don't be afraid."

Her tones and manner seemed to give the boy confidence.

"Miss Woodford, I'm often in trouble, as you know," he said, a little
bitterly.  "I can stand a licking all right, but--but my father never
seems to think--to think I try.  He never believes in me; he's told
me I'm a rotter so--often.  He's fond of Ellice--but sometimes I
think he _hates_ me----"

"Oh, no--no, don't say or think that for a moment," broke in
Margaret, a great pity tugging at her heart.  "He doesn't quite
understand, that is all.  You must go on trying, Bob, however hard it
is.  You will win his regard yet--I am sure--sure."

There was a pause, and then the boy continued, almost as if she had
not spoken:

"He will never forgive me for this.  He won't listen to explanations.
I got in a rage about something this morning--I can't tell you what
for--a boy said something, and I knocked him down.  I had a cricket
stump in my hand--and--I hurled it at him.  I think for the moment I
was mad with indignation; I don't quite know what happened for a
minute.  I think I was _blind_ with rage.  I just rushed away
afterwards to the edge of the field to get alone.  Later a prefect
came and told me the Headmaster wanted me.  He gave me this note to
deliver to my father, and sent me home with it.  He said--I'd
hurt--the boy--he'd been unconscious.  He asked me to explain what I
did it for--but--I couldn't."

"What a pity," said Margaret; "it might have made a difference."

"Yes--I think he would have understood; he's just--but I felt I
couldn't.  I would not repeat the boy's words--I should have got mad
again."

"Poor Bob, I am sorry, dear!  Now what can you do?  You have a note
there, you say.  Your father comes home early to-day; let's go at
once and tell him--tell him everything and get it over; perhaps he
will understand."

"No--he won't, because I can't tell him; if I could, he would,
because my father is a gentleman."

Something that sounded like pride echoed in the boy's voice--pride of
the right sort--pride that spoke of a secret admiration for the man
who yet had never troubled to fathom the depths of his boy's heart.

Margaret felt a hope for better things spring up within her as she
noted it.  Oh, if only she could bring these two together in a great
bond of friendship!  The wife and mother seemed a little more aloof,
her half Spanish nationality a little bridge always to be crossed,
where national character and custom might be at variance.  But the
boy and the man were essentially English; the strong control evident
in both, with a reserve which hid, as she felt sure, hearts of gold.

"Come, Bob dear, let's go--it is nearly lunch-time."

"Miss Woodford, I would rather--rather run away than face my father
with this."  The boy spoke a little desperately, and the fingers
which held the Headmaster's note trembled as he thrust it back into
his pocket.

"Bob, I know you are no coward," said Margaret gently; "to run from a
difficult post is coward's work.  You won't do it, I know.  You are
trying to be a servant of Christ; isn't that so?"

"I was," he muttered, "but it seems no use."

"Think a moment of what the Captain of your salvation did for
you--when the suffering of Calvary had to be endured, and the agony
of the cross lay before Him.  It says, speaking of Him, He set His
face like a flint.  He could have escaped that last journey to
Jerusalem, have gone back to the glory of His Heavenly Father's home,
but for your sake He chose to suffer and to die.  Bob, His message to
you at this moment seems to me to be some words I read in His Book
this morning: 'Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.'
The Holy Spirit, Who filled the heart and life of the Saviour, can
come upon you, and make you brave and strong.  Ask Him now."

Pressing the boy's hand, Margaret moved a little away, and as she
gazed upwards to the blue sky gleaming through the branches overhead,
she lifted up a silent petition to the great Friend of all mankind.
Her own burden lightened as she laid that of another pilgrim at the
feet of Christ.

Her thoughts were disturbed by Bob's voice in her ears:

"Let's go now, Miss Woodford, and get it over."

"Yes, it's late," she answered, neither looking at the boy's face,
nor appearing conscious of an apparent change of atmosphere from the
excitement of distress to normality.  But the quiet, even tones of
the boy's voice gave her confidence.

It did not take long to reach home; lunch was just being laid.  James
paused in astonishment as he saw the two enter the hall, but a look
from Margaret silenced the words on his lips.

"Where is Mr. Medhurst?" she asked, in a brisk voice.

"In the library, miss," answered James, and moved on to his duties in
the dining-room.

"Come, let's find him," she said, turning to Bob.

"You need not come," he muttered.

"I would like to, if I may?" she asked.

No more was said, and the two entered the room together.

"Bob wants to speak to you, Mr. Medhurst," she said, by way of
explanation, and then moved to the window, leaving the boy facing his
father.  She caught the quick look of surprise deepening into a swift
survey of the boy's form as if to ascertain if there had been an
accident and he was unhurt.  Margaret realised the unspoken anxiety,
although it was but momentary.  The man was evidently not indifferent
to his son's welfare.  That cursory glance gave her hope, but even
she was scarcely prepared for the sudden change of aspect which now
swept over him, his countenance visibly darkening as he said:

"What do you want?" and the icy coldness was enough to estrange any
young heart anxious to unburden itself.

A shiver ran down the boy's back as he heard it, for a moment his
courage failed, and he stood staring at the stern face in front of
him, his own white with the tensity of the moment.  Then he pulled
himself together, "Endure hardness as a good soldier"--the words
rushed to his brain.  He raised his head a little more as if to cast
away fear with disdain, then, taking out of his pocket the
Headmaster's note, he handed it to his father.

"Dr. Armstrong sent me home--and told me to give you that," he said,
in a low but clear voice.

Something of a sneer lurked on his father's lips as he took it, then,
as he read the contents, his brow contracted with a heavy frown.
Fear, deadly fear, came to Margaret as she heard his voice, of, it
seemed, concentrated wrath as, with a wave of his hand, he said:

"Get out of the room--go upstairs!  I'll come to you."

The boy turned white and hopeless, but Margaret, with real terror in
her heart, sprang forward:

"Mr. Medhurst, please--_please_ excuse me speaking in Bob's behalf,
but I am sure, if you knew all the circumstances in this trouble, you
would find it in your heart to forgive him," she pleaded.

Mr. Medhurst was too much of a gentleman not to be courteous to a
woman, though he could scarcely brook interference.

"You are the counsel for the defence, I perceive, Miss Woodford, but
I'm afraid you have no case; perhaps you don't understand my
son--_my_ son in blind passion has struck a schoolfellow with a
cricket stump and injured him, apparently without provocation, as far
as the Headmaster has been able to ascertain."

"And do you believe that, Mr. Medhurst--believe it of _your_ son?
You don't know Bob fully yet.  Your son could never behave like that;
to him, a schoolboy, it would not be cricket, would it?"

"That's the gist of the matter, perhaps," he answered; "he is my son,
and I expect a decent spirit from him."

"Then let him explain the circumstances, Mr. Medhurst; don't punish
him until you have heard _everything_--it is only justice."

"Quite true.  Can you deny these facts?" asked Mr. Medhurst, tapping
the Headmaster's statement, and now addressing Bob, who, at
Margaret's intervention, had paused near the door.

"It's true--but--but I was provoked, sir."

"So I suppose; but to what extent?"

"I would rather not say," answered the boy.

"There you are, Miss Woodford, I have followed your advice," said Mr.
Medhurst, with a short sarcastic laugh.  "You see, the boy has no
excuse worthy of consideration; he's ashamed to bring it forward."

"Yes--I am--that's true," broke in Bob.  "Don't bother, Miss
Woodford; I know I can't escape."

"Bob, you can--you must," Margaret insisted.  "Whatever it is, tell
your father; trust him, trust him with the full story, and he will
understand--I know he will," she said eagerly.

Even Gordon Medhurst was moved by the girl's confidence.  Was it
possible she was right, and this son of his was not the wastrel he
feared and believed?

There was tense silence for a moment, then the boy spoke again:

"I struck the boy Johnson in a passion because--because he said, I
ought to be turned out of the eleven because--because----

"Yes--because?" encouraged Margaret.

"Because my father was a--a _gaol bird_; then--I hit him--I hit him
hard--and I didn't care how hard."

There was a breathless pause which could almost be felt.  Margaret
was afraid the others would hear the loud thumping of her heart as
the long moments passed.  Then in a voice from which it sounded as if
all feeling had passed, Mr. Medhurst said quietly:

"What put such an idea in the boy's head, I wonder?"

"He said he heard his father tell a chum," answered Bob.

"What is the boy's name, by the way?"

"Johnson--his father is a barrister."

Did Margaret hear a catch in his breath as Mr. Medhurst said: "Ah,
Johnson."

Again there was silence, and then:

"Did you believe the boy's statement?" asked Mr. Medhurst, still in
that dull, toneless voice of indifference.

"_Believe him_, father!"  The light of indignant scorn flamed into
the boy's eyes and rang in his voice: "Believe him, believe that of
_my_ father!"

Mr. Medhurst suddenly leaned forward, a new expression in his face,
an interested alertness in his voice.

"I see--you trust me--eh?  Then why such excitement over the boy's
remark?"

"I punished his insolence, sir.  How dared he say such a thing!"

"You knocked him out, evidently.  I don't suppose he'll offend again,
though I fancy his father may object.  This may mean a doctor's bill,
but never mind that, I expect there is no serious damage.  You had
better stay at home until Monday, and meanwhile I will write to Dr.
Armstrong.  And another time, keep your temper, my son, and treat
such remarks with the cold contempt they deserve.  I think we must be
better friends in the future, eh?" he added.  The kindly smile which
lit his face as he spoke these last words transfigured it; tears
glistened in the boy's eyes.

Margaret left the room hurriedly, a great hope and joy tugging at her
heart; for the first time since she came to Oaklands she had seen an
expression of affection pass between father and son.




CHAPTER VIII

DISCOVERY

It was a month now since Margaret's necklace had disappeared, and she
had almost given up hope of its recovery.  Mrs. Medhurst still
advised her to continue the search, but to refrain from troubling Mr.
Medhurst, as he had so many business worries, and would, she felt
sure, be upset by the loss.

"Of course, it is wiser to keep the matter from the children; they
can know nothing about it.  I have always trusted Betsy and James,
they are such old servants, and nothing of the kind has ever happened
before.  I have questioned them, dear Miss Woodford.  We must both
watch and wait; still, somehow I feel sure you will recover the
jewels.  I still think you must have mislaid them.  I feel so worried
about your loss, I believe I could find it."  So she had argued.

Margaret smiled at the suggestion of her having put the necklace away
and overlooked it.  She had searched her boxes more than once, and
turned out all her drawers, and now, anxious to soothe Mrs.
Medhurst's anxiety, she promised to go over them all again.

It was Monday evening, Ellice was in bed, and Mr. Medhurst had not
yet returned from a day in town, and Margaret (deciding it would be
very comfortable to take a book and read in her own domain) went
upstairs determined to have an extra rest.  She passed Mrs.
Medhurst's room on her way, and as she did so a slight sound
attracted her attention.

To her amazement she saw the flash of an electric light, and then
caught sight of a figure bending over the dressing-table and
evidently gazing intently at something she held in her left hand,
while with the right she concentrated the beam from her torch upon
the object of interest.

Margaret stood silently watching for a few moments, petrified with
astonishment as she perceived what it was the light was concentrated
upon.

There was no mistaking her employer's beautiful figure.  The door was
wide open, and the girl was unnoticed by the occupant of the room,
who was apparently so absorbed she did not notice the light tread as
Margaret suddenly advanced to her side.  The room was partly drowned
in shadow, but a bright beam of moonlight lit up the two, the one so
unconscious of the other's presence.  Then a sharp cry burst
involuntarily from Margaret's lips as she darted forward and caught
Mrs. Medhurst's wrist in a firm grasp.

"You--you!" she exclaimed, almost a ring of anguish in the indignant
tones of her voice.

A startled exclamation broke from her employer, as the lost necklace
fell from her nerveless fingers.

"You--you the _thief_, Mrs. Medhurst?  Oh, I could never have dreamed
it possible!" said Margaret agitatedly.  "You--who pretended such
sympathy, and help!  No wonder you said you believed you could find
it."  The last words were bitter in their reproach.

Mrs. Medhurst had somewhat recovered herself, although she clasped
and unclasped her hands nervously.  Then she stepped back a pace and
drew herself up to her full height, and, forcing indignation into her
voice, answered haughtily:

"I think you must be mad!  How dare you accuse me of such things!  I
will send you out of my house at a moment's notice if you repeat
here, or to anyone else, your absurd accusations."

Margaret was almost stunned by the answer; she felt herself falling
into an awkward position, although the certainty still dwelt in her
mind that in this superbly elegant woman before her she had
discovered the thief she had been looking for.

"If you did not take the necklace, Mrs. Medhurst, can you tell me how
it comes to be in your possession?" she asked quietly.

Meanwhile another figure had come softly up the stairs, and now stood
in the doorway, a silent listener to the conversation.

"I can easily answer that question," answered Mrs. Medhurst, with a
short, contemptuous laugh.  "I went out into the garden a few moments
ago to get a little cool air, it has been so stifling to-day, and as
I walked down the drive I saw something which looked bright in the
moonlight.  I picked it up, and discovered it was your lost property.
I meant to give it you in the morning; you had better take it now."
With this she stooped and gathered the gemmed chain into her hands,
and held it out to Margaret with a little cold smile.

Margaret took it with shaking fingers, the ready words of gratitude
which would ordinarily have sprung from her heart at its restoration
seemed frozen upon her lips.  There was a moment's tense silence when
each looked into the eyes of the other, and then, almost
unconsciously, the glances of both, as if by intuition, turned
towards the door.

There stood the master of the house, his face drawn and white, an
expression of silent misery on his countenance, as he looked steadily
at his wife.  A start--and a smothered groan escaped her.

"Gordon--you--you--have--heard?" she whispered, in low, broken tones.

"Yes--I have heard, and understood, Lucille," he answered slowly.

In a flash the woman's whole demeanour changed; with a cry almost
like that of a tortured animal, she sank down at Margaret's feet.

"Oh--I've broken--my promise.  I couldn't help it----  I--I---was so
tempted," she moaned.  "It was--so--lovely--I just wanted to have
it--to look at sometimes----  Gordon--Gordon, forgive me!--it
shall--be the last time--I promise----"

"Get up," he answered sternly, giving her his hand--and, helping her
to rise, he led her to a couch, where she buried her head in the
cushions, smothering the sobs which shook her frame.

"Miss Woodford, you now know the tragedy of our lives," he said
bitterly.  "We place ourselves in your hands; we have no right to ask
your mercy.  Perhaps you would--like--to--send for the police," he
added slowly.

"Send for--the police?  What for?" gasped Margaret.

"To arrest me," he answered.

"But--why--_you_?  It has nothing to do with you, Mr. Medhurst!" she
replied, in amazement.

"I shall give myself up, and admit the theft to whoever may offer an
arrest," he answered.

"Mr. Medhurst--I cannot understand," answered Margaret.

"No, Miss Woodford--of course you cannot.  I will explain: My wife
has made a similar _mistake_ before, and I have served some months in
a world behind the scenes.  You must understand," he continued,
almost fiercely, "I am ready to serve again."  Then, turning towards
Mrs. Medhurst, he said, "Hush--hush, Lucille; you will be ill if you
excite yourself so."

All his sternness had vanished, lost in an infinite pity as he bent
over his wife's couch.

She clutched his hand hysterically.

"Gordon--you shan't suffer again.  Tell her to go and give
information--I will be here, and I will admit I took it.  Tell her to
go--go quickly----"

And again the woman's head sank into the downy hiding-place.

Slowly great tears welled up into Margaret Woodford's eyes, as she
saw and heard the true nature of the secret of Oaklands, and
understood.

The quiet man stood out in heroic light, and yet to him how small a
matter the punishment inflicted by the law to the daily dread--the
covering of the old fault--and the daily, hourly strain to prevent a
further fall.  Yet here it was in all its hideousness, displayed to
Margaret Woodford--the one outside element who had been received into
a stricken house.

For a moment emotion held her silent, and then, with quick steps, she
moved across the room, and sank down by Mrs. Medhurst's couch.

"Don't--don't cry--you poor--poor woman!  You have restored my
property," she said gently--the tears rolling unbidden down her sweet
face.  "Dear Mrs. Medhurst, _how_ you must have suffered--and to
think you thought I would ever say anything.  Oh, I can't bear to
dwell upon it!  You must let me help you in your trouble--and the
necklace?  Of course you liked to look at it--everyone does--and you
may take it whenever you like, and keep it all your life, if you
wish--I shall never ask for it----"

"You would do that for _me_--a thief?" gasped Mrs. Medhurst, starting
up from her pillows, and gazing with amazement at the girl before her.

"Yes, yes--indeed I would--I offer it freely: don't doubt me.  You
have all been sweet and good to me--do you think I forget?  If there
is a secret to be kept at Oaklands, remember I am a member of this
household now--you welcomed me into your home--and the mystery can
remain always unsolved by the outside world, so far as I am
concerned."

There was silence in the room for a few minutes; Margaret still knelt
by Mrs. Medhurst's couch, gently chafing her hands, while the other
cried quietly with an abandonment of grief difficult to overcome.

Presently Margaret rose and gently released the cold hands she held,
and turned to leave the room.

Mr. Medhurst's voice arrested her footsteps.  As she reached the
door, he took one stride towards her, and held out his hand: "We can
never, never thank you sufficiently for your generous attitude of
mind, Miss Woodford.  I don't understand why you spare us?"

"Mr. Medhurst, the reason is, we are all answerable to the same
Master," she answered gently, as she accepted his hand.

"What master?" he answered, looking puzzled.

"One Who gave us this command for all time and all ages, 'Bear ye one
another's burdens and so fulfil the law of Christ,'" she replied.

"And that is your religion?" he interrogated.

"It is an order of the King of kings sent to me by His servant, and I
love to try and obey it--because----"

"Yes--because----?"

"I love Him, Christ, my Lord and my God," she answered softly.

Mrs. Medhurst's sobs had ceased now, and except for the ticking of
the clock, there was silence in the room.  Then:

"I wish I could say those words; a practical faith such as yours must
mean the peace of God which passeth understanding, of which I have
heard, but never experienced," Mr. Medhurst said sadly.

"Those who seek always find, if they seek with all their hearts--and
oh, Mr. Medhurst, in all the big troubles of life, as well as the
small ones, that peace is always a reality to us when we trust; we
only get faithless when we look down at the difficulties, instead of
up to Him Who never fails.  Good night," she finished--a little
hurriedly, almost afraid she had said too much.  Turning swiftly, she
vanished into the darkened passage, and went to her room.  She was a
good deal shaken by all she had just been through, and a feeling of
exhaustion followed the excitement.  She understood now the nature of
Mrs. Medhurst's failing, and the loyalty of her husband who had borne
the burden of his wife's disgrace.  The reason for their life's
seclusion in this quiet little place was fully explained.  Society,
and his old friends, had broken with the man who had endured
imprisonment, and the wretched woman who had been pitied, and yet
shunned by the set who once were proud to associate with her, had
willingly left them to drift into obscurity.

Fortunately the children were young in those first days of trouble,
and their father was most anxious the shadow should not fall upon
them if it could be prevented.  His son he intended sending abroad
when he was older, and his little daughter might be guarded for many
years in her own home.  Her education had always been a difficulty,
for her mother's lassitude and spoiling had nearly wrecked the charm
of a naturally generous and affectionate disposition.  Father and son
had always been antagonistic.  The strain and sorrow of Mr.
Medhurst's life had caused an irritability at times which had dulled
any sympathy and understanding he might have felt for Robert.

To this strange household Margaret Woodford believed she had been
sent upon a work of ministry for the King Whom she acknowledged as
the Overlord of her life.

As she sat now in her room, thinking of all the difficulties of her
present situation, an intense longing to be faithful arose in her
heart.  It was a wonderful thought, that for service she had been
selected to serve just here--chosen--and called--it was almost as if
the King had said, speaking of this particular post: "Who will go for
us?" and she had answered, "Here am I, send me."

For a moment she sank upon her knees, and an unspoken prayer arose to
the Throne of God: "Give me wisdom and strength by the power of Thy
Holy Spirit to be _faithful_."  She knew the way might yet be
difficult, and there would no doubt be many future trials to bear,
but with a quick transition of thought the hymn lines, so simple in
their direction to God's people, flashed into her mind:

  "Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed?
  To do the will of Jesus, this is rest."

and in the calmness engendered by that thought, she lay down to sleep
that night, content to leave all to the guidance of Him Who is not
only the Everlasting Father--and Prince of Peace; but the Mighty
God--and Counsellor.




CHAPTER IX

A BOND OF UNION

In spite of weariness, human frailty, and, sometimes, lack of faith,
Margaret's ministry for the King Whom she loved was a real one.  She
was conscious of unworthiness, and had a sensitive dread of being
considered one who talked religion, and posed as a religious person.
She knew only too well that she herself was among the sinners who
have all fallen short of the glory of God; but she believed in the
greatness of the Saviour's redeeming power, and His willingness to
accept as His servants all who turn in repentance to Him.  Frances
Ridley Havergal's lines just expressed her need, and the faith He
asks of all of us:

  "Jesus, I will trust Thee,
    Trust without a doubt,
  Whosoever cometh
    Thou wilt not cast out."


She could never have quite said when she first believed that.
Gradually the knowledge of God's love had come to her; from His own
Word rather than from any other source she had found the truth as it
is in Jesus.  He Who had stood before the great Galilean crowds of
men, boys, women, and young girls, and cried, "Come unto Me all ye
that are weary and are heavy laden," so calling all the world to find
their happiness in Him--had called _her_--and as a young schoolgirl
she had responded to that call, giving Him back the answer He asked:
"Jesus, I will trust Thee, help me by Thy Holy Spirit to be Thy
faithful servant."

She needed no priest to intervene, but, like the woman who met the
Lord by the well of Samaria, she found her Saviour alone, and He
spoke through His Word to her heart.  The natural and only outcome of
that meeting of sinner and Saviour was a desire to henceforth live to
His honour, and again, like the Samaritan, she felt the desire to
tell others of the God Who had won her love by His own.

Someone had asked her once to explain what was the difference between
the professing Christian and the kind, good-living man or woman who
did not profess faith in Christ.

"To me it is like this," she had answered.  "Before I became His
servant, when I did wrong I did not particularly care unless it
brought trouble to me personally, but after, when I consciously
sinned, I was miserable, because I felt and knew I had dishonoured
Christ.  As we read of Peter, after his denial of his Master, he went
out and wept bitterly--that last word 'bitterly' shows the meaning, I
think; his tears were not for his own trouble, but they were
tears--bitter tears of shame and regret that he had failed towards
the One Who had loved and trusted him."

Margaret's explanation had silenced the critic.  The true followers
of Christ repent their failures, while their grief is often hidden
from the eyes of man.  But the Lord lifts up the fallen and gives
strength for the needs of the battle, not only for to-day, but until
the warfare is over, and then the servant of God enters into the
presence of his King, and in _His righteousness_ is presented
_faultless_ before His Father's Throne.

It is just a wonderful religion--glorious, all-satisfying to the
inner cravings of every restless heart--so Margaret Woodford had
found it, and her little work of gratitude and returned love just
went on day by day, like the stone which is cast into still waters,
and causes the ripples to extend and overlap until they come to the
edge of the surface, and touch the land.  Thus the little words,
little actions, done for Christ's sake will pass on and on until they
find their consummation in eternity, in that country from which comes
the promise, "I will not forget your work and labour of love which ye
have showed for My Name's sake."

And this message of love and mercy Margaret carried in different ways
to all the inmates of Oaklands, even into the seclusion of Mrs.
Medhurst's life.

It was not an easy matter to approach the latter, but, finding her
one day in an abandonment of grief, Margaret knelt down by her side,
and with real sympathy just drew her towards the secret of eternal
rest.

Mrs. Medhurst had listened to all she said and had not been offended,
and from that day onwards it became a little added work to spend half
an hour, or sometimes an hour, in reading and talking to her employer
of the things she loved.

"And you can forgive me?  Forgive what I did, and come to me like
this!" had been Lucille Medhurst's astonished cry.  "Miss Woodford,
if ever I can believe as you do, it will be because I see your
religion is a _reality_," she had said.

"It will be by the power of the Holy Spirit, Mrs. Medhurst," was
Margaret's answer, "for we cannot come unto God except by Him, and He
draws all who are willing."

So the little work of a daily ministry went on at Oaklands.

* * * * *

"Miss Woodford, may I show you something?" said Bob, as he entered
the schoolroom one day at the close of a cold winter's afternoon and
found Margaret and Ellice busy working, sitting by a lovely log fire
which spluttered and sent out lively sparks as the flame travelled up
the chimney.

"Oh, I say, it is jolly warm here!" exclaimed the boy, as he flung
himself down by the hearth.  "I am tired, I can tell you.  It's a big
trudge up the hill after the train gets in."

"Oh, yes--don't I know?  I remember my first drive here.  Shall I
ever forget it?" laughed Margaret.  "I wondered whenever I was coming
to the end; it seemed a tremendous distance in the dark.  But never
mind that, you said you had something to show us----"

"Yes, what is it?" broke in Ellice eagerly.

"This," answered Bob, drawing from his pocket a triangle design
worked in silks within which a unicorn ramped, a Latin motto pressing
its feet.

"Oh, Bob, your colours!  How splendid!  I am glad--and First Eleven
too!  Won't your father be proud of you?"

"Don't mention it to him, please," said the boy, colouring.  "He
thinks me such a rotter at work, and he may be vexed--and think I
waste my time at games----"

A bright smile lit Margaret's face as she replied.

"You have no eyes, old boy, or you wouldn't say that.  Didn't you
ever notice your father reading the cricket news in the summer?
Don't make any mistake, I'm nearly sure he's a sportsman, and don't
you doubt for a moment but he'll appreciate your success.  A boy
doesn't get his first 'eleven' colours without some trouble,
perseverance, and grit.  Just show this to Mr. Medhurst, and see if I
am not right?"

"Shall I go and tell him about it?" said Ellice, springing to her
feet.

"No--no, child, it's your brother's news; let him have that pleasure."

At that moment there was a tread of footsteps outside the room, and
then a knock, followed by the opening of the door.

"May I come in, Miss Woodford?" said Mr. Medhurst, as he entered.
"You sound lively in here."

"Oh, yes--daddy, come--Bob's got----"

"Hush!" interposed Margaret, shaking her head at the eager child, who
immediately stopped short in her sentence with, "Oh, I am not to
tell."

"Bob's got, what?" asked Mr. Medhurst, turning to his son, with
interested face, from which the thunder-clouds of old days were
absent.

Bob coloured furiously, then rather shyly drew out his trophy.

"Only this, father," he said awkwardly, placing it in Mr. Medhurst's
outstretched hand.

"What--colours!  Yours?  First Eleven?  Well done, Bob!  I _am_
pleased!  I congratulate you; it's something worth having--reminds
me, too, of old days," he finished, with a laugh.

"Why, did you play cricket, daddy?" asked Ellice.

"Well, little lady, I suppose I did; was School Captain one season;
if I remember rightly, just missed my blue at the 'Varsity by a bit
of bad luck."

"_Father!_" exclaimed Bob, his eyes shining, "do tell us about it?"

The two, father and son, in many ways so much alike, forgot all their
old reticence towards each other, and were soon deep in the stories
of old triumphs of the field, henceforth bound together by a great
sympathetic bond never to be broken.

Margaret sat and listened with a double interest, watching
life-barriers broken down, barriers which had so nearly wrecked the
happiness of a home.




CHAPTER X

FIRE

Margaret seemed to have found her niche in the little parish of
Wychcliff, where she had come as a stranger in the first days of her
great sorrow.  Oaklands had now gradually become a second home.  The
dread secret she shared with her employers was jealously guarded, but
often in the solitude of her room it would stare her in the face, and
bring a cloud of depression over an otherwise happy day.

The better understanding between Bob and his father, which had begun
with the school trouble, had been a great relief to her mind: the
domestic atmosphere of the whole house had been brighter and more
congenial since that day.  But words spoken then, and not much heeded
at the time, had often recurred to her mind afterwards, at first with
a sense of shock.

Bob's schoolfellow had said he was the son of a gaol-bird.  This
announcement, coming so quickly after the loss of her necklace, had
presented an ugly possibility, and at first she had not been able to
shake off the misery of doubt concerning her host, and yet when she
had looked at his face, and studied his personality, she had been
ashamed of the wretched suspicion which had dared to lift its ugly
head.  In her heart of hearts she had not really doubted him--there
was something indefinite in this man which breathed a hidden nobility
of character.  Margaret had felt she could only hope, and pray that
the mystery might some day be fully explained to the world.  Mrs.
Medhurst had not again alluded to their confidences in regard to the
loss, and Margaret felt she did not like to bring the subject up
again, for fear of causing sadness.  Then the unpleasant incident in
connection with Bob, in spite of all her efforts to forget it,
worried her more than she cared to admit to herself, for although she
understood in a measure the truth concerning her employer, she felt
all was not quite clear.

Ellice's moods were still variable, and at times the patience of her
governess was sorely tried.  A ramble in the woods and
"tree-stories," as she called them, often drove the stormy clouds
away, and gradually a real affection sprang up in the child's heart
for the teacher who could be firm and, in spite of provocation, could
keep her temper.

It was a great asset--that keeping calm.  There was never a scene of
violence, for Margaret did not need the use of hot, angry words to
stem the torrent of passionate outbursts which even now sometimes
fell from the child's lips.  At such times Ellice was transformed
from a charming, affectionate little person into a spoilt,
unpleasant, and objectionable child.

But if her temper was bad, her repentance was real; she would just
fling herself into Margaret's arms after a storm, and exclaim, "Oh,
Miss Woodford, I was nasty!--I hate myself!  I don't know what makes
me so horrid--I seem as if I can't be good."  And just because the
battle was great, Margaret's sympathy went out to her charge, and
gently, gradually she led her to fight daily against the second self
which troubled her, and also to pray for strength in the battle.

Ellice would sometimes begin her tantrums (they could be called
nothing else), and suddenly remember--yes, remember--with a pang of
remorse for her defection, God's own word, "Better is he that ruleth
his spirit, than he that taketh a city."  In an instant she would
rush away to the window, and, clenching her hands tight, and fixing
her eyes upon the sky, she would send a cry from her heart to the
Throne for victory.  It was a silent cry.

Margaret guessed the greatness of the fight as she watched the little
girl's battling for control, her figure tense with emotion.  But God,
Who reads the secrets of every heart, heard the unbreathed words,
"You--you Who love me, now while I am bad, help me not to say the
nasty words, and to conquer"; a child's prayer, but how precious!
Slowly but surely her character was strengthened, and the sweetness
of disposition predominated over the wilful selfishness which had
formerly held full sway.

It was at this period of her life that something occurred to break up
the quiet serenity of Oaklands.  The place was very isolated.  The
parish boasted a tiny church, one of the very smallest in England,
standing on the edge of the woods, and encircled by about a dozen
cottages, the older inhabitants of which had never left their native
hills or seen the railway.  A state of things marvellous indeed in
this century of movement, but none the less true.  Oaklands was the
only house of any standing in the neighbourhood.

The vicar of Steynham came once on Sunday and held a service in the
church; beyond that, visitors rarely found their way to this little
old-world hamlet, where Time had swept away most of the traces of a
former civilisation which in past days had dwelt in the vicinity of
the great forest.  Nothing but a waterless moat and a ruined wall
remained to mark the spot where a bishop's palace had once been.  The
Elizabethan residence bearing its name Oaklands, redolent of the
forest district in which it stood, was quaint and picturesque.  Its
leaded windows, gables, and oak-panelled frontage, with massive beams
running across the ceilings of the rooms, and handsome wainscotings
to the walls, gave it a quaint, old-world air.

The farm was such a poor one, that when the last tenant had died, the
place had remained empty and out of repair for a long time, and it
was through an advertisement that the Medhursts had first heard of it
and had decided, in their search for a home far from the madding
crowd, to do it up and live there in strict retirement.

* * * * *

Margaret awoke one morning to a sense of oppression which at first
seemed to cloud all her faculties.  A great lethargy pervaded her
whole being; then an unpleasant difficulty in breathing caused her to
struggle, and she awoke.  Panting with the effort, she became
conscious of a suffocating sense of smoke choking her mouth and
nostrils.  Margaret Woodford was always resourceful, and as the fact
impressed itself upon her mind that there was danger and difficulty,
with an almost superhuman effort she roused herself sufficiently to
slide out of bed and stagger to the door.  As she opened it, she was
met by an increased density of smoke which, with the draught from the
staircase window, poured into her apartment.  But a rush of sweet
fresh air from a landing window revived her, and, crossing to Mr.
Medhurst's room, she rapped at the door, saying in a low voice, "Can
I speak to you, please?"  Quietly he responded, but as he opened the
door her news was understood instantly.

"I will fetch Ellice, and call Betsy," Margaret said, and, without
waiting for any answer, she entered Ellice's room and, speaking
reassuringly to her, picked her up in her strong young arms and
carried her out on to the landing and down the stairs to the
drawing-room, which seemed free from all taint of fire.

"Stay there; don't move, child--I shall be back in a moment."  With
this she ran again up the smoke-laden staircase to the second landing
and Betsy's apartment.

Mr. Medhurst meanwhile was experiencing difficulty in arousing his
wife; he knew her heart was not strong, and was anxious not to alarm
her more than was necessary.

Unfortunately Betsy had been awakened by hearing the unusual sounds
of movement in the house, and as Margaret came up the staircase to
her room, she opened her door, to be met by the increasing volume of
smoke.

With senseless panic she threw up her arms and shrieked wildly,
"Fire!--Fire!"  The wild cry rang through the house, and in a moment
Mrs. Medhurst was all too effectively aroused:

"My child!--my child!  Save her!--save her!" she cried, as, clutching
her husband's arm, she emerged on to the landing.

"She is safe, Mrs. Medhurst--downstairs; let me help you," said
Margaret gently, going to her further support; but in a moment Mrs.
Medhurst staggered back against her husband in a fainting condition.
A moment more, and James came to his master's aid, and between them
they carried her downstairs.

"It is all right, child, your mother feels faint; now be useful--put
a cushion nicely for her," said Margaret's quiet voice, as the
terrified child met them at the entrance.

Margaret and Betsy set about restoring Mrs. Medhurst while the master
ran to the cottages nearest for assistance.  More quickly than in
ordinary times it would have seemed possible, the men arrived with
pails of water brought from the horse-pond.  No fire-engine was
available nearer than six miles, and a grave danger which has come to
many an isolated farmhouse now threatened Oaklands.

The smoke was issuing in volumes from a cupboard in the pantry, but
no sign of flame came from there.  Quickly Mr. Medhurst ran his hands
over the surrounding walls, only to find they were unaffected.

"Try the kitchen, sir--maybe the old beam's caught," said James.

And James was right.  The picturesque oak beam which crossed the
kitchen chimney was, in the structure of the house carried down at
the back of the old range, and this had evidently become ignited.
Why it had endured its torturing position so long without kindling,
no one can say.  Now, as Mr. Medhurst ran his hand over the walls
circling the mantelshelf, he came upon a spot which was red hot.

"There it is!" he exclaimed, and with a few blows of a pickaxe a man
tore an opening in the brickwork, quickly to discover fire raging
fiercely where the old beam was fully alight.  Pails of water, and an
old garden syringe (which was the only thing in the nature of a hose
to be found) soon did their extinguishing work, and presently the
scent of charred wood and a broken wall were the only signs of the
grave danger which had threatened Oaklands.

"God's mercy it didn't brak out airly in the neight," muttered a
thoughtful helper; "the ould place would a ben burnt to a cinder."

The results of the fire were not so happily over as the inmates
thought.  From that day Mrs. Medhurst's strength seemed to fail her,
and Mr. Medhurst and Margaret both saw the coming change which was to
completely alter the life of everyone of the household.

It was in the glory of August days of sunshine that Mrs. Medhurst
grew daily weaker.  Although sickness had taken away her almost royal
beauty, and left her outwardly little resemblance to the handsome
woman who had first welcomed Margaret into her home, there was now a
sweet expression upon the patient face of the invalid.  Sorrow had
touched her deeply, but in the trouble she had turned to One of Whom
it is said, "He knows what lies in the darkness."  And into the
darkness of a thraldom, the chains which she of herself could not
break, He Who alone can set the devil's captives free, had broken the
fetters which had bound her.

"God knows what a temptation I have had at times, Miss Woodford," she
had whispered, finding relief at last in pouring her story into
sympathetic ears.  "Jewels attracted me so by their luxurious beauty.
I stole some beads when I was a little child, and later a watch with
pearl initials, and later still other small things I hid, and was
afraid to wear--and for years I deceived my friends.  Then my father
found out I had something which a friend staying at my home accused
me of taking--and--and--he turned me out--and it was when I was
trying to earn my living I met my husband first.  I never told him my
weakness for fear he would turn from me, and I had no strength from
Him you tell me of--He Who is mighty to save----"

"And forgive," whispered Margaret gently.  The tears came into
Lucille Medhurst's eyes.

"Yes, I know now.  You have shown me His love, and I can go to Him
without fear."

Margaret's heart thrilled as she heard these words.

"It is not all my story--but--I have told Him--my Saviour--and the
burden is gone."

Then she roused for a little.

"And--my children--Miss Woodford?"  The glance was interrogatory and
pleading.

"I will do anything I can," said Margaret, with tears of pity, as she
lightly pressed the patient's hands.

Mrs. Medhurst closed her eyes, and an expression of relief fell upon
her face.  Gently and peacefully she passed into the new land of
God's Love, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are
at rest.




CHAPTER XI

AN OLD CRIME

With a thoughtful air Horace Hatherley put down the newspaper, where
he had been studying the column of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and
with an expression of abstraction gazed out into the garden in front
of him, deep in retrospect.

His friend Dr. Crane's voice broke the spell.

"What's the problem, Hatherley?" asked the newcomer, pausing by his
chair as he spoke.

"A name here" (indicating the newspaper upon his knee) "has brought
back old days, and a dramatic episode to my mind."

"What is it?--let's have the tale if it's worth the telling."

Dr. Hatherley did not answer at once--but after a slight pause:

"This is in confidence," he said seriously--"there is something I
should like to share with you; as I said, a name long unheard, as far
as I am concerned, has caught my eye, and brought back an old doubt
to my mind."

"You may trust me," said Dr. Crane, sitting down, and pulling his
pipe out of his pocket, which he lighted with a taper ignited at the
glowing fire in front of him.

"I see here," began Horace Hatherley, "the death of Lucille
Medhurst"--picking up the paper again and pointing to the
announcement as he spoke.

A flash of interest kindled in his friend's eyes.

"Yes--what of it?  Did you know her?"

"Slightly--I met her first upon her wedding day.  He--her
husband--was--my--friend."

These last words were said slowly, and sadly.

"What--Medhurst of that address--Oaklands, Wychcliff?"

"Yes--that one."

"Then you know something of him now?  Excuse me asking, but Margaret
Woodford from the Abbey House here, went to that man's home as
governess when her father died--he failed, you may remember?"

Dr. Hatherley nodded.

"What do you know of them?  As a matter of fact, I've been a little
worried," continued Dr. Crane, "that my old friend Woodford's
daughter went to their house: whispers have reached me of some
mystery attaching to the place.  It certainly seems an out-of-the-way
spot for a man, whom I believe is a gentleman of means, to live in."

"Yes--he's wealthy, but there is a reason--but remember, Crane--I
repeat it, if I divulge to you Medhurst's story, I do it in
confidence.  He was my friend--and I am his friend while I have
breath."

"I quite understand, and will fully respect the confidence whatever
it is," answered Dr. Crane.  The last words--"I am his friend"--and
the warm tone of the speaker's voice, had done a good deal to
reassure the listener.

"Medhurst was at school and college with me, one of the best and
straightest chaps one could ever meet, and we were closely in touch
with one another after our 'Varsity days.  Then he went abroad for a
few years, travelling for the sole purpose of seeing the
world--money, of course, being no object.  We corresponded at first,
and then it dropped, and I lost sight of him, until he surprised me
one day by writing to announce his approaching marriage with a girl,
half Spanish by birth, whom he had met abroad, and who was staying
with friends in town at that moment.

"Well, to make a long story short, I was invited to the wedding,
which shortly after took place, and in fact to be Gordon's best man.
It was then I saw Lucille Don Rosa for the first time, and I was not
surprised at my friend's infatuation, for she was a very beautiful
girl, but with a proud cold beauty and a detached air which made me
wonder even then if my friend had made a mistake in his choice.

"However, time passed, and I saw little of them; they lived in a
society whirl, and I was, as you know, a hardworking student scarcely
in their swim.  Then quite suddenly tragedy closed their door of
happiness.  Lady Crosby held a big reception, they were among the
guests, and I, probably through their influence, received an
invitation.

"The thing wasn't in my line, but I decided to accept.  There was a
big crowd, and a Miss Vandevor, an American heiress, was present,
wearing a very famous ruby necklace.  Of course detectives mingled
with the crowd.  Before the evening was half over all exits were
closed, and it was announced that Miss Vandevor's necklace had been
stolen--unclasped from her throat in the crush.

"The suggestion was then made that we men should turn out our
pockets--and, Crane, I can tell you this, during those moments I
received the biggest shock of my life, for Medhurst, before any
detective approached him, took the gems from his pocket, and in a
dead kind of voice said, 'I see it's hopeless to escape, so I admit I
was tempted.'  He laid the necklace in the owner's lap, and then
stood motionless, facing the crowd almost with a defiant expression
it seemed to be, although he was white to his lips.

"His wife fainted dead away, and was carried from the room.  I was
stunned for the moment, then I moved to his side, and expostulated.

"'My dear old chap,' I said, 'you don't know what you are saying;
there's a mistake somewhere--some thief present has evidently dropped
the thing into your pocket.'  It was an illuminating thought, and I
turned to the public and made the suggestion loudly.  'Surely someone
has seen this done,' I added, with great assurance.  'No, I took
it--I coveted its possession, and I am ready to bear the
consequences,' was his answer."

Dr. Hatherley paused, then continued: "Well, the whole horrible story
was repeated at the trial, although I urged a plea should be put
forward for sudden aberration of the brain, in my confidence as to my
friend's innocence; of course no one heeded me, and he was convicted
and--and--suffered--a--nine months'--sentence."

Horace Hatherley's voice shook as he finished, and for a little
neither of the men spoke, then he resumed: "Mrs. Medhurst was
practically ignored by her so-called friends, and vanished, I know
not where--probably to this out-of-the-way place you mention.  No one
seemed to remember her after the first whirl of excitement was over,
and as to the husband, his memory seemed to be blotted out by most of
those who had known him.

"But I say this, Crane, I am as confident to-day, as I was at his
trial, that in some way there was a miscarriage of justice, and
somewhere in the world may live the man or woman he was screening.
It seems hardly just to suggest it, but the thought will come
sometimes--could it have been his wife?  And yet, poor lady, I have
no reason for doubting her.  Seeing her death announced made the
whole thing come back to my mind with revivified force."

Dr. Crane's pipe had long since gone out for lack of attention.

"It's a wonderfully sad and yet interesting story," he remarked; "I
will of course keep it to myself, but had I known this earlier, I
should certainly have tried to save Margaret Woodford from going to
employers with this shadow over them."

"Oh, you needn't worry," said his friend, a little testily, "or I
shall be sorry I told you; you may take it from me, any woman would
be safe under the care of such a chivalrous gentleman as Gordon
Medhurst.  There is a mistake somewhere; I hope in some way--God's
way, perhaps--his name will be cleared."

* * * * *

It was some weeks later that Dr. Hatherley noticed another
announcement in his morning paper which brought a fervent "Thank
God!" to his lips as he read it.  It was headed:

"AN OLD SOCIETY CRIME RECALLED


"Through her lawyers the late Lucille Medhurst wishes it to be known
that she alone was responsible for the loss of Miss Vandevor's
necklace ten years ago; her husband, who suffered the full penalty of
the law, was wholly innocent.  Her full confession is in our hands."


"I always knew he was innocent," said his friend, laying the paper
down with a sigh of relief.




CHAPTER XII

HAPPINESS

The tragedy of Mrs. Medhurst's death had wrought many changes.
Ellice had been sent away to a boarding-school at Margaret's
suggestion, and she herself had gone to live with Mrs. Crane as
companion--but, as that lady put it in her letter, "more as a
daughter of the house than a dependent, dear--the daughter I have
always wanted to take care of us in our old age."

Mr. Medhurst went abroad for a few years, and then something new and
unexpected happened which changed the lives of all the inmates of
Oaklands.

Under the old oak tree a girl sat, her head buried in her hands in an
abandonment of grief: it was Ellice Medhurst, no longer the little
child who had in earlier years fled to the woods to soothe her
childish griefs, but a tall girl of fifteen, merging into womanhood.
Near her stood a young man looking down upon her with rather a
puzzled countenance, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.

"I don't see what's the use of making a fuss, Ellice," he remarked.

"Because it won't be anything to you--you will be off to college
directly," she answered, "and I shall be left with her.  I won't bear
it, Bob--I can't.  I know I shall hate her--and father will--will
never think of me--now," she ended with a sob.

"Look here, Sis," said her brother, after a slight pause, "I think
it's mean of you to take up this attitude.  Here's father coming home
to-day, and because he's chosen to marry again, you are putting
yourself out, and making up your mind to be as beastly as you can to
her--his wife, I mean.  I know you--you can be nasty when you
like--at least you used to be," he corrected.  "You've been jolly
decent lately; now you are going to spoil it all by being mean."

"Mean?  I don't understand.  In what way am I mean--and to whom?"

"To father, of course," was the emphatic answer--at Ellice's amazed
repetition of the words.  "You are going to spoil all his happiness
by taking up this role of being injured.  Dad will, of course, want
you to like her--the message in his letter is plain enough, 'I hope
you will do your best to give us both a welcome'--and all I can say
is, whatever _you_ do, I mean to go home and receive them.  Come on,
Sis, pull yourself together!  It doesn't say much for your love for
dad, if you set out to cause him trouble like this, and spoil his
happiness.  Be nice; very likely she won't be half bad.  I expect she
dreads seeing us quite as much as we dread seeing her.  What's the
honour of keeping smiling only when things are pleasant?  Come
on--get over it.  I'm off; it's nearly time they arrived."

There was silence for a moment, and Bob stood fidgeting by his
sister, then in half-disgusted tones he said:

"I can't wait any longer for you; if you won't come--you _won't_."
And with a quick stride he turned and made his way down the avenue
towards home.

For a few minutes longer the struggle for victory went on in Ellice
Medhurst's heart, then suddenly she jumped up with the muttered
words, "I'll try; Bob must be right."  She ran lightly down the path
after him, and caught him up at the edge of the wood.

"I'm coming with you," she whispered breathlessly, as she grasped his
arm.

"Well done, young 'un!" he answered.  "Come on, we must run, or we
shall be late."

* * * * *

"Here they come!" shouted Bob, as two figures turned into the
drive--a smothered exclamation escaped him as he rushed to the front
door.

Ellice did not follow immediately, her knees were shaking, and she
felt strung up to such a pitch of mental excitement she hardly felt
capable of following Bob at first.  Then suddenly she heard her
father's voice saying, "Where's Ellice?"  The reaction came
immediately; she flew to the door, and threw herself blindly into her
father's arms with a smothered sob.

"Why, ladybird, what is it?" he said, stroking her hair gently.
"Look--have you no word of welcome for my wife?"

"Ellice, dear child," said Margaret's voice gently.

The girl started, raising her head, and looked wonderingly into the
sweet face of her old governess.  Then the great fact dawned upon her
mind--Margaret Woodford, whom she loved, was the new stepmother she
had dreaded.

"You?--_You?_" she exclaimed, clasping the hands extended towards
her.  "Oh, how lovely!"

Tears of joy glistened in Margaret's eyes.

"I think you can see the reward of other years now, can't you?"
whispered her husband, and Margaret did see, and was wondrously
content.

* * * * *

Two months passed quickly away--two months of unalloyed happiness to
Margaret in her new life.

It was her birthday, and she stood looking out upon the frost-clothed
lawn glistening in a bath of winter sunshine, waiting for the others
to come down to breakfast.  It was November--cold, still, and bright.

Presently she felt her husband's hand upon her shoulder, and heard
his voice saying:

"Many happy returns!  Here is my double present for your wedding and
your birthday," and he placed an important looking envelope in her
hands.

At first Margaret gazed at the packet uncomprehendingly, then the
nature of the gift became clear.

"_The Abbey House!_" she exclaimed.  "You have bought the
Abbey--House--Gordon?"

"Yes, and I now present it to my wife," he said gaily.  "I hope she
is pleased?"

"Pleased?  I can scarcely believe it--the dear old home--ours?"

"Yes, the late owners are going abroad and wanted to sell, and at last
I have got what I have been hoping to have the opportunity of
purchasing for some time.  We will go there to live, dear, as soon as
you like."

"Oh, I don't know how to thank you!--it is beyond my wildest dreams,"
answered Margaret.  "I so loved the place.  But, Gordon (the
brightness fading a little from her face), how will Ellice like
leaving Oaklands?  She is just as attached to it as I was to the old
home."

"I know," answered Mr. Medhurst; "we will keep it, dear, and come out
here in the summer months.  Betsy and James can remain in charge."

"That will be splendid, and please us all," she answered quietly,
adding, as if to herself, "I sometimes wonder why God has been so
bountiful to me."

We leave Margaret Woodford, while yet the ministry of life is
unfinished, and her future and that of her loved ones an unwritten
page, knowing that for her and all God's servants, the promise
remains unshakable--"I will be with thee all the days.  When thou
passest through the waters, they shall not overflow thee."











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