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Title: Lucia's trust

Author: Catharine Shaw

Release date: December 14, 2024 [eBook #74901]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co., Ltd


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCIA'S TRUST ***

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

[Illustration: With the other hand she poured some bright coins
 into Lucia's lap.]



                           _Lucia's Trust._


                                  BY

                            CATHARINE SHAW

              AUTHOR OF "LILIAN'S HOPE," "DICKIE'S SECRET,"
                       "THE GABLED FARM," ETC.


                                —————
                             NEW EDITION.
                                —————


                      JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., LTD.
                            _Publishers_
                   3, PILGRIM STREET, LONDON, E.C.



                         BRITISH MANUFACTURE               1893



                              CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

    I. HOW IT CAME

   II. AT THE COTTAGE

  III. LUCIA'S QUEEN

   IV. UNDER THE ELMS

    V. LUCIA'S GIFT

   VI. IN THE FOREST

  VII. VOICES IN THE FOREST

 VIII. MAY'S HEART'S DESIRE

   IX. "A SLIP BETWIXT"

    X. A PROMISE

   XI. EVAN IS GLAD

  XII. BARBARA'S GIFT



                            LUCIA'S TRUST.

                           [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

HOW IT CAME.

"I SUPPOSE you must go?" asked her cousin, reading the letter for the
third time. "There is no choice, is there?"

"None whatever," said Lucia, thinking it all over with a very sober
face.

That letter had come as a very unpleasant break in a most happy visit.

It was not often that Lucia could get away from her home, where a
little flock of step-brothers and sisters kept her busy from morning
till night.

But this time she had got away! Her mother had long planned for her to
visit some cousins of her own in the North, and Lucia had been with
them for a month already.

She had begun to feel that her home in London was a very long way
off, and that her step-father, and even her own mother, had grown of
less absorbing interest than formerly. Life seemed to centre in that
charming country house, her cousins with their affairs began to fill
her horizon, and when the letters came from her mother speaking of
her step-father having been ill with the dreaded influenza, and being
better again, she dismissed the matter with the comfortable hope that
no one else would take it, and that mother would not be over-tired.

Then she did not hear for a week, but was too happy to be nervous,
when one evening, just as she and her cousins were settling down for a
cosy time, the second post brought her that news which overturned all
her plans, and spoke of changes which might alter the aspect of her
life for years to come. Her step-father had had a relapse; a dormant
delicacy of the chest had suddenly developed, and he was ordered to
take a sea voyage if his life were to be saved.

"I have had to choose between him and our children, and he needs me the
most; so I am going with him," wrote her mother. "You, my darling, will
act a mother's part, I know, while I am gone. Come home at once, that I
may give it all into your hands, for we start directly."

There was no choice, as Emmie had said; but while Lucia sat silently in
her corner, she confessed to herself that never in her life before had
any news been so unwelcome.

She loved her mother devotedly, and so she did her little brothers and
sisters. Her step-father had always been most kind and generous to her,
and she loved him too. But for all that, she blamed herself bitterly
that she thought almost more of her own disappointment in being called
home, than of the great anxiety and grief which had fallen upon it.

Early the next morning Lucia woke up to the knowledge of something
which seemed like a heavy weight on her spirit. Then it all flashed
upon her.

She rose hastily, for a busy time was before her. On the previous night
she had not done any packing, and very soon after breakfast she was to
start on her homeward journey.

When she left her room, only the maids were astir. So she crept
downstairs to the quiet rooms, and began to collect her possessions,
which in a month's visit had become scattered about—her music, her
work-basket, her easel and paint-box.

She carried an armful into the dining room and began to sort the music
out, till, unconscious of time, she fell into a reverie over the words
of one of the songs, and started violently when she heard herself
addressed in an astonished tone by her aunt's housekeeper—

"Why, Miss Lucia, to be sure, miss, I thought something must have
happened to see you sitting there all alone at this time of day! I was
passing along the garden, going to feed my chickens, when I caught
sight of your head, and heard your pretty voice singing more like the
angels than anything else, to be sure!"

"Oh, Mrs. Brown, something has happened," exclaimed Lucia ruefully; "I
am going home!"

"Deary miss, I heard something of it last night," responded the
housekeeper in her cheery way; "and I was so very sorry for the cause
of it, I'm sure." "Yes—," said Lucia slowly, "so am I, awfully sorry;
but I cannot help wishing it had come at any other time—"

Mrs. Brown paused a moment, and then she said gently, "The Lord's time
is always the right time, dear Miss Lucia—"

Lucia raised her eyes and looked into the placid face.

"I was so happy here," she murmured.

She turned over the songs, and as the words caught her eyes, they
filled with tears.

"Your mother is in sore trouble, Miss Lucia, and she will be very glad
to have a sight of your sweet face."

Lucia shook her head while she wiped her eyes. "I wish I were thinking
about her instead of myself," she said.

Mrs. Brown was silent. She and Lucia had been very good friends when
they had met, and had established a mutual confidence.

"You think I am a horrid selfish creature, don't you, Mrs. Brown?" she
burst out at length.

"I think you only want one thing to make you the sweetest, dearest
young lady—"

"And that is an unselfish spirit—?"

"No—o, miss, it isn't that—"

"Then what is it?"

"It's to look at things in the light of His countenance, Miss Lucia—not
by our own dull lanterns, but in His pure light!"

"Look at things?" questioned Lucia. "How do you mean?"

"When we know that what happens comes from our Lord, it takes away the
sting of troubles."

"I don't see that it can take away the sting of this," said Lucia.
"Here I am, enjoying myself as much as I possibly can, and not going
home for a fortnight more; and then father falls ill, and they are
ordered abroad, and I have to go home to slave with the little ones,
and all my pleasure is stopped. And, worst of all, I am just a horrid,
selfish creature for thinking so, much less saying so! I can't see that
in the light of His countenance!"

"Ah, dear Miss Lucia, that's just it! Everything looks dull and gloomy
by the light of our own dark thoughts. Shall I tell you how I see the
matter? You will not be hurt at me, because I've seen a great many
troubles, and I've come out of the Slough of Despond on the side of the
Celestial City!"

Lucia clasped the kind hand affectionately as she said, "Tell me, then;
I shall not mind anything you say—"

"In the light of His will, this is what I see," said the housekeeper
tenderly. "You have had a month to enjoy a nice change; and then the
Lord says to you He has a lovely opportunity for you to do something
for Him! You can be a real comfort to your step-father, who—you told
me, didn't you, miss?—has been very good to you; a comfort to your
mother, who has to bear a heavy trial; and you have five darling
children given into your care to train for Him for ever so many months;
and to get back in return their whole love and His gracious approval.
Oh, Miss Lucia, isn't that sunshine enough for one day? And don't the
clouds go chasing away in the light of His most blessed will?"



CHAPTER II.

AT THE COTTAGE.

BEFORE Lucia had time to realize that she was once more at home, the
cab was driving from the door with her father and mother, and she was
left in charge of her five brothers and sisters.

In the few days in which her mother had had everything to arrange, she
had written for their own country cottage to be got ready for them,
where the children could lead a free life, and be out of doors from
morning till night; and to this they were to proceed at once.

The children were wild with excitement at the treat in store for them,
and even their mother's sorrowful face, and their father's pale one,
could hardly sober their exuberant joy at the thought of a whole summer
in the country.

Lucia would have preferred to take charge in her own dear home, with
their employments around her, and their own servants; but she supposed
that mother know best, and certainly a cottage in a wood had its
attractions to a romantic girl of nineteen. But she inwardly wished,
almost bitterly, that she had been consulted before the plans were
formed. When, however, she had arrived home, her mother's boxes were
already packed, and their house was let for several months to a family
of title, who had come to London for the season.

Poor Lucia, with her aching head and disappointed heart, tried hard
to be patient; but she thought that the children had never seemed so
tiresome before, and the difficulties seemed almost more than she could
bear.

Evan, who was twelve, and had been the eldest at home during her long
visit, seemed to have taken new airs upon him, and understood about
everything so much better than she did.

Then Barbara (her darling generally) was also full of importance,
helping nurse pack, and was the only one who could get Queenie to
stop crying for her mother. Ivor and May had endless secrets, which
they would not share with her. The maids were overwhelmingly busy
in preparing the house for the fresh arrivals to-morrow, so that
altogether Lucia was nearly distracted.

To-morrow morning! They were to go to-morrow morning! How was it
possible that the confusion reigning around could be reduced to order
by the next day?

She went to her room and looked round.

There were her boxes not even unpacked, but the one that stood open
revealed a tennis dress which had been used only once, and which she
remembered Alec Cransworth had said was very becoming. Oh, dear she
should never wear that again while it was in fashion! Hot and angry
tears splashed down her cheeks, she threw herself on her bed and wept
despairingly.

If only her mother had proposed that she should bring home Emmie or
Phyllis with her as a companion, it would not have been so bad. But to
be shut up in a cottage with nurse and five tiresome children—

And then the quiet face of her aunt's housekeeper rose up before her
mental vision, and she could almost hear her say, "Dear Miss Lucia, it
makes all the difference if we love to do the Lord's will, and not our
own. His will is always kindest and best."

"I do want to do His will," sobbed Lucia, "and I do want to be good and
patient; but it is so bitterly hard to have your visit spoilt, and to
be brought back to such a turmoil as this, without even having mother
to share it!"

But she had not long to indulge her disappointment. Before many minutes
had passed, a knock at the door summoned her to take part in the
packing up which was going on around.

She was young, and in spite of herself almost, the preparations did
take off her thoughts, and she found herself in the whirl of the
excitement such a change involved.

But deep down in her heart the same discontented and bitter chord kept
on vibrating, and what should have been music was turned to discord.
Two or three years ago Lucia had come to feel her need of a Saviour,
and had gone to Him to be pardoned and saved; and ever since she had
gone on in her old life with very little difference either to herself
or others. She rose each day, read a little of her Bible, prayed to
have her sins forgiven and to be made good, and then she went on her
daily round of duties and pleasures, without much further thought. Glad
that she was safe, even thanking God that she was safe, but content to
be kind and loving and unselfish to those who loved her so devotedly,
and nothing more.

"I think Lucia hardly has a fault," her mother wrote to her aunt, and
perhaps Lucia almost thought the same herself.

Then came the happy visit, her renewed acquaintance with her cousins
and with their friends the Cransworths, and Lucia floated along the
stream of pleasure for one delicious month, and woke up after a
nightmare of partings and journeys and packings and partings again, to
find herself looking out of a little parlour window on a green lawn,
and a pond covered with waterlilies; while beyond was a hill covered
with tender green trees and crowned with pines, whose straight delicate
branches were set off by the sunset sky behind.

If her mother and father had been there she would have said that the
view was almost too exquisite; but to-night, with the knowledge of her
responsibilities, and with the voices of her five little step-brothers
and sisters behind her back, the scene only gave her the heartache.
And she went to rest in the little countrified bedroom, with the cloud
still unlifted from her spirit—only longing that the three months
should be over, and she should be able to go back to her London home.

The next morning, however, things began to look decidedly brighter.

The children no longer seemed so tiresome, and as Lucia sat at the
breakfast table watching their smiling faces, she reproached herself
that she had thought them last night the most disagreeable little
creatures in existence.

"Lucia," said Barbara coaxingly, with a certain wistfulness in her
voice, that Lucia detected in a moment, "could you come out with us
this morning and explore the wood?"

"I do not think so—I have to unpack; but why do you not be satisfied
to-day with going up this field and settling yourselves where nurse and
I can see you?"

"Very well," assented Barbara, "only we did want you!"

"We'll bring home some wild flowers," said Evan. "Nurse says she can
find a jar to put in the fireplace; this is so common and ugly, isn't
it Lucia?"

"Rather," answered Lucia, turning her head to look; "only mind you keep
within sight of the cottage."

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Ivor, "we will. This is the loveliest place I ever
saw! Ten times as nice as the beach at Westgate."

So they found a basket, and with their lunch in the depths of it, to be
replaced by flowers, set off together, Barbara being trusted with the
care of Queenie (as they were not going out of sight), and May pleading
to stay with nurse to help put away the contents of the ten boxes which
at present made a warehouse of the narrow little hall.



CHAPTER III.

LUCIA'S QUEEN.

LOYALTY had been born and bred in the family of which Lucia was the
eldest child.

Ever since she could remember, "The Queen" was her ideal, and Windsor
Castle the place in all the world that she loved to be near.

This cottage almost beneath the shadow of Windsor Castle had belonged
to her mother's family all her life, and every year she and her mother,
when they were alone together in the old days, had migrated there for a
month or two, so that every turret and tree was dear to them, and the
Queen and Royal Family seemed to belong to them in a special way.

Thus it came to pass that as soon as Lucia had step-brothers and
sisters, she instilled her enthusiasm about the Queen into their
susceptible little hearts, and May especially felt that the Royal lady
who lived so near the cottage was her Queen—her property—to be loved
and reverenced as long as she lived.

The children were never tired of hearing Lucia tell how one day when
she was about seven years old, as she was walking near the cottage
quite alone, she saw a cloud of dust approaching along the road, and
in a moment she guessed it was caused by the outriders surrounding the
Queen's carriage, and with beating heart stood upon the path to see her
go by.

Would the cavalcade come that way? Or would they sweep round the corner
at the end of the road, and so pass out of view?

No; in another moment little Lucia knew she was safe. The outriders
wheeled round, and came along her road, and the Queen's carriage was
close to her, and the dear Queen sitting almost within reach of her!

Never could Lucia forget that proud moment! For, as with blushing,
smiling face the little girl made a deep obeisance to her Sovereign,
that gracious lady rose in her carriage, and, all unseen by any other
eyes, bowed to the lonely little girl in the lonely country road.

"I wonder if I shall see the Queen?" questioned May that morning,
as she carried armful after armful of clothes from the boxes to the
drawers.

"Very likely you will," answered Lucia, "if we go into Windsor. It is
but a chance thing to see the Queen out here, but of course she does
drive every day somewhere when she is at home."

"Is she at home now?" asked May, colouring with anxiety.

"Yes, the flag is flying this morning; I saw it when I was out just
now. I used always to feel dreary as a child when there was no flag on
the Round Tower."

May did not say any more; but in her heart she formed the resolve that
she would watch and watch till she too had seen the Queen.

Meantime, while the boxes were being emptied and the drawers were being
filled, the other children were enjoying the first morning in the real
country.

They were revelling in wild flowers, moss, stones, and ferns; making
imaginary rooms among the furze bushes, and decking "the drawing room"
with bunches of wild roses, while they picked endless fronds of bracken
to form couches for the bedrooms.

A children's world is a happy world! No cares come to mar it, no
anxieties enter in as to "what shall we eat or what shall we drink?"
Their father's provision is sure to be right, he will provide dinner
when dinner time comes; and here is lunch packed ready in the basket,
why need they care?

Lucia put on her hat and went up the road to see how they were getting
on, and when she watched them from behind the bushes, for they were too
busy to notice her, some such thoughts as these went through her mind—

"I wonder why older people are so anxious," she said to herself, "why
they let things worry them so? If we only trusted our heavenly Father
as those children in their play-houses trust their earthly father, how
different life would be!"

She turned round and retraced her steps, without disturbing the little
party; but though she left them behind, she did not leave the thoughts
which they had suggested.

She entered the cottage, fetched her easel and her painting materials,
and sat down under the elms to sketch, while the bees buzzed dreamily,
and the birds sang a ceaseless song.

That quiet morning was a turning-point in Lucia's life.

As her fingers were busily at work, making a sketch for her cousins,
her mind went back to her aunt's housekeeper, and then to all her own
disappointment and rebellion since.

Had not her Father—her heavenly, loving Father—seen all these things
beforehand, and prepared the path for her to walk in, that therein she
might glorify Him?

But it was so terribly disappointing to be called away just as her
enjoyment had seemed to be at its height.

And yet He knew that! Why was it that He allowed it then?

She put down her brush and leaned her chin on her hand, looking off
into the country landscape dreamily. Why did He? echoed again and
again. And there was no answer but the ceaseless melody of the birds as
they rejoiced in the Father's sunshine.



CHAPTER IV.

UNDER THE ELMS.

"YOUR Father knoweth!"

Lucia raised her head suddenly. It seemed almost as if the waving
breeze in the trees overhead had whispered the words audibly.

Then if He knew, why was it? Could she know too?

She thought of an earthly father—the very best and dearest she knew—and
she wondered how he would do with his children.

He would take them a journey, and each day or each hour he would tell
them which way to go and what he wanted them to do. The children would
not question his wisdom or his love. The more unknown the way, the more
they would trust him. They would trust and obey.

"Your Father knoweth."

"Yes, He does," said Lucia beneath her breath, "and I will trust and
obey. I will not struggle any more, but take my Father's will as
entirely best."

When she had reached that point, there came a flood of sunshine to
illumine what had looked so dark before.

The care of the five little brothers and sisters was no longer a
burden too great for her shoulders; the broken visit with its hardly
understood charms ceased to cause her such a heartache whenever she
thought of it; for she had resigned the one and the other to His will,
who surely loved her, and instead of fret and pain came a peace that
passed all understanding.

She took up her brush once more, but that drawing never got to its
destination. Into that pond and waterlilies, into those daisies and
clover, were painted a yielded heart; and to her eyes ever after the
very colours told a tale that she could not give to others or part with
for the world.

"For Christ henceforth," she said, as she heard the sound of the little
voices coming through the intervening trees, and sounding silvery over
the pond, and she put away her drawing and rose to meet the children
with a happy smile, such as had not been on her face since she heard
that bad news in the North. Then the little green gate swung open, and
the children ran over the grass to her side.

"Oh, Lucia, it is so lovely!" exclaimed Evan. "I never saw such a
place; and, do you know, there are nests and all sorts of things for
Ivor and me?"

Barbara offered a kiss, and Queenie threw her arms round her neck.
"I'se so d'lad to get back," she said, "and I do want my lickle dinner
so!"

Lucia could laugh as light-heartedly as any of them now, and she
wondered that she could ever have thought the children so disagreeable.

At the rose-covered porch May stood waiting.

"It's all done," she announced. "Just come and see how neat we have
made everything. Barbara, you and I are to have this cupboard all to
ourselves, besides those drawers, and nurse says Evan and Ivor are not
to come into our room at all."

"All right," said Evan, "I don't want to. You keep to yours and we'll
keep to ours, won't we, Ivor? What have you given us? I suppose we
shall have to 'shift,' as Mrs. Giah calls it."

Mrs. Giah was the woman who had charge of the cottage when they were
not there. She kept occasional fires burning, aired the rooms, let in
the sunshine, and shut out the rain, and prepared the place for them if
any of the family wanted to come down for a few days.

Mrs. Giah was an old servant who had known and nursed Lucia's mother,
so that though the children laughed softly at her amusing sayings, it
was with a certain tenderness which long years of loving service had
earned for the old woman. On her part, no people in the world were like
her Carews. Though she did think that the young people could sometimes
"shift" a little more than they seemed inclined to do, no one in the
world must say a word against them in her hearing.



CHAPTER V.

LUCIA'S GIFT.

BARBARA CAREW lived in a practical world, while May lived in an
imaginative one. Barbara was always devising some means to help
someone, or do something, while little May was dreaming of royal
palaces and untasted joys.

So Barbara amused her brothers and sisters; was always ready to run
out to the hens, or follow Mrs. Giah to the farm to look for eggs, or
to climb up into the empty carts with her brothers, while May would be
seated in a corner of the hayloft, talking to her doll, or buried in
the "Arabian Nights."

That afternoon, just as Lucia was wondering what she should do with
herself, she heard cartwheels lumbering up the lane which led to the
back of the cottage.

This was such an unusual sound, that the children ran out to see what
it could be.

"It is a great van sort of thing," exclaimed Ivor, racing back to tell
his sister. "I've seen them like it in London, but I don't know what's
in it, I'm sure."

Nurse, who was standing looking on, peeped through the hedge at Ivor's
description, and finally went down the garden into the lane too.

Two men were in charge of the cart, and one stepped forward with a note.

"For Miss Carew," he said.

Nurse was greatly astonished, and looked back to where Lucia was
standing in the porch, framed by the roses and honeysuckle.

"For me?" asked Lucia, coming down the path. Then she saw her mother's
handwriting, and tearing the envelope open, saw within—

"For my dear Lucia, with her mother's love."

"Whatever is it?" said Evan excitedly.

While the man went to the back of the van with a key, saying in a very
matter-of-fact voice, "A cottage piano, miss. Where is it to go?"

Lucia could not believe the evidence of her eyes. A piano! Was not the
lack of this one of the things which had caused her such discontent in
coming here? Had she not said to herself bitterly that mother quite
forgot what it would be to give up her music for three months, nor how
stiff her fingers would get, nor how out of practice her voice!

And here—here was a little bijou of a piano, apparently for her very
own!

Lucia hung her head to hide the tears of contrition which filled her
eyes. Was this another of those things which "her Father" knew and
provided for? And if He could so lovingly care for even this, would He
not care for all that concerned her?

So, while the men made their preparations to carry in the little
instrument, Lucia was sending up a joyful thanksgiving for the heavenly
love which had given her so great a pleasure through her mother's
earthly love.

Where the piano was to stand was of course the next thing, and
everybody ran back to the little drawing room to see what would be the
best place before the men got to the door.

Lucia found that there was a niche which seemed to ask to be filled, so
that there was not a moment's doubt as to where the new treasure was to
go.

"I shall be able to get on with my music now," remarked Barbara; "I was
afraid Miss Lewis would think I had forgotten it all."

Then in came the men, and the boys felt they must help to place it just
right, and ran imminent risk of their fingers and toes in doing it.

"Who's it from?" asked Ivor. "Is it yours, Lucia?"

"Mine, from mother," answered Lucia.

"I thought you was cryin'," said Queenie, edging up close to her; "I
saw you cryin', I do b'lieve?"

"Only because I am so pleased, and because—"

But the others were clamouring for her to sit down and try it; so Lucia
did not explain further, though she would have said, had she been able,
that she was most unworthy of all the love which had been shown her,
and she was ashamed of all her hard thoughts. It was not till the piano
had been tried and retried, not till Lucia had sung them song after
song, in her beautiful fresh young voice, that someone said,—

"Where's May?"

She certainly was not with them, and there ensued a general hunt, which
ended in her being found talking to her doll, in a quiet corner, behind
a hayrick, though what she had said to her doll was certainly unguessed
by any of the party.

"Now, Rosabel," she had said, "when next we all go out for a walk in
the woods, I shall keep my eyes open for the road that the Queen drives
in. She must drive somewhere, you know, and if I watch long enough, I
shall be sure to see her. It can't be any harm, for I heard mother say
to Lucia, 'Let the children enjoy themselves as much as ever they can;
let them be out from morning to night, and if they can turn into the
Family Robinson, so much the better!' Now, if mother said that, there
can be no harm in my taking advantage of it to see the Queen! So I mean
to.

"I shall not take you with me, Rosabel, because I shall have to take
my lunch, or something, and a sunshade in case it rains, and you would
certainly be in the way if I had to go a long way. But I shall put you
up in the hayloft, where you can see out of that little window, and
then you will be able to watch for me to come back."

Her reflections were broken in upon by Evan's voice, speaking vexedly.

"What a hunt we've had for you, May, I do declare! Why, you've missed
a jolly thing, with your love of being different from the rest of us—a
jolly thing! Why, here's Lucia, had the biggest and the best present
she ever had in her life, and you have been away and not seen it
arrive!"

May's imaginative mind flew to all sorts of wonderful things, but nurse
stopped these short by scolding her soundly for giving them so much
trouble, and threatening to send her to bed on the next occasion if she
did not keep with the rest.

"It's bad for the child," she said to herself, as she walked back
behind the little party, "and Miss Lucia is inclined to be too easy
with them, I do believe."



CHAPTER VI.

IN THE FOREST.

MAY, however, was thinking so much of her project that nurse's
displeasure passed over her with but little impression. She only made
up her mind to wait for an opportunity when they were out together, and
she had liberty to enjoy herself.

In the free and happy life which they were leading, she had not much
need, however, for the exercise of patience.

Only the next day, as they all sat at breakfast, Lucia said cheerfully—

"Hands up for a day in the forest?"

Nurse, who had just brought in Queenie's breakfast, smiled as all the
five pairs of hands went up, quicker than one could imagine possible,
while Lucia said—

"Nobody objects, then?"

And after that, they fell to arranging about baskets, and dinner
and tea, kettles and spirit-lamps, till the children were wild with
anticipation.

It was discovered that Lucia had foreseen that little people (to say
nothing of older ones) would be hungry, and had herself walked into
Windsor the day before to order a good supply of dainties. There was
great excitement to find out what she had provided, but she would not
allow a single package to be opened, telling them that they should see
when the time came.

They soon got off, and began the rather hot and uphill walk which led
from the cottage to the outskirts of the forest.

May had her own little thoughts; under her shady hat, her bright eyes
took in the direction and possibilities of every turning and cross
road, but she said nothing, keeping close to Lucia most of the time,
and saying over and over again to herself, "Mother said we were to
enjoy ourselves as much as ever we could, and this is my way!"

Dinner, with Lucia's dainties, was a grand success, and then May's
heart began to beat, and she felt her time had come. Nurse was busy
packing up the plates, Barbara was helping her, Lucia was picking
wild flowers with Queenie, and the two boys were far away, chasing a
butterfly. Now was her time, she thought, if she were to see the Queen!

When the butterfly catchers recollected that they were a good way from
what they called "camp," they made their way back with all speed, and
found nurse resting after her labours by the side of the neatly-packed
baskets, Barbara sorting wild flowers into bunches, while Lucia was
sitting against a tree, with Queenie asleep in her lap.

"Have we been too long?" asked Evan, colouring. "I never guessed it was
such a time—"

"No," answered nurse, "we've been busy; but where is Miss May?"

Ah! Where was Miss May? They waited and waited till they grew anxious,
and wished they had not waited at all. And then they began to search
near at hand, and wished that they had gone in any direction but the
one they had taken. And at last, when all was in vain, and no May was
to be seen, Lucia set out towards the Long Walk, and nurse went in
the opposite direction, while Evan set off homewards with the rest,
promising to send help should the missing sister not be found on the
way.

Meanwhile May wandered under the shady forest trees, stepping over the
bracken, or jumping from patch to patch of bare grass between them,
only intent on getting out of sight of the rest, and towards the wide
road which they had passed a little while ago, where she had made up
her mind the Queen was sure to pass.

The voices of the butterfly catchers had long since been lost, and
nurse's cheerful tones, with Barbara's silvery laugh, had become less
and less distinct, till at last there was no sound in the air but the
singing birds and the waving trees.

May stood still for a moment. She thought it would be wise to take
her bearings, to get into her mind where she was; but when she looked
round, there was nothing in the world to mark the direction she had
come from.

But May did not concern herself greatly about this. If she saw the
Queen, what matter would it be if she had a little trouble in finding
Lucia and nurse again!

So she slowly wandered on, though the silence and stillness of the
forest rather made her heart quake.

At length she came to a road, and this took off the feeling of
loneliness to some extent.

She sat down in a shady place and looked yearningly along it, expecting
every moment to see the cloud of dust approaching, and to live over
again Lucia's old experience of so many years ago.

But no cloud of dust came; no footfall broke the intense quiet of the
scene.

Once a stir among the bracken made her start; but it was only some of
the deer who had not noticed the still little figure till they were
quite close to it, and then had fled away, shy and frightened.

But still the Queen did not come!

As the hours passed away, and the sun began to shine with slanting rays
through the trees, May began to cease to look so earnestly along the
road. Her head turned first in one direction and then the other. Was
it fancy that made her think the forest was full of voices calling her
name?

How fast the sun was sinking! It would be night soon; that solemn,
quiet night which she had never spent anywhere but in her own warm
little bed!

The air played around her and made her shiver, and thoughts of tea and
home began to haunt her.

How many hours must it be since she had had anything to eat? Her
dinner? That had been only a mouthful or two, for her heart had been
beating so with thoughts of her project that she had been unable to
eat. Though she had intended to put some in her pocket, there had not
been the opportunity, for she had feared that Evan's sharp eyes and
sharper tongue would be sure to disclose her secret, should he notice
her doing anything with her sandwiches but eat them.

How she wished that she had not crept away so stealthily when the rest
were scattering after dinner. How ashamed she was now of the answer she
had given Barbara, as she led Queenie off in the other direction.

"I'm just going over there, Barbara, to get some ferns!"

She had stoutly assured herself then that this was not an untruth; but
now—

Poor little May! She was beginning to pay very dearly for her
"enjoyment," as many another does who attempts to snatch what is not
given!

Oh, how weary she was—how cold! How forlorn!

Thoughts of her mother began to fill her mind, and her conscience
pricked her that, although she had carried out the letter of her
mother's directions, she had broken the spirit of them.

She buried her face on her knees, and began to cry, and cried long and
hopelessly, till she seemed to have no tears left. But at last, as she
began to grow quieter, in a kind of resignation to meet her fate, sleep
came down upon her heavy eyelids, and she forgot for a little while
that she was lost.



CHAPTER VII.

VOICES IN THE FOREST.

MEANWHILE the children had gone home, only to find no May there, while
nurse and Lucia still searched and searched fruitlessly.

At last they thought that perhaps the little girl had also gone home,
and so they set out to see, Lucia hardly bearing to tear herself away
from the forest, lest the child should be there after all.

But no May was at home; and now what was to be done?

Evan and Mrs. Giah had prepared tea. And after snatching a few hasty
mouthfuls, it was decided that the whole party should go back again and
look anew, Mrs. Giah promising to communicate with the cottagers near,
and beg them to help too.

What Lucia and nurse passed through in those hours only those know who
have had a lost child.

Lucia had found time to fly up to her room, and had thrown herself
on her knees, asking with earnest supplication that May might be
preserved, and that they might be led to her. And when she came down,
and they all started together, nurse was surprised at the quiet
calmness which shone in her face.

"Why, Miss Lucia," she said, "one would think Miss May was found, to
look at you."

"God knows where she is," answered Lucia softly, "and I have asked Him
to show us."

Nurse shook her head gloomily. She had not an ever-present help to go
to, and could not share Lucia's trust.

The children were told to keep in sight of the road which ran through
the forest and led finally to their cottage, while nurse and Lucia
searched among the trees, calling till their voices were hoarse, and
watching the sun go down with hearts that sank too—at any rate nurse's
did. As to Lucia, she kept on saying to herself, "God knows where she
is," and so went on with renewed strength.

At last little May heard in her dreams the sound of loved voices
calling her name.

She turned round with a start, and was wide awake all in a moment.

Could it be? Could it? Then in one instant she heard Evan say, "Perhaps
she's up this hill." And then Queenie's sweet little head came in view
over the top, and she was found.

Evan took her hand without a word, and led her back to the road, which
was close to them. Had not Lucia enjoined him not to scold his poor
little sister, for had she not been punished enough already?

Then they all walked soberly home in the twilight, Evan sending forth
many a shrill sound from his whistle, which echoed back through the
trees as the agreed signal that all was well.

Nurse heard it, and hurried towards home.

Lucia heard it, and her heart sent up its grateful praise for the
answered prayer.

"My Father did know," she said joyfully.

May was found, and now the seekers began to realize that they were
tired out.

Slowly and wearily they all made their way back to the cottage.

Lucia's first feeling after her thankfulness, had been one of vexation
that May could have been so naughty, but ere it reached her lips she
was stopped by the remembrance that "all we like sheep have gone
astray," and the thought softened her heart towards her little sister,
and enabled her to go over to her side and take her hand in hers.

May gave one glance of surprise, and then nestled against her very
softly.

"We must talk about it, dear, when we get back," said Lucia; "just now
I am so thankful that you are safe, and we are all so tired—"

"I know," murmured May humbly. "I never meant to be naughty."

But when they had got home, and had eaten their tea, and had been put
to bed by nurse and Lucia together, May ventured to draw her sister
close, and whisper—

"I wanted you to talk to me. You said mother would have been very
grieved if she knew I had been so naughty."

"So I did, May; but mother would forgive you I know, if you are sorry."

Lucia sat down on the edge of the bed, and May climbed up into her
arms, resting on her shoulder ever so lovingly.

"You see, May," said Lucia gently, "I am afraid that your being so fond
of doing something different from the others led you to be disobedient.
You knew you were none of you to go away from the rest."

"It wasn't that exactly," whispered May humbly.

"What was it then?"

"I wanted to see the Queen."

Lucia paused. Could she call that any harm, she who loved the Queen so
dearly?

"But we must not do wrong, even for a right and nice purpose," she said
slowly.

"Was it wrong?"

"Yes, it was disobedient; that's where the wrong was, May. Oh, May, I
do want you to think of pleasing Jesus our Saviour more than anything!
Did you think of whether He would like you to do it?"

"No," said May, shaking her head, "I never do think of that."

Lucia was silent a moment.

"Would you not like to?" she said at last.

May nodded.

"It's because you've been so kind," she said, squeezing her sister very
tight. "I am sorry now. And, Lucia—"

"Yes, dear?"

"I said what wasn't quite true—twice."

"Did you, dear?"

"Yes; I told the others I was only going over there; and so I was, and
yet it wasn't quite true, because I meant to go a good way, you see!"

"Yes, I see that. Satan is so glad to trip us up like that. He assures
us it is true, and then he mocks us by reminding us it was not."

May nodded again, and then went on—

"And I told you I did not mean to be naughty; but I do believe I knew
I ought not to have gone away, only I wanted so much to see the Queen
that I would not let myself think."

Lucia pressed her closely.

"Dear little May! What a mercy it is for us, who do so many wrong
things, that God can forgive us because Jesus bore our punishment."

"Yes," whispered May.

So Lucia put her back tenderly into bed, and then she went into her own
room, and knelt down and humbly thanked God that He had made a way of
escape for us guilty lost ones to come back to His bosom; that He is
"just, and yet the justifier of him which believeth in Jesus."

Lucia would not have believed, had she been told, the difference this
episode would make in all their feelings.

May was an altered child. Instead of being always not to be found, she
was generally at her side, trying to please her in many little ways,
and showing her gratitude and love by every means in her power.

And as for herself, never before had she felt so small in her own eyes.
The thought of her answered prayer, the thought of May's generous
confession, humbled her to the dust; and then the thought of His
goodness, who had wrought both by His love, lifted her up and sent her
on her way rejoicing.



CHAPTER VIII.

MAY'S HEART'S DESIRE.

AFTER all, little May did have her heart's desire!

One day, when they were in the Long Walk, and were playing
hide-and-seek among the elms, thinking of nothing but their play, an
old man, who was standing watching them with a kindly gleam in his
eyes, suddenly pulled himself up, and took off his old battered hat.

"That's my gracious lady the Queen comin' down," he said quietly, "if
you young folks 'ud stop playin' jest a moment."

May started and turned white, and all the rest stood still with beating
hearts as the carriage came swiftly down the hill.

"She's the best lady in the land, and the best queen in the world," the
old man said reverently. "May she wear a crown of glory that fadeth not
away!"

The Queen bowed to the little group of expectant faces, and in a moment
her swift horses had carried her away. But the old man's words had
taken the children's thoughts beyond this world's passing glory to that
heavenly country where not only the sun never sets, but where the Lord
God is the light, and all who love Him shall reign for ever and ever!

        *        *        *        *        *        *        *

So the party settled down to more happiness that either nurse or Lucia
had anticipated, and the days began to fly by, instead of dragging as
they had done.

Letters from their father and mother, too, brought good news, and also
a welcome and unexpected enclosure for each of the children.

Lucia's share had been her piano, the letter said; but the children
were to have a little store of money, which they were to spend just as
they liked, with only one stipulation, that they should keep an account
of what they spent it on.

Great excitement prevailed, and great plans were made.

Evan and Ivor sat for a long time in very serious consultation, and
nurse was coaxed to take them all into Windsor, that they might look at
the shops "for suggestions," Barbara said, in her wise, motherly little
way.

"Not that I am going to spend mine all in a hurry," she added, "for
that would be silly. I should not have half the pleasure; but we will
go to look about."

So they went to Windsor, Lucia accompanying them, doing some shopping
on her own account, while nurse wandered round with her five children,
and gave her advice pretty freely as to what in her opinion would be
nice to buy.

"Not that I should spend it at all," she concluded; "I should put it in
the bank if I had it to do!"

When, therefore, Evan and Ivor went home without having made any
purchase, or even gone into raptures over anything in particular, she
congratulated herself on their having taken her advice, and decided
that they were more sensible than she had given them the credit of
being.

However, going suddenly into the little drawing room that evening, she
found them both deeply buried in conversation; and they started up with
great precipitation, and said, "Hulloa! Nurse, we're talking secrets;
don't you come listening now."

"I'm not listening," said nurse; "but it is bedtime. That's what I've
come to say. I couldn't find you anywhere."

She waited for them to pass out before her, and the boys could do
nothing but obey, though they felt they had not half talked the matter
over, upon which they had been so busily engaged when she interrupted
them.

"We can talk in bed," whispered Ivor.

But Evan shook his head. Talking in bed was strictly forbidden, so that
Evan, who was an obedient little boy, never thought of such a thing
being possible.

"What are you going to spend yours on, Ivor?" asked May, who was in the
nursery, sitting by the window.

"We have not decided," answered Evan a little sharply.

May looked surprised at his tone, and said eagerly, "You've never asked
what I am going to get—something that will do for us all! I would not
say a word till Lucia said we might, and she was so long in that shop
that I could not ask her. But she likes it very much, and you can't
possibly guess what it is."

"I don't particularly want to," said Evan, full of his own plans, and
not interested in hers. "It's sure to be some girl's stuff or other;
nothing that boys care about."

Barbara laughed gleefully. "Much he knows, does he, May?" she said.

May looked disappointed, and Evan began to be more sympathetic.

"Well, you can tell us," he condescended at last; "and then we'll see
if we think it nice."

But May shook her head now, and would not say.

After breakfast the next morning Lucia and May had a grand
confabulation, which ended in their starting together for Windsor
to purchase the thing which May had set her heart on. Barbara had
volunteered to walk with the others into the wood, so that all was
happily arranged for everybody; and the two boys felt they would now
have an opportunity to finish their talk in peace and quietness, for
nurse would be sure to go to sleep under the trees, and Barbara would
be happy with Queenie.

It had cost Barbara a great struggle to offer to stay behind with nurse
and the boys. She cast many longing looks over the fields, and almost
repented her decision when she remembered afresh what a very lovely
thing May was going to get.

The morning dragged rather wearily, especially as the boys kept aloof,
and seemed to have something particularly interesting to talk about,
from which they evidently wished to exclude her. So that she was very
pleased when nurse began to put up her work, and talked of going home
to dinner.

When they got back to the cottage, Lucia and May had not returned. But
as Barbara stood at the little gate, she heard wheels coming along the
road, and she at length saw a little carriage, in which sat both her
sisters, smiling and looking very happy.

"Then you've really got it!" she exclaimed, running to their side.
"What a darling donkey! What a beauty of a little carriage!"

May jumped out, and threw her arms round Barbara in her joy. "It's the
loveliest, loveliest present I ever had!" she exclaimed. "And I've
hired it for three months with my very own money!"

Then the boys came rushing out, followed by nurse and Queenie, and even
Mrs. Giah, and questions and explanations flew from one to another.

May explained that she had seen a notice yesterday in one of the shops
in Windsor of a donkey carriage for hire, and this had put it into her
head. What fun they would have! What expeditions, what picnics!

Then the question of a stable occurred to Evan's practical mind, and
the whole party ran off to the farmyard to see what available shelter
there was, though Lucia smiled and said she and May had not forgotten
that before they obtained the carriage.

In the lane, overshadowed by trees, was a large dry cart-shed, where
the children played in wet weather, one end of which was closed in
as a stable. May and Lucia had inspected this last night, and had
decided that nothing could be better for their purpose. Mrs. Giah's
son, Garge, as she called him, who milked the cow and kept the pretty
garden in order, would see that the donkey had all he wanted. And as
for harnessing him, May thought she might even learn to do it herself,
but at any rate there were Evan and Ivor.

So, before anybody could think of dinner, Neddy must be housed and fed.
"Garge" was fetched from his after dinner nap, and great excitement
prevailed.

The little donkey took it all very calmly; hay was as sweet to him
there as in Windsor, so long as he had plenty of it. And when the
children turned away at last, he did not even raise his head to look
after them.

As soon as dinner was done, came the great event of going their first
expedition, and nurse thought the children would go mad over it.

At last all were ready. Lucia and nurse promised to walk with them,
Barbara was to hold the reins, while May and Evan were to take the
first turn of walking, it having been agreed that Neddy certainly
should not be asked to pull more than two grown-up people or three
children. Besides, the carriage was not intended for more than this.

Perhaps never were happier children than those five, as they proudly
escorted Neddy through the wood. Nurse and Lucia smiled to each other
as they watched them, and Lucia said—

"I love to see children happy, nurse; they can only have childhood
once!"

"Yes, that's true, miss, I'm sure; but folks don't always think that."

"So long as they are good and obedient, I mean; I would not have them
spoilt for the world."



CHAPTER IX.

"A SLIP BETWIXT."

FOR a few days the donkey carriage was in everybody's thoughts, and
nothing else could be done. They went into the forest again, and spent
a whole day there (a happier day than the last, May said, edging up
close to Lucia to whisper it), and Neddy could easily draw the basket
of provisions, and even the kettle full of the water for their tea.

But though the girls did not seem to tire of roaming about picking
flowers, and taking turns in riding in the little carriage; and though
Lucia was perfectly happy with her sketching wherever they liked to
take her, the two boys had a project which effectually kept them from
"settling down," as nurse was wont to call it.

One morning at breakfast, when the plans for the day were being
discussed, Evan asked Lucia if he and Ivor might go into Windsor that
morning.

"I don't care to walk so far in this heat," exclaimed nurse; "we'd far
better stay in the garden to-day."

"We could go alone, couldn't we, Lucia?" asked Ivor.

Lucia looked puzzled; she glanced out of the window, and then back at
their little eager faces.

"I do not suppose you could come to any harm," she said; "but I wish
you had been happy to stay here to-day."

"Oh, do let us!" coaxed Ivor. "We have been awfully good now, haven't
we? Not a bit of trouble; and we will be back by dinner time."

"I should think so!" exclaimed Lucia. "Of course you will, long before
that."

The boys discreetly said no more; they considered that this was
permission, and would not run the chance of its being revoked.

So, before nurse and Lucia had finished the little housekeeping duties
which generally occupied them for a short time, the two boys were well
on their way, their money jingling in their pockets, and their hearts
beating in anticipation of their "spree."

About half an hour before dinner the happy party on the lawn saw the
two boys coming slowly along the road.

"They look tired enough," remarked nurse; "they should have taken
my advice, and not have gone on such a day; and footsore too, I do
declare! I'm sure Evan is limping."

Lucia ran to meet them. "My dear boys!" she exclaimed. "You have been a
long time; what has kept you so long?"

"What have you been doing?" asked Ivor, gazing across the lawn at the
rest.

"Nothing particular," answered Lucia, still lingering by Evan. "Have
you hurt your foot?"

"Yes, a little; I've sprained it, I think. I slipped over—It's nothing,
only my head aches."

"Come indoors," said Lucia, "and I will see to your foot."

"Oh dear no, it's nothing. I'll go indoors and get ready for dinner."

He went, Ivor following as soon as he could get away from his sisters'
questions. And they saw no more of them till dinner was on the table.

"Let us hear all you have done," said Lucia, when she had carved round,
and could think of anything else. "Where did you go, and what did you
do?"

But very little could be got out of them, except that they had been up
the Round Tower, and that Evan had slipped on the stairs coming down.
What they had bought did not transpire, though Barbara pumped them
sufficiently to elicit that they had spent some of their money "on
something."

"I 'spect it's sweets," said Queenie, shaking her curls; "that's what
made Evan sick."

For Evan tried to eat his dinner, but failed, and had to condescend to
lie down, and be made comfortable by nurse.

"It's the sun, I expect," she said to Lucia. "I wish we hadn't let them
go, Miss Lucia; you're too easy with them!"

Evan's headache, however, did not pass away.

And by evening Lucia began to fear that something serious was the
matter.

They decided to send for the doctor, and when he came, their fears were
by no means allayed.

Ivor walked about with misery written on his face. And when at the end
of the second day Evan was no better, his distress knew no bounds.

Barbara, passing from the nursery to her room, heard him sobbing in his
bed.

She ran in, and began to comfort him in her sweet, motherly little way;
but Ivor could not be comforted, and besought her that he might just go
in and speak to Evan for one moment.

"We must not; indeed, we must not!" she exclaimed. "The doctor is
downstairs, and he says it is a crisis; and if we were to wake him now—"

"But I can't bear it," urged Ivor. "I promised Evan, and I am going to
break my promise. I must go and ask Evan first."

"What do you mean?" asked Barbara, drawing back.

"Supposing Evan were to die! I never thought of that! We both promised
each other we wouldn't tell; but we never thought of this!"

"Is it something you ought to tell?" asked Barbara, putting her arm
round his shoulders.

Ivor nodded.

"Then let's go down and tell Lucia now."

But Ivor held her back. "I must see Evan first," he besought. "If he's
asleep, I won't speak a word; but if he's awake, he'll understand. I
must peep at him, Barbara. Do let me."

The little girl was terribly frightened, especially as Ivor was already
at the door and half-way across the passage. Fear of making matters
worse by causing a commotion made her follow him through the half-open
door, but no words could express her dismay at what she was made a
party to.

There lay Evan in that sort of unconscious sleep which had so alarmed
every one, and in the dim, darkened room—surely that was the doctor
sitting by the bedside, holding his watch in his hand!

Ivor saw him too, and without a sound the two children crept back to
the other room.



CHAPTER X.

A PROMISE.

"IVOR," said Barbara solemnly, "you ought not to have gone like that,
not till we had asked Lucia. Now what is it you want to tell?"

Ivor looked first one way and then the other.

"Oh, Barbara, would Evan wish me to? He said I wasn't to till he said;
but—if he were to die?"

Barbara took her brother's hand, and knelt down silently by the bed;
but she could feel it being drawn away unwillingly.

"Had we not better tell God first, Ivor?"

"I can't—oh, Barbara, we've been so naughty—we ought to have told, and
we haven't—"

"Told what? Oh, Ivor! Why don't you now?"

"About having a fall—he fell on his head."

"Ivor!"

"It was the tricycle—"

"Tricycle?" echoed Barbara.

"Yes; we didn't mean to get into any harm. But we saw a jolly one, and
we hired it for an hour, and then we ran into a bank, and Evan hurt his
head and his foot; and we thought it wasn't much, and we hoped—"

He laid his head down beside her and cried bitterly.

"Do you think he will die?" he sobbed.

"I don't know; but, oh! Do ask God to forgive you for being so
deceitful, and then we'll go down and tell Lucia. How can we ask for
him to be made well while you haven't told the dear Lord Jesus that you
are sorry?"

Ivor threw his arms round her neck.

"I am, Barbara, I am sorry! Oh, do tell God how sorry I am! I'll tell
Him too!"

So with broken little words the boy asked forgiveness for their
deception, and then he passively let Barbara lead him down to where
Lucia sat in the dark, counting the minutes till the doctor should come
down to tell her—what?

But when the doctor came down, he had nothing very decisive to say. He
reported that Evan was sleeping more naturally, that nurse was with
him, and that he would call again in an hour or two, but that the house
must be kept perfectly quiet.

Lucia had already taken Ivor back to his room, and now told the doctor
of the fall from the tricycle.

He shook his head. "I guessed as much; I thought it was more than the
sun," he said, and went out into the moonlight.

As Lucia crossed the little passage, feeling as if she had lived days
instead of hours since yesterday, she heard from above a low sound of
crying.

Her heart stood still for a moment. Then she ran up noiselessly, and
found that it was Queenie crying in her bed, refusing even to be
pacified by Barbara's tender comfort.

She had missed her nurse, and receiving no answer to her whispered
inquiries about her brother, her resolution had broken down, and she
had begun a little wail of woe, which had brought Barbara to her side,
just as Lucia heard it too.

Lucia lifted her from her bed, and soothed her in her arms, telling
her that Evan was a little better, and that nurse was with him, till
the sobs ceased, and the little arms clung round her neck, not only
frightenedly, but lovingly.

"Tell me some more," said Queenie.

"Look at the stars, Queenie; see how bright the sky is! The moon
is under that cloud, but the stars are shining up in heaven so
beautifully. When we are sad, and look at the stars, it ought to make
us happy. Shall I tell you why?"

"But nurse says Evan is goin' to die!" said Queenie convulsively. "She
said it was Ivor's fault, and—I don't like havin' Evan die!"

"No, dear. But do you know, Queenie, why I want you to look at the
stars?"

Queenie gave a quick little glance upward, and then hid her face again
in her sister's neck.

"It is because they tell us of God's great love, Queenie! He holds the
stars up in the sky, and He holds Evan in His hand too; so we must
trust Him, Queenie, because He loves us so much."

Queenie's little lips kissed her over and over, and her arms clung
confidingly round her.

"I won't cry any more," she whispered.

"That is right, darling. May I put you back into bed now?"

"Yes."

"I will come and tell you if the doctor says Evan is better. And you
can ask God, Queenie. There is nothing so good as telling God."

So Queenie nestled into her pillow, closed her eyes with a peaceful
look, and Lucia crept downstairs again, her own heart comforted and
cheered.

After the doctor had looked in late that night, Lucia kept her promise,
and bent over her little sister's crib.

"Darling!" she whispered.

"Yes?" said Queenie, rousing herself quickly.

"God has made Evan better; the doctor says there is a wonderful change
in him these last two hours."

"I'm so d'lad," whispered the child back. "I 'fought He would, Lucia."



CHAPTER XI.

EVAN IS GLAD.

EVAN'S illness made a great impression on the little community at the
cottage. It was many days before he was considered well enough to
join his brother and sisters, and even then he was very weak, and was
carried out under the trees, not caring to exert himself in the least.

Ivor hovered round him, trying to show by his tender attentions how
much he regretted his share in the trouble they had got into.

One morning, as Lucia sat by his side with her painting, she saw he was
looking at her very earnestly, and bent down to him to hear what he had
to say.

"Lucia," he said, looking rather abstractedly up into the tree, and
through it to the blue sky beyond, "I've been thinking perhaps we ought
to send back that little tricycle, and not use it any more."

"Why, dear?" she answered.

"Because it would serve us right for being so deceitful."

"Yes, I see that; but I am sure you are sorry without any further
punishment. You have suffered enough, poor Evan."

"I am sorry; and though I have been very ill, do you know, Lucia, I'm
really glad we were not let go in our naughtiness."

"Are you, Evan?"

"Yes, I've had time to think, and you have been so kind, and that night
when my head ached so dreadfully, do you remember what you said?"

"Not exactly. I remember I sat by you and tried to comfort you."

"You said, 'Jesus says to you, Evan,—

   "'"Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out."'"

"I remember that," answered Lucia.

"And I thought I had never come, and I wished I had, and then all in a
moment something seemed to say to me, 'Why don't you come now?' and so,
Lucia, I came."

"Oh, Evan, that is worth all the accident and trouble, if it has led
you to Him!"

Evan nodded. His eyes were full, but he spoke again quickly, winking
away his tears with an effort.

"Lucia, you thought it was a great bother to come home to take care of
us, didn't you?"

Lucia started and coloured.

"I only felt that for a very little while, Evan. God taught me better
than that very soon."

"Well, you never guessed that you could help us so nicely to be good,
did you?"

"No," said Lucia humbly.

"So you will not be so sorry now—"

"I am not sorry at all. I am very glad."

"I'm glad," responded Evan heartily. "I never thought how nice it would
be to have the Lord Jesus for my very own Saviour."

So the last cloud rolled from Lucia's heart, and that day, as she sat
on her favourite wall at the edge of the wood to watch the sunset, she
could not but think over the past, and thank God for His kindness in
saving her from herself.

When the children were all in bed that night, she wrote to her cousins
a brighter letter than she had been able to frame before. At the end
she said—

   "I was dreadfully unwilling, as you know, to take up my 'trust;' but
oh, I cannot tell you how good God has been to me in it, nor how
undeserving I feel of all His love. I should like to tell you this,
because I am afraid I did not give you a very good idea of what a
Christian should be like."

That letter sped on its way. It had cost Lucia a great deal to write
it, but it set her cousins thinking, and bore fruit after many days.

Emmie took it to her mother, but did not get much sympathy from her
about it.

"I am sorry to see her more religious," she said. "We must have her
here again, and make her forget it."

So Emmie carried it to the housekeeper, thinking she would be sure to
understand. And so she did.

"It's the best news I've heard for many a day," she exclaimed heartily.
"Oh, Miss Emmie, if you did but know it!"

"Perhaps I shall," Emmie answered softly. "I am not satisfied as I am,
that's certain!"

"Those that seek Him shall find, dear Miss Emmie!" said the housekeeper
earnestly.



CHAPTER XII.

BARBARA'S GIFT.

THE tricycle, however, was returned without any more use. Ivor could
not make up his mind to get on it again. "Garge" was commissioned to
take it back to Windsor, pay the hire, and for the slight damage done,
and there the matter ended.

But when Evan was a little better, the donkey carriage was found of the
greatest use, and many hours were spent in the woods, Lucia taking her
sketching and Barbara her book and her dog.

For Barbara had found at the cottage two things which gave her intense
delight—a puppy which "Garge" was rearing for her father, and a
cupboard of books which she discovered one wet day, and from which she
brought volume after volume, reading aloud to her brothers and sisters
when they could listen, or lying in luxurious loneliness on the wet
days in the empty drawing room, buried in some tale of travel such as
her heart loved. Thus the time flew away, and the three months were
almost gone.

Letters were coming from their father and mother, speaking of their
speedy and happy return, which would be very, very soon, and telling
too of renewed health and hope for the future.

As Lucia looked out of her window one evening, and remembered the
thoughts with which she had stood there three months ago, she could
only fall on her knees and thank God that He had not allowed her to go
on in her impatience and rebellion. He had enabled her to yield her
will to Him, and then had given her back a hundredfold in happiness and
peace. For when she looked round at the change in her step-brothers and
sisters, her heart melted with thankfulness.

One morning, soon after breakfast, a telegram was put into her hand.

"They are coming to-day—to-day!" she exclaimed, as nurse and children
crowded round her. "They are coming here. They ask if we can make room
for them."

"Make room for them?" echoed everybody. "Why, if we could squeeze flat—"

"I must telegraph back," began Lucia. "Where do they date from? Why,
from Newhaven. They are there, waiting for my answer! Oh, mother! Oh,
father!"

And as she put her arm round Evan and supported him to a seat, she
realized as never before what a care the care of them had been, and
what a relief it was to know it was over.

What a busy morning they had. How Evan even tried to help by cutting
the frill for the ham and running the tape through some fresh
window-curtains. Lucia noticed that in his eager expectation, some of
the fragile look went out of his face, and a sweet, gentle brightness
took its place.

At last all was done. Everything was looked over for the last time, and
the children decided that nothing was wanting for the perfection of a
welcome.

"We will go into the dining room and listen for the wheels," said Ivor.
"Evan is there, and we'll be with him."

But the younger girls preferred to go round the house once more with
nurse. Barbara was glad to be left alone with Lucia; so Ivor found
himself alone with his brother.

"Evan!" he began eagerly. "Do you think father and mother will want to
know what we spent it on?"

"Yes," said Evan gravely; "and I mean to tell them directly I have a
chance. I shan't burst out with it, but no more underhand doings for
me!"

"Oh, no—I didn't mean that—!"

"Ivor, if we belong to the Lord Jesus we have to leave behind all that
is wrong."

Ivor nodded earnestly. "I mean to—indeed I do, Evan. I have begun."

Meanwhile Barbara and Lucia were in the drawing room, holding another
conversation quite as particular in its results as that.

"They cannot come for an hour at the earliest," said Lucia, looking
round the room for something to do.

"Can't you finish that painting? I'll get your apron," coaxed Barbara.
"There is time; you said an hour would do it—"

"So I did. Then I will, Barbara, now all is done."

The little girl stood by her in unusual silence, watching her busy
brush, but not chatting as she often did.

An hour! The time was slipping away, and before it was over, she must
get something said.

At last she flung her arm round her sister's shoulder, and with the
other hand poured some bright coins into her lap.

"Whatever is that?" asked Lucia. For somehow the pressure round her
neck told that Barbara felt what she was doing very much.

"You know about that money father and mother sent?"

"Yes—"

"They will think I have spent it, and I haven't."

"They will not mind, dear, about spending it if you do not want to."

"But I do want to. You know that book I've been reading by myself all
the last days? Well, I never thought of those sort of things before.
It's a missionary-book; it tells about the little girls who are married
so young in India, and are shut up in houses with no pleasures, no
employments, no books, no work, no love, no anything! And, oh, Lucia, I
thought—"

Lucia looked up in her face with swimming eyes.

"I thought," pursued Barbara, hiding her face on her sister's shoulder,
"that I had so much; and that if I could do anything—I know this isn't
much; but, Lucia, they want so much—money, and people to go, and lots
of things. But I thought if I sent this now, when I am old enough I
might go!"

"Oh, Barbara!"

"Don't you like me to? You would want to go if you had read how sad
and desolate they are without ever having heard of a Saviour, and how
perfectly different it all is when they know about Him!"

Lucia turned round and clasped the little missionary in her arms.

"Oh, Barbara, Barbara!" she said lovingly.

"You don't think father and mother will mind?"

"Mind losing you by-and-by, do you mean?"

"No; about the money?"

"I feel sure they will not."

And then there was the sound of wheels, and in another moment their
father had sprung out of the carriage and was walking up the path
almost with his old step.

What an evening that was! How the mother and father looked at their
children's faces, wondering to see in them such a chastened gladness as
they had never noticed before. Was it Evan's illness? What was it that
had made the change?

Barbara, as she gave her mother a good-night hug, gave her the key.

"Mother, we've all been getting nearer to Jesus! Lucia has helped us
ever so nicely. She said she'd got nearer herself."

And Lucia went to bed that night with a thankful heart, glowing from
her mother's tender words of thanks; for had she not received, even
now, more than she had yielded?

The next morning her step-father said at breakfast, "Oh, Lucia, did
your mother tell you that you are to go back to Yorkshire and finish
that visit? It seems they cannot be satisfied without it; so you are to
be off as soon as possible—eh, mother? Now we are home!"

And that was how Lucia's Trust ended. At least, did it end there?








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