The old gentleman to whom this was spoken in a tone of gentle entreaty turned himself with difficulty on his bed, and looked earnestly at the speaker.

"You have decided, then, Geoffry," he said; "you are sure you don't mind? You won't regret it by-and-by? I had thought that perhaps you had given it up."

"I have quite decided; I shall not regret it; and I never thought of giving it up, but it was of no use to talk about it until the requisite documents were prepared. Penacre has not been in a hurry, but what he does is well and safely done. Shall I read over the particulars to you?"

"No, no, I must trust to you. My debts will all be paid, as well as yours, and there will be no stain upon my name, that's one comfort," and he groaned as if other comforts just then were not many.

"Phœbe, Phœbe," said he as his son left the room; "what are you doing there?"

"Tinking, sar," and a dark face, trimmed round with white and yellow muslin, instantly appeared at the bed-side with the next cordial for the patient. "Thinking, eh? What are you thinking about pray?"

"Tinking about one bery bad debt, sar. Wondering if it's going to be paid along de rest."

"What do you mean, woman? How dare you think about my concerns, or listen to what I say to my son?"

"Couldn't help it, sar. 'Sides, if dat 'ar debt ain't paid, him leab a bery big stain dat never come out nohows."

"What debt, woman? You shall be paid well, for you've been a faithful nurse to me, Phœbe."

"Dat's noting, sar; Phœbe not tinking about pay down here, but de big bill up dere," and she pointed upward, "must be paid by somebody, sar. By de good Lord on His cross all blot out in His precious blood, or—don't disb'lieve it 'cause poor old Phœbe say it—or by massa his own self in de eberlasting prison, whar de poor debtors neber reach de end ob der 'count."

"Stuff and nonsense, woman," said the old man angrily.

"True as de Bible, sar. How's massa going to do 'bout it?" persisted the nurse.

"Do! Why I've nothing to do with it. I shall take my chance with you, I suppose."

"Phœbe havn't noting to do with chance, sar. De kind good Lord find poor lost sheep, an' He say, 'Come unto Me.' Den I say, 'What for poor Phœbe come?' He say, 'You know you a sinner,' and 'De wages ob sin is death,' but 'God so lub de world dat He gabe His only begotten Son, dat whosoever b'lieveth in Him should not perish, but hab eberlasting life."

"Ah, yes; I heard that years ago, Phœbe, when I was a child."

"Why you not mind it, den? Phœbe neber hear it till she got old, and she come, and she b'lieve, and now noting to do but go up to be eber wid de Lord one ob dese days; all her sins washed away, and sing hallelujah! No chance 'bout it."

"Well, you foolish old woman, if you like it so, have it so, but it doesn't suit me."

"Phœbe like it very much; just suit poor old sinner like Phœbe; suit eberybody dat wants to go to hebben white and clean. Better tink 'bout it, sar, 'fore you feels de grip ob Satan on yer soul; too late den, he'll neber leave go."

"There, go away; here's another sort of sermon coming, and I'm very tired. Oh, for some rest!" And the old man groaned wearily.

"'Come unto Me all ye dat are weary and heby-laden, and I will gib you rest,'" said the old nurse, as she straightened the pillows, and made way for the party just entering the room.

The parchments were spread, and the right place indicated. The old man, after a moment's bewilderment, did what he had to do with dignity and calmness. He signed his name legibly; his son followed; then the witnesses, two respectable clerks from the Government offices, and the business was settled to the satisfaction of, at least, one person concerned.

"Geoffry," said the old gentleman, when they were again alone, "you will not forget some provision for poor Guy's widow and children? You see, I spent all Guy's money that came of his mother's property; he had nothing but his commission out of it, poor lad, and it ought to be refunded to his family out of the estate; in fact, I think there's some deed or document to that effect somewhere."

"Very well, sir; it shall be sought and acted on."

"Very good, all right; for you see, Geoffry, what with debts at home, and the expenses of my establishment here, I have saved nothing; you understand, Geoffry, saved nothing."

"I must be stupid, indeed, if I do not, sir, for you have told me so fifty times this week."

"Have I? Well, but it's important to be remembered when you are settling things for them. They must remain there, you know, until you pay that money, due to Guy, out of the proceeds."

"You did not mention it until to-day, sir."

"No, I believe I didn't; but that old fool, Phœbe, reminded me somehow, with her talk of some bad debt, and I'm glad I've mentioned it, for they may want it, you know. Now let me rest."

As the son retired, the nurse stole softly in.

"Rest, poor massa; no rest 'cept you come to de dear Lord Jesus," said she softly. "'No rest,' saith my God, 'to de wicked;' and who's dey? Why, old Phœbe and eberybody, 'cause 'All hab sinned and come short de glory ob God,' but bless de Lord, for 'Behold de Lamb of God dat taketh away de sin ob de world.' 'Though your sins be scarlet, dey shall be white as snow.' Only b'lieve; dere's de blessed rest, dere's de peace ob God for Phœbe and eberybody who come; no more wicked den, but de Lord's own dear children welcome home! Poor massa! Hope him go dat way 'fore he die."

In the night there came a cry from the bed, "Mother, mother!"

Phœbe moved forward and knelt down.

"Oh, massa, goin' to be a child again, and listen to de words ob Jesus: ''Cept ye be as a little child ye shall not enter de kingdom ob hebben.'"

THE STROKE OF THE PEN.

"You are right, Phœbe; she says so, and the proud old man is wrong—lost, lost!"

"De dear Lord Jesus can save to de uttermost: him dat cometh He will in nowise cast out. Oh, come, dear massa! Look to Him."

"Too late—call Geoffry. I'm dying. I've lived without God, and now I must die without Him. It is just, and it is perdition. But let me tell my son."

They watched and ministered, and Phœbe wept and prayed unchecked for some hours while the mortal struggle lasted, and then there was rest,—for the body at least. The poor neglected soul was gone to its own experiences—somewhere, and the "stroke of the pen" that morning was to leave no pleasant experience of the last act on earth. For wonderful things a stroke of the pen can do. It can sign away an estate of hundreds of years of entailed possession; it can exile the widow and disinherit the orphan, and lay broad acres and stately oaks under the salesman's hammer. It can set idle clerks to work in attorneys' chambers, and make land agents and appraisers speak and look like "monarchs of all they survey."

But that stroke of the pen did a great deal more.

CHAPTER II.

VILLAGE POLITICS.

ONLY a signature! Nothing more, and only occupying two or three moments, but, nevertheless, it roused the scattered population of a certain quiet district in an island thousands of miles away, and caused more eyes to open in amazement, and more heads to be scratched in perplexity, than had been known within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

The loyalty of England's people, and the stability of her government presented a happy contrast to the restless experiments which agitated all classes in a neighbouring country; the law of primogeniture still upheld the dignity of rank, while constitutional rights secured the liberty of all. Landowners and tenants mutually sympathised for the common welfare, and this exception on one side excited general surprise and indignation.

For there suddenly sprang up, at all points of the doomed estate that skirted a thoroughfare, huge boards, either hung to trees or mounted on poles, bearing large printed advertisements, which also placarded barn doors and wayside gateposts for miles in every direction, while newspapers echoed the eloquent praises of,—

"All that valuable, desirable, and fertile estate known as the Falcon Range, comprising every charm, indulgence, and delight that human taste, desire, or imagination could conceive or covet. Game for the sportsman, fish for the angler, views for the artist, and traditions for the poet; relics for the antiquary, and specimens for the naturalist."

In fact, an Eden of bliss for the happy purchaser, were he either of these accomplished amateurs, or all in one.

Even the dull wits of the villagers could not avoid connecting these strange advertisements with the appearance of a gentleman in a gig, with his clerk and a blue bag, who drove through the village street without stopping at the Falconer's Arms (as all respectable travellers invariably did), and up the avenue to the Moat House without favouring anyone with an idea of his business there.

It was a dismal day; the wind in the east, and provoking in the extreme that gentlemen with blue bags should presume to excite curiosity without satisfying it, especially when people felt out of sorts and had nothing particular to do.

So when towards evening the great placards began to appear, the cat had jumped out of the blue bag, and an endless theme of wonder and remark was provided.

"TO BE SOLD"

First caught the eyes of Mr. Spadeley, the village clerk and sexton, as he came past the gates of the principal entrance to the park.

He stopped, stared, put on his spectacles, and read carefully again, "To be Sold." Yes, there it was and no mistake.

"Why sure the old master must be mad, and Mr. Geoffry, too," said he to himself. "To be sold, indeed! How can they? How dare they?" And the very spade in his hand seemed to share his indignation as it bounced down upon the road with a cutting remark upon the hardness of the world and its ways.

Still more disgusted was he, as he approached his own peculiar province, to find one of the obnoxious placards stuck upon the churchyard gate without his leave asked or cared for! And an assembly of village urchins spelling out the whole particulars and slowly apprehending their meaning.

"Well," said Mr. Spadeley, clerk and sexton of Falcon Range, before whom the rising generation were not wont to play pranks, but on whose countenance there was something they construed sympathetically just now.—"Well, what do you think about it?" he asked.

"Do it mean selling her house over her head?" asked a sharp-looking lad at his elbow, and pointing towards the Moat.

"Yes, that's what it means, seemingly."

"Then here goes! I say, stand out of my way, will ye?"

And, with sudden inspiration in his legs, the boy clambered up the gate-post, balanced one foot on an iron spike, and tore down the great placard in shreds. The little rabble shouted and jumped about with energy and triumph, and dared some other presumptuous feats before Mr. Spadeley's eyes, while instead of clutching the hero by the hair, as had happened more than once, the sexton only patted him on the shoulder, quietly dropped a halfpenny into his dirty cap, and edged himself out of the noisy demonstration.

* * * * * *

The errand of the gentleman in the gig to the lady at the Moat House was not a pleasant one. He knew that he must look very like a deputy tyrant, and she like an innocent victim, and it required a wonderful amount of coolness and self-possession to face the gaze of pained inquiry which met the first unfolding of his mission.

"How lovely she is still," thought Mr. Penacre; "I wish my client had written direct, instead of thrusting his ugly errand upon me."

But, to his credit, he executed it with as much courtesy as it permitted, trying to veil the abominations of pride, malice, and covetousness, beneath professional technicalities, providential circumstances, and naturalization in a foreign land.

But threading her way through the maze and gloss of an eloquent peroration, Mrs. Falconer traced at last the real core of its meaning.

"Then I am to understand," said she calmly, "that the Moat House is to pass into other hands, and is no longer my home, or that of my children?"

"I regret to say that your view of the matter is correct, madam," replied the attorney bowing.

"But my son is presumptive heir, unless Mr. Geoffry Falconer were to have a son," said she thoughtfully.

"Not now, madam. I thought I had explained that the entail is cut off by a deed legally executed by the owner and his heir, old Mr. Falconer and his son Mr. Geoffry. This enables them to sell the estate."

"And is there no charge upon it on my late husband's behalf, sir?" asked the lady. "His father had appropriated a large sum due to him, and now of course due to his widow and children."

"I am instructed to say, madam,—hem!—a—it is difficult to explain these things to ladies unused to business; but my client's idea is this: that having had the benefit of a home at the Moat so long—somewhere about ten years, I think—any debt on the proprietor's part is cancelled by that tenancy, for which no rent has ever been paid. Moreover, the house is greatly dilapidated, and must be sold at a loss in consideration of repairs, which would have been exacted from any other occupant."

The lady seemed to comprehend at last, and her pale face became paler still, as some of the consequences of this cruel act began to loom into view.

"One thing more I have to add," said Mr. Penacre; "that you are at liberty to remove any articles of the family plate which bear Mr. Guy Falconer's initials. The rest will be sold with anything else that the purchaser of the estate may wish to dispense with, and a valuation is to be made immediately—that is, at your convenience, madam."

"Whenever you please," said the widow; "we shall not waste any time in opposition to this unexpected change, for armed with the authority you represent, it would be useless to remonstrate. I had thought, however, that during the life of my father-in-law—"

"Pardon me, madam, for interrupting you, but though the fact was not positively announced by the mail which brought my instructions, I have reason to believe that Mr. Falconer died even before the ship sailed. So that you perceive there is no redress—no hope, I mean, of any alteration of purpose."

"I will give orders that every attention is paid to you here, in the execution of your business, Mr. Penacre. Of course you will remain at the Moat until you have settled everything."

"If it is no intrusion, it would certainly convenience me much, and I shall be grateful for the hospitality."

"And in the meantime you will, I am sure, kindly excuse me."

Whereupon Mr. Penacre rose, and bowed solemnly.

The lady rose also, curtsied, and left the room, no more to re-enter it as the mistress of Moat House. The last item in the information conveyed that day was for a time first in her thoughts. Her husband's father was, probably, no more on earth, and what that fact might involve to him was a matter of trembling apprehension. Probably she would never know more until "the day should declare it." And now, in her worldly circumstances, she seemed at the mercy of one who knew little of sympathy or liberality, who disliked her with the mortified vanity of a selfish unforgiving spirit, because a younger brother had many years before been preferred to himself.

* * * * * *

Passing events had many commentators beside the demonstrative heroes of the rising generation, and Mr. Spadeley's meditations led him as usual to the society of his intimate friend, the landlord of the Falconer's Arms, whose sympathies had been born and grown up in, and were limited like his own to the region of the Falcon Range.

"Who'd have thought of him quartering himself on the Moat House with his mean pitiful business?" said Timothy Turnbull, shaking the ashes from his pipe, and replenishing his own and his companion's tankards with his best "own brewed." "It's just like her to allow it though."

"Just like her, as you say; but I reckon she don't understand all about it yet. You see it's a hard, shameful crush for the poor young gentleman, and they say, leastways the housekeeper told Mrs. Tribe, who told my daughter, and she told me, that he went into an awful rage when he heard it."

And Mr. Spadeley sipped his ale to drown his decided approbation of this particular rage, though known to advise people in general to keep their tempers under all provocation; for he made it a rule to confirm the opinions expressed in the pulpit as decidedly as those from the desk, more especially since the fact that the young minister who succeeded the old one not long deceased, had entirely hindered his little nap in his little den during the sermon, thus enabling him to follow up the exhortations with more practical impressiveness.

"Ah, yes, poor boy! I'm right sorry for them all," said Timothy.

And the two gossips shook their grey heads, and looked gloomily at each other, and up to the interlacing branches of the grand old elms that overshadowed their bench and table, the comfortable trysting-place where they had discussed the affairs and fortunes of their neighbours for more than a quarter of a century.

"We all hoped poor Mr. Guy's son was born to the honours as well as the name of his ancient house," he continued, glancing round at the sign of "The Falconer's Arms," which swung over the porch of the village inn behind him.

"You see," said the sexton, "when men can bring themselves to cutting off entails, there ain't much hope of the family hanging together. It's who's the highest bidder after that. I wonder who's to be highest bidder here?"

"There's one coming along who could tell us, if he'd a mind," said Timothy, lowering his voice, as a gentleman on horseback approached along the road, and stopping before the inn, permitted his horse to accept the refreshment ready in a moment from the ostler's pail.

It was the owner of the blue bag returning from a ride over the estate, and his authority would certainly be trustworthy in such a matter.

"Good evening, friends." said he pleasantly. "This is a pretty spot, this Falcon Range; some fine timber left yet; rich meadows, quite justifying the description given of it."

The landlord could never resist a cheery voice, or a civil speech, so he felt bound to speak.

"True, sir; more's the pity that it's got to change hands. I suppose nobody's offered yet—it would take all the county by surprise."

"It is a pity, and I'm very sorry for the family," said the stranger, rising instantaneously in the estimation of at least one of his hearers; "but if we get Mr. Hazelwood here, there will be nothing to regret in the matter of the landlord."

"Mr. Hazelwood! Squire Hazelwood of Hazel Copse! You don't say so!" said Timothy.

"Yes I do; he is anxious to purchase, seeing that the lease of Hazel Copse is running out, and he can't agree to terms of renewal."

"Well, he's a fine man, they do say. I've heard of him many a time, for I've a friend as come from his parts."

The sexton began to feel impatient of this praise of a purchaser of the Falcon Range, and put in a word.

"Whoever and whatever he be, sir, it's a shame to blot out a good old family from their neighbourhood and inheritance. So Squire Hazelwood, if he was my lord mayor himself, needn't think to come in triumphant here. Money won't buy no hearts in Falcon Range."

"No, no," cried Timothy, shaking his fist at the singular animals, of species unknown, which represented the Falconer's Arms; "there hangs the old sign put up by my great grandfather, when his honoured master set him going in business in this very house, and no other shall swing there while Timothy Turnbull can hold his own."

"It is a very ancient painting apparently," said the lawyer, looking at it as respectfully as if it had been a Rembrandt, or a Holbein; "time-worn and weather-beaten."

"Aye, sir, that's true enough, but we do brighten it up a bit now and then; I've a nephew in the oil ana colour trade, and he puts a fresh coat on it beautiful; the feathers and claws looks ready to fly and clutch the game, I'll warrant you, after that!"

"No doubt of it, Mr. Turnbull; you stand up for the old families, I see, and the Falconers seem to be of a venerable stock."

"Aye, sir. Find a venerabler one in the three kingdoms, if you can," exclaimed the sexton proudly. "Why, they came in with the Conqueror, the Falconers did!" And he gave a complacent puff to the tobacco, as if to say, "There, you are annihilated now!"

"Well," said Mr. Penacre undauntedly, "it is nevertheless a fact that Mr. Hazelwood's family can trace back to the time of King Alfred and the old Saxon parliament, with certain grants then made to an ancestor for service rendered to the king. What do you say to that?"

"You don't go for to set a Saxon churl before a Norman knight, I hope, sir," said Mr. Spadeley, with great disdain.

"Put earl for churl, and adventurer for knight, and give each his due," said the lawyer good-humouredly. "You know it was Saxon plenty that attracted lackland knights, and since they've shaken so well together, and bygones are bygones, it doesn't much matter whether we quarter arms with a Saxon bow or a Norman lance. For my part, I'm content to trace back to Noah, with whom your progenitor and mine, good friends, outrode the storm that swept away all landmarks. Good evening to you, and don't despise Squire Hazelwood himself, whatever you may think of his bluff ancestors."

And dropping a silver coin into the ostler's empty pail, he trotted away, raising his hat smilingly to the village parson, who just then came up and heard his concluding remarks.

VILLAGE POLITICS.

CHAPTER III.

STILL UNDER THE ELM TREES.

"RATHER a pleasant sort of gentleman after all," remarked Timothy Turnbull, looking after the stranger, and rising respectfully to greet the new-comer, who, begging both the gossips to keep their seats, sat down on the opposite bench to rest, and leaning forward, began to trace lines in the dust at his feet with his walking stick, and to speak as if musing on the lawyer's parting words.

"Yes, quite true; our ancestors survived that storm, and it will be well for us if we are lodged in a better ark with a greater than he, and safe to outride the more awful storm which will some day sweep away the usurper's frail barriers and false distinctions, and restore the lost inheritance to its rightful heir."

"Sir!" said the landlord, taking out his pipe and gazing curiously at the speaker.

"Eh!" said the sexton, rubbing his forehead with a puzzled air. "Surely you think that poor Master Guy may come to his own again, sir?"

"I fear not, friends; but I hope he will come to something better—'an inheritance that fadeth not away,' and if his name and ours are 'written in heaven' in the Book of Life, it will matter very little where they stand in the pedigrees of men, and the title deeds of earth. So let us all see that we hold our own by the safe and lasting title."

"And what may that be, sir, to your way of thinking?" asked Timothy, feeling that he must say something to break an awkward pause.

"By faith in the Son of God; 'whosoever believeth,' that is the deed of transfer which makes eternal life and glory ours. And if we do cast in our lot with Him who gave Himself to be 'made sin for us, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him,' we shall share the triumph of that hour for which all creation groans, when the once rejected King and Saviour shall come to assert His blood-bought rights, and receive His redeemed inheritance."

"Amen," said the clerk solemnly. "But, sir, we should like to hear what you think about this bad business of selling the property away from its right owners, for the whole village is downhearted about it."

"And justly so," said the young clergyman; "I am of the same mind in the matter, and it would do no good to attempt to excuse such a cruel, selfish act."

"I'm right glad to hear you say that, sir!" exclaimed Timothy, throwing down his pipe, and slapping his knees with both hands. "It's no true religion that makes black anything but black, is it Spadeley?"

"It does me good to hear things called by their right names," said Spadeley; "I thought you'd begin to preach about resignation and the like of that, and make it out somehow to be the right thing after all."

"But you see there are two aspects of the case, friends," said Mr. Herbert, determined to set himself right with the downhearted villagers in the matter, and aware that what he said would be repeated in many forms amongst them. "There is the side of the human actors in the circumstances which have occurred, and before God and man a great wrong is done, and the widow and the fatherless are oppressed. God is displeased, and will make it felt at the right time and way, so far as the oppressor is concerned; and He does not require us to close our eyes and hearts, and not see and feel with indignation and disgust, as honest, true men should. But as He has not seen it good to interfere and hinder their doings, we are constrained by the knowledge of His word and ways to the conclusion, that in His providence He has something better in view—some yet unseen benefit to work out for His troubled children, which shall far exceed and outvalue all they are losing now. And in this aspect we are bound to cultivate resignation and exercise patience. We are to trust God in fact, and be sure that He will never fail them that trust in Him."

"Amen," said Mr. Spadeley; "and is that the way the poor lady feels about it, sir?"

"Yes, I am glad to say that I have quoted nearly her own words, and what I am sure she wishes all her friends to feel. And it is the right view to take of all the disagreeable things of life when once we take our stand upon the 'Rock of Ages,'—eh, my friends?"

"Very good, sir," said the landlord; "and if one turns to making the best of it, it do seem as if the old place might have fallen into worse hands than Squire Hazelwood's."

"That is true, Mr. Turnbull; he will not let things go to ruin, and perhaps may help forward some of our little plans among his tenantry, so let us hold by God's promises and hope for the best. You know where to find them, for I saw the good old book upon your parlour table the other day. Ana you, Mr. Spadeley, must have much knowledge of them from your position and duties among us."

"Well, sir," said Mr. Spadeley graciously, "I do have to look out for pretty texts for the tombstones often, for you see when the country folk bring no verses of their own composing, and not boasting much of a gift that ways myself, I fall back upon the Bible, and we're sure to come at something comfortable. But that reminds me of poor old Hayes. Have you seen him lately, sir?"

"The gardener at the Moat? Yes, I see him every day, and a more true, simple-hearted believer in our Lord Jesus Christ does not lie ready for the summons home."

"Amen, and right, sir. Well, you see when I knew he wasn't going to get better, I thought I would ask him about his epitaph, for he must have a head-stone, and it shall be a good one, and I naturally wanted something nice to carve on it. And what do you think he chose, sir? It do downright get over me. None of the pretty verses I told him of would do."

"'Chief of sinners,'" suggested Mr. Herbert. "I know he feels like that."

"Well, he did name it, and I said out flat, No, I wouldn't put it; I'd have more words to make my work worth while. So he thought a bit, and then he said, 'Few and evil have the days of the years of my life been,' and there he's stuck ever since, and I can't move him, so I shall have to do it, I s'pose, for I wouldn't rile a passing spirit."

"And," said the clergyman, "since you don't mind the work, my kind friend, you shall add something to it at my expense whenever the time comes, and it shall be this, 'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.' 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, be glory and dominion for ever.' I feel sure our dear old brother will not object to that addition."

"Well, he's a real gentleman, our young parson is, though I say it, that's part of the profession in a way," said the clerk and sexton, resuming his pipe, as the clergyman bade them good-night and walked away.

"A real Christian, too, I should say," added Mr. Turnbull; "though they did say he'd been among the Methodies. Never mind that; he's the right sort to comfort the poor lady and her children in their troubles."

"Ah! Poor, dear lady!" ejaculated the sexton. "I mean to beg a last favour of her before she goes, that she'll be sure to come back to be buried in the old vault under the cedars,—for I shouldn't like anybody to do it for her but me, nor for her to lie anywhere but amongst her own kin, and I dare say our parson would like to read the service over her his own self. Good-night, and thank you, landlord; I shall just call in and see how Hayes does to-night, and tell him about the epitaph, and cheer him up a bit."

* * * * * *

"Joe," said the landlord of the Falconer's Arms a few days after to his ostler and factotum,—"Joe, we've got to horse the carriage that's to carry away the family from the Moat, d'ye hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Joe, somebody must drive;" and the landlord smoothed his grey hair, and rubbed it up again, and looked perplexed, while Joe looked stolid.

"Joe, my lad, you must drive them," at last said the landlord, well knowing how hard a task he was setting to one whose whole family and lifetime had been comforted and helped by the kind lady at the Moat.

"Sir, master, don't ye now; I can't do it, indeed I can't. I'd sooner be thrashed." And poor Joe looked almost tearfully earnest.

"So would I, Joe, but I can't do it myself; and after all, it will be better for a friend to do it; they'll feel it less themselves than if I got a stranger, and they always like your driving, Joe; yes, you must do it, that's all about it."

After a pause, during which Joe might have been cogitating the possible consequences of a flat refusal,—

"Which 'osses, master?" said he gloomily.

"The black ones, Joe—black harness and all—just like a funeral. I shan't let my spanking bays go on no such an errand. And if Squire Hazelwood should be here, he'll see mourning, that's all."

"Mourning enough," thought Joe, walking off, and grumbling to himself. "The beautifullest, nicest, best lady in all the country round, and as good a pair of children as ever was set eyes on! What will us do to show our love and our trouble all at once, I wonder? Why, if ever poor Joe gets to heaven, it's cause she taught me the way. And I'm to drive her away from the only home she's got on earth! I wish I could take her straight to paradise among the angels she's like; wouldn't I! And never come back no more. Well, don't be a fool, Joe, but do your duty as she's bid you; that's the best way to show gratitude and love to her. But if we goes with them old black 'osses' funeral paces, we'll have all the village sobbing round us, and none of us can't stand that. I must drive and whip and shout my best for all sakes, and so you old 'osses must just step out for once."

"It's quite true, Joe," said his particular friend, Jane Spadeley, whom he met quite by accident as he went to look after the black horses in the lower meadow; "Squire Hazelwood has ended the bargain, and they say he's coming as soon as possible, so missus will be off in a day or two."

"But you are going with 'em, I suppose, Jane. As for Squire Hazelwood, I don't want to hear nought about him, but what about the missus, and poor Miss Maude, and Master Guy?"

"Why, Joe, they won't let me go with them, that's my trouble," and Jane's tears began to struggle into her eyes, though all through a trying interview with her mistress she had bravely bidden them back.

"Won't let you go?" said Joe in amazement; for the thing seemed incredible. He would have let her do anything she wished.

"No; and why they won't breaks my very heart to think of. They can't afford to keep a maid to wait upon them now. I've begged and begged, and I've offered to go without any wages, and eat next to nothing, but it's of no use; and missus cried, and took my poor hand as if I'd been a lady, and dear Miss Maude put her arms round me and kissed me, and we were all in a pretty state, when in burst Master Guy. He looked round for a moment, and though he seemed choking, he said,—

"'Cheer up, mother, cheer up all of you! We'll all come back to the old place some day when I'm a man,' and with a great stamp of his foot, he rushed away again. But it brought us to, and did us good, even to think of such a thing."

"Poor Master Guy! Poor dear lady!" said Joe. "What can we do for them?"

"Why, Joe, she says we can do the very best thing for them all—we can pray for them, and ask that they may say truly and honestly, 'Thy will be done.'"

"It's very hard," said Joe, slashing the grass with his whip, "and goes right agin the grain."

"It's part of the victory, she says," continued Jane, "and must be fought for, and won."

"Gee up, whoa," said Joe, throwing his halter over the neck of one of the calm black horses as he came up with the creature, out of which all frolicsome spirits had long departed. "Thee's got a bit of ugly work to do, so see thee does it kindly."

It was a bit of ugly work, enough to displease all the animal creation of the Falcon Range.

Captain Guy Falconer, the younger son of the late owner of the Moat, had come home from active service with his regiment abroad, to die in the prime of manhood of a neglected wound.

But not before having, both by precept and example, impressed all around him with the conviction that to him "to die was gain," and that his triumphant faith had enfolded the young wife and children whom he must leave behind, and placed them in his heavenly Father's arms, to be cared for, and brought to Him in due time.

And this treasured remembrance now soothed the pain of an uprooting from home and its associations, such as neither she nor her husband had ever contemplated. For the elder Mr. Falconer had long held a lucrative and honourable appointment abroad, and only used his inheritance at home to drain its resources, and to supply his own and his elder son's extravagances, leaving the mansion and grounds to the tenancy of Captain Falconer's family with the impression that the estate must one day follow its long antecedent history by descent in the male line to the lawful heir-presumptive, the only son of Guy and Blanche Falconer.

Mr. Geoffry, the elder son of the now deceased proprietor, had neither inclination nor health for the English climate, hated the responsibilities of a landlord, was childless, and devoid of affection or sympathy for the brother whose interests he did not scruple to set aside, and whose admired and devoted wife he rejoiced to humble and oppress.

The late turn of affairs had revealed something of this to the boy, who had hitherto considered himself born to a respectable though encumbered inheritance, and the tumult of feeling roused within taught him an unexpected lesson upon the very unsatisfactory foundation of earthly hope, and the treacherous failure of human character unsustained by Christian principle.

For Master Guy had found himself in several violent passions, had indulged in more unbecoming language concerning his uncle and grandfather than had ever been heard from his lips before, had flung his lesson books into a corner, trampled down the flowers in his own particular garden, shaken his young fist at the aggravating birds that sang on cheerily among the trees, and exhausted himself in a flood of tears, with his arms clasped round the neck of a sympathising pony.

The ferment of feeling among tenants and dependents did not serve to lessen his disgust and indignation; wherever he went, kind hearts resented, and thoughtless tongues commented, until poor Guy regarded himself as the most injured of mortals, and his own the most blighted of prospects, to say nothing of those of his mother and sister.

In a state of utter self-abandonment, dreading the event of the morrow, hating to think of the last night in the dear old home, the boy had wandered from spot to spot endeared by happy childish memories, until he could bear no more, and as if the tomb would be a desirable end to all his troubles, went last to the quiet resting-place beneath the cedars.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TOMB BENEATH THE CEDARS.

THE last evening before the removal of the family from the Moat, the moon shone out brightly at intervals from a cloudy sky, touching with silvery light the gables and turrets of the mansion, the old church tower, and the edges of the tombstones that nestled amidst the grass and shrubs. Beneath three fine old cedars which wrapped one spot in the churchyard in gloom, was the family vault of the Falconers, and thither from her last visit to the cottage of the dying gardener, Mrs. Falconer directed her steps.

It was not with any superstitious or fanciful idea of communing with her husband's spirit that she sought the place where his dust reposed, but, with the natural tenderness of a bereaved heart for the hiding-place of something it has loved and lost, she liked to associate her farewell to the home in which he had left her, with the remembrance of that separation which had made her life a lonely pilgrimage, and her heart for a long time a mere storm-swept wreck.

But she did not now forget that he whom she so deeply loved and truly mourned was "absent from the body," and because of his faith in a crucified Redeemer was "present with the Lord."

And though the tomb that enclosed the mortal part was to her a consecrated memorial place, yet she could calmly leave that behind, in the knowledge that the Saviour and His heaven, where the hosts of the blessed are, cannot be limited by time or space, and would be as real and near in the crowded haunts of busy life as in the moonlighted solitude of the grave beneath the cedars.

There the gentle voice of the much-tried mother soothed her excited boy, and her loving arm encircled him as they leaned together over the marble slab that bore the record of so many honoured names.

"Guy, my son," she whispered, "here let all your wrong feelings be laid aside, and your young life be consecrated to new and noble purposes."

"Oh, mother, it is so hard," murmured the boy.

"I know it, Guy; but I never felt it so hard as to-day, because it has revealed to me the weakness and cowardliness of your heart, which fails at the first touch of adversity. A sorry protector for us indeed, if Maude and I had no other."

"Oh, mother!"

"I see at least one good reason for the reverse which has come to us, Guy. You would have become the ruined child of ease and selfishness, and you may now be something better, if you choose."

"But, mother, suppose it is good for me, it is not good or right for you—it is cruel, wicked, unpardonable for you."

"My dear child, it is as good and right for me. And here by your dear father's grave I am able to forgive fully and freely, as I hope to be forgiven, all whose conduct may have seemed to injure us, and I charge you solemnly before God to do the same. No peace, no rest can help the unforgiving spirit, and so long as you encourage hate and anger, you will be the unhappy slave of unspeakable wretchedness.

"Moreover I deny your right to associate me with your sinful murmurings against God and His ways, and I forbid it. I know that all is wise and well. 'Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.' 'They that trust in Him shall not want for any good thing,' and there I find reason and assurance enough to bear me through everything.

"Guy, my darling, try to tread with me this peaceful path, renounce this angry, bitter, troublesome old self, and be a new creature by God's grace, forgiving, submissive, patient, Christ's dear servant, your mother's faithful prop and help, and the worthy son of him whose life and example is echoed in the instruction I have tried to give. Oh, let it be seen that I am faithful to my trust from God and him."

"Oh, mother, mother," sobbed the boy; "I see, I know I am wrong—I will try—"

"To forgive, and to ask forgiveness, dear child. Oh, what a load will roll off your heart as you feel the soothing sweetness of God's pardoning love, and the godlike power to forgive as you are forgiven! Guy, my son, I shall feel that I am the happy mother of the truest hero of your race, for 'greater is he who conquereth his own spirit than he that taketh a city.'"

They stood awhile in silence, the mother and her son; what prayers and thoughts rose out of full hearts there were no words mighty enough to tell, but at last drawing her gently away,—

"Come, mother," he said softly, "perhaps the angels may note to-night, and so shall I."

And it was a night to be remembered, though not chiefly for its trying farewells. There was a cloud, and no need to ignore it, but there was light behind it, and it began to fringe the cloud and to illumine life's future with touches of beauty and hope, which a few hours before seemed impossible to the despairing spirit of Guy Falconer.

* * * * * *

Early the next morning, all the inhabitants of the Falconer Range were astir; groups of people well-to-do, and groups of poor people, and of children innumerable, gathered about the park gates and along the village street, and when Joe and the black horses emerged from the park with the much loved exiles behind them, there was a rush to the carriage windows, hands were shaken and kissed, and murmured benedictions burst from many lips. Old men uncovered their grey heads, women sobbed, and children for once moved quietly.

In vain the occupants of the carriage strove to smile or seem calm; in vain Joe made hideous grimaces to keep up his dignity; in vain Mr. Herbert, who had mounted escort for a part of the way, rode gently amongst the people, and entreated them to restrain their feelings for the sake of the dear, tried lady from whom they had to part; in vain Guy impatiently called out his orders to Joe to "drive on;" the solemn black horses, perfectly self-possessed, were masters of the position, and all poor Joe's struggles failed to move them beyond their own conceptions of the occasion.

Before the Falconer's Arms they nearly came to a stand, as if there were something special to be noted there. And perhaps there was, for the worthy landlord and the dame his wife had made decided demonstration. Blinds were down, and shutters closed, a black crape scarf was thrown over the far-famed sign, and the whole family stood bare-headed under the beautiful elms in solemn silence.

At the village school, the children stood in silent array, and the tallest of them presented a basket filled with little pin-cushions, needle-books, and such like tokens of loving handiwork. And a boy, gentle and modest-looking, handed up a little carving in wood of the front of the Moat House, which he had privately executed in his leisure time.

All this, with an occasional "God bless you," "May you come back to your own again," marked the progress through the village. And then Joe, exasperated beyond endurance with his self-sufficient steeds, commenced a most unusual belabouring of their shining coats. Mr. Herbert, equally out of patience, adding the stimulus of the riding whip, so that the stately march was at last urged into a brisk walk, such as they usually assumed for a funeral at a distant church when wayside observers were neither numerous nor mournful.

Joe's foresight had provided for the occasion, though he had not dared to controvert his master's orders, so far as the first three miles were concerned. There however, he had soothed his own feelings, and obliged his passengers by securing a relay, and joyfully began the acceptable exchange.

While this was proceeding, a carriage-and-four drove briskly up to the inn door.

The gentleman who was driving threw the reins to his servant, and dismounted, noticed the dignified black horses, asked a question or two of the ostler, held a short parley at the window of his carriage, where appeared the pleasant faces of a middle-aged lady and a young girl, and finally bidding Joe "hold in," advanced to the chaise door, and hastily opened it.

"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, "but we cannot let you pass us on the road without a word. We meant to have put up at the Falcon Range last night, hoping to have stopped your journey this morning, but the horses were too tired. Is it too late? Cannot you return now? But I forgot—you don't know me. Roger Hazelwood, madam—at your service. Here! Dorothy, Evelyn! Come and speak to Mrs. Falconer, the lady from the Moat."

THE MEETING ON THE ROAD.

Guy and his sister hereupon resisted the strong desire to see again the bright face of the girl as she peeped round from her corner in the carriage, and utterly amazed and confounded, saw the elder lady alight and advance to their mother. Her countenance was sweet and fair, with a mingled expression of sympathy, respect, and humility, and in the most winning of voices she entreated Mrs. Falconer to delay her journey at least for a time, and return with them to the Moat, echoing her husband's regret that they had not arrived in time to make their request more opportunely.

"Dear sir, dear madam," said Mrs. Falconer warmly, "I can but attempt to express my thanks; I could not have anticipated such kindness, but our arrangements are made, and we are proceeding at once to London."

"Well, I'm very sorry," said Squire Hazelwood; "it can't be helped then, I suppose, but I'm a bad hand at writing; I let the lawyers settle everything, and I did not know how matters stood, else I would have said my say in proper time."

"It is indeed too late now," said the lady, taking Mrs. Falconer's hand with a gentle pressure; "but we may perhaps meet again under happier circumstances." And drawing back with a curtsey, she re-entered her carriage.

"The sooner the better," said the Squire; "Evelyn is shy, but she means well, silly child. Good-bye, madam; your hand, young sir—we must be friends you know, though the Moat is between us. I hate feuds, and would rather carry your God-speed with us among the people who may be pardoned for feeling that we can't supply your place."

"May God-speed you, sir, I pray so with all my heart," said Mrs. Falconer earnestly, giving her hand into that which her son had scarcely touched.

And so they parted on life's highway with its "changes and chances," unexpected and unknown, but all appointed and ordered in the omniscient love that links together only what works "for good," and drops out of the chain all that we mistake and mismanage for ourselves.

The carriage-and-four rolled deliberately through Falcon Range, where, notwithstanding the novelty of a private equipage in mail coach style, doors were suddenly banged, and surly faces peered from cottage windows; the crape yet hung over the Falconer's Arms, and its landlord stood with his hands in his pockets, and his hat on his head, not deigning to salute the purchaser of the estate of the Falconers, even though his pedigree dated back to the Saxon instead of the Norman Conquest.

But the generous-hearted English gentleman was more touched by the evident sympathy of the villagers for the late occupants of the Moat than disturbed by the slight to himself.

"Poor things," he remarked afterwards to his wife, "I like them for it; who wins their hearts will keep them, and I hate weather-cock friends. However we'll wait our time, Dorothy, and if you don't find your way within those noisy doors that said so plainly, 'You shan't come here,' I shall be more surprised than ever I was in my life yet. So I'll bid you welcome to the Moat, if nobody else does."

And gallantly kissing his wife and daughter, he left them to explore their new abode.

There had not been very much to regret in the removal from Hazel Copse, which had been a long contemplated event, and where many circumstances had estranged them for some time. All that they particularly valued in the form of servants, pet ponies, horses, dogs, and other delights, accompanied them, and Squire Hazelwood of the Falcon Range would be a more important personage in the world's history than the Squire of Hazel Copse. At least so thought the little spoiled heiress of his house and fortune, as she flew about exclaiming with rapture over all she saw.

"Such a dear old place, mother," "Come here," and "Go there," was the frequent interruption to the work of the lady in newly arranging her household, as Evelyn lighted on a terrace walk, or penetrated some dark corner, or, best of all, explored her way into a real "tapestried chamber," haunted of course, ever since Judge Jeffries, of evil renown, tarried there for a night in the civil wars, and was reported to have left some token of ill, like an ancient leper, in the walls of the house that sheltered him.

Evelyn declared herself bold enough to face any wig and gown that might venture from behind the arras, but beyond a saucy rat of venerable lineage, and a few hungry spiders on the search for flies, she never discovered anything to test her boasted courage.

The mansion itself might have served as an illustration of the varieties of English architecture since the first Falconer planted his lance on the sunny slope where his castle was to stand.

There was a tower, ivy-clad and crumbling, remnant of feudal times; there were gables and turretted roofs, porches and pilasters, oriel windows, lattices, arches, and griffins, in fact tokens of all tastes and fashions—Plantagenet, Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian, with carvings and heraldic devices blending the armorial bearings of all the family alliances of the ancient House innumerable.

There were huge fire-places, oak parlours, and deep bay window seats; a hall decorated with the old armour of knights, and the antlers of hunted stags, the crusader's sword and the palmer's staff, the banners of rival Roses, the doublet of a cavalier, and the buff coat of a Round-head, the falconer's glove, and the sportsman's fowling-piece, all named and dated with aristocratic pride, harmless and pardonable.

The gardens and grounds were even more attractive, with quaint borders, straight walks, and clipped trees in my lady's pleasaunce, winding paths to wild dingles and dells, accommodation for every kind of the animal creation of the British Isles, from stables and kennels for my lord to covers for foxes, and nests for hornets; there was a lake for fish, a rookery for birds, and far-spreading meads for cattle.

Of the original "Moat," there remained no precise indication, unless the dingles which terminated the shrubbery, and a river which divided some meadows, had once done guardian duty in that capacity,—a reasonable surmise, from the fact of a broken arch in near neighbourhood, where resolute antiquarians discovered symptoms of portcullis pretensions, though a portly bailiff had left on record his belief that it was merely a remnant of modern masonic skill, erected of material cleared away from a fallen tower of the old castle, and in which sheep used to be penned on washing days!

There was no auction at the Moat House. Things were to stand as in past time, with the addition of a few valued possessions from Hazel Copse, for which there was ample space in chambers long disused, and which were now opened, renovated, and made to partake somewhat of the sunny spirt of the new owners of the mansion.

The Squire was busy with lands and live stock, the lady with domestic improvements, and Miss Evelyn, as long accustomed, ran wild over everything, including the stiff prejudices of dependants and villagers.

CHAPTER V.

A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME.

A RETROSPECTIVE glance at the antecedents of fair Mistress Hazelwood peeps into her old-fashioned, hospitable home at Daisy-Meade, where she fulfilled the mission of one of the bright spirits that seem sent into the world to round off sharp corners, pad rough edges, fit in curious angles, and sheath drawn swords. Quick to observe without seeming to detect, prompt to act without attracting notice, her influence worked just where it was wanted, and her word was spoken just when it would have weight.

People often wondered how certain good things came about, and possibly congratulated themselves on their own wisdom and foresight, when, if truth had appeared from behind the scenes, it was Miss Dorothy's wise suggestion, or gentle hint, or kindly act, or invisible influence that wrought round the circumstances, and shaped them into acceptable form.

Her father was "a fine old English gentleman of the olden time;" a little obstinate, perhaps, as such old gentlemen are said to have been, but having excellent common sense, devout belief in God and the Bible, and whether or not he read "the whole duty of man," he did it, so far as he saw it, with consistency and decision. He had the usual country tastes and occupations, with unusual refinement of mind and tenderness of feeling, which were invaluable to his children when bereft of their mother's care.

His notions of female character and duty and position were derived partly from their illustration in the life of his own much loved wife, and also from an old record of principles which they studied together, in one of the books of their scanty library. It is to be found in most libraries still; but in modern book-seeking days, when people are more interested about wrong roots of things speculative and imaginary, than right ones real and trustworthy, it is left to be regarded more as a curious relic which has seen its best days, than an authority that "lives and abides for ever."

Howbeit the Squire of Daisy-Meade thought and said, and endeavoured to enforce his idea, that woman's endowments, both by nature and grace, are to be exercised in private life, and felt in the blessedness of home; not armed to the teeth for strife and debate, or fussy and famous before the world, which mocks while it applauds, and sneers while it submits to the intrusion of things out of place.

And Miss Dorothy had so wonderfully impersonated his views, that he inconsistently shrank from one of their consequences, and petulantly denounced the covetous spirit of certain young squires who hovered about the sweetest flower in Daisy-Mead, wanting to transplant it for the home "help-meet" it had bloomed to be.

"Dorothy, my dear," he said one day as he was settling himself in the great chair for his afternoon nap, "can't you be a little more disagreeable? Talk loud and fast, be self-willed, or extravagant, or something; perhaps if you would make a dash on Silvertail at a five-barred gate, or be in at the death at the next hunt, or appear at church in some fantastical mopsey gear, it might do. Nobody shall send you to Bedlam for it."

Dorothy opened her merry eyes at her father and laughed.

"Aye, you may laugh, you puss, but I really am at my wits' end. Here's another thief come reconnoitering my unfortunate premises, and I don't know what to do."

"Let him know there is nothing worth stealing here, father," said the young lady, carelessly.

"But you see, he is not of that opinion, Dorothy, and doesn't regard mine, being evidently desirous to manage his own affairs."

"Then say there is nothing that will allow of a theft, your property is too well guarded."

"So be it, my dear. What should I do without thee?"

"You can't part with me, father, and until you can, I shall never go; so please take your nap. And, father, I'll practise for the five-barred gate, and surprise the hunt next opportunity."

The Squire smiled, and drew a silk handkerchief over his face, and dozed; while Dorothy went on with her work, kept the dogs quiet on the rug, and prevented the logs from scuttling down with crackle and thump on the hearth as they burned away.

Suddenly the silk handkerchief was withdrawn, and the Squire awoke from a dream about thieves and good little daughters.

"But, Dorothy," said he, doubtfully, "if you wanted to go, if some booby that you liked came prowling, what then?"

"Dear father, I shan't like a booby," said Dorothy, with her silvery little laugh; "you are very complimentary in the anticipation of such a monstrous choice."

"Well, well, there's no wisdom in meeting trouble half way; only, my girl, I couldn't tell what you might say to young Hazelwood, if he should dare to tell you what he told me this morning; but I'm glad it's all right, and now I'll finish my nap;" and the handkerchief was drawn over his head again.

Poor Miss Dorothy! The needle had dropped from her fingers, the merry light faded from her eyes, the colour came and went on her cheek. What! Could it be possible?—The handsome, gallant young squire of Hazel Copse, the admired of all the ladies round, the generous, warm-hearted, pitiful young master who excused old Wilks his rent when he fell ill and couldn't work; forgave poor Slade for poaching, and refused to prosecute; saved Widow Crane's boy from drowning, and took care of them all, until Wilks got well, and Slade got honest employment, and the boy came through the fever;—the best huntsman in the field, Captain in the Militia, and the possible choice of the county at the next election;—and more and better than all, the most regular and apparently sincere worshipper in the parish church, and the best helper the vicar had in whatever good he proposed to do. Amazing!

Could this gentleman really have thought of her, the little daisy of the Meade, as some of the silly old people called her? And her father had called him a booby, and she had coolly assented! What a miserable mistake!

But, after all, what did it matter? She could not and would not leave her dear, kind father for any squire in Christendom, so there was an end of that. And Miss Dorothy calmed down, and picked up her fallen needle, and a very soft little sigh escaped as she resumed her work.

The kind old gentleman was not so sleepy as he seemed, and out of the corner of an eye, and a convenient little hole in his India-silk handkerchief, he had carefully watched his child; noting the start, the colour, the expressive mouth as she sat thinking, and his quick ear caught the little sigh. So, after a suitable make-believe sleep, he pretended to awake, shook himself, whistled to his dogs, and went out, thinking hard about what he would have to do next. The simple fatherly heart had no thought of hindering the happiness of others for his own; and feeling in a strange maze upon the subject, he stumbled against the cause of his disquietude.

"Ah, I thought so, sir; you couldn't wait a whole day, it seems, before coming to know whether you may rob an old man of his best and sweetest. Look you, sir, ask my best horse, my finest field, or biggest barn with all its fresh-gathered store, and you shall be welcome; but Dorothy, my singing-bird, my home-sunshine, I don't know how to part with her yet."

"Well, sir," said Mr. Hazelwood, frankly, "I do feel very like some house-breaker in your presence, and my dismissal will pain no one but myself; but I have strictly obeyed your command of a week ago to abstain from any attempt to plead my own cause, and now you must give me your decision."

"All fair and straightforward for a thief, I admit," said Dorothy's father. "I honestly tell you that I took the week since you broached the subject to make searching inquiries about you, and I took the last few hours to fathom my Daisy's mind, if I could. If you won't give me any more time, you must just find it out for yourself."

"Sir, if your daughter cannot willingly and happily become my wife after I have convinced her of my affection, I will never again distress you with my suit."

"Well, well, likely story; you don't believe in disappointment, not you," thought the old man; "it's all up if I give him the chance he asks. I wish he'd broke—no, no I don't,—selfish old fool!

"Well, sir, I can't help myself, it seems; wherever she goes, her father's heart and blessing go with her. She's in there at some woman's work you may be sure," pointing back through the hall: "but I'm just going down to look at the hop-ground; you can come too if you care for the crops this year," he added, drily.

Mr. Hazelwood seized his hand with a right earnest grasp.

"The hops must wait this time, sir, and I thank you with all my heart." And darting away, he left the good father to contemplate the painful loneliness of his closing years.

It was not a cheerful walk, and so prolonged that Dorothy was anxiously watching for him in the path from the hop-grounds.

"Well, my child, is it settled?" he asked, drawing her within his arm.

"Yes, sir," said Dorothy, demurely, "if you please."

"Humph, you have forgotten that you don't like boobies. How soon must I give you up?"

"Not before seven years, father, and another seven to that if it would make you sad to do it."

"Ah! A Jacob and Rachel sort of business, is it? But they say Hazel Copse wants a mistress now."

"I can't help that, father. Daisy-Meade wants a mistress too, and I am queen here until you choose to dethrone me."

"Well, well, my child, who knows but I may be—"

Dorothy's hand was on his lips, before what might be, could be spoken.

And if Mr. Hazelwood could have seen the mingled love and pain that were depicted on each face for the moment, he ought to have felt some compunction for the disturbance he had made.

"But what must be must, and should be faced manfully," the old Squire said. And he set about plans for furthering the hopes of his son-in-law elect, who had rashly quoted the patient patriarch in deference to the filial affection of his ladye love.

Before a year expired, he resigned his farm and its business into the hands of his son, who had qualified himself for the responsibility, and at the earnest desire of Mr. Hazelwood, took up his chief residence at Hazel Copse, where he could watch and be tended by his transplanted flower, and see her bloom into matronly beauty, the light of another home.

Such was the lady who paid her momentary visit to Mrs. Falconer at the carriage door, and whose thoughts as she moved about in her new and spacious home continually reverted to the banished ones, possibly shut up in some dingy house of the city street.

Everywhere she traced the graceful tastes of the late mistress of the Moat, everywhere she heard regrets for her departure, and praises of her character; and the desire grew strong within her to prove sympathy and respect in some substantial manner.

But Mistress Hazelwood's instinctive practise was to hide her own loving impulses behind her husband's actions, and to claim for him the tribute, while she shared with him the pure pleasure of generous and useful deeds.

She knew well how a little suggestion expanded in his mind, and often went beyond all her expectations. Presently he would certainly perceive some way to benefit those who had been suddenly deprived of so much that he and his were now enjoying.

In the meantime, there must be no grasping at a shadow and losing the substance; no craving for future usefulness in some congenial form, while duty ready to her heart and hand lay before her in God's appointment.

Those closed doors in the village had chilled her, and must be opened somehow; she must try to supply Mrs. Falconer's place. Her devout and humble manner as she took her place in the great family pew at church on Sunday was particularly approved by the clerk, who commented thereon to the good old gardener, who had not yet required the epitaph.

But of Miss Hazelwood, he could not so favourably report; for she had looked about her, and stared in a peculiar manner at him when he delivered his first "Amen," which he had meant to render unusually impressive, and she did not seem impressed at all,—at least, not respectfully so.

"But she is but a young thing, and must be taught better. Hazel Copse was but an outlandish sort of place, and maybe young Miss had never heard before an 'Amen' as it should be. As for the Squire, he was certainly a pleasant gentleman enough, and not too proud to shake hands with an honest poor man. He had himself looked in at the gardener's cottage with a bunch of grapes for the invalid, which was a good sign; and he would have power to do a deal more than Mrs. Falconer could do in the way of gifts; so perhaps when they came to be known, and the pert little Miss had mended her manners, things might not go so badly after all."

Mr. Herbert heard opinions and remarks, and wisely left matters to take their course. The turn of feeling in the village would be all the stronger when resulting from personal experience, than if constrained by any pressure of advice or suggestion from him.

In honourable sympathy with the general feeling which attended the transfer by purchase of an old family estate, there were no rejoicings at the Moat; and the chief changes to be noticed were the presence of a master and manager of his own affairs, with a bright cheerful little lady for his help-mate, instead of the calm pale face of the widow in her suit of undeviating black, and instead of the poor young heir and his graceful sister, only the one radiant presence of the butterfly heiress, whom nobody could ever resolve to correct or punish. She bounded about like a ball, dived into things serious and comic, resolutely refused to mount the black pony, which she learned had been Guy's, and most irreverently mimicked Mr. Spadeley's impressive "Amen" in his own place of dignity, when exploring the church.

But in the churchyard, she conquered him quite; listened to his tales of the heroes of the Falconers' line; gleaned wonders of village lore from names and dates and epitaphs; trod softly round the tomb beneath the cedars; made him lift her high enough to read the record on the marble slab, and before tripping away,—

"Thank you," she said, gravely. "I wish Mrs. Falconer and the children had not gone away from the Moat; there is plenty of room for us all, and I can't see why they should go; can you, Mr. Spadeley?"

Mr. Spadeley pushed back his hat and rubbed his shining head meditatively.

"Well, Miss, you see, people don't like staying in their troubles where they've seen better days; and the Moat's bought from right over their heads you know."

"Is it? I didn't know; I thought they sold it to my father because they wanted some money."

"Aye, more shame for them that did it that's in a foreign land; but there's no blame for it to them, or to your father, little Miss, so don't put the cap on the wrong head; it's got a thorn or two in it, depend upon that."

"I see," said Miss Evelyn, looking very profound. "And tell you what, Mr. Spadeley, they shall come back again and be happy here, or else I'm not Evelyn Hazelwood; you'll see, Mr. Spadeley; good morning to you, you'll see." And shaking her little head as she looked back at him, she darted off with a new light in her mind.

"I'll see!" repeated Mr. Spadeley in immense admiration. "I shan't see anything prettier nor you one while. Bless your little heart, it's a pity you can't do all you'd like to."

And leaning over the handle of his spade, the worthy sexton made a long meditation. Then suddenly lifting himself up, he struck it vigorously under a weed.

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "That 'll do! And, my little lady, as you say, we'll see,—yes, yes, we'll see what we shall see, and be right glad and satisfied, after all's said and done!"

What vision brightened the end of the vista through which he had been mentally looking, possibly his daughter Jane and the landlord of the "Falconers' Arms" might know soon, but there was no one near to whom to tell it at that moment.

CHAPTER VI.

DAILY BREAD.

AFTER many a weary walk in search of apartments cheap enough to suit her altered circumstances, and wholesome enough for her country plants, so suddenly transferred to a new atmosphere, Mrs. Falconer at last engaged three rooms within easy distance from one of the parks, and then began to consider how best to augment her income, and complete the education of her children. Its object now was changed; the routine which before was pursued in preparation for adorning the station in which they were born, and fitting them for its duties and responsibilities, must now be directed to some special kind of occupation for emolument, and the choice was difficult.

Hitherto Guy had enjoyed the benefit of a good school, and the advantage of assistance from the young pastor of Falcon Range, who was not only a faithful minister of Christ, but also an accomplished scholar; and Maude had not yet passed beyond the hitherto sufficient instruction of her mother.

To enter her son at a public school, and to obtain professional help for Maude with a view to earning a livelihood, seemed the only course to pursue at present; and in order to do this, some unusual effort must be made by herself.

Chief among the attainments of earlier days was great skill, added to the natural taste of an artist; and Mrs. Falconer found encouragement from certain patrons of the Fine Arts, of which she was not slow to avail herself.

To conceal this plan from her children was next to impossible, so she resolved not to attempt it, but rather to claim their gratitude to God for such a graceful and congenial means of assistance. But to poor Guy's unsubdued spirit, the idea was intolerable, and he refused to attend any school or incur any expense to be provided for on such terms.

"I mean to work myself, mother. I have given up all thought of being a gentleman," he urged.

"My son must be a gentleman, whatever else he may be," said his mother, smiling. "I only want you to fit yourself for work, dear Guy, and when that is done, I will not refuse to profit by your labours. You do not yet recognise God's will and providence in our lot, as I had begun to hope."

"Oh, mother, it will drive me mad to see you obliged to work! I cannot bear it!" exclaimed the boy.

"Then, Guy, I must follow the troubled father to kneel at the feet of Jesus, until He in pity casts out the evil spirit that torments my child, my only son; you cannot see and sympathise until this is done. I have no desire to over-tax my strength, or grieve my children; I am only trying to follow, as nearly as I can see it, the loving Hand that beckons in what only our own wilfulness and discontent can prevent from being a 'way of pleasantness' and a 'path of peace.'"

Maude drew closer to her mother and tenderly kissed her brow.

"Oh, Guy," said she, "why do you add to our sorrow by your naughty anger against God? Do you think He does not love this dear mother better than we do? And couldn't He have prevented all that has happened if He thought it right? Take care, dear brother, or we shall have the hard pain of finding out that she has to suffer for our sakes, because we are rebellious and proud, and must be humbled and proved, and made good somehow."

"People can be good, I suppose, without having such miserable things happening to them," said Guy.

"A trial, to be such, must strike where we feel it," said Mrs. Falconer. "Many things might have happened, and have produced no effect. This, which has altered the whole tenor of our lives, must produce some effect. Our Heavenly Father chastens only for our profit; therefore I feel He has sent us a blessing in disguise. Let us penetrate the disguise to find the blessing, and so honour Him in adversity as we should not have been able to do in our late comparative prosperity. And, Guy, if ever we should have the means of helping others, how much wiser and more tender will be our sympathy with those whom God brings low. Oh, let us be assured that He knows best the kind of discipline His people need."

"Hark! What is that for?" said Maude, as the solemn toll of a minute bell struck from the tower of a neighbouring church, soon re-echoed by others at a greater distance.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Falconer, softly, "some whom no such trial as ours could have touched, Death has stricken. May it be in mercy to the mourners."

In a few minutes, the landlady, pale and breathless, burst into the room.

"Oh, ladies! Oh, Mrs. Falconer!" she gasped, "Have you heard? Oh, such a sorrow, such a dreadful blow!" And regardless of everything but this great sorrow, she sank into a chair and sobbed aloud.

Alas! Her news, when she could tell it, was indeed a sorrow. It thrilled the heart of England as no such event had ever done before, and from the palace to the cottage there was mourning, lamentation, and woe. * Death had stricken suddenly where no other kind of blow could have fallen with such mighty weight of trouble. And as the children each clasped the hands of their mother, and gazed in her pale sweet face, they both felt that the loss of property, position, anything they had possessed, was as nothing compared with the anguish it would have been to lose her, their tender, true, best earthly friend.

* Death of the Princess Charlotte.

Then she turned their thoughts to the suffering that no regal state could evade, no lofty titles resist; and they knelt together to pray for God's pitiful help for the stricken mourners around the lifeless form of their most deeply, dearly loved.

That afternoon, Mrs. Falconer was glad to send Guy and his sister to walk in the park and to be alone. Her heart was very full, and she needed time to think and pray, even also to weep; for the news of the morning had touched her deeply, and knew something of the agony of a separation that only death could inflict. Tears of sympathy are like a spring shower, refreshing the parched ground, to be followed by new verdure and fragrance; and in loving prayer for others, the widow almost forgot for the time her own anxieties.

One friend had sought her out, and obtained a ready welcome whenever she chose to come; for she brought in her own large heart much of the Spirit of her Master. And if it were not always manifested in the gentlest, meekest way, it was not because or any self-sufficiency or conceit of her own opinions, but rather from the quick, vigorous grasp which her mind took of things that she deemed worth thinking about. She was, moreover, a woman of business, and went straight to her point, whatever it might be, with very little courtly preface or circumlocution.

Such persons are not very common, and the world rather objects to them; but when natural quickness and decision are softened by Christian love and ruled by Christian principle, they become valuable leaders of thought and action.

God's gracious plan is not to crush out the individualism of human character, but to consecrate and utilize all that is susceptible of sanctifying influence. His gifts are manifold in natural things, and when the supernatural takes possession, it is like a new steersman taking his place at the helm of an ill-directed ship, when she is constrained to yield to a master's hand, and to stand for the destined haven. It is the same ship, the same masts, sails, and tackling, but a new will controls; her course is altered, and all her appliances are made to serve their proper purpose. Some chains may rattle more than others, some timbers creak and strain, but they are doing their duty for all that, and the trifling jar upon sensitive ears is forgotten in their indispensable usefulness.

It is a pity when useful people do not try to be lovable also, because "God is love," and whoever belongs to Him and desires to do His work ought to imitate in his heart as well as his hand. Real kindness and positive service may lose their value in an uncouth manner or ungracious tone, and in a moment turn gratitude to gall.

But whatever might be the estimate of the Honourable Mrs. W— in committees of management (for she never gave her name where she did not intend to work), she knew well how to appreciate character, and the kind of sympathy and aid to render; and if she found some whom she was extremely disposed to snub, she knew full well when across her path came those whom her Lord and Saviour would have to be cherished and comforted.

On that day of national grief, the committee meeting of a certain institution supported by public subscription broke up in surprise and concern. And Mrs. W—, with plans maturing in her hands, and on which no decisive sentence had been passed, made her way to Mrs. Falconer's lodgings, and using the freedom of friendship, walked up unannounced. To her gentle knock, no answer was returned, and she pushed the door open. Mrs. Falconer lay asleep on a couch, tears yet undried on her cheek, and a smile of peace and tranquility on her lips.

The visitor glanced round the apartment. There was an easel bearing an unfinished picture of some lovely spot, an open portfolio of designs and copies, brushes and paints and chalks, a few books, a delicate piece of ladies' fancy work, on which Maude was sometimes employed; and from the hand of the sleeper, a little Testament had slipped.

From these surroundings, Mrs. W—'s gaze returned to that still beautiful face, and she almost shuddered to see how very worn it looked, how delicate and thin the cheek, how care-lined the brow.

"This will never do," thought she; "something must be done, or she will die." And she crept softly to a seat to await the awakening, which soon came.

"Dear friend!" exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, rising up, "what must you think of my idleness? But I was a little tired, and forgot myself."

"And a very good thing too. I wish you would forget yourself in similar ways a little oftener," said Mrs. W—; "but now you must go out of town, and get strong, and find some other occupation than this painting."

Mrs. Falconer shook her head and smiled.

"You know I tried to combine variety, but I have not yet succeeded in obtaining any pupils."

"So I supposed; and knowing that you are blessed with good sense on which Christian principle can act, I have come to say what no other lady on our committee would undertake, lest you should feel hurt and annoyed. And yet not one of them would shrink more than I from paining you."

And taking Mrs. Falconer's hand, she sat down by her side and allowed the love that filled her heart to send its sweet radiance over her face with a charm that seemed kept for special occasions.

"I know it, dear friend," said Mrs. Falconer; "but why this preface to me? You know that I should not so misapprehend you."

"Then here it comes. Take care you are not shot down with it! I want to see you in more active life—painting and working here will kill you in six months. The lady superintending our Orphan Home has resigned, will you take her place? The salary is not large, but there are airy, pleasant rooms, attendance, many comforts, and immense opportunities of usefulness. Think of it, and I will call in a few days for your answer."

Mrs. Falconer's colour rose and faded again before she spoke, but not from pride or displeasure.

"Is it possible that I could perform the duties of such an office?" she asked, timidly.

"Why, if you ruled the old Moat, tenants, schools, clergy, village, and all, I cannot see any difficulty about it," said Mrs. W—, laughing; "any other objection?"

"My children," said Mrs. Falconer.

"There is plenty of room for them. Maude may assist you, and Guy, going daily to school, will never be in your way."

"Dear, kind friend, let me think and pray over it; and if my heavenly Father guided you to make such an offer, I cannot doubt that He will guide me to accept it; but I ought to wait and know."

"And when naming it to your children, tell them that you are invited to take charge for three months as a favour to the committee, but our present superintendent's term will not expire for two months, which must be spent in regaining your strength."

But Mrs. Falconer had engaged to execute certain paintings for a gentleman who had given a liberal order through a city agent, and she thought that the prospect of the institution, with purer air and more certain provision, combined with the hope of active usefulness, would prove tonic enough for the fulfilment of her promise.

Whatever Guy felt, he said nothing against Mrs. W—'s proposal, yielded to his mother's wish that he should attend the public school where she knew that honours might be won, and so passed a few weeks more in peace and patience.

Mrs. Falconer enjoyed her task with all an artist's enthusiasm, but she felt that her bodily strength was giving way, and began to fear for her interesting work, lest it should never be completed. One day as she sat at her easel, a faintness came over her, and when she recovered, Guy had taken the brush from her hand, and stood looking at her picture.

"It wants animation, Guy," said she; "if I am able to-morrow, I shall introduce a few sheep grazing here, and a motherly dame crossing my little bridge with a red cloak on and a plump baby in the hood."

Guy said nothing, but quietly put away the picture for that time.

And when his mother drew it forward the next day to pursue her work, there trotted a small flock of sheep in a dusty road, and a creditable little old woman in a red cloak was passing the bridge, with the plump baby crowing over her shoulder.

Maude came to look and admire, but she knew nothing of the stolen march of old woman and sheep, and suspicion could only fall upon Guy.

"Will they do, mother? Is your idea carried out at all?" he asked, when she smilingly taxed him with the addition.

"Admirably, my dear boy. I shall not think of touching them. I had no idea that you had such a correct eye, or such a skilful touch. Why, Guy, you must certainly be an artist!"

"I want to help you with the other picture, mother, so when you are tired, trust me with it a little while, and we shall soon have them all finished. Then with the money to be paid for them, you are to go somewhere into the country."

Mrs. Falconer was very conscious that her strength was failing fast, though she felt no pain, and detected no disease. Maude's once rosy face was paler and thinner, and Guy had seemed suddenly to become so tall and thin that it startled her to notice it.

She had decided to accept the superintendence of the institution for a three months' trial, and hoped the change would benefit them all; but she could not afford any other, and therefore it must not be thought of.

Mrs. W— was out of town, and there was no one to detect or remedy the state of affairs. The pictures must be finished; the last pound of the half-year's income derived from her pension as the widow of a British officer had been broken into, and the dread of debt fell with its blighting shadow upon her spirit. Still she prayed, and trusted, and worked on; and her son worked too, but in bitterness of heart, and grew more silent and moody. While Maude retired from their presence often because tears would blind her eyes, and fear began to take sad forms in her mind.

But that dearly loved mother's faith, illustrated in the submission, patience, and humility of her life, was a "living epistle," which her children could not but read to their own profit. Never had either of them so realized what she was, or so tenderly loved and valued her. But to see her fade away before their eyes from the effect of circumstances concerning which she was blameless was a very hard, bitter trial.

"Maude," said Guy one morning, "I feel so wicked and so ill, that if the fees were not paid in advance I would not return to school at all. I would rather stay at home and finish that picture."

"Oh, Guy! I do believe if you could get rid of the wickedness, you would of the illness too," said his sister, affectionately. "Do you know, I have felt so much better since I have tried to give up."

"Give up! What do you mean? Haven't I given up too, and done just what I thought our mother wished?"

"Well, I don't know. Perhaps so, Guy, but still it doesn't seem to me quite like giving up, either. You are like the man with the iron collar round his neck, bearing it because he can't help it, and hates it all the while, and feels that he is a martyr to some tyrant's will; there's no nice expression in his poor face."

"Well I'm sure, Maude! Do you mean to say I look like that unhappy wretch you saw in the picture the other day?"

"Not quite, no, no, dear Guy, but you remind me of him; while our mother, whose trouble is so much greater than ours, wears no iron collar, but only just the silken cord of love that binds her in willing subjection to a Father's holy will; and I think her dear face looks more and more like an angel's every day."

"And she will fly away from us one of these days, Maude; I can see it—I am sure of it."

"Oh, Guy, Guy, can you really think so? And yet you can't give up before such an awful sorrow comes on us!" And Maude burst into tears, as her brother thus confirmed the fears she had not found courage to utter.

"Why, what do you mean, sister? How could my 'giving up,' as you call it, make any difference?"

"It might, oh indeed it might, Guy. Don't you see this? God loves our mother, and hears her prayers; and she prays,—oh, I have heard her when she thought I was asleep,—she prays that the loss of your earthly inheritance may be far more than compensated by the inheritance that can never be taken away, and that under the privation of your own way and pleasure, you may be drawn to feel the need of God's lovingkindness in the way and according to the means He sees best."

"Well," said Guy, "and what then?"

"Why, you see, God will give her her heart's desire, because He has said so. 'Delight thyself in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desire of thine heart.' She 'delights' in Him, she just lives with Him. And if words won't do, you know what children must expect; and if one blow won't do, another blow must come, for God says, 'As many as I love I rebuke and chasten.' Rebuke first, then chasten. Oh, brother, can't you see now what I mean?"

Guy had turned to look wonderingly at his sister, usually so quiet and gentle, and now her countenance flushed with unusual animation.

"I never knew that you thought all these things, Maude," at last he said; "you seem to have got suddenly almost as wise as—as—" He stopped. "As our mother—" he had nearly said, but that would have been a positive admission that she was right.

"Dear Guy," said she, "haven't I been learning in God's school lately, and 'who teacheth like Him?' I only want to be His willing, obedient scholar, and to have my brother with me. And oh, if we could together say, 'Thy will be done,' we might together ask that our darling mother might be spared to us. But what if our hearts are so naughty and rebellious and so angry at not having things our own way, that our heavenly Father will be obliged to strike harder yet?"

"Not you, Maude, not you," said Guy, in a half-suffocated voice.

"What touches my brother, touches me also," said Maude, lovingly drawing closer, and putting her arm round him; "and I know mamma would be willing to die, if she thought a sorrow like that would bring you to the Lord Jesus for forgiveness and peace. Oh, brother, we don't half understand as she does the value of an immortal soul, or the wonderful blessing of being a child of God!"

Guy was unusually subdued, and gently returning his sister's embrace, rose and left the room.

By the side of his bed, in the little mean room he had despised, he knelt down and wept hot tears of self-condemnation and shame. He had thought that at the tomb beneath the cedars, he had for his mother's sake laid down wrong feelings and vindictive passions; but even if he had, they were but one form of the mischief which he was allowing to riot within him, and he felt that the root remained yet. Nothing that could really help him came to mind, but the prayer he had uttered in form only, from childhood:

"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me."

And now it seemed to breathe for him just what he wanted.

When he returned to their humble sitting-room, he looked so exhausted and ill, that Mrs. Falconer, who was preparing for a morning's work at her picture, looked anxiously at him again and again.

"I'm all right, mother," said he, cheerfully, answering the troubled gaze, "but I should like to paint for you this morning, and it won't matter about school, for there are only exercises and drill, which I—I—don't care about. And I can go in the afternoon."

"You don't feel strong enough, my dear boy," said his mother; "is not that the reason?"

"Just a little queer, but nothing of any consequence, so pray don't send for a doctor," said Guy, laughing.

Mrs. Falconer felt a pang of anguish for a moment. Alas! If medical advice should be necessary, she could scarcely afford to seek it. But was not this all in her heavenly Father's hands? And "Thy will be done;" "Jehovah-jireh," whispered peace and rest to her fluttering heart.

And then Guy took the palette and brushes, and his mother watched and instructed his work as the bold foreground of a landscape which she had sketched began to assume shape and colour; while Maude devoted herself to the before mentioned piece of needlework.

Just at such a moment, a fine, strong, sunburnt country-gentleman was puffing and flapping about in the narrow street something like a whale in shallow water, and not in the most amiable of tempers, to judge by the impatient thumping of small knockers, or pulling of broken bell-wires, as he applied at several neighbouring doors, and ended his startling summons at that of the house in which Mrs. Falconer resided.

That he had been admitted and was plunging up the dark stairs became evident, and his impression of No. 20, — Street was not complimentary to the lady of the house.

"Whew," he muttered as he stumbled behind her, "this after Falcon Range!—What a den!"

"They are good enough for your betters, sir, whoever you are," said the indignant landlady; "my rooms are the best and cleanest in the whole neighbourhood, and I'm not to be insulted by anybody's ignorant notions."

"Well, well, my good lady, I beg your pardon I'm sure."

And the mollified landlady withdrew as the visitor turned with interest to the startled group before him.

"I must also beg your pardon, Mrs. Falconer, but I have been seeking you all the morning, and must now deliver my errand, and get home again. I regret to see that the bloom has faded from these young cheeks, but we will have it back soon; London does not suit young plants."

"They are growing fast," said Mrs. Falconer.

And a look was turned towards her which seemed to say, "And pray how do you account for your own sickly appearance? Are you growing too?"

Hat and umbrella being disposed of, and the visitor seated, there was an awkward pause.

"You are justly wondering what has brought Roger Hazelwood to London, and to you, madam," he began, "and as I never can get through a circumbendibus creditably, I must just go straight to the point. We—that is, my wife and daughter and I—are very much pleased with the old Moat House; it is everything we could wish, excepting—"

"Sir, I beg your pardon," burst in Guy, hastily, "but did you come here to tell my mother this?"

"Patience, young man," said the Squire, with an amused smile, "I certainly did, though the tail of my speech is more to the purpose; only I could not thrust it in backwards.—Excepting that it is a great deal too large for our small party, and requires a comfortable merry group to make it feel warm and homely. Now for you to be shut up in this foggy hole (I beg pardon) while the whole Falcon Range is longing to have you back again, seems nothing short of insanity; so I came with our united request that you all return with me, and live where you are so well loved, and teach us how to win and wear a share of the hearts of the people around us."

Mrs. Falconer and her children sat speechless, gazing with wonder at the kind, earnest face of the Squire, who evidently meant every word he said. And what was to be said in return?

"I have been uncouth, I'm afraid, madam; my wife would have done better than I, but I could not allow her to take the journey, therefore she will talk over matters with you after you get back. You are not going to refuse my escort, I hope. Look at your son and daughter, Mrs. Falconer, look into your own mirror for a moment, and I am answered; you cannot deny that the argument is strong in my favour. Besides, my Evelyn wants a companion, that black pony of Master Guy's wants exercise, the parson wants his helpers, and the old people want their flannel things against the winter. You'll come?"

THE VISIT TO LONDON.

"Dear sir, we have really been dumb only from surprise," said Mrs. Falconer. "I do not know how to answer you."

"Mother," said Guy, "it is impossible for me. You know I must and will work."

"Bravo, young sir," said the Squire; "but you must get back the strength to do it first."

"May I ask for time to think, to consider?" said Mrs. Falconer. "It is too true that we are not in the best of health, but I have accepted an engagement which may greatly conduce to our improvement—"

"It is impossible for you to undertake anything at present, madam," said Mr. Hazelwood, rising. "You have not the strength of a kitten left amongst you, if I'm any judge of appearances. I must candidly say that I cannot breathe for a week myself in this smoky wilderness of chimneys, and mean to quit it as soon as possible. Still, I am willing to wait your pleasure, if you consent to return with me."

"Dear sir, you must be aware that to accept or refuse would be either unwise or ungrateful, without due consideration. May I write to you this evening?"

"Pray do, and I will book places by the mail to-morrow. And I would suggest, with all due respect to you, madam, that you come at once on a visit for three months, and consider the rest afterwards. I can understand some pain for a while at coming home, but I really believe that the pleasure you will confer must make some compensation. Now farewell until to-morrow."

"Sir," said Guy as the Squire gave his address in London, "I am very sorry for my rudeness, and I beg your pardon."

"Granted, young sir; and the best proof of good terms between us will be that you accept my invite, and come at once. Our good young parson will see that it is not lost time in your preparations for work. I protest against everything until we see the country bloom on your cheeks again."

"I am at a loss to thank you as I ought, Mr. Hazelwood," said Mrs. Falconer as she followed her visitor down the stairs, "but you must not think me ungrateful."

"Leave that word out of the case, if you please, madam. We are selfish, as you will find; but I wish my Dorothy had been here to show you the facts." And never in his life having been able face any eyes that glittered in tears, the Squire hastened off, to beguile his time until the Member for his county called at the hotel and took him to "the House" to hear a debate on some important question of the day.

"Dear mother, you will go," said Guy, as Mrs. Falconer returned to the room and looked anxiously at her children for some indication of their wishes.

"Dear mother, let us go as visitors," said Maude. "Has not God sent us this kind friend to show you what to do? And we shall all be strong and well again for whatever comes next?"

"Can you be happy there, my son?" said she.

"As happy, or most likely more so than anywhere else, until I can work for you, mother," said Guy. "After all, I was not the owner of the Moat, and have no right to murmur at what the real owner chose to do."

"Thank God for this, my dear child; it is health and joy to hear you say so, and I almost think we would be wrong to decline Mr. Hazelwood's generous kindness, extraordinary, unexpected though it is."

"I don't believe his Dorothy, as he calls her, could have done his errand better," exclaimed Maude, "and I can't help thinking we shall love them all. Now, mother, prepare to make the most of our unexpected holiday."

Such a cheerful voice had not saluted her mother's ears for some time past, and after thought and prayer, a letter to the Squire accepting the invitation was despatched.

The picture not being finished, and feeling unwilling to hurry over it in her present exhausted state, Mrs. Falconer could not have the benefit of the price promised for it, and when the next day she contrived her errand of explanation with her employer into the City, she took with her to a jeweller's shop one of her few costly ornaments, a memorial of happier days; and the sum offered for it provided sufficiently for the immediate expenses of the journey. But the new, strange feelings attendant on the humiliating act, thankfulness to God for all His providential care, a sense of utter prostration of bodily power, ended at last in a long faint, which terrified her children, and produced in the kind-hearted landlady entire resignation to the departure of her lodgers without the usual term of notice thereof.

"Surely 'the Lord is my shepherd,'" said Mrs. Falconer; "and what a key-note is that sentence! It seems to flood the soul with promise and praise. Many may be the needful afflictions of the flock, but 'the Good Shepherd' leads them by 'the right way,' and when they are weary, His bosom is their resting-place."

CHAPTER VII.

CASTLE BUILDING.

THE Squire's own carriage-and-four, with servants in livery, awaited the arrival of the mail, but the Squire himself proudly gathered up the reins and dashed triumphantly along the road which had not very long before been so solemnly paced by the pair of stately blacks, with their sorrowful burden of unwilling exiles.

In some mysterious manner, the news had spread, cottages were deserted, groups were gathered, cheers were ventured, and something very like a general rejoicing seized upon the village clan. Respect for the Squire and his family, however, rose with the immense satisfaction their hospitality conferred, and nothing but the remarks of a few who in the evening twilight caught a glimpse of the pale occupants of the carriage checked the universal joy.

Mr. Spadeley was especially prophetic and mingled with all his undoubted regard for the ancient family were certain arrangements in his own mind about the speedy re-opening of the tomb beneath the cedars. It would certainly be some satisfaction that on such an occasion, no hand but his own should meddle with that solemn receptacle of fallen greatness. His daughter, however, restored to her position as attendant on her beloved mistress, entertained a happier opinion.

"If anything can do her good, it is the care and kindness of Mistress Hazelwood," she said. "I never saw such a wise dear lady in my life; why, it might be her very own sister. Never you fear, father, she'll come round as sure as my name's Jane. Miss Maude looks better already, and as for Master Guy, he and Squire Hazelwood are riding together I don't know where, and actually, he speaks cheerful and pleasant like he used to do."

"Well, they deserve Christian burial, that they do," said the sexton; "they're king Solomon's one in a thousand, doing unto others as they would others should do unto them. I saw our parson just now, and he thinks as you do, Jane; so go and do your duty like a good girl, and we'll all have patience and see what's to be the end of it."

The next satisfactory event was Mistress Hazelwood driving about in a little pony-carriage with her guest by her side, calling at cottages, and looking the sweet picture of content at the warm and affectionate demonstrations of the villagers at the recovery and reappearance among them of their valued friend.

A few pleasant weeks made all the difference in restoring what the Squire persisted in declaring was only banished by London fogs, and his mental comment upon the notion of any sane person or persons wilfully encountering the same, was emphatically to the effect that whatever happened "served them right."

He and Guy, Mrs. Hazelwood and Mrs. Falconer, and the now inseparable friends Evelyn and Maude, made precisely the family party which the Squire declared essential to the proper enjoyment of the Moat; the chill, he said, was passing away, the silent passages and grim carvings no longer frightened him, and altogether, he considered his appetite was improving, and his view of life in general was more comfortable and philanthropic. The parson was always welcome to come and look after them all, and if he could supply Master Guy's brains for awhile instead of the school, he could see no objection to things remaining as they now stood, for any time that Providence pleased to allow, and for his part, he should not choose to begin the vexatious self-torment of "meeting trouble half way."

"Dorothy, my dear," said he when the subject of their visitors was under discussion between them, preparatory to further measures, "do you believe in such a thing as 'proper pride'?"

"The world does," said Mrs. Hazelwood, smiling.

"But the world isn't you; do you think pride can be 'proper' in any shape? I want to know."

"No, surely not, dear husband."

"Then a fig for the world's opinion; so tell Mrs. Falconer just your mind about it, Dorothy."

"But, Roger, there is such a thing as self-respect, you know, and we must not ask Mrs. Falconer to sacrifice that, if such should be her view of it. What would you like me and Evelyn to do, if we were situated as she is?" And the fair face clouded a little, and the Squire looked considerably perplexed.

"That superintendency scheme does not please me, at any rate," said he at last; "she will never be strong enough for that, so oppose it with all your might and main."

"I will, dear husband; and if, as I am nearly sure, she will not consent to be without employment somewhere, I think even self-respect will not stand in the way of your plan."

"My plan, Dolly! Why, the better half of it came out of your own little head or heart, or both; and really I do admire your substitution of 'self-respect' for 'proper pride,'—it sounds more like Christianity; but let us take care we don't mistake the one for the other. And warn her gently, you know, not to take counsel with that young pepper-corn of a lad of hers. He has pride enough for the whole peerage if I'm not greatly mistaken, but if she takes him back to London, I don't believe he'll live long to be troubled by it."

Mrs. Hazelwood was of the same opinion, for the delicate appearance of the boy had troubled her almost as much as that of his mother, and having now a definite line of action in view, such as under similar circumstances she would accept for herself, the way was clear to meet Mrs. Falconer's next attempt to introduce the subject of departure from the Moat.

Then tenderly and simply she stated her own and her husband's earnest wish to detain them all, and to consider the Moat House their permanent home, adding many motherly arguments concerning health, moral benefit, and opportunity to cultivate the artistic talent which had already gained notice and approval.

"But, my dear, kind friend," said Mrs. Falconer, "you forget that my children must fight their own way through the world, and wherever I am trying to do so myself is the best scene of example and encouragement for them. Here I am tempted to be again idle and self-indulgent."

"Would you consent to work here, if opportunity could be found, while your son completes his education, and until you know what is to be his future course in life?" asked Mrs. Hazelwood.

"Yes, thankfully, but I saw no way; there was not even a cottage to be had. I could do nothing but go away when our trouble came, and I saw its effect on my boy."

"Then, dear Mrs. Falconer, stay with us, and educate our wild, spoilt Evelyn with your gentle Maude. Let Mr. Herbert take charge of Guy until his health is quite restored; and if you cannot be happy in your own old rooms here, I have no doubt there will be found some pretty cottage on the estate which will suit when required. By-and-by we can think about further advantages for our daughters if desirable, but for the present you are more than qualified to instruct them. Evelyn must have companionship, and I must either seek a governess and a fellow student at home, or send my only child amongst strangers. Will you not help us to a happy alternative, dear friend?"

The pleader could not be resisted long, and the consciousness that at present she was unfit to enter with spirit on the duties of the institution could not but have serious weight in Mrs. Falconer's own judgment. But she would not act without consulting feelings of her children, and to Guy she felt sure the idea would be highly distasteful.

"Mother," said he when she confided to him the plan proposed to her, "have you no feeling against living as a governess where you once lived as mistress and hostess of the house?"

"No feeling against it, Guy; it would be pride, and in this case, I think inexcusable pride. I am conscious that, God helping me, I can be useful to our generous friends, and it will be easier for me to assist your advance in whatever you may desire to do."

"Did you ever feel proud, mother? Do you know anything at all about it?"

"You may as well ask if I am a child of Adam," said his mother. "Pride is as natural to the human heart as any instinct we possess, and the most cruelly tenacious of its grasp; there is but one Power that can subdue it; 'and this is the victory that overcometh even our faith,' for 'whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world.' Pride is Satan's and the world's view of things; true humility belongs to another seed, and came from heaven with the Lord Jesus, Who 'took upon Him the form of a servant,' and was content with the station in which He could best do His Father's will."

"Well, mother, I am not going to say anything against this plan for the present; I would not go back to London and see you fade away into another world, as you were doing lately, for anything London hold's. I will study thankfully with Mr. Herbert, and see what he can make of me for the next few months; and if it is bearable to be under obligation to anybody, I think it will seem less hard to bear with Mr. Hazelwood and his lovable lady than I ever supposed possible. I am getting stronger too, mother, don't you see? Why, I could out-do half those fellows at school if I were to try now. There are the girls going for their ride, I'll just run and tell Maude that we are to stay, and they'll be out of their wits with joy, both of them. I'm glad it's all settled, mother,—not that I want to be idle, and you shall not be ashamed of me at least, I'm determined, neither shall that great, strong, bluff Squire."

That a most welcome change had passed over the mind and temper of her son was apparent, and even beyond what faith and hope had dared to contemplate. So the widow's path seemed plain, and a full explanation was written to Mrs. W— of the entire state of affairs, eliciting her decided approval and congratulations. She declined Mrs. Falconer's offer to come and superintend the institution until the vacancy could be filled, as she knew but too many ready and thankful for the post.

"It has all turned out capitally," said the Squire, rubbing his hands with glee, "and perhaps Miss Evelyn may be made presentable after all."

Mr. Herbert gladly welcomed his pupil, and a happy calm succeeded the late changes and disturbances at the old Moat House.

One pleasant sunny morning, Mrs. Falconer sat with her work on the lawn; Guy, having been dismissed from study by his master, had thrown himself down at her feet, and was for some time deep in the examination of a book which he had taken from his pocket.

Evelyn and Maude were gone with Mrs. Hazelwood on some errand of love, and there was prospect of a quiet hour with his mother.

"Mother," said he, suddenly, rolling over on his back, "I cannot make this out; how can it be? It says,—

"'Seest thou a man diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men.'

"Is that always true?"

"It is the enunciation of a great principle, Guy, and is merely illustrated in forcible terms, signifying that persevering industry attains a high reward; and it is often literally true, for some of our most eminent men have risen from a lowly origin to confer with princes, and take a place in the councils of the State."

"But are they the exceptions, mother, or the rule?"

"Perhaps they may be exceptions so far as the literal statement goes, but the rule holds good in principle for most of those who are diligent in business from right motives and by right means. They usually rise in the social scale, and attain position and influence denied to the idle and indifferent. Doubtless it was so under the administration of a discerning ruler like the king of Israel, and in our own country there is no barrier to the rise of any from humble industry to heights of wealth and power."

"Well, but look here, mother; is it right to try for it? Because listen to this, 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,'—that's not honour, you know. 'Mind not high things, but condescend to men of low estate,'—that's not standing before kings; that's associating with 'mean men.' So what are we really to do and expect?"

"There is nothing inconsistent in the statements, dear boy. Suppose a man to attain by diligence and industry some position of eminence, let him not suppose that he is therefore exempt from trial and suffering, for if he be a follower of Jesus, he must in some way take up His cross; and possibly the very prosperity he has attained may supply opportunities of temptation and tribulation which a more obscure lot may escape.

"Then, though he may be elevated to 'high things' in the world's estimate, he must not be intent on them, or proud of them, because after all, it was by God's kind providence that he was favoured with the elements and opportunities of success; and he should sympathise with, and help forward, those who are struggling as he did, or seem less able to master the difficulties which keep them back. It seems to me that in the three passages you have quoted, we find lawful encouragement in our daily duty, warning that 'the servant' must not expect to be 'above his master,' and a necessary precept against ambition and pride."

"Well, but, mother, suppose the things clash; suppose in trying hard for the reward of diligence in business, one loses sight of the condition to which tribulation in some sense seems promised; what is to be done then?"

"Well, let us consider both for a moment, and then decide which is best worth having. When an industrious, clever man has attained his object, risen as high as he can, what then?"

"Why, that's all, isn't it? He is a great man; he does not belong to the class of 'mean men.'"

"Yes, and what then?"

"I don't know, excepting that he will like to keep what he has attained until—"

"Until when, Guy?"

"Until he dies, I suppose."

"Yes, and what then?"

"What then, mother! I cannot tell."

"Do you think that the man who has been only diligent and attentive to the business of the world, amassed a fortune, attained a high estate, will be welcomed in heaven as 'a good and faithful servant,' and counted worthy to enter the joy of the Lord? Did he not receive his reward on earth? Did his aims and desires rise above the end he pursued? And should he be disappointed at only attaining what he strove for?"

"I suppose he should not; but such a man would perhaps be thinking himself so lawfully busy, that God would provide for the next world, when he had to give up this one."

"Very likely; I fear many make that fatal mistake, forgetting the word of warning to such, 'What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shalt that a man give in exchange for his soul?' It is a question man has never dared to answer, so he evades it, until compelled to estimate the profit and the loss in the eternal consequence of his miserable neglect. But what of the other condition, Guy?"

"The tribulation, the humble and lowly lot of those who care most for following Christ and obeying God, do you mean?"

"Yes, what then?"

"Why, I suppose one escapes disappointment, and most of the troubles of the rich and great; but then you see, one may keep very low, and always be among 'mean men' at that rate."

"Yes, and what then?"

"Oh, go on creeping and grubbing till one dies, I suppose."

"And then?"

"That's all; a grave perhaps, with no name to put over it. Nothing more."

"Yes, Guy, think again; the grub days over, the wings unfold, the angels of God bear home the blood-bought soul, and the Lord Himself pronounces the welcome of His humblest follower who has lived by faith, and obeyed and honoured Him. 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant,' from the Master's lips, will obliterate all life's sorrows and disappointments, inaugurate joys that, until then, 'eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart to conceive, but which God hath prepared for them that love Him.' Oh, my son, we shall then know fully what it is to be a Christian, not in name only, but in deed and in truth."

Guy gazed at his mother with a feeling almost of awe, half expecting to see the wings she spoke of; and there was a long silence, while his face lay hidden in the grass. At last he looked up.

"Mother, I will try for both. I will be diligent in business, and take what it brings; but I will have the wings and the welcome whatever else I lose."

"By the grace of God, dear child. 'Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find'; and be sure that you shall stand one day, glory-crowned, in the presence of the King of kings."

While the mother and son indulged in silent thought on the subject of their conversation, the voices of Evelyn and Maude sounded merrily from a neighbouring walk, and before Guy could rise, he was covered with wreaths of wild flowers and denounced as the very impersonation of idleness.

"Now if you will be civil, I will convince you that I am not idle," said Guy, composedly, making strokes upon a paper or drawing-book as he lay on his face on the grass; "look if you ever saw anything like this."

Both the fairies were down on either side of him in a moment.

"Of course we have," cried Evelyn; "it is the Moat House. But you have not put in some trees that I think are there, and you show a piece of the old tower that I'm quite sure cannot be seen from the place where you stood for this view."

"You seem pretty familiar with the old place, Miss Evelyn, to notice all that; but you see, I've cut down those trees, and opened a glimpse of the tower, which I consider a great improvement, don't you?"

"You have cut down the trees!" exclaimed Evelyn, in amazement. And she darted away to look at the spot in question.

"For shame, Guy," said she, returning very red and angry; "you should speak the truth; you know you dare not cut down my father's trees."

"I meant in imagination at present," said Guy, laughing; "but, I mean to do it in fact some day, when I've got the Moat back again, and I was only just trying how it would look."

"What! Get the Moat House away from my father," cried the young lady, in surprise and disgust.

"Yes, some day; but of course I shall pay him for it; I'm going to be a thief."

"Indeed you shall never do any such thing; I'll tell him what you say."

"I thought you were my friend, Evelyn," said Guy, coolly, "and would be glad that I should have the old place where my ancestors lived for hundreds of years, and that never ought to have been sold out of the family."

"But what am I to do? I can't wish both ways, you know, and my father calls me his little queen, and says I shall reign here all the days of my life. I'm sure he will be very angry to hear of such wicked thoughts, Guy, so you'd better give them up this moment."

"No, I shall not do that; and can't you see, you hot-headed little thing, that it will make no difference to you? It will take a great many years to earn the money, and when I want the place, perhaps your father may find one he will like better, and if not, you shall all live here with us, as we do now with you."

"I don't believe my father would like that," said Evelyn, somewhat mollified; "so if it will take a great many years, I think I shall not tell him yet; but it seems very disagreeable of you. Perhaps he will not sell it to you, though, and what then?"

"Then I can't help it, I suppose, and I shall have to wait until—until—" Guy paused, it was a troublesome thought, "until—" when, and he could not say it.

Maude had listened in some surprise at the cool, assured tone in which her brother had spoken, but felt the dilemma into which he had worked himself, for in his zeal for his own project, he forgot for the moment the implied sorrow to others.

"See, see!" she suddenly exclaimed. "How grand! How beautiful! Towers, trees, gardens, and the flag of the Falconers waving over all!"

"Where? What do you mean?" cried Guy and Evelyn, starting up.

"There, in the air to be sure; don't you see? Guy's castle, I mean."

"Pooh!" said the boy, colouring. "What nonsense, Maude."

"More harmless nonsense than yours, dear brother, for you know it is written, 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours house.' I wish you had not had such strange thoughts, Guy."

"Well, never mind now," said Evelyn, kindly. "I dare say it's very natural, and I did not know that your people lived here so long ago."

"It may be natural, dear children," said Mrs. Falconer, "but the servants of Jesus and heirs of the heavenly mansions must be supernatural, and I hoped that Guy had chosen an inheritance that can never pass away."

"But I may have both, you know, mother, and if not, I shall choose the best."

What a puffed-up, elastic thing is a young human heart! What big thoughts, what strong wills, what unspeakable ideas swell within it!

CHAPTER VIII.

THE PLACE OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

"WHAT is that queer object yonder, Evelyn? Your eyes are younger than mine," and Squire Hazelwood pointed in the distance where the sun had just lighted up a glade in the park, revealing little gleams of beauty before unseen.

"I cannot tell yet, father, we must get nearer; it is too small for a cow, perhaps it's a calf; let me canter Fairy over the turf and see what it is."

And touching her pony with the whip, she bounded over the intervening sward, to the great admiration of the Squire, who loved to have her the companion of his morning ride whenever he could presume to interrupt the duties of the schoolroom. Not choosing to tear up the turf with the heavier hoofs of his horse, he trotted round towards the spot where Evelyn sat laughing at the object so unrecognisable at the greater distance.

"Ha! I see you were right, Evelyn; yes, it is a calf." And the Squire laughed merrily at the discovery.

The object was no other than Guy on his back, shading his eyes with his cap, and studying the soft white clouds that sailed across the blue sky.

"Yes, of course it's a calf, Evelyn; let him finish his dream; but ho! Young sir, you had better remember that you were not born to the herd-life of Nebuchadnezzar, and there is such a thing as rheumatism in these parts, which are not exempt from 'all the ills that flesh is heir to.' Come along, Evelyn."

"Poor lad," he continued as they rode away, "if he is going to dream away his life like that, I don't know what he will be fit for. I'm glad he's no son of mine."

Now Miss Evelyn was not pleased with the tone of such remarks, and wishing to impress her father with more respect for Guy's capacity, she resolved to tell him of the great scheme which lighted up the dreamer's future, and which would prove that he had at least an object in life, though how it was to be furthered by lying about on the grass she did not exactly see. So drawing close to her father's side, and looking eagerly up at him,—

"But, father," she began, "you will never guess what a wonderful thing Guy means to do—that is, if you let him, though I don't think you will."

"I'm sure I shall never guess at anything very wonderful in him, so you will have to tell me, little woman; and pray don't imagine that I should have the heart to hinder him."

"Well, father, it is this. Turn your head this way, that I may see how astonished you will be. He says he is going to earn money enough to buy back the Moat House from you. There now!"

The Squire certainly was surprised, and burst into a loud fit of laughter as the most appropriate expression of it.

"Buy back the Moat, will he? Poor lad, poor lad! He may well lie on his back with a bee like that in his bonnet,—ha! ha! ha! Excuse me, my dear, for it really is the most ludicrous thing I have heard for years. Buy back the Moat with money that he will earn!—Poor lad, poor lad!"

"He is not 'poor lad' at all, father," said Evelyn, indignantly; "he has plenty of great, good thoughts in him."

"I dare say he has, but they will always be only thoughts. I cannot help laughing, Evelyn. Why, his pale face and thin body haven't enough life in them to do much harm or good in this world, poor lad. So he is going to buy back the Moat! Well, all I can say is, let him, if he can; we needn't feel very much alarmed at him, my little woman."

"I am not at all alarmed, father," said Evelyn, with some vexation at his disrespectful mirth.

"No, I should think not, child, it's too comical to be serious about; but I rather like his spirit, I didn't know it was in him, even to dream about."

"Father is quite disagreeable this morning," thought Evelyn. "I almost think I shall be on Guy's side, and wish he may buy it back some day. What fun it would be! Poor lad, indeed! I cannot think what makes my father talk in that way." And she tried to believe that the face was not so very pale, and the long, thin figure not so very weak, though by the stout, strong proportions of Squire Hazelwood, whom, had she lived some years later in the world's age, she might have been disposed to pronounce "jolly," Guy certainly did not look robust—or vulgar.

Then his tastes were singular, and not usually such as obtained sympathy from the Squire, though Mr. Herbert's report of him as a student was thoroughly satisfactory. He would spend hours watching the clouds; would steal among the cattle, and coax them into picturesque groups; tether a sheep or a goat, and take its portrait; study every variety of foliage that adorned the changing seasons; and within the cover of his little despised portfolio, treasured art-secrets that should be revealed some future day.

Mr. Herbert observed and was disappointed; he would have preferred a different career for his interesting pupil. Mrs. Falconer observed, and waited too; perhaps she also would gladly have seen indications of a desire for some remunerative profession or pursuit; but her means of promoting it being very small, she did not venture too urgently to propose a decision.

"Time enough yet," the Squire would say, in order to comfort her concerning her boy; "he has not strength of body yet to bear him through any great struggle in life. Another year of these green fields and old woods that he seems to love so much, and then Master Guy must shake himself up, and tell us what he is fit for."

But Guy was not idle, and would take no mean place as a scholar if sent into either of the public schools; and the rapid development of his talent as an artist was secretly proved by the occupation of every hour that could be devoted to this overruling aim.

The works of God for his model could not but ennoble and purify his taste, and such a choice would probably be a safe-guard from many of the temptations of the world. But was it possible that Guy would seek through it the fulfilment of ambitions at which he had sometimes hinted? It was possible, and it was a fact.

"I cannot be a clergyman," thought he; "I am not good enough to preach to others."

"You must preach by your life," whispered an indwelling monitor; "see that the sermon be sound and faithful."

"I do not like the law, it has so much to do with injustice and contention."

"Blessed are the peacemakers," rose to his mind.

"I cannot be a merchant, for I have no money to begin with."

"Thou shalt not covet," said the monitor again.

"I think I can paint in time, and I love it more than anything that seems within my reach. But will it do any good in the world?"

"'Whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by Him.'"

"And if I cannot do that, I will not be a painter," thought Guy; "to earn money is all very well, and I like the idea very much, but it isn't everything. Can I serve God in my work? I can think about Him, love Him, admire Him, but can I serve Him by copying His beautiful works on to my canvas, and wishing men to buy the representation? Is it not selfish, useless in the world? Are people the better for the study of art?"

And Guy reluctantly carried this new perplexity to his mother, for as she had already earned money by the exercise of her talent, she must in some way have faced and overcome the same difficulty.

"I am not prepared to assert that the world is any better for a multitude of the things that are nevertheless lawfully done in it," said Mrs. Falconer; "it may perhaps be pleasanter for many a pursuit which rises no higher than man's own gratification, and in moderation such may be enjoyed; we are to 'use the world as not abusing it.' If any lover of art can afford, without neglecting higher claims, to adorn his house with a pictured record of the loveliness of scenes which have charmed his sight, and of which he desires to preserve the memory, he is not doing wrong; and if he cannot paint, he can purchase."

"Very well, dear mother, this brings us to the point. A man's house can do without such adornment, though it may not look so elegant, and the responsibility falls upon those who possess the power to supply that deficiency."

"Who bestows that power? Where does it come from?" asked Mrs. Falconer.

"'Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above,'—is that an answer?" said Guy.

"Yes, dear boy, it is the answer. And if we recognise the Giver, and the proper end of all His gifts, we are solemnly responsible for the use we make of them."

"Then you don't think there is anything wrong or trifling or inconsistent in trying to be a clever artist, mother?"

"Certainly not, if one feels that it is an endowment of one's nature, and circumstances in God's providence admit of its cultivation; but it is very foolish, and useless also, for anyone to insist upon selecting such a study if he possess no natural qualifications for it. There are certain things that no amount of effort will ever attain; they belong to the individual, are his by nature, and make what man calls genius."

"Do you mean when one's mind and thoughts and hopes and chosen work run in any special channel, and one wishes to press everything into its service, that one may be said to have a genius for it?" said Guy, with a flush on his cheek, and a new light dancing in his eyes.

"I think it would not be wrong to conclude so; and in the useful occupations of life, it is often a great satisfaction to see men's delight in their chosen pursuits. What should we do if none of our youths loved the sea, and seemed made on purpose to brave its dangers, and enjoy its wonders? What mercies to mankind have resulted from the physician's skill; but what drudgeries to undergo, what disagreeables to encounter, what researches to pursue, before he can hope to attain any eminence; and if he does at last attain it, his love and enthusiasm for his profession have borne him over hindrances and difficulties before which an indifferent student would have quailed in disgust or settled down in mediocrity."

"Ah, yes, mother; but you see you have selected two occupations that are necessary in the welfare of one's country or fellow creatures. Now nobody is the better for painting, so far as I can perceive."

"Many are greatly the worse, Guy. A noble gift perverted it one of Satan's instruments. Poetry and music rank in a similar position; but enlist them all in the cause of truth, morality, and Christian love, and they exercise a power for good which God can bless and prosper. For this they were given, and woe to those who have profaned them for baser uses."

"I want to feel sure that the profession I choose shall not be a mere fancy of my own—a lazy sham for occupation, because I am obliged to work; and it will not satisfy me that I love it, and delight in it, and even succeed in it, if it never does good to anybody in the world. Why, I might actually do harm, of I induced people to buy my pictures when they ought to spend their money in some other way."

"I hope, if you knew that to be the case, you would not induce them, Guy."

"No, of course I would not. Still, I want to see just the right principle and motive, mother—one that will stand through everything."

"It is necessary in the providence of God that you should devote your time and talents, whatever they may be, to gain your own living, dear Guy, and it would comfort my heart if in so doing, you should be able to make a home some day for our Maude, when either she might be unemployed, or I may—"

"Hush, my mother; I can't bear your 'may be.' I want to make a home for you both, or it will be no home to me."

"Then you have an honest, lawful motive, Guy."

"So I have, mother—a motive for work that will bear me through any drudgery of preparation. Now for the sphere of it. My natural taste, desire, conscious possession of some degree of—of talent, shall I say?—point to the ornamental. I do wish I had a clear hard head for something outrageously useful, quite indispensable to all the world!"

"Well," said his mother, smiling, "on the supposition that it is to be something among the Fine Arts, let us try to find a little encouragement."

"That's just what I want, mother; to be engaged in some way that God can approve, while I am earning my subsistence by it."

"We must look back a long way, Guy, for our first token. I suppose that when God created man 'in His own image,' the tastes, feelings and perceptions of the creature were in perfect harmony with, if not a reflection of, the mind of the Creator, and we know that he, with all around him, was pronounced 'very good.' Now the dwelling-place of this happy, holy one might have been merely some safe and peaceful spot where communion with his Maker was sufficient to beautify it, even had it been a forest or a plain.

"But we are told that it was 'a garden,' planted by the hand of God Himself, and in which He caused to grow 'every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food.' Whatever would gratify an innate appreciation of the beautiful was as indulgently provided as the useful and necessary food for the body. We cannot doubt that Eden was a scene of loveliness such as our world has never since possessed; and the graceful occupation of 'dressing and keeping' it, involving no toil, simply exercised that degree of refined taste and perfect sense of order and harmony with which its lord would be endowed. These attributes, though sullied by the fall, are not extinct in Adam's children."

"No, that they are not," said Guy; "for you know what beautiful work and richly-blended or contrasted colours the Indian tribes produce, and in some of the ideas and speeches of untutored savages it almost seems as if they thought and spoke in poetry."

"True; and while some among the more favoured races take advantage of circumstances to develop these instinctive perceptions into some practical form, others are content with their power of appreciation, and enjoy sympathetically what genius provides; and mercifully so. It is painful enough to hear bad music, read miserable rhapsodies miscalled poetry, and be called upon to admire daubs that lack all the requirements of true art, the first being a strict adherence to nature; but happily these self-deceivers are not numerous, and usually give up under want of encouragement.

"Thousands who can never be musicians delight in music; they have the internal sense of harmony, but not the voice or touch of skill: thousands who cannot sketch a gate-post, gaze with admiration on a picture which tells its story to their eyes and hearts. Therefore the influence of genius in works of art is a responsibility for which its possessor will be called to solemn account, for it raises a standard beneath which national character will be either elevated or corrupted.

"A gifted man may dedicate his genius to purity and virtue, and so guide public taste and feeling in the right direction; or he may degrade his gifts to the sensuous and profane, and leave the stamp of satanic triumph on his day and generation. To use genius aright, dear Guy, it must be consecrated and directed by the Spirit of Almighty God. In all that is beautiful and sublime, He, the source of beauty, the impersonation of all perfection, is the safe and willing Guide."

"Then, if His glory be our aim, we cannot go too far in the exercise of His own gifts?" said Guy.

"Remembering, of course, to keep within the limits of obedience to His own commands."

"Of course, mother. What makes you say that? Can anything be done for God's glory that disobeys His will?"

"Yes, Guy, and therefore I added the warning. Men have so far deceived themselves as to call into requisition some of the greatest triumphs of art, and profess them for His glory and honour, while distinctly violating His revealed commands."

"Ah! I know what you mean now, mother; but surely that sort of profession is either hypocrisy or ignorance."

"It results from both, and with God's Word before us, both are wholly inexcusable."

"Now, mother, I must just mention something that is in my mind on this very point, and I'm glad our little talk has brought us to it. You know our old church is very old indeed, and getting sadly dilapidated, and I should like to see it made respectable."

"So should I, my dear boy; and I think probably when Mr. Hazelwood is able to attend to it, he will have it made so."

"Well, suppose he gave me leave to do whatever I please with it; it is God's house—"

"You mean it is, and always has been, devoted to purposes of Christian worship."

"Yes, it is not used for anything else. Well now, could I make it too beautiful with all the taste and skill in architecture, painting, and sculpture, that I could muster to adorn it?"

"For a museum of beautiful things, an exhibition of your taste and liberality, or for its present purpose; which do you intend?"

"Of course for its present use—a place where the Gospel is preached, and where people meet to pray, and hear, and praise."

"Then to be acceptable to God, the worship must be according to His known mind about it."

"Yes, of course, mother."

"Then listen, dear Guy; 'God is a Spirit, and they that warship Him, must worship in spirit and in truth.' Whatever would interfere with the exercise of spirit, by interesting or attracting the senses, is an intrusion on the sanctity and exclusiveness of spiritual worship. It is not with eye or ear, but with heart, soul, and conscience, that God communes in His worshippers. He does not say, 'I dwell in gorgeous temples, or on decorated altars;' but, on the contrary, He 'dwelleth not in temples made with hands; neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though He needed anything;' yet He has a dwelling-place on earth, and where?

"The prophet tells us, 'Thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, I dwell in the high and holy place, with him, also, that is of a contrite and humble spirit.' That is the true invocation of the Divine presence, be it where it may—in a cathedral or a barn; the external scene has nothing to do with it. God's 'high and holy place' is a name for His eternal presence in sovereign majesty; and from it, He bends in pardoning love to meet and bless the repentant sinner."

"But, mother, do you think it may be more acceptable to God, more like apprehending His perfections, if we ask Him to meet and bless us in beautiful buildings, and among objects that we value and admire?"

"No, my dear Guy, it is not really so, however some imagine it. If man were perfect again, it might be so; but experience proves the fact that in proportion to the increase of external appliance and ornament in the worship of the professing Church, was the decrease of spiritual religion and practical godliness in heart and life, and the growth of those corruptions which made what men called Christianity, a scandal and disgrace to Europe.

"It is only the spirit-taught soul and consecrated heart that can offer acceptable worship through the Great High Priest; and when men took upon themselves to do it in their own way, and according to their own sensuous ideas of beauty and acceptability, they had to find their offerings turn to corruption, and their boasted improvements become abuses. The main reason was to be found in the neglect of the Bible, the only true standard of faith and holiness.

"'The entrance of Thy words giveth light; it giveth understanding unto the simple,' was the experience of man; and the fact was observed by man's great enemy; therefore to hide away God's words, and pre-occupy the mind with human superstitions, alike served Satan's end and the ambition of those who aimed at the subjugation of the minds and consciences of their fellow sinners, and the enjoyment of the Diotrephes spirit which assumes the blasphemous authority of a priestly medium between God and man. Keep close to God's Holy Word, dear Guy, and you will escape the snares of mere formal religion, as well as of false teachers, however plausible both may be."

"But yet, mother, we know that when Moses was being instructed about the Tabernacle, God actually inspired the work-people to do the beautiful things that were required, as if no human skill could be perfect enough."

"Quite true. No human idea could reach the occasion; for do you not remember what that Tabernacle was to represent? It was to be made after 'the pattern' shown to Moses in 'the Mount;' this is carefully recorded several times. * And what was that 'pattern'? However 'shown,' whether by word or by illustration, it was nothing less than the dealing of God in Christ with man in redemption and salvation. Such a plan could never have been conceived by human intellect, and it required Divine teaching to embody Divine truth in such type and symbol, or figure, as should concentrate attention on the object to be represented."

* Exodus xxxi., xxxv., and Hebrews viii.

"The materials to be used were of God's own creation, and were to be of the best and purest—gold, silver, and precious stones; cedar, silk, flax, skins—and the working up of them into their destined use must be by His own special instruction. So Bezaleel and Aholiab were 'called by name,' and made as it were foremen of the work, 'filled with the Spirit of God in wisdom and understanding,' that they might direct and superintend all the 'wise-hearted' work-people who were selected for the occasion. We must never forget for a moment that all these arrangements were typical of something future; and these types were to be apprehended by the senses, and obeyed in the practice, until the right time should come for the reality to appear with the spiritual truths prefigured.

"In due season, God sent forth His Son, 'the brightness of His glory, the express image of His person,' united to our human nature with all its sinless infirmities, to be, not only the manifestation of God in righteous love to man, but to be also the representative of man to God, obeying for us, dying for us, rising again for us, and re-uniting in holy harmony for all believers the link that sin had broken between God and man. Then the end and meaning of all those blood-sprinkled rites and solemn services were fulfilled and understood; God no longer spoke by altar and sacrifice, slain lambs and Aaronic priests, but by His Son, 'the Word made flesh.'

"Then to retain the shadows would have interfered with the right reception of the grand reality; and when the true Sacrifice declared the long-prefigured deed accomplished, and bowed His head, and died, the veil of the temple was rent from top to bottom, and the symbolic ritual was abolished by the same Divine Hand that had instituted it.

"Simplicity and truth, decency and order, are the characteristics of the new dispensation of the Holy Spirit, whose office is to take of the things of Jesus, and show them to the spiritual understandings of all who believe. Whatever distracts the mind, through eye or ear, by painting, sculpture, music, from the Lord Jesus Christ Himself, is an offence to God, a perversion of human talent, and an inevitable hindrance to spiritual worship. If in their weak misapprehension of God and truth, people call such things 'helps to devotion,' as many do, it is because they slight the power of the promised Spirit, who 'searcheth all things, yea, the deep things of God.'

"'The natural man,' or the man in his worldly, unrenewed nature, can receive the emotional enjoyment of gazing on a pictured crucifixion, or of listening to a thrilling Mass, and fancy it devotion; but the honour of the passing excitement goes to the gifted painter and the skilled musician, for 'the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God,' and 'the things of God knoweth no man but the Spirit of God,' and they must be 'spiritually discerned."

"Then no one really taught what true worship of God consists in should feel any need of help," said Guy, musingly.

"I did not say that, my dear boy. Help is needed, but not human help. Our Father knows how weak and unable we are to do anything as we should like to do it, however truly we love and adore Him, so He has provided the needed help. Do we want to pray? 'Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought; but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groaning which cannot be uttered.' So you see prayer is not restricted even to words.

"And if we desire to praise, 'O Lord, open Thou my lips; and my mouth shall show forth Thy praise.' 'My lips shall utter praise when Thou hast taught me Thy statutes.' 'Let my soul live, and it shall praise Thee,' which no 'dead' soul can do. Let us call things by their right names, and not mistake one for another."

"But you do not object to beautiful music in the worship of God, dear mother. I have heard you sing your very best in church."

"I am very glad you thought so, Guy. And few things are more delightful than the praises of our God, sung from the heart, by voices cultivated with scientific taste. Only, let us sing to the glory of God, and not to the glory of ourselves or the mere gratification of the sensitive ear."

"It seems a natural thing that when rich people become Christians, they should like to spend money upon things connected with religion, though, mother."

"Very natural indeed, dear Guy; but at the same time, unless the desire is rightly directed, it may produce much harm."

"What would you consider being 'rightly directed,' mother?"

"I think a rich Christian should be content with much simplicity and plainness in the externals of worship, not only because his own heart in its loving communion with God in Christ soars far above all visible things, but also lest he should be the means of misleading others, and helping on their self-deception. He may take care that 'the place where prayer is wont to be made,' and fellow Christians assemble to worship God, is substantial, respectable, and, if you like, even handsome in its proportions and provision for its purpose. But there his responsibility ends in that behalf, and his sympathies are commanded in another direction, namely, 'to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction,'—to seek out the lost and miserable, the hungry, the naked, the sick, the oppressed, and in Christ's name, and for His sake, minister to them of the substance committed to his stewardship. This is the service which our Lord recognises as done unto Him. And it is no sign of health in any professing communion when the decoration of a visible temple takes the place of spiritual truth in the preparation of the 'living stones' of the spiritual temple, 'the habitation of God through the Spirit.'"

"Well now, mother, what about the Puritans? I am glad to feel that I have real sympathy with their cause, and glory in their noble stand against tyranny and priestcraft, when the religion and liberties of England were threatened either by the weak or the wicked; but did they not push non-essential matters to an extreme?"

"Unhappily it is the tendency of the human mind to rush to extremes, and many a noble cause has been damaged by the violent reaction which results from success. The Puritans (why, Guy, the very name is an honourable witness) restored the supremacy of God's Word, with its holy precepts of self-denial and godliness. Their men were majestic men, firm of purpose, bold in action, wise in counsel, because they gave due place to the souls within them, and lived, not as half men, but whole men, not for time only, but for eternity; their women took their anointed place, 'adorned with good works,' as 'daughters of the Lord Almighty;' and experience testified of Puritanic principles, that they were sound and safe, and never more so than in domestic life."

"But were they not too rigid and severe? Were they not hard and stern about things that were innocent and natural, and so made their religion distasteful and disagreeable, instead of lovable and winning?"

"I think it is true that they were often hard and strict in their anxiety to exterminate the real licentiousness and abominations of the time—they sometimes swept away lawful preferences and simple pleasures; but when men have had to fight their way to freedom and virtue for law and life, they may stand excused for trying to guard every avenue through which the recurrence of past sin and degradation might threaten their recovered rights. And it is a fact that no political bias or religious partisanship can gainsay, that the less of luxury in the life, and the simpler the form of worship among the people, the higher rose our national character, and the stronger our moral influence among the rulers of Europe. Let us take care that the beam of real disloyalty to God and His holy truth is not in our own eyes, while condemning the mote that may have interfered with the perfect light of our Puritan forefathers'."

"It is just this, then, mother, to my mind in real desire to know the truth. People were already made to anything that turned up in either religion or politics that human schemes could devise, but to make a true Puritan required the grace of God. I would have preferred to be a Puritan if I had lived in those days, even if they would not have allowed me to paint."

"I am glad to find that you are not fettered by prejudice, dear Guy; for it is painful to hear the narrow judgments and one-sided views of so many young people who are wholly ignorant of historical and biographical facts, and are carried away with romantic misrepresentations of heroism and honour. As for allowing you to paint, those times were too full of stern realities to admit of much cultivation of the arts; but many a brave Puritan endured portraiture, and we need not forget that the sublimest poet England ever produced was John Milton the Puritan."

CHAPTER IX.

A CONSPIRACY.

AMONG Guy's friends at the Moat, none observed him more sympathisingly than its kind mistress. She soon discovered his favourite pursuit and desire, and to promote them in the most effectual way became one of her settled purposes. If Guy must paint, he must do it well, otherwise he must not do it at all—that was decided; and to paint well, he must have all the advantages that could be obtained in furtherance of that object.

She knew that it would not be easy to obtain her husband's sanction of his choice, but he was too sensible and kind, and too anxious to serve Mrs. Falconer, not to yield his best assistance when required.

"Do you know what Guy is going to do in London by himself, Dorothy?" asked the Squire one day.

"Yes, Roger, he is going to study—painting."

"Painting! Oh, we'll soon settle that. Let him paint away here as hard as he likes. Bless me, I'll find him plenty of work without going to London for it."

"Then he should go to the Continent, and study at Paris, and if possible in Italy," gently suggested Mistress Hazelwood.

"Whew! Why, Dorothy, I should not have thought of a Christian woman like you seconding such a scheme. I don't like it, my dear wife. Tell him I'll provide him with paint-pots enough for decorating the whole parish, and he had better make up his mind to stay at home."

"But you would like him to excel in whatever he is to earn his living by," gently urged the lady.

"Oh yes, of course, but he can do that without going into all sorts of mischief among infidels and papists and what not. Paint forsooth! Let him paint the house, it wants it badly; and then we'll see what can be done next."

"Very well, Roger," said Mrs. Hazelwood, with her merry little laugh, which her husband said always drove away bad humours, "then I will see that Guy abides by your decision; he is to paint the house, and you will consider what he is to do next."

"Agreed, fair mistress," said the Squire, looking amused and puzzled. "How much paint? How many brushes?"

"The boy had better choose them himself, I think, lest the workman complain of his tools," said the fair mistress, demurely.

"Methinks thou art reckoning wrong this time, Dorothy; the poor lad will never do anything so useful as paint a house. I am sorry for his mother, she is so good and sensible, and will be sorely disappointed in him."

"Well, we shall see. I hope you are not going to be like the Pope, Roger."

"Protestantism forbid! How, pray?"

"Infallible," laughed Dorothy.

"I don't know, Mistress Dorothy, my bump of self-esteem has been rather growing lately. Did you ever see any child so improved as Evelyn, and did not I say that it would be better to have a governess at home than to send her to school?"

"You did, Roger, and I can never thank God and you enough for bringing us such a governess as Mrs. Falconer." And Dorothy looked up with grateful affection into her husband's face.

"So that's well, my wife," said he, fondly; "and don't you think we may be content without those further 'advantages' that were talked about some time ago? What more does Evelyn need than to be a well-informed, well-mannered gentlewoman like her mother before her? And she is in a fair way to be that between you."

"If you are content, so am I," said the mother, almost blushing at the sweet flattery. "I have no desire to fit our daughter for anything but the simple quiet duties of our country life."

"And if she must see the world by-and-by, why, you know, we might all go to London for a month or two; when perhaps that lad, if he should go there after all, would be the better for a home in it," added he.

The tears sprang to Mrs. Hazelwood's eyes—tears of thankfulness and pleasure; but the Squire preferred to be thanked with smiles. His generous thought for Guy was just what she wished, but for Evelyn 'the world' to which he alluded was not particularly desirable in her eyes.

"Great cities seem especially man's world," she said, "and while Evelyn is happy with God's world of nature round her, we need not invent other attractions. She and Maude are diligent fellow students, and when books have done their part, it will be time enough to seek a new field of inquiry."

This was a perfectly congenial arrangement to the Squire, who had an undefined dread of some crisis in young lady life, when according to established usage she had to 'come out,' and cease ever to go in again as pure and true and happy as she was before the ordeal. Anything that would retard or avert this fate for his Evelyn was acceptable to her father. With reference to society, his house was open with liberal hospitality to all comers; but the invited guests were those whose principles and characters he respected, and with whom his family associated in friendly freedom.

One morning when the Squire was preparing for the first meet of the hunt that season, his horse was brought, by Mrs. Hazelwood's desire, round to the front entrance of the house, and under the old-fashioned porch, which terminated on either side by a short flight of steps, she stood with Evelyn by her side to see him mount, one holding his riding gloves, the other his whip.

"Stay a minute more, Roger, and let me stroke that creature's shining coat," said the lady; and as if conscious of her admiration, the fine animal arched his beautiful neck, and proudly pawed the ground, as she leaned over the balustrade and patted and stroked him deliberately.

"Well, Dolly, have you done admiring us?" said the Squire, laughing. "Now, Miss Evelyn, my whip; why, you seem in league to detain us this morning. You should both have been mounted, and then you would understand how rider and steed pant to be off."

"But you know I don't think a hunting party just the right sport for Squire Hazelwood's wife and daughter," she replied. "And, Roger, I can't help remembering just now poor Mr. Dashaway's saddle girth. I hope yours is properly buckled."

"Poor gentleman, that was a clumsy affair; but pray, what do you take me for, Mistress Hazelwood?"

"For a right gentle Squire, yielding a moment from horse and hound to please the whim of his ladye love," she playfully replied. "And now, a pleasant ride to you, and a safe cover to Master Reynard."

THE PLOT.

The Squire laughed, and rode off, all unconscious of the little plot that had just been working round him.

Between the Park and the open country flowed the river, which was supposed either to have supplied, or formed, the moat of the old castle, and which was crossed by means of a small boat attached by a chain to both banks in the Park, and by a stone bridge near the village. It was not very wide, but at the part where it wound through the Falcon Range grounds, it was deep, with steep banks, and not by any means a tempting spot for a bath.

The time was about two hours after noon, and Guy Falconer was on the Park side of the river busy at his work; while Maude held an umbrella so as to screen it from the light breeze which sent the stray leaves of autumn flying about; and Evelyn, with a little basket of fruit in her hand, had sat down at their feet to rest.

Suddenly they heard in the distance the shout of huntsmen and of the cry of dogs, while from under a hedge on a gentle eminence of the opposite meadow, sprang forth the fox, which rushed into the river at a plunge, landed not far from the three astonished friends, and disappeared. On came horses and dogs, over hedge and ditch, in wild excitement, as the coveted "brush" escaped up the river's bank; down plunged the dogs, in furious disappointment, amidst calls and shouts; in went huntsmen helter-skelter, regardless of the bugle call to a better and safer ford;—all was excitement and confusion—dogs barking, horses plunging, riders shouting, and everyone too intent upon his own safety and exploits to notice his companions.

Among the foremost came Squire Hazelwood, whose horse never acknowledged impediment of any kind in a hearty chase; but either the depth of the leap, or the water, was too sudden, and took him unawares this time, for he rolled over and over, dragging his rider head downwards, unable to extricate his feet from the stirrups. The creature struggled to the bank, but rolled back again, and the critical condition of the Squire at once caught the attention of his terrified child; he had fallen back also, and seemed incapable of further effort.

Guy dropped his pencil and palette, and rushed to the river's brink. He saw Mr. Hazelwood's partially released form sinking deeper below the water and that not a moment must be lost.

"Fly to the village, girls," he cried; "send men to meet us lest I cannot manage it; then home both of you to Mrs. Hazelwood, that she may not be frightened."

As he spoke, he threw off his light coat and jumped into the water. It was not far to reach the spot where the horse was swimming with the current, but it was needful to approach cautiously, lest he should be disabled by a kick, as he feared the Squire had been. To release the entangled foot and hold up such a weight for any length of time was no easy task; but Guy knew every turn of the river well, and if he could but reach a shallower bend near the bridge, and where also the landing was easier, he trusted that all would yet end safely. He heard the shrieks of Evelyn receding in the distance, and knew that his calmer sister would render more effectual service in describing the needed help.

It was a remarkable coincidence that whenever the handmaiden Jane had an errand to the village, the old sign at the "Falconer's Arms" seemed to creak in its swing, as if there were something in the wind that concerned somebody on the premises; and the ostler Joe, true knight that he was, always felt bound to inquire into the matter. In consequence of which, it happened that he and Jane were walking leisurely along a quiet path between the village and the Moat, when they were startled by the cries of Evelyn, followed by the appearance of Maude, white and breathless, and pointing to the river behind them.

Joe at once caught her attempted explanation, bade Jane run back to the village to bid any men she might see to hasten to his help, begged the young ladies to go home and hope for the best, and dashed away to the river, and the spot described by Maude. And only just in time. The horse was nowhere to be seen, but Guy, still holding his unconscious burden, had reached the shallower bank, and felt that his failing strength would do no more, when loud and cheerful rang out the encouraging voice of Joe.

"That's right, Master Guy, I've got hold; another push—there now, he's safe. Don't you drift out again, sir; hold on by that twig, and you'll be up in a minute."

To catch the twig and then the kind hand outstretched to save him, to scramble on to the grass, and lay his head in his sister's lap, was all that the exhausted boy could do, and then he lost all consciousness of what had passed, or was passing round him.

In the meantime the whole village was in consternation. Several well-ducked gentlemen had taken refuge at the "Falconer's Arms" and other houses readily opened to them, and the news of real danger of the Squire sent a crowd of ready helpers in quick response to Joe's message and Jane's appeal.

Tenderly borne in their strong arms, he was carried to the house, where Evelyn had already been preceded by the horse, whose melancholy aspect as he pattered into the stable yard had alarmed the servants, and brought them about their mistress in excitement and sympathy.

"Maude, Maude! Guy! Oh, mother! They are not come," cried Evelyn, as she missed them from the approaching group, and stood with renewed terror by her mother's side.

"Hush, my child; we shall hear. Mrs. Falconer is asking."

"All right, Miss; all right, ma'am," said Joe, soothingly. "The young lady is with her brother till we go back. You see, he saved the Squire, and then were a bit knocked up like; but he'll soon come round, never fear. And please you, my lady, I've took the liberty to send off for the doctor, and lose no time. The master breathes hard, and I reckon he's wholly stunned for a bit; but he were not half drowned, because of Master Guy, and he'll do by-and-by, my lady, so don't take on about him."

All this while they laid their portly burden on the couch, and respectfully retired, feeling more than thanked by the grateful look of the lady, though then she could say nothing.

"Now, mates, we'll fetch Master Guy," said Joe; "and please God, they'll both come round soon."

By that time Guy had recovered consciousness, and knew the loving face that bent over him in such heart-sick fear; and leaning on Joe's arm, insisted on walking home, making anxious inquiries about the condition of the Squire.

"I think the horse must have hurt him, and so prevented him from getting out of the water," said he.

"There be a wound on his head, sir," said Joe, "and that stunned him; but he be a fine strong man, and it'll take more nor this to knock the life out of him."

"And you will have been the means of saving him, our kind, good Mr. Hazelwood," said Maude. "I shall so love to think of it, Guy."

Guy smiled, and was soon in his mother's arms, cared for, and happy; his wet garments changed, his heart uniting with hers in deep and warm thanksgiving for the help and safety vouchsafed.

"Well, mother, is he better? Does the doctor give hope?" he anxiously asked, as she came for the last time, before leaving him to sleep, with the report from Mr. Hazelwood's room.

Another gentle step accompanied hers this time, and Mrs. Hazelwood, pale and worn, indeed, but her fair face expressive of tenderest interest, bent down and pressed a fond motherly kiss upon his brow.

"He is conscious, dear Guy. The doctor says that with care and quiet, he will recover; he has asked for you. To-morrow, please God, he will see you."

"Oh, tell him I'm all right," cried Guy, the colour rushing to his cheeks, "and I hope he will soon be the same."

The mothers smiled through their tears and left him.

Evelyn had sat in an agony of grief until she knew that her father was restored to consciousness and had spoken collectedly. Then she went to seek Maude, and hear of Guy.

"I don't think my father will ever call him 'poor lad' again," she thought within herself, with a sensation of considerable triumph.

And under the shadow of this strange interruption to the even tenor of their lives, the inhabitants of the Moat and the village went to rest at the end of that eventful day.

It was some time ere the Squire was permitted to leave his room, and in the matter of personal restraint, such a patient manifested something of the temper of a rebellious baby. He would have held perpetual levée, received everybody, and talked about everything, but for the watchful care of his body-guard, and the unanswerable arguments of his chamberlain. But at last, his term of imprisonment ceased, and he was again to assume his wonted place and duties.

"Dorothy, my dear," said he, smelling about as he descended the staircase, "I don't smell paint; has Master Guy's promised work been delayed for my convenience? Has he not begun to paint the house yet?"

"Come and see," said Mistress Hazelwood, smiling; and taking his arm, she led him across the hall.

There, in the most conspicuous position favourable for the light, was a large handsome picture of the old Moat House; the time, morning; the scene, that in which the Squire, mounted on his favourite hunter, and equipped for the chase, was chatting with Mistress Hazelwood as she stood under the porch leaning over the balustrade while Evelyn was presenting the riding whip to her father. The whole was so well delineated, the animation of the figures so gracefully described, the group and colouring so skilfully arranged, that instantly recognising the moment, and comprehending now the reasons of playful detention that morning, the Squire uttered a loud exclamation of delight, which brought all the interested actors in the plot quickly around him.

"I must have the pleasure of buying your first picture, my young friend," said he, seating himself opposite to it with infinite gratification, "and at once commission you to paint a fellow to it. The subject shall be the same steed, only crest-fallen, the same rider, only well-nigh at the end of life's chapter, and a hero to the rescue with the spirit of the brave old barons of Falcon Range."

"Dear sir," said Guy, modestly, "that scene is too painfully painted on all our minds to need any such commemoration. Something that would express our thankfulness to God for your recovery would please us all much better."

"I knew he wouldn't paint that," cried Evelyn, the tears springing to her eyes as she wound herself within her father's arm, and stood gazing with him at the picture; "it is not fair to ask him, is it, mother?"

"No, Evelyn; nor could Guy, even after long years of study, ever imagine anything that would faithfully express our gratitude to God, and to him, God's instrument, for the mercy and lovingkindness bestowed upon us that day."

"May the life so saved be turned to better account in the future, than it has been in the past," said Mr. Hazelwood, humbly. "Then it seems I must find another subject to make the pair; and in the meantime, Guy having performed his part of Mistress Hazelwood's agreement, it remains for me to fulfil mine. But, Guy," he suddenly exclaimed, merrily, "am I not something of a lunatic? If I help you to become a great painter, is it not like pulling down my house over my head, seeing that, as a little bird whispered to me, all your money is to go to the repurchase of the old Moat?"

Guy blushed painfully. Somebody had betrayed him to the Squire, and the idea now seemed to his own mind so absurd and preposterous, that he would gladly have concealed it for ever.

"Sir, I am ashamed that I had such a thought," he stammered; "I never dreamed that anyone would tell you of it."

"It was I who told," said Evelyn, penitently, "but not because I was angry with you, Guy."

"No, Guy, but because she was angry with me, I do believe," said the Squire, mischievously. "I said something disparaging about somebody, and she revenged herself by announcing my doom to lose the Moat. Was it not so, Evelyn?"

Miss Evelyn could not wholly deny it, and feeling unable to explain, rejoiced to be spared a reply, for the Squire rose, and putting his hand on Guy's shoulder, said,—

"Tell me, my boy, whose thought was it to identify the present owner with the house, by painting them together in that pleasant scene?"

"My mother's, sir," said Guy, promptly.

"Guy, that is only part of the truth; tell the whole," said the gentle voice of Mrs. Falconer.

"It was somehow this way, I believe," said Guy, reluctantly. "I was to paint the house by Mrs. Hazelwood's desire, and as I thought and thought over many things, I began to feel ashamed of coveting the old place after God has so decidedly given it to you, and I said to my mother that I should like to prove whether I could really and truly give up the foolish fancy of ever having it back again, and be entirely willing to see you its owner and master."

"Well, my boy."

"Then my mother said I might perhaps paint out my sin and folly, in the pleasant effort to present Mrs. Hazelwood with a likeness of the master of the Moat at a happy moment before his own door. And I do assure you, sir, that in doing it, I have lost every trace of a wish to be in that place myself. Your accident helped me more than I can tell you."

"How so, Guy?"

"Why, it was when you were in the river, and I was trying to free you from the horse, and when I was in terror lest help should not come soon enough,—then the horrible wickedness of coveting your property nearly distracted me, and I prayed God to help me and to accept my resolve that if He would spare your life, I would give up the thought for ever, and desire for myself no inheritance but that which He will give me. And He did spare you, and in solemn truth I can say that I hope you and your people may keep the old Moat as long as the world lasts. As for me, a great load is gone off my mind—a nasty ugly sort of feeling of struggling after something I could not get; and if I can only work for my mother and Maude, I shall be the happiest fellow alive."

"I charge myself with that happiness my boy, if it be within human means to attain it. Then, for the rest, have we to thank your excellent mother for this victory over self and natural feeling?"

Mrs. Falconer raised her eyes to the flushed face of her son. It was a testing question; how easy to say Yes, and seem to render the expected tribute to a mother's careful teaching.

But Guy no longer dared to doubt the source of real, practical self-conquest, and though shrinking from any hand that would probe into inner experiences, he felt constrained to honour God by an avowal of the grace that made him "more than conqueror through Him that loved him."

"My dear mother has taught the possibility by precept and example, sir; but not even she could have overcome such wrong feelings as I have had on this point. I believe it is only by God's Holy Spirit giving such faith in the Lord Jesus Christ as can raise one out of old thoughts and desires, into such new ones as He felt and taught Himself, and become those who take Him for Saviour, and Captain, and King."

"'If any man be in Christ he is a new creature; old things have passed away; behold, all things are become new,'" softly repeated Mrs. Falconer.

The Squire bowed his head, wrung Guy's hand as he had never done before, and walked away with Mrs. Hazelwood into the lady's sheltered garden.

On the following Sunday, he appeared once more with his family in the old parish church, and united with them in "public thanks to Almighty God for His late mercies vouchsafed in preservation from sudden death, and restoration to health of mind and body."

* * * * * *

"Dorothy, my dear," said the Squire, soon afterwards, "we must do something more than speak. We must try to prove in deed what we have said in word. Have you any thought on this matter? You mentioned something about a thank-offering, I think."

"We have reaped a rich reward for bearing in mind the fatherless and the widow, Roger," said Mistress Hazelwood, with tears gathering in the loving eyes that were raised to his.

"True, my wife. And you mean that we should continue to care for them, if they will allow us; that is settled: Guy's future is my charge, and whatever he and his friends wish shall, God willing, be done, and I know I may leave his good mother in your hands. Maude will of course share in every way with our Evelyn. But this seems too much bound up with our own comfort and satisfaction, like the soup and petticoats and blankets that we could not be contented without giving to our poor sick or old neighbours in the winter,—just a natural, right thing, you know. Is there not something that we could do outside of duty, as it were? Not that I could be anything but an 'unprofitable servant,' after all; but you know what I mean, Dolly, I'm sure."

Yes, Dolly knew very well: he wanted to do something for the glory of God simply and solely; something that would not be in itself a great gratification to himself personally,—some "threshing-floor" that might cost a price, and be thus an "offering."

"I have a thought, Roger, but it would be rather an expensive one; not too much for the occasion, but perhaps exceed your means."

"Out with it, Dolly; you are not wont to be extravagant." said he, smiling.

"The Church wants a little repair, Roger; perhaps that should come first."

"The Church! Yes, I have been talking with Mr. Herbert about it, and it must be made safe and comfortable, but this mere duty still. You don't want me to ornament and decorate it to show piety, do you, Dolly?"

"No, indeed, nothing of that kind, Roger. I would have it thoroughly respectable as a place where Christian people meet to worship God should be, when means permit, but nothing that could divide a thought with Him, or attract attention from Him who has promised to be in the midst of them that meet together in His name, to bless them."

"Right, my dear. No blowing of the wind in the direction of the pomps and vanities that once disgraced our churches. Once cleansed, let us keep so. What, then, is this expensive thought of yours?"

"You know the village of Pine-wood End, and two miles beyond it, of Brook End?"

"Yes, I do; it was there that the plaguy fox turned tail and led us our memorable run, that day."

"Well, dear husband, there is no place of worship nor school-house in either of those villages, and the people must walk four and five miles to the Falcon Range on Sundays or stay at home, except when Mr. Herbert is able to meet them in Farmer Bankes' kitchen, which he is glad to lend, but which is not large enough for a tithe of the people who like to attend. Mrs. Falconer and Maude visit the cottages every week, but they need closer and more regular instruction among the children. There are also some brick-fields near, and a very rough ignorant set of work-people need looking after. Now, Roger, if you could build them a nice large, airy room for worship on Sundays, and school on week-days, and provide some true servant of Christ to work there, preaching the Gospel plainly and lovingly, and presiding over the schools with a like-minded teacher, I do think it might be a thank-offering to God which He could accept and bless."

"This is a good thought, Dorothy. We must consider it well, count the cost, and do our best. And if it should involve a little self-denial in some ways—"

"So much the better for us, Roger," said Dorothy, quickly, "it will then be a perpetual thank-offering, not an isolated act and done with for ever. What a sweet remembrance for us every week, dear husband, if we are giving up something to have our Lord's Truth taught, and souls saved and families blessed."

"Thou might'st have been in the river with Guy, t'other day, Dorothy!" said the Squire, admiringly.

"Perhaps the tender pity of my God that day has drawn me closer to the Water of Life, and every draught of that stream stimulates the desire to put the same cup into every hand."

And is it not so?

The Squire, too, was within the charmed circle, and the expansive principle of Christian love was warming and winning its way amongst the generous impulses of natural feeling, consecrating and leading them to the service and glory of a new Master, whose claims were being affectionately recognized with a pleasure and peace which only "he that dwelleth in love" can know.

"But, my dear Dorothy," said the Squire, thoughtfully, after ways and means had been discussed, "we can build and prepare, but you know we cannot make the minister: where shall we find the right man?"

"Dear husband, let us not be faithless, but believing. God has made the minister, and will produce him when he is required."

"You are a witch, Dolly, to dare turn prophetess in this fashion; but I have a notion you are right, so we will do our part, and wait for the rest."

And, blended with the daily petitions at family prayer, thenceforth went up one for the success and blessing of the work, and the provision of a wise godly minister of Christ's gospel to shepherd the flock at Pine-wood End, and take charge of the little chapel-of-ease to the Parish Church of Falcon Range.

Mr. Spadeley had misgivings as to whether it would be real worship in a building without aged pillars, and pointed arches, and many-coloured glass, and especially without the mouldering dust of the hamlet's "rude forefathers" begetting solemn thoughts of death and decay; but as all great occasions would rally the people round the old mother-church, and he himself was undisputed monarch of the parish graveyard, it did not seem that any great diminution of his importance would accrue from a small unpretending neighbour like the little chapel at Pine-wood End.

So Mr. Spadeley condescendingly took the affair under his patronage, declared himself as ready as ever to bury the whole parish on the same terms as before, and exhorting all who should be favoured with his services to select their epitaphs in proper time, sagaciously opining that the new educational advantages to be afforded at Pine-wood End would greatly facilitate their choice on a subject so important to posterity.

As the new buildings rose before the delighted eyes of the village seniors, the juvenile population began to be painfully aware of some conspiracy against their liberties, and to indicate resolutions of non-submission to any schoolmaster or schoolmistress who might be enthroned behind any formidable desk on earth.

Of the little old mistress of the village dame-school in her rocking-chair by the fire-side, no one had ever professed to stand in awe; her rods soon dwindled to a single twig whenever she set up one, the hard words in her "Reading-made-easy" got mysteriously blotted, or punched out, or the books were strangely missing.

And she, poor old lady, declared her firm belief that "the world was near its end, for never rose the sun upon such a race of little villains since the days before the flood." For her part, "how it came to pass that such critters were allowed to live, was beyond her understanding altogether," and if she had been arbitress of human destiny, they must have gone the way of water rats, field mice, and black beetles before the just indignation of their superiors, resolved to be rid of such like pests. Mentally she daily transported a room full to Botany Bay, having some dim idea of that interesting locality as a sort of reservoir of rubbish whereby this planet was relieved of objectionable populations.

But in the new schools, the advent of some very different kind of personage was apprehended, and more than once, stones had been projected through the apertures where windows were to be, in anticipation of the treatment that any head might suffer, bold enough to think of ruling the pinafore spirits of Pine-wood End.

Rumours got afloat, however, that the ladies of Falcon Range had a teacher under training for this post of danger, and the creaking old sign of "The Falconer's Arms" warned trustworthy Joe that he might be found to have some interest in the matter, and sent him on an errand of remonstrance to the clerk and sexton of the parish, whose business it was to see to the well-being and safety of the house of Spadeley.

CHAPTER X.

SCHOOLS OF THOUGHT.

THERE could be no doubt that Guy Falconer possessed genius for painting, and that an ardent love of what men call "Nature" inspired its direction, and ruled his taste. His efforts indicated a peculiar style of his own, and his friends were advised to leave it unbiased and unrestricted in its developments, until it should appear into what school of study, for detail and experience, it might most suitably be directed.

With the free air of the country around him, his health improved, his form grew strong and manly, and his character began to manifest a vigour and decision which rendered his associations of the highest importance.

His mother and Mr. Herbert had sought to lay a good foundation of Christian principles, and if Guy should go wrong, it would never be from ignorance of right. But they knew that only the Holy Spirit of God could implant love of the right, and guide to useful issues the quick perceptions and firm will which they had prayerfully striven to rescue from idle waste and natural selfishness.

Without cramping the gaiety of youth, his studies had been solid and strengthening; what he knew at all, he knew well, and if he ventured an opinion, it came from no shallow surface, but from a mine of thought in which it had been carefully shaped, though more for soundness than for ornament, and sometimes, perhaps, was also more sincere than polite.

Mr. Herbert claimed a stated portion of his time for real hard work in the study, in preparation for a college course which Mr. Hazelwood particularly desired him to pass through, and then Guy was free to enjoy his companionship with the field of vision round him.

And then the morning mist, and evening sunset, the haze on distant hills, the clouds and sky in storm and calm, the moonbeam on the river, the foliage of park and wood, deer and cattle, ivied tower and village cot, by turns caught the artist's eye, and supplied studies for his pencil.

Thanks to the influences which had hitherto shielded his life, Guy had learned much of the Creator from His own written Record, and manifestation in His Son Jesus Christ, before doing homage to "His eternal power and Godhead" in "the things that are made;" and when, feeling the meagerness of human language to express his wondering appreciation, the sweet words of Divine inspiration came suitably to his aid, and the Psalmist of Israel had tuned the lyre to which believing hearts through successive ages should chant their songs of praise.

And while, in self-abasing contrast with the Divine Majesty, he exclaimed with David, "'Lord, what is man that Thou are mindful of him?" * He was able to advance with Paul into the solution of the mystery, and by faith to "see Jesus, who was made a little lower than the angels," ‡ a suffering, sorrowing Man, "that He, by the grace of God, should taste death for every man," and in the glorious consummation, having subdued all enemies, and abolished all consequences of sin from the once perfect creation, will reinstate the lawful King over His restored inheritance, and then again shall "His name be excellent in all the earth," and all things animate and inanimate respond to their original intent, and "everything that hath existence shall praise the Lord."

* Psa. viii. ‡ Heb. ii.

Guy came to his wide field of study groping after no "unknown God," but from the presence of "the Truth" alone commissioned to reveal Him. There is no risk of mistake when the spirit of man as a learner listens to the Spirit of God as the teacher, and "looking unto Jesus" apprehends the mighty import of the Divine proclamation, "This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased."

Whatever his chosen sphere of duty, the young believer is thus fore-armed, and Christ has a faithful soldier in the battle field.

Intent on his congenial occupation, Guy was one day sketching, beneath a group of trees that might have been planted specially as an artist's post of observation, the picturesque village of Pine-wood End, where the new school-house was becoming prominent against a background of foliage rising abruptly on a steep hill-side.

An approaching footstep, a little imitation cough failing to attract his notice, a voice tried effect upon his ear, and turning round he saw a gentlemanly-looking young man, who had been pointed out a short time before as the new tutor to the son of Sir Ryland N— of N— Hall, a neighbouring landowner.

"I beg your pardon," said he, gaily, "but may I not presume to admire your work?"

"No, sir," said Guy, smiling; "unless you wish me to think lightly of your judgment. But you may expend as much admiration as you please on the scene I am trying to represent. You will not find many so gracefully combining variety and interest."

"Ah! Now you remind me of a landsman trying to beguile an old sailor," said the young man, laughing. "You have not travelled, or you would scarcely notice a spot like this."

"Then I should not care to travel," said Guy. "But it need not be so. We may travel to admire and wonder, without losing preference for the land where we live and love."

"Ah, I see; at present your eyes are in the heart rather than the head, and I dare say that is very pleasant for the time. But what if some savage from the desert or jungle, some oily Greenlander from the icebergs, or thick-headed Serf from Siberian steppes were to meet you with this preference theory?"

"I should honour the sentiment, whatever I might think of his taste," returned Guy; "but I do not allow that preference indicates want of appreciation."

"Well, well, I can only confess for myself a delight in the beautiful and good wherever I find it," replied the stranger, with an air of self-satisfaction that rather provoked his hearer.

"An equal amount of delight?" he inquired.

"Certainly, according to the nature of the subject. Why not?"

"Then," said Guy, laughing, "you deserve to go down—

"'To the vile dust from whence you sprung.
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.'"

"Come now, that is a challenge," said the stranger, seating himself at the foot of the tree, "and I am sure you will not deny me the right to defend myself. I should like to convince you that this idea is altogether too narrow and mean for anything so great and wide as man's capacities of intellect and affection. We are, as it were, off-shoots of Deity; we are to emulate our origin, and our sympathies ought to be as generous and universal. Benevolence and beauty being our ideal of God, we worship Him in them wherever they exist, without regard to place or time, or other associations."

"There must be other associations in my ideal of God," said Guy, gravely. "A being all beauty and benevolence might lack wisdom, power, truth, justice, and we need not forget that this very want, with inability to comprehend the union of all such attributes in one Supreme, led to the multiplication of deities in heathen worship."

"Well, you will grant at any rate that the Supreme Being whom we worship is a fount of benevolence and beauty, results of which are spread out everywhere, and everywhere demanding equal homage and admiration?"

"In what way rendered?" asked Guy, after a pause.

"Oh, in our enjoyment and happiness, our appreciative instincts, of course. What gives pleasure and makes happiness for His creatures must derive its own reward in the bestowal."

"That is to say that my satisfaction in good health, in the enjoyment of plenty, in a beautiful landscape, is God's reward for creating such agreeable things, and that He requires from me no further acknowledgment?—I am worshipping acceptably in receiving and enjoying?"

"It is not just the way I would put it," said the young tutor; "but let it stand if you like."

"It is the plain English of your statement," said Guy; "and suppose for the moment it is granted. It is only one side of things. Take the other side, in things great or small. A frightful storm that wrecks ships of all sizes on our shores, and makes hundreds of widows and orphans in a night; an earthquake that swallows up the good and bad alike; the sickness that wastes, the poverty that crushes, the deformity that revolts, the tears of bitterness that fall on many an innocent face, what then of your fanciful ideal of God? How do His attributes of benevolence and beauty stand in such a contrast? Who enjoys, who has satisfaction in such scenes? Who renders worship then to Him who is so beautiful and good?"

"I cannot, of course, enter at once into proofs from natural philosophy that would meet your argument so far as the laws of nature are concerned, but doubtless it can be met. The moral objections are more difficult to understand and deal with, but I think reason suggests that out of such seeming ills some hidden good evolves, which, if we knew it, would vindicate benevolence and goodness to our satisfaction."

"You have come to my armoury for that weapon to parry my thrust," said Guy; "you take that view by faith, and you know it is written in the Book of Truth; your mere reason could not have discovered it, and I claim the credit where it is due."

"I cannot help it if our different schools of thought bring us to the same conclusion," said the stranger, affecting to laugh. "Your Book of Truth ought not to contradict my reason."

"It explains and reconciles what mere reason cannot reach," said Guy; "and when pressed by facts, your ideal a Deity snatches a ray from the source of Light and Truth, which only makes your darkness more visible; but error is not scrupulous."

"Upon my word, I was not prepared for this encounter," said the stranger, gaily; "I usually let people think as they please, for it is not worth while to disturb them, and I always give them credit for intending to think and act for the best."

"Then you have no standard: you let everyone invent his own God, and admit that all may be equally true, or, pardon me for adding, care not if all are equally false?"

"Really I prefer to use more courteous terms to myself, and judge that I exercise Christian charity," said the tutor.

"Not Christian charity, sir, excuse me," said Guy. "True Christian charity declares God's view of man and his condition, and the terms on which they can be reconciled. Sin has made all the disturbance, and caused all the seeming contradictions, and 'the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.' 'He that is our God is the God of salvation,' and that He could not be, if judgment and justice, mercy and truth were not the attributes of His character, and the essence of His rule. Benevolence might pity the fallen, and beauty lament over ruin, but it needed mercy and truth to redeem, while wisdom planned, and love fulfilled the heavenly scheme which proved that God is also just, while justifying the repentant sinner. Pray do not think me presumptuous for holding the light to your straying steps. Take it for your own, and they will become safe and steady."

"You seem so much in earnest, young sir, that I will not charge you with presumption, though methinks more years have passed over my head than over yours, and my experiences and advantages have been greater."

"Years should give wisdom," said Guy, "and I should have been happy to learn from you, had you spoken 'as one having authority;' but if giants in human learning come and assail a boy-believer in the God of the Bible, they must expect a pebble from his sling whether it hits or not, and for that I cannot apologize."

"The people I meet with seem to find it too much trouble to think, and it is rather refreshing to find someone with a mind of his own, so I ask no apology, and shall be happy to become better acquainted," said the stranger, offering his card. "Besides, I think you can give me some information about the school-house yonder. I am told that religious services are to be conducted there, there, for which some minister will be required. My position here leaves a good deal of time on my hands, and if I make up my mind to take orders, do you think it is open to me to offer myself for the post?"

"If I am not presumptuous again," said Guy, unable to conceal his surprise, "I cannot but wonder at the idea of accepting orders to do what you disapprove of doing. Mr. and Mrs. Hazelwood intend that 'the gospel of the grace of God' shall be proclaimed there, and your ideal of God and human need flatly contradicts it."

"Oh, but you don't imagine I should treat those rustics to such subjects as you and I can discuss together! They must be taught to be honest and sober, and speak the truth, and obey their superiors."

"Fruit and flowers!" said Guy. "But you will have to do with thorns and thistles. How will you 'make the tree good' that it may produce 'good fruit'?"

"Oh, we must have patience, and work them round. Now one great means of awing and solemnizing such people has been forgotten: there is nothing striking or impressive about those buildings; they are too simple and plain, and will be entered without reverence or fear; but just drop your ignorant rustics into a magnificent cathedral, and observe the effect! Why they would feel as if all the gods of the universe were present there!"

"A flattering estimate of their case, certainly!" said Guy. "But, notwithstanding, you might happen to find among them, those who know why they assemble, and could tell you of One who said, 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'"

"Possibly, if you have been taking a class there, for I am at no loss to know your school of thought by this time. Then you think if I were to apply to your respected squire, my success is doubtful?"

"Not at all," said Guy; "you have but to talk about 'schools of thought' at the Moat House, and your design to grow on 'grapes on thorns,' and 'figs on thistles,' and the matter would be quite settled."

"Really! Are they so narrow? It is a sad weakness of the Evangelical school to think none can be right but themselves. I prefer the grand broad view of God the benevolent Father of the whole human family, and the universal brotherhood of man. It is the most comfortable, good-tempered view of things, I assure you, and gives a pleasant feeling towards one's fellow creatures."

"Ignorant rustics among the rest?" inquired Guy.

"Certainly. No rushing at people as if they were going to destruction, and fretting your soul because they won't be saved."

"But saying, 'Peace, peace, when there is no peace," said Guy indignantly. "No, sir, your school of thought has the wrong head-master; but go to the Moat, and listen to those who belong to the only school where effectual instruction can be had; they will tell you far better than I can of the claims it has on your reverend attention, and show you a standing more trustworthy than your shifting sands and slippery self-complaisance."

"If report speaks truly, you have no great reason to championise the present owner of The Moat," said the stranger carelessly.

"Then report as usual is false, sir," returned Guy, warmly. "It was a good day for me, and for all the Falcon Range, when it passed into the hands of its present owner."

"I beg your pardon, I thought it might be otherwise."

"And you forget your 'grand broad view' of 'universal brotherhood' in sympathising with one at the expense of another," said Guy. "Consistency, I suppose, is too lowly a study for your lofty school."

The stranger burst into a laugh as he replied,—

"You caught me there, I admit, but do not take me for an illustration of my 'school'; I am very far from an accomplished scholar yet."

"I am glad to believe it," said Guy, kindly and frankly: "your heart is not satisfied, and will not allow you to be as comfortable as you pretend. Listen to it: it knows God is saying, 'My Son, give me thine heart,' and inwardly feels, too, that only He knows what to do with it."

"Is it true," asked the stranger, "that the Falconers' ancestry belonged to the Catholic Church?"

"Not since the Reformation," said Guy, rather struck with the terms of the inquiry. "Their chaplain became a Protestant, and soon the family and retainers followed, for he read daily from the word of God, and he found no Popery there. The sexton will be delighted to show you the remains of the old Bible that was chained to the reading-desk, and was listened to by the people who gathered from miles round the country. He can give you the history of those times, and of several relics of them for which he has great veneration."

"Relics! I thought Protestants ignored relics."

"Perhaps these are allowable," replied Guy, smiling, "giving special significance to words you must know very well: 'We have heard with our ears, and our fathers have declared unto us the noble works that Thou didst in their days, and in the old time before them,' delivering us from persecution and error, and enabling martyrs to be faithful unto death. It is a piece of an instrument of torture, and was used upon the person of one detected reading that very Bible."

"Another school of thought, you see. Those worthies thought it dangerous to allow the unlearned to read the Bible for themselves; then came the pugnacious resolve to have it and keep it and understand it as each man pleases; and presently you will be able to pave all our towns with Bibles that nobody cares for!"

"If every good and right thing were to be set aside because some abuse it and few know its real value, what would our civilization come to?" said Guy. "But we are to remember that though the sower scattered his seed over the wayside, among stones and thorns 'some fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit.' So with our Bible: it is 'the word of the kingdom,' and cannot return void, but must accomplish that which God pleases, and prosper in the thing whereto He sends it."

"You have the advantage of me in your knowledge of it, I am bound to confess," said the tutor.

"It is my 'school of thought,'" returned Guy; "it reveals the highest, purest knowledge, and being the Word of the Living God, I must receive it as I find it, neither adding to it nor taking from it, thereby escaping the snares of both those 'schools' which by turns seem to have caught your sympathies."

"I'm afraid there is no hope for me of the pastorate of Pine-wood End," said the stranger, smiling, "but perhaps I am better and shall take an early opportunity to call and make my own impression at The Moat."

Which he did, and it was not a favourable one, notwithstanding some fascination of manner, and much general information. He also visited the Church, and after a long talk with Mr. Spadeley, left that functionary in a perplexed meditation upon his probable or possible creed.

"Well, well," thought the clerk and sexton, "it is said that extremes do meet, but I'm fairly posed to know whether he be most Papist or most unbeliever; but I hope our Master Guy ain't going to take up with him nor his ways."

Then after sundry times scratching his head, and obtaining therefrom no help to a conclusion, he added, mentally,—

"It's wonderful, it is, how he slips about like an eel, and when I thought I'd caught him, he was through my fingers afore I knew it: that's like what they call a Jesuit; then he sneered at a fine old text that came nowhere but straight from the Lord Almighty: and that was like what they call Infidel. So whether he be deep like the one, with Satan to help him, or shallow like t'other, in the pride of his own heart, he's a pitiful sight to see. He parson of Pine-wood End indeed! Not while our good Squire is above ground, any way, and I'd as lief bury the whole village, school-house and all, as let such a whirligig set up to daze poor souls as he! The Lord have mercy on the young lad that's got his tutoring."

"It is a curious 'school of thought,' that of Mr. Freakes," remarked Squire Hazelwood. "I fear he is getting Sir Ryland to support 'The Book of Sports,' and introduce Sunday games in the Park at N—. And the bailiff declares he saw him and his pupil go into the Roman Catholic Chapel in our county town. But I suppose it is no business of ours."

Mistress Hazelwood sat silent and thoughtful for some time, and then looking up at her husband, "Dear Roger," she said, in lowly suggestive tones, "should we not do unto others as we would they should do unto us?"

"Surely we should, Dolly: what is on your mind?"

"We would like to be informed if we had a traitor in our house, and at least test him for ourselves; and we should for our Master's honour, and our people's welfare, desire to keep reverently the Lord's Day."

"Very true, dear wife; but what then? Would'st have me meddle with other men's matters, and get into hot water with Sir Ryland, who seems to care little what goes on in his name?"

"'If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me,'" said Dorothy Hazelwood, very softly. "'And whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words—'"

"Dolly, that must not be. I will ascertain the truth of what I have heard, first, and then ride over for a quiet talk with Sir Ryland. He may perhaps take it kindly, seeing they are shooting and fishing in my preserves without asking leave, and I have not complained; but if they are poaching on my Masters' rights and defying His commands, why that's another matter, and ought to be seen to."

But the tutor had succeeded in so far ingratiating himself with the Baronet and his son as to secure a deaf ear to any suggestion of distrust. The visit to the Romish chapel was "merely one of curiosity," though they had spent the day among priests, and joined in some imposing ceremonies. The sports, too, in the Park were most innocent and suitable, not interfering with anyone who preferred Sunday school, and merely keeping young men and boys from lounging about the lanes. Sir Ryland was very much obliged; was sure his neighbour's interest was well meant; but considered himself quite able to judge of a tutor, and take care of his own family.

"Well, my Lord fared no better—nay, much worse—for speaking the truth," thought the Squire, as he rode home somewhat discouraged, until greeted by the warm earnest approval of his wife.

"Thou hast been faithful in little, and He in whose name you went, hath hearkened and noted it, dear husband. 'In His favour is life,' and 'the friendship of this world is enmity against Him.'"

The schools prospered, and the right agents were found, and Sir Ryland's offer to join the Squire in building a handsome church provided he might make the first presentation, was respectfully declined; whereupon the Baronet talked of erecting one in his own grounds to accommodate his own tenantry, and keep them from "the narrow-minded" teaching at Pine-wood End. But happily for them, his finances were not in the most flourishing condition, and Mr. Freakes was not so much admired and trusted in the neighbourhood as he considered due to his patronage and interest.

CHAPTER XI.

DISENCHANTMENT.

"MISSY, dear missy, she not listen to poor ole Phœbe any more?" said the faithful old nurse, sighing over a fair girl who was looking coaxingly into her face, and stroking the iron-grey hair neatly under her turban.

"Well, you foolish old woman, it is of no use to listen to you. You are to listen to me, and hear that mamma is willing to spare you to go with me, and you are to be willing to go. Now, Phœbe, you consent? You wouldn't send me away alone to strangers and strange servants in a strange land, you know."

"Missy got Massa Count, house and fine tings, 'ligion and all," said Phœbe sorrowfully.

"But, according to your view of the value of my new possessions, there is the stronger reason for putting yourself into the bargain," said the young lady playfully; "besides, Phœbe, you know you changed your religion."

"Hadn't got none, missy; Phœbe heathen and know noting. Good missionary tell about de Lord Jesus, and Phœbe come to b'lieve in Him. Den Phœbe got 'ligion, and nebber, nebber lose it again."

"Well of course the Count believes in Him, and so do I, and so it is no change after all."

"But what him b'lieve? Only dat de Lord a little chile, allays in moder's arms, doing what him telled. But de Bible Lord Jesus a man; He say, 'All power in hebben and earth given to me,' not my moder. Oh how she be grieved when she hear what de popes does with her. Dey forget she say to servants, 'What He saith unto you, do it,' and dey don't do it. Oh He no more her babe, but glorified Lord in hebben, Son of de Father, Saviour for you."

"Well, now, Phœbe, suppose I win the Count, after letting him win me?"

"Ah, missy, 'spects massa Count don't care noting 'bout it; me tink him not b'lieve too much."

"What do you mean, Phœbe?"

"Only massa, him got too much sense to worship Moder, and saints, and bread and such, but him not got 'nough yet to lub and worship true God, and see how Jesus poor sinner's Saviour. Massa, him very proud and grand, him 'spise lies, him not know truth. Missy know a little truth, and gib it up for lies. Oh very, very sad! Break her own heart some day."

"I'll have you to comfort me then, Phœbe," cried the happy bride-elect.

And she carried her point.

The old black nurse, who in her youth had entered the family of Mr. Geoffry Falconer with his bride, the young widow of an English officer, and her only child, had remained faithful to their service, tended them in sickness and health, and had the chief charge of the elder Mr. Falconer in his last illness. She was privileged to say many things which would not have been permitted from any other person in her position in life, and the only child of the house, the step-daughter of its master, was as dear to her heart as if she had been her own.

To see this admired and courted girl the affiancée of one who, gifted though he was in personal attractions, rank, wealth, and high intellectual powers, was nevertheless a stranger in country and religion, gave poor Phœbe the deepest sorrow she had known in her life of service. In vain, she had opposed it by every argument and entreaty in her power: Mr. and Mrs. Falconer had no scruples on the subject, the spoiled child herself willed it, and in due time, the young Count di V— carried off his Anglo-Indian bride to adorn his home in the proudest of Italian cities.

Standing high in the too fickle regard of his countrymen, expected to uphold the dignities of the class to which by birth he belonged, and the authority of the Pontifical government around which ominous clouds were gathering, the Count became an honoured public servant, and to his house flocked men of all countries, and on all errands, great or small; the visitor for pleasure, the philosopher for inquiry, the adventurer for patronage, the talented for sympathy, the poor for aid; and among them came nameless poets, struggling artists, and even ambitious politicians with many a daring scheme for the elevation of a priest-ridden weary people, beginning to feel that life was intended for something better than running after processions of sacerdotal state, and submitting with superstitious slavery to a usurped authority which ruled complacently over ignorance, beggary, and sloth. Amongst such, the hospitable presence of the Count and Countess radiated light, pleasure, and hope. But not without some danger.

Anything British, even though adopting, so far as external observance went, the Romanism of the only tolerated faith, was watched with jealous eyes, and the young Countess was made to feel the bondage of a tyrannical yoke, at which her husband laughed, and whispered cheerfully that it might make the most of opportunity, for events were pending, and its days were numbered.

For centuries, the wish of Caligula seemed granted, that the Roman people had but one neck; and it lay in the lowest dust, with the Papal foot upon it. The body would never rise from its stupor, so long as that foot was there. How to get rid of it was a problem not easily solved, and men often met in secret and at night, to consider it.

One day, the Count requested with some evident uneasiness that accommodation might be prepared for a guest who would remain the night.

"I cannot avoid this, Lena," he said; "but I wish he had sought other quarters. If you could invite some stranger to divide attention at dinner, it would be well, but no one of our visiting circle, on any account."

"I can arrange it easily," replied the Countess, "so be not troubled. I will ask the young English artist, to whom you know some civility is due, and you can promise him access to those works of art which he desires to study."

"Excellent, my little prime minister," said the Count. "Your artist will know nothing, and pictures and painting will supply a fund of conversation."

"Who are we going to entertain, signor?" asked his wife, indifferently.

"Only one General Carlotté, who has been absent for some years, and is passing through Rome. He wished to renew acquaintance with me, and however inconvenient, I cannot refuse hospitality."

"Surely not; we will not make him a trouble, so clear your brow, dear husband mine, and we will devote ourselves to the arts forthwith. Here is the address of my—what shall I call this young Englishman? Cousin, or what? Why no relation after all, I believe. But I suppose my step-father must have owned him, so we must do the same."

"And, Lena, nothing of the General to anyone. It is nobody's business but his own."

"And we will make it very pleasant business while it lasts," said Lena, playfully. "I am curious to see some of your old friends, and mean to make him compliment you on your choice of a new one."

"I don't need any opinions upon that point, my own sweet wife," said the Count, as he tenderly bade her farewell. But a sudden thought knitted his brow ere he reached the street, and rankled painfully at his heart. "Oh, to be free, free from this hated system! Why not give up all, and live where no such shadow darkens domestic life? Yet it may pass away. Patience and hope!"

At dinner, the young Englishman satisfactorily filled his place, for the General was silent and reserved, and seemed to baffle the efforts of the hostess to entertain him. Once only, on some allusion to a despotic act on the part of the Pontiff, his eyes flashed fire, and his breast heaved with pent-up feeling; but the Count was instructing the artist concerning the valuable studies to which he should have access, and trusted it was unnoticed.

At the moment of parting, however, won by the frank and easy bearing of his young English guest, the Count said kindly,—

"Are you Catholic or Protestant?"

"Protestant, decidedly."

"Remain so," said the Count, emphatically. Thenceforth he was a frequent and welcome visitor, enjoying advantages in the classic capital which only the Count's rank and influence could secure to a foreigner; warned however to be chary of expressing opinions that might excite jealousy where political intrigues were rousing suspicion on the part of the government.

One evening, the Countess returned early and discomposed from an entertainment where her husband had promised to meet her, and he had not appeared.

She tossed off her jewels and sat down by her baby's cradle, watching Phœbe's busy fingers engaged on some work.

"Phœbe," she said, "do you know I feel as if there is something wrong: he never disappointed me before; he always sends a note or message if he is detained. What can it be?"

"Dear missy, hab patience. P'raps him call away sudden. No time to send note."

"Phœbe, I have been so happy with him. Do you remember saying when I was going to change my religion for his sake, that it would break my heart some day?"

"Yes; bery well 'member dat. It was de 'ligion, not massa, me tink ob. Why, missy 'member now?"

"I don't know, excepting that your prophecy has not come to pass yet; but, Phœbe, I don't like the religion, and the more I see of it, the more stupid it seems. That ridiculous bambino, and the box of old bones, to be worshipped and bowed down to! Do they think we are idiots to be moved by such trumpery?"

Phœbe raised her eyes to her mistress's face in sheer astonishment.

"You may be surprised, Phœbe, and I don't know what possesses me to talk so, but I feel cross and disagreeable, and I have been thinking of these things, for how can I bring up my child to believe in such folly?"

"Ah," thought Phœbe to herself, "heart-break beginning now. Poor dear missy!"

"I wonder they don't invent something more sensible than these everlasting shows and processions," continued the Countess.

"Ah, they got de sensible ting behind de back ob dem. Don't missy see? Keep de eyes and ears amuse with shows, dat not feel de grip on dere souls and conscience. De priest know what deys about well 'nough. Got fast hold ob secret thoughts, got all, make go any ways dey choose."

"You don't suppose I am such a slave as that, Phœbe, and I'm sure the Count is not."

"Maybe chain not show yet, missy. Hope she cast it off fore it cut in poor weak flesh. Massa him allays not b'lieve too much in dis 'ligion."

"I suppose you mean that he is not a good Catholic, but I don't care whether he is or not, so long as he is good and kind to me. I expect we can both get to heaven without the help of the priests."

"Bless de Lord, hear missy say dat; but dat not 'nough. Must hab de Great High Priest de Lord Jesus Christ; Him make de way all alone. Him take poor sinner's hand and say 'I will nebber leave thee nor forsake thee.'"

"Phœbe," cried the Countess, after a long silence, "I can't bear this any longer. Oh! Where is my husband?"

Phœbe did her loving best to comfort her young mistress, while a servant was despatched to inquire at the offices where the Count attended for public business; but no information could be obtained. He had been there in the day, but had left as usual.

"There might be secret business," the man suggested.

This was a glimmer of hope, and the anxious wife yielded at last to Phœbe's entreaty that she would try to sleep; but servants sat up, and the lights burned all the night.

Morning came, and the Countess was up, restlessly pacing the rooms.

"Phœbe," she said, "I want you to go to the Piazzi di— and find the young English artist; he may know if the Count had any intention of absence."

"Missy tell him name. Plenty English artists maybe 'bout ole city."

"Mr. Falconer,—Guy Falconer, I mean. Didn't I tell you that a young man was introduced to the Count lately by letter from England, and that he is nephew (I think) to my step-father?"

"No, ole Phœbe nebber hear dis. What him be to de ole man dat die?"

"Grandson, of course. He is poor, it seems, and wants to study painting. My husband likes him, and has shown him paintings that are seldom to be seen by strangers. Now, Phœbe, go and find him. I dare say he is up and at work, and certainly will help us if he can."

"Falconer,—Massa Guy," repeated the black nurse to herself. "Bery curous. Phœbe nebber hear dis afore, but bless de Lord she hear it now."

But it was not so very "curous," seeing that Phœbe's chief charge lay in the nursery, and that she never asked questions about visitors, nor interfered with the other servants.

Though she never entered any of the churches, and had as much respect for the Pope as for Juggernaut, she had much keen observation, and with her infant charge had traversed the city and found out many of its scenes of interest, so that without any great difficulty, she traced her way to the lodgings of the English artist.

The maître d'hôtel was surly and uncommunicative. Signor Anglais was gone, he could not tell where; it was hard to lose a lodger who paid punctually, and gave little trouble, but he knew nothing more.

Phœbe did not believe him; but, bowed out, and the door shut upon her, she could do no more in the way of cross-examination.

As she slowly retraced her steps along the silent street, a poor ragged looking boy followed her, and without looking into her face, said in low broken English as he passed,—

"You want kind Englis' gentleman? He teach Pierre, and let him clena palette."

"Whar he be, chile? What you know 'bout him?"

"He all safe, Madame Blackamoor. Pierre help him to escape, all safe," and he nodded with infinite self-complacency.

"Tell whar him be, you chile?" cried Phœbe, laying her firm hand on the boy's old coat-collar.

But he was too lithesome for her; quick as lightning, he twisted himself out of the coat, which was considerably too large, besides sundry dilapidation which helped the peeling process, and leaving it in her hand, ran off with a merry laugh.

Phœbe dropped the rag and began to run after him, but her dignity returned to her aid in time to prevent a ludicrous exhibition of her locomotive powers, and the certainty of ignominious defeat.

She shrewdly surmised that the coat, old as it was, and superfluous its dimensions, might nevertheless be valuable to its owner, and that the boy would presently be peeping round to recover it; so she stood by it for a few minutes, and was rewarded by the sight of him again.

Beckoning him forward, she showed a small coin, but he made no attempt to take it, and as he picked up his garment, said quietly,—

"Are you friend to Englishman?"

"Yes; I give you dis and more if you take me to him."

"I daren't now: come at dark, and bring him something to eat."

"Stop, chile. Be any oder one dere too?"

"No, nobody more," said the boy.

And Phœbe returned home in great disappointment.

But so impressed was the Countess with the conviction that the English artist would be able to give some information of her husband, that she insisted on accompanying Phœbe to the rendezvous.

So the two eager women, the black one and the white, were found by master Pierre in punctual attendance, and provided with some little delicacies for the appetite of the fugitive.

He led the way through several winding lanes and broken paths until they came to a sort of cavity among the ancient ruins, formed by fallen pillars and shattered arches, and peering in round the pedestal of a column, he suddenly whispered,—

"Ladies, Signor."

Guy Falconer started up amazed at such unexpected visitors, and the imploring voice of the Countess for news of her husband, increased his perplexity concerning his own personal affairs.

It appeared that, while absorbed in the study of some exquisite paintings in an apartment of the Vatican, to which the influence of the Count di V— had introduced him, a strange officer, lounging about, entered into conversation, described the meaning of certain symbolic devices, and added in a lower tone,—

"You know many a story is told in symbols, like language in flowers. A dagger sent to one would indicate danger and self-defence, a cord suggests penance, a feather advises flight. There are times when plainer language is inopportune, and when strangers in our city are not careful with whom they dine."

Guy looked up instantly, but the speaker was carelessly lounging away. He had scarcely reached his lodging, ere Pierre, his young temporary errand boy, and often guide to localities he wished to find, presented himself with a peacock's feather in his hand.

"Signor," said he, "a noble captain sends this specimen of the plumage he was describing to you!"

"Watched and warned!" thought his astonished master.

And he went on to say briefly how Pierre had led him to his present concealment, and had ascertained that his rooms and luggage had been searched, his portfolio and sketches scattered about, and his maître d'hôtel thrown into violent alarm at the idea of having entertained a suspicious character.

"There is evident connection," concluded Guy, "between the three circumstances: the presence of the General at your house that day, the disappearance of the Count, and the warning to myself. Let us hope that the Count also received a feather."

"Why suspect wrong from the visit of the General?" asked the Countess. "Who could give information concerning him? No one in the house, but the Count himself, had ever seen him before."

"I have never alluded in any way to the circumstance," said Guy; "but Pierre tells me that the Government has spies everywhere, and no one is free even in his own house, in Rome."

"Boy, are you free to do as you will?" asked the Countess quickly of Pierre, who stood near.

"I am poor and low, lady," said Pierre, "and can escape notice, but I will be wholly free some day. My father was English," he added proudly.

"Find out something of my husband, and I will reward you well. Will you try, and quickly?"

"I will, lady," said the boy. "Give me a note to him, and if he is in Rome, I will bring you his answer. Let your black woman seek me outside your palace with it before day-break!"

"And money,—will you have money also?"

"Money does much: it opens doors and gives messages. Yes, lady, I know those who have some love for the sight of it, and will do good or bad for the sake of it."

"And what is your purpose for yourself, Guy Falconer?" asked the Countess. "It would not serve you to take shelter at any house of mine."

"I purpose keeping concealed for a while, and then renewing my studies, if safe; quitting the city, if not—but I must be guided by circumstances, and Pierre, whom I like and trust."

"And de good Lord who guide dem all," said Phœbe.

"True," said Guy; "I do not forget to ask Him."

"Bless de Lord, den you be all right, nebber fear."

Pierre guided the visitors into the best way home, and returned to his master to do what he could for his comfort, and wait until it should be time to meet Phœbe and the note.

"There was news to-day," he said, "of some scheme just found out, to set Rome free of so many cardinals and priests, but the Count is too great to be in it."

Guy thought of the General, and the tone of some remarks he had heard in conversation with the Count, and felt little doubt himself that suspicion had fallen upon him, and that he had been arrested secretly. For himself, he felt no particular uneasiness, though annoyed at the interruption of his work, and waste of precious time.

Wrapped in a warm cloak and travelling rug, secured by the forethought of Pierre, and with his head leaning against a marble pedestal that might once have borne a triumph of forgotten skill, Guy fell asleep, and dreamed of home.

His sweet mother with loving smile and gentle word; his sister, or rather sisters, Maude and Evelyn, with their bright companionship and never-failing sympathy; the fatherly interest of the generous Squire, and the watchful care of the grateful mistress of The Moat, all played conspicuous parts in the mental drama; and over the sleeper's fine young face wafted an occasional smile of apparent pleasure and content, which she who stood looking upon him in the grey light of early morning would not hasten to disturb.

But there must be a waking time, and breakfast time, before black Phœbe would begin to talk, and she had carefully provided supplies which she insisted on seeing enjoyed before even answering his inquiries of the state of the Countess.

"Bery sore heart, heavy and sad, and no dear Lord to lean it on," she said, pitifully. "Do Massa Falconer know 'bout de Son ob God?"

"Yes," said Guy. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' and if it were not for the risk of attracting unwelcome notice, you and I would sing a morning hymn to His praise."

"Bery good; ole Phœbe glad. But now, why massa come to dis city whar nobody honour de Lord, all full ob silly tings and shows, and call it 'ligion?"

"Only because there are beautiful studies for those who want to paint well."

"Hum! What for massa want paint well?"

"I am poor, and have to earn my bread," said Guy, colouring.

"Nebber shame for dat. All right. But what make him so poor?" persisted Phœbe.

"You would not understand if I were to tell you," said Guy, slightly vexed.

"Do me deal ob good to know," said Phœbe, calmly. "Massa, please tell ole Phœbe."

"It was only that our family estate has passed into other hands, and an allowance out of it, which used to come to my mother, has ceased. It's right enough, I suppose. No one could prevent it, and no one has any right to complain."

"Don't know dat," said Phœbe, as if talking to herself. "Why dem stop dat 'lowance?"

"There was no provision for its continuance; it was only the arrangement of my grandfather, and ceased with his life."

"Hum! Please God keep ole Phœbe 'live, she make dem pay up."

"What are you talking about?" asked Guy, rather inclined to laugh at the black woman's lucubrations.

But to her, it was evidently no laughing matter.

"Will Massa Guy tell real why not go out ob dis city when him warned? What his people at home bid him do?"

"They would wish me to go, I daresay," said Guy; "but I cannot at present."

"Got empty purse, maybe?" said Phœbe, coolly.

"Suppose it is so, you strange old probe,—what is it to you?" exclaimed Guy, impatiently. "I choose to wait for my next remittance; I will not ask anyone for money."

"Nebber fear, Massa Guy. Trust ole Phœbe, and mind what she say. Me, dis bery ole black 'ooman, nurse ole Massa Falconer on him dying bed. He trust poor Phœbe more dan some, and make her read de Englis' writing. Den him gib her dis," and she drew from her bosom a little black silk bag, "and him say like dis: 'Phœbe, if ebber you hear ob a chile of Guy Falconer in trouble or want, you make him get dis, and it help him one little. You wait, and maybe some day you get to England, and you find if de widow ob my son Guy get her right share out of de 'state, or her chil'en. If so it be, den all right, you burn dis pocket-book. But if it be not so, you gib dis book to de widow or her chile, and dey see it help to prove dere right. Don't want do nobody no harm, but must do de right. Now, Phœbe, you be wise and patient, and see what to do.'"

"And if we were not in want, and had our rights, what then, Phœbe?" asked Guy, after listening attentively.

"Didn't he tell?—Den burn de book."

"Yes; but look here!" And opening the little pocket-book which he had drawn from its silken cover, several bank-notes appeared.

"Nebber mind; all right. Massa not poor now, but go away safe dis bery night."

"Tell me truly, Phœbe. If we had not needed it, what then was to be done with this money?"

"Poor ole massa, him let Phœbe do what she like; den she gib it to good missionary to tell 'bout de Lord Jesus. Now see why me come with poor missy to Rome. Find dear chile here just at right time. Bless de dear Lord, He do eberyting well!" And folding her hands, she rose from the block of stone, and stood for a few moments in silent reverence.

And if ever Guy felt thankful, it was then; for alone, suspected, and a fugitive in a strange city, and that city Rome, it was hard to be penniless also.

But he could not leave without some information of the Count, and also some help from trusty Pierre, and for this he must wait at least till night fall.

CHAPTER XII.

"SEMPER EADEM."

AMONG the items of intelligence floating about the city, and furnishing food for gossip, was a statement so carelessly and indifferently alluded to in the Government organs that it might have been a mere trifle, affecting no one's life or honour. It was to the effect that the Count di V— had recently been arrested for the embezzlement of certain public funds which passed through his hands, and that he would be tried for the offence in due time accordingly.

When the report was communicated to the Countess, she smiled scornfully.

"It is a falsehood!" she cried. "No one dares to accuse him openly; his character stands too high for trial on such a charge."

But there were other possibilities, and she trembled for the issue.

Two more days and another night passed in the bitterness of suspense, while from the public officials no information could gleaned, and no legal advice availed.

"Such things could not be in England," thought Guy. "And why?"

He thankfully answered himself: "Because England's people are, by the grace of God, freed from priestly despotism, and must be accused and judged in open day. Thanks be to God for the Reformation, which restored the true standard for righteous law!"

At last Pierre, at the appointed place of meeting, gave to the black nurse the answer he had promised. He had freely used the golden key with which he had been trusted, and had passed unscathed through many dangers in the accomplishment of his purpose. But as he shook himself in satisfaction that he was still sound in life and limb, he assured Phœbe that he dared not repeat the effort if the lady would give him the wealth of the whole city; that he must be asked no questions, and should quit Rome with the young Englishman.

The longed-for letter broke the heart of the poor young wife. It flashed a fearful light over the cause of the arrest, and the cruel means used to compel the victim to criminate himself. He had unwillingly sheltered for a night an enemy of the Government, and of Papal rule altogether; but as the manner in which the fact had been made known might not be told, the expedient of a false charge on pecuniary grounds was resorted to, as the visible shield of the invisible treachery practised upon the innocent and unsuspecting.

Phœbe watched the varying expression of her mistress's countenance as she read the brief note, until it dropped from her hands, and with a groan of agony and horror she exclaimed,—"I have murdered him!" And fell senseless into the motherly arms stretched out to receive her.

"Poor chile, poor dear chile!" murmured Phœbe. "De dear Lord gib peace. What any poor sorrowing heart do 'thout thee, Lord Jesus?"

It was long before the terrible seizure passed off, and Phœbe almost dreaded the return of complete consciousness, for in its transient intervals, the moan and look of anguish told eloquently of the crushing woe within.

At last a message delivered to Phœbe seemed to rouse her attention. It was to the effect that Father Pietro, the spiritual guide and confessor of the family, was in attendance, anxious to minister consolation to the dear daughter, of whose sorrow he had heard.

Instantly she rose, with form erect, and eyes flashing with rage and scorn:

"I will go to him; and, Phœbe, you remain at my side," she said.

But the tottering limbs refused their office, and the Countess was compelled to resume her couch, while the priest, calm and gentle, as if he brought good tidings from some angel's lips, came softly in with an invocation of peace and blessing.

"My daughter, I am grieved at your sorrow," he began; "but let us hope that all will yet be well. Doubtless the Count will easily explain away the imputation, and—"

"What imputation?" suddenly interrupted the Countess, with startling energy.

"Concerning the funds of the State. Is he not by some strange mistake suspected of—of misappropriating them?"

"Hypocrite! Traitor!" muttered his "daughter."

"Nay, my child, we must trust that he does not merit such terms as those," calmly replied the priest, looking away from the fiery eyes fixed upon him.

Suddenly her mood changed, and falling on her knees before him, she raised her clasped hands, and implored him to save her husband, to set him at liberty and suffer him to quit his country, to banish him for ever,—if so he willed.

"You can do this. You can save him, and you only," she cried, "and for this I can still crouch at your feet, and implore at your hands a mercy that the God of heaven would not deny."

"My daughter," urged the pitiless "father," "I am powerless in this matter. Offences against the simple laws of honest dealing must be tried at an earthly tribunal, and—"

"Shame, shame on you, traitor!" cried the Countess, rising passionately. "You dragged from me in your accursed confessional the knowledge that my husband gave unwilling shelter to a suspected patriot. You dared not be known to break the seal of confession, and you have got up the contemptible charge on which to secure his arrest, and bring him within your grasp."

"Poor troubled one, thy passion is mastering thy reason, and needs our prayers and pity. I will come in thy calmer future, and speak peace to thy wounded spirit. But beware, daughter, how thou bearest false accusation against the servants of the Church."

"I will," replied the Countess, proudly; "the truth only will I speak. Now hear, if it please you, my last confession."

"We are not alone, my daughter," said the priest, with a glance towards Phœbe, who stood scowling her darkest upon him.

"It matters not. I confess what all the world may hear: A deadly, soul-destroying crime,—a sin that has blasted my happiness, and will eat as a canker in my heart so long as I exist on earth. I have yet to learn whether it can be forgiven in heaven."

"Doubt it not, daughter. All power is committed to us, the ministers of pardon and condemnation, and when convinced of your penitence, it will be my pleasure and duty to absolve you from this sin, be it what it may."

"It is this," she replied, solemnly, her eyes gazing into vacancy, and her hands clasped convulsively: "I turned from a religion of purity and truth, and peace and freedom, to a system of lies and treachery, of slavish degradation and spiritual thraldom. I did it as if there were no difference; I did it for the love of a fellow sinner. I cared nothing for God and His word; and now I am reaping as I sowed. Nay, patience, sir, you must hear how penitent I am. From this hour I renounce the Church of Rome, and abhor and defy her as the foul enemy of God's truth, and the hinderer of human peace and salvation; and her ministers as the serpents who creep into their victims' confidence, under plea of divine authority, to sting and destroy. Oh, what penance is too heavy for the soul that has yielded to her blasphemy?"

"Silence, Madam!" exclaimed the astonished priest, for the moment off his guard. But quickly resuming his official bearing, he added calmly,—

"There are holy refuges within the Church for raving ones like thee, and there thou shalt learn submission and humility."

But the effort had been too great for the failing strength of his victim, and as he quitted the room with angry step, she lay again unconscious on her couch, tended by the faithful nurse, and ignorant of the threat his ominous words implied.

Certain decided proclamations and measures on the part of the Government at last satisfied Guy Falconer of the propriety of leaving Rome, and having, with Pierre's faithful help, made all the needful arrangements, he sought a farewell interview with the Countess.

"Poor missy, she fail bery fast," said Phœbe, sorrowfully, in answer to his inquiries. "She done eberyting, but all no use. Dey got fast hold, and dey keep it. De priest him come to see her, but she faint away dead, and know noting. Him try ole Phœbe, and she 'bliged hold her tongue, fear him drive her away. Him tink to convert heathen! Sooner Phœbe lay her ole bones under car ob Juggernaut dan take up with his 'refuge ob lies.'"

"Right, Phœbe," said Guy. "But you must carry that resolve out of hearing of Rome, it seems."

"Ah, massa, what me do? Dis priest, him say soon as dear missy be well again, she go to convent to be comforted, and take care ob little chile. Does massa tink him eber let her out ob dat?"

From the knowledge he had acquired of the Romish system, Guy could too easily guess the drift of the arrangement, and when admitted to her presence, earnestly entreated the Countess to accept such assistance as he could offer in leaving Italy at once.

"Not while my husband lives," she said mournfully. "I will at least be near the prison to which my apostasy has consigned him. Don't you know that Rome can forgive everything but thought, word, or deed that seems to favour the cause of liberty, national or individual? Revenge, not justice, is her main-spring in this matter."

"But can he not claim a trial for the real offence, and explain how he innocently yielded hospitality to an unexpected guest?"

"Read," said the Countess, placing her husband's note in his hand.

It was short, but tender and touching, and concluded with all injunction to train up their child as anything rather than a Catholic.

"My own words to you, my wife, were quoted to me concerning our ill-starred guest, and then I knew what instrument of torture had wrung the secret from you, and why a lying charge must be trumped up to legalize my sudden arrest. Rome may claim omniscience and omnipotence while her priests sit in the confessional, and men and women kneel crushed slaves at their feet. I have groaned beneath this bondage, and secretly resented it for you, but now I will be free, and the God of the free and true shall alone hear my last confession."

"Countess," cried Guy with animation, "the Spirit of that God cannot be excluded by prison walls. If He teach at all, He teaches only truth, and 'if the truth make him free, he is free indeed.' Whatever is to occur on earth, you may by God's grace be one in Christ in heaven."

"I!" said the Countess. "I,—an apostate, a murderess! There is no hope for me in this world or the next. I turned from light to darkness: I deserve all I suffer and more, if more can be."

"Did you live in God's light of holiness and truth? Did you ever realize His love in Jesus Christ? Have you ever really felt the power and sweetness of forgiving grace?"

The Countess raised her eyes with interest to his face. He was in earnest, he knew of what he was speaking, and she meekly replied at once,—

"No, never."

"Then you could not turn from what you never knew, or saw, or felt. You are not an apostate, but a poor lost sinner, not more astray now than always, and needing pity and salvation. You disregarded God in prosperity and happiness, but He will not reject you in your need and sorrow. Try Him, dear Countess, and He will in no wise cast you out."

"Guy Falconer," said the unhappy mourner with awakening energy, "do you mean to say that the great good God can have anything to do with me excepting in terrible judgment?"

Guy's answer was from "the word of the Lord, which endureth for ever." Contemplations of pity, invitations of love, assurances of pardon, winding as it were a string of pearls around her; silencing objections, meeting doubts, soothing fears, and simply resolving all into the one intelligible proposition, "Will you take this salvation and have peace, or will you refuse it and remain miserable for ever?"

"Oh, if I may, I will, for I am intensely wretched. I know now the meaning of despair."

Then a Psalm of David in his trouble spoke of anguish and of hope, and so sweetly fell the balm over the wounded spirit, so greedily opened the heart to the hitherto unheeded truths of Divine revelation, that a manifest change passed over the clouded brow and tear-worn face; and eagerly taking Guy's Bible from his hands,—

"You will leave me this?" she said. "Such a thing may not be procured in Rome, and you can soon obtain another."

"But may it not be seen and taken from you?" asked Guy, with some perception of the danger.

"Perhaps not, if I am careful, until I have done with it," she said. "And if I can, I will return it to you then, and you will like to have back the lamp which may yet light my dreary path to the heaven it tells of. And now, dear friend, one favour more. Pray for me—and my husband. Oh, that we had thought of God in our past happy days—so few, so wickedly ended! Oh, Guy, if ever you see a fellow creature in danger of being misled by affection or any other snare towards this religion of hollow shows and blighting treachery, use my sad experience to warn; and bring to the front at once that real chief object which Rome hides until the last, the secret of her power, the essence of her existence—the confessional. It is no means of Divine consolation; it is a human contrivance, by means of which a proud domineering priesthood may enslave and rule the world. I see it all now, but not until I have become its victim."

Kneeling fora few moments by her side, the young missionary artist, conquering natural feeling as in the presence of Him who has bidden His children "ask what they will," pleaded in the simplicity of faith for the suffering separated ones; and over the weary heart and fading form of the Countess left a sense of rest and peace which was not there when he came.

Phœbe placed her little charge in its mother's arms, and followed him out.

"Massa Guy," said she, bravely driving back her tears, "she not be here long. You make her see de dear Lord Jesus, den she ready to go; den she say, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' Now you not be 'bove old Phœbe's blessing. Go away safe with de angels ob de Lord, and bine by, all work done, we hab massa and missy and all in hebben."

"Amen," said Guy, grasping the honest black hand; "and, Phœbe, we must hear of you again. You have done me faithful, loving service, and you do not know the value of that pocket-book to my dear mother: she will want to thank you herself."

"S'pose Phœbe come some day to ole Moat House, she be took in?" asked Phœbe, quaintly.

"Aye, gladly Phœbe; remember to try it."

"As de Lord please," said Phœbe. "Me tink de world better outside dis city, all stifle with dem priests; can't 'bide 'em. Satan lookin' out dere eyes all round."

Guy could not conceal his acquiescence in Phœbe's opinion, and did not fully realize his personal safety until far away from the city of priests, where the religion they teach is a travesty of truth, human hearts their playthings, the game ambition, and the prize dominion.

The health of the Countess visibly declined, and the unwelcome visits of the confessor produced alarming effects upon her system. Sometimes she fainted away; sometimes she raised her eyes to his cold hard face with a look of anguish and entreaty, softly murmuring, "My husband,—save my husband," and he would be fain to excuse her any further effort.

Then he would warn Phœbe of careful obedience to the physician's orders, that the Countess might be enabled to bear removal. And kind friends called to inquire, and wonder what the end of the sad story would be.

The old nurse knew that the death-blow had been struck, and that all hope and desire of life had departed from the mind of the sufferer. Guy's Bible was studied in secret, and justified its priceless value, affording comfort and satisfaction beyond language to express, when the Eternal Spirit fulfils His enlightening office, and takes "of the things of Jesus, and shows them" to the sinner's heart. They alone can fill the sore gap bleeding from the wrenching away of earthly happiness, and they alone abound in blessed hopes which cannot be disappointed; and they alone, of all the favours man has ever heard of, are limited by no conditions, bounded by no exhaustion: "Whosoever will, let him take."

As long as there is the cry "I need"—the answer from heaven is "I supply." And this between man and God, through the God-man only, independent of pope or priest, form or ceremony, mass or sacrament, Mary or Peter, confession to, or absolution from, any man on earth.

Pressed almost to despair at the condition of her mistress, Phœbe resolved to overcome her reluctance to any conversation with the confessor, and to try if he could be moved to pity.

"Please, sar," she began in her meekest tone and manner, "dear young missy be dying since heart-break. Might do her good to know when massa be tried, and when she see him again."

"I cannot tell her. I have no power in such matters," replied he, blandly.

"P'raps him be so good to find out? Dey do anyting the priest please to say."

"You mistake, daughter. The priest's power is altogether spiritual, and I am ready to exercise it on your behalf, for I find that you are a Christian, and yet have never sought me for confession."

Phœbe winced, and with difficulty repressed the words which rushed to her lips; but she wanted to serve her mistress, and persevered.

"Would de priest please see massa Count in him prison, and tell poor missy 'bout him? Dey let him confess, sure?"

"He refuses to confess, he is a heretic, and it would add the last drop to the sorrow of the Countess, as a daughter of the Church, to hear that he abjures the faith."

"Please what be heretic?" asked Phœbe, demurely, and looking down to conceal the flash of pleasure that danced in her eyes.

"A thing to be abhorred of all Christians. A lost soul defying our holy mother. Beware, daughter, of all such."

"Poor massa!" returned Phœbe. "What him do? When Phœbe gib up idols, she get Jesus. What massa get?"

"There remains nothing for him but the Church's curse, and then—perdition," he solemnly replied.

"Him quite lost den? Do him know it?" asked Phœbe.

"It seems so, and in his apostasy, he is willing it should be so. Be assured, daughter, that nothing has been omitted in the Church's yearning love to bring him to repentance."

"Lost, lost," repeated Phœbe softly; "den de priest can tell ob Him who came to seek and to save the lost. P'raps when de Church put him down, de dear Lord take him up; who knows! De Lord didn't let no meddlin' come to thief on the cross—did it all Hisself."

"Woman! The Lord of the Church acts through His ministers. You talk ignorantly and need instruction, or you also will be a heretic. Beware how you make mistakes."

"Yes, sar, ole Phœbe be bery much 'ware. De debble, him go about here badly," she replied, with a quaint curtsey.

"It will be good that you are removed soon then," he added, perplexed, apparently, by her manner. "And it may be well to inform your mistress that the Count has been removed for change of air, and that his trial is deferred in consequence."

"Him bery ill?" asked Phœbe quickly.

"Not hopelessly. But the Church in mercy afflicts that she may heal. Be content to trust her wisdom."

Then turning back as he was leaving, he added peremptorily,—"We shall not trifle any longer. Prepare your mistress for travelling, and I shall provide for her reception in a safe and peaceful retreat, where she may recover health and obtain resignation."

Again Phœbe curtseyed, for she was too much choked with sorrow and anger to speak, and kneeling down she groaned within her soul:

"Oh, dear Lord, what me do? Oh save, save! Thou art mighty to save, do it, O Lord, and make ole Phœbe praise Thee!"

"It is all right, Phœbe," said the Countess, after hearing what had passed. "We will prepare: listen how ready I am for my journey."

And opening Guy's Bible, she read in musical tones of triumph:

"'The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'

"There, Phœbe, your beloved Lord Jesus has done all this for me. My Shepherd, seeking and saving His poor lost sheep, leading away from the strife of this life's turmoil, to nourishing pastures and refreshing waters. My staff and stay, my table of provision, my cup of blessing; and now I am going to the place He has prepared for me, in the house of the Lord for ever."

"Yes, dear missy, bery bad heretic; hope massa Count him ob de same sort—den meet in de glory, sing togeder Hallelujah; happier dan eber be down here. Ole Phœbe cry for joy, tink dem safe from prison and priest for evermore."

"Perhaps we are both on the journey, Phœbe,—both washed in the blood of the Lamb, and safe for the golden city. You will do all I have said for our babe, and train her in the faith of the Bible. Tell her my sad story, and tell her how all is forgiven in Christ Jesus. I am a warning to those who 'stand,' that they may shun my sin, and escape my sorrow; and I am an encouragement to those who have fallen into sin and sorrow, that they may look unto Him who only can save and comfort, and who says,—

"'Thou hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy help found.'

"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name.'

"Say the next, Phœbe, for I am very tired,—that is, my voice fails, but my soul is growing its wings."

"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases,'" continued the faithful nurse, repeating the beautiful psalm throughout with tender emphasis, while holy calmness spread over the dying face, and those "ministers of his that do his pleasure" waited around until the time for their joyful mission came.

"Phœbe," said the Countess, "we shall be ready for our journey—you understand?"

"Yes dear missy, all ready. Phœbe do all, or she die in it."

"And what is left, dear Phœbe, when we are gone, they can take; it will not matter then."

"De good Lord gib dem a big disappointment," murmured Phœbe; "but me terribly 'fraid dey come too soon."

"No, it is all right. One comes before them at the 'appointed time,' to take me to the true 'sanctuary.'

"'I will extol thee, O Lord; for thou has lifted me up, and hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.'

"'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'"

The confessor permitted more time for preparation than Phœbe expected, and of which she made diligent use, receiving in silence all his commands, and satisfying all his inquiries concerning his "dear daughter's" health with the information that she "wander a little in her mind, tinking she see de Count in him prison, and dat he got de Lord Jesus to take care of his soul," then that "she want sleep very much," and then that "she sleep," but he did not hear her add "in Jesus."

When next the reverend "Father," visited the object of his paternal solicitude, the weeping attendants silently marshalled him to the room where she lay on her couch, robed in white, a lily on her breast, and perfect peace written on her fair young face. But that was all: the spirit he had tortured "for the Church's interest" was not there, the victim of the confessional had escaped; and the Ayah and infant had disappeared, none there knew when, nor whither.

The Roman relatives of the Count were in time informed that he had died in prison, his crimes multiplied in the hands of his enemies, until confiscation of his property was all too light a punishment, and as for his anathematised soul, if his scandalised Church could give no verdict but "heresy," there might be hope that "through much tribulation, he had entered the kingdom of heaven."

CHAPTER XIII.

A MISSING LINK.

AS letters were few and far between in those days, when they did come, they were very warmly appreciated. Therefore the arrival of a letter from Master Guy was an event in which the whole population of the Falcon Range felt impelled to manifest singular personal interest. But not being favoured as a body with a survey of such letter, and its contents being issued in small details from divers independent authorities, it was not surprising that, by the time the news it conveyed had circulated from the drawing room to servants' hall, through stables and gardens, round the villages of Falcon Range and Pine-wood End, large farms and small cottages, the original statements were somewhat altered, and scarcely so recognisable as even the grey-bearded man who left the place of his birth a simple stripling.

It must have been with infinite amazement that the recipient of one particular letter heard some days afterwards that the Pope had laid violent hands upon her son, that he had narrowly escaped an auto-da-fé, was rescued by a regiment of black savages, and safely lodged in the land of Luther. The tale might be a predecessor of "The Three Black Crows," but certainly belonged to that family, and the crows had no reason to be ashamed of the relationship. It was an important letter, for after careful perusal thereof, the heads of the mansion solemnly started on an exploring expedition through the whole immediate premises, without communicating its special object to anyone.

From garret to cellar, through galleries and chambers, servants' offices and out-buildings, went the Squire and Mistress Hazelwood, followed by Mrs. Falconer, who seemed even less eager in the search than they.

But whatever they wanted, they did not find, and were again seated in consultation when Evelyn and Maude, who had been engaged all day in the school at Pine-wood End, returned home accompanied by Mr. Herbert, without whose sympathy few events transpired concerning the interests of the family at The Moat.

A letter from Guy! And his elder friends looking grave and perplexed over it! This was enough to damp the bright spirit of Evelyn, to bring Maude in loving anxiety to her mother's side, and detain the pastor from his solitary parsonage.

The contents were eagerly listened to. First came a rapid sketch of the circumstances under which Guy had been obliged to quit Rome. He was, however, perfectly safe now, continuing his studies among some fine collections of art in Germany, proposing to remain some months there, and work his way round by northern capitals towards home.

But to the matter of Phœbe and her communications, the main object of the letter was devoted. Afraid to trust the pocket-book itself to the chances of safe transit by post, he had copied the few entries of importance.

   "February 10th, 17—. Signed the document required by my wife's trustees, settling the disposal of her property, given up to me in consideration of an annual rent charge upon my estates at Falcon Range, for her use during her life, and to devolve at her death upon our younger son."

   "June 7th, 17—. Received my wife's legacy under her father's will, the disposal thereof provided for by a deed previously executed, and in the hands of her trustees."

   "January 12th, 18—. By consent of trustees, my son Guy's commission and outfit deducted from his interest in his mother's property."

   "May 5th, 18—. Attorney dead. Papers sent to Falcon Range."

Then in a tremulous hand, and written with lead pencil, appeared on a blank page the following:

"December 5th, 18—. If my son Geoffrey should not do justice to his brother's family, a document hidden in the secret drawer of an old bureau in my room at The Moat House, will reveal his obligation to do so. The trustees are dead, and no new ones were appointed, but my daughter-in-law, Guy's widow, can act for her children."

Evelyn looked anxiously from her mother to her father, and Mrs. Falconer.

"You have found this deed, of course?" said she. "Where is the old bureau?"

"We do not know," said Mr. Hazelwood; "we are afraid it may have been turned out with lumber that gave place to more modern wares when we opened the rooms that had been shut up so many years."

"We must search every hole and corner. Come, Maude! Help us, Mr. Herbert. Let us go first to the tapestry chamber. It is just like that old Judge Jeffery's wickedness to hide such a treasure in his ghostly haunts."

"Stay, Evelyn," said Mrs. Hazelwood; "your father thinks we must proceed cautiously at present: we know not what else this old secretaire may have contained, nor what inducement the present possessor may have for destroying or secreting it, if indeed it yet exists."

"You can rummage the premises at your leisure, young damsels," said the Squire, "but let nothing of this document go forth among others, until the time suits; then I will raise the county to find it."

"Dear Mrs. Falconer," said Evelyn, "we shall scour the county with one idea for the next three months. I am certain I have seen just such old furniture in many a cottage, and we shall certainly find it at last."

Thus cautioned, the earlier portion of Guy's epistle was all that underwent transformation through the social circles of Falcon Range, whilst at least six diligent individuals became more than ever indefatigable in cottage visits, and long rides to distant farmsteads.

Letters were despatched to obtain tidings of the nurse Phœbe, as her testimony would be all important in case of legal proceedings, and a restless spirit took possession of the lately calm and peaceful inmates of The Moat.

"Will it make much difference to them all, father," asked Evelyn, "if this paper should be found?"

"It won't quite buy back The Moat," said the Squire, smiling, "but it will make them sufficiently independent to do as they please, and I am afraid will make Mrs. Falconer insist upon renting the cottage instead of accepting it from us, as our offering of gratitude for all she has done for you."

"It is a lovely place, dear father, and enough to tempt her from The Moat; but I hope she will not go: I want a great deal of teaching yet to make me fit for anything."

"Fit for what?" laughed the Squire. "Is my little wench turning sentimental?"

"Fit to be Squire and Madam Hazelwood's daughter, sir," replied she,—"an honour which all our village folk loyally desire me worthily to apprehend."

"Fit or not, I suppose we have to make the best of it now, young mistress," said her father, who sometimes scarcely seemed to think further improvement needful; "so you had better convince Mrs. Falconer that your education is not completed yet. She belongs to The Moat as much as the stateliest tree on the estate, and whether she gets her rights or not, I hope she will not reject our gratitude. She promised your mother that she make no change until Guy comes home, by which time the cottage will be dry and safe, and the garden in fine order,—a fitting present from us all, I trow."

Evelyn quite agreed, as she stood with him in view of the charming little residence which he and her mother had planned and caused to be erected on one of the beautiful green slopes in the park, in anticipation of the time when they might no longer be permitted to contest with her the point of a change of dwelling.

"Such a great rambling place as The Moat House," he remarked, "ought to shelter a colony instead of a family; it is a charity to help us keep the rooms aired; but of course she is his right to wish that Master Guy should come back to a home of his own. Those last pictures of his are sold at a price that has surprised her, it seems, and his own talents are likely to make the lad independent in time."

As the noun "lad" was not preceded by the offensive old adjective of former comments, Miss Hazelwood bore with it calmly, though it did strike her that possibly Guy might by this time have outgrown the extremely juvenile appellation.

"When are you going to advertise for information about the bureau, father?" she asked.

"As soon as I obtain proper advice on the value of the entries in the old book, and the safest way of proceeding, my lass. I hoped Mr. Herbert, who is going to London shortly, would make this inquiry for us, but he is strangely backward for once. I suppose he is afraid of the lawyers."

Evelyn had a different thought on the same subject, but she did not venture to expound it.

What if Mr. Herbert would rather that Maude Falconer remained portionless! She could understand the strange mingling of selfishness and generosity which might influence his heart, and deter him from instituting very active measures to restore her lost inheritance.

So Mr. Hazelwood himself went once again to pay his compliments to London in a fog, mentally expatiating on the dismal fact of candles and twinkling lamps at hours when the sun ought to have been shining, and probably was shining everywhere else.

Mr. Penacre could transact business of great importance in a fog, by candle-light, and only smiled kindly on the grumblers at whose expense he sat the chief part of his life perched on a stool at his desk.

He read attentively the copy from the pocket-book and the portion of Guy's letter in reference thereto, which the Squire laid before him, rubbed his brow, inked a pen, and wastefully dried it on the tail of his coat, laid it down again, rubbed his hands, and finally faced his visitor with a look of innocent inquiry and a chilling—

"Well, sir?"

"Well, sir," repeated the Squire, impatiently, "what do you make of it?"

"A rather singular circumstance as it has come round, certainly," said Mr. Penacre, calmly; "but you are of course aware that this memorandum has no legal weight. The poor old man must have been labouring under some delusion, and unable to remember facts. His son Mr. Geoffrey assured me that the document in question was destroyed after some satisfactory transaction between the parties concerned."

"Then he knew that such a document did once exist?" remarked the Squire.

"Certainly, certainly, but was quashed by subsequent arrangements, and mutual consent."

"I believe he stated falsely then," said the Squire, warmly, "and the matter must be looked into."

"Well, my dear sir, pray look into it, and what is to be seen? A young gentleman's letter, the writer being chiefly interested; the leaf of an old memorandum-book, which may, or may not, bear the writing of the late Mr. Falconer, and the confused story of an old black nurse, who may, or may not, be honest and sane, and may or may not have interested purposes to serve. No honourable member of the legal profession would undertake such a case. No, my dear sir, first produce this deed, then the witness of the nurse and the pocket-boo will be valuable; for questions would arise on the subject of his mental ability to understand, and his physical power to indite this sentence."

"Did anyone question the elder Mr. Falconer's mental ability and physical power to sign away his estate at the instigation of his childless son?" asked Mr. Hazelwood, sharply.

"I think not. I believe it was freely and fairly done, before competent witnesses."

"Very well, sir. Now be so good as to observe that the date of this last entry in the memorandum-book is the same as that attached to Mr. Falconer's signature on the deeds which transferred the estate of the Falcon Range. If one is open to suspicion, so is the other, seeing that both were written on the same day. Why it may happen, after all, that the proceeding was illegal, and that neither father nor son had any right to sell the estate at all!"

"Oh, pray don't be alarmed about that," said the lawyer: "the sale is valid enough."

"I am not in the least alarmed, sir; only suggesting that your insinuation, if proved, would prove too much, and endanger the whole of Mr. Geoffrey Falconer's proceedings for some years past."

Mr. Penacre contemplated the candle, smoothing his brow as if he were straightening matters in his mind, and conscious that his city notions of the mental calibre of country squires were sustaining a decided shock.

"Well, sir," said he, "the deed must be produced first. Let us see that, for without it, you have no shadow of right to make a claim on the purchase money of the Falcon Range. And even if produced, I fear there is little left now to reward the suit."

"There are other lands yet held in Mr. Falconer's name," said the Squire.

"True, but the last shred of the fine old property passes away almost immediately: the purchase money lies ready, and then the name of the Falconers is expunged from the list of British landowners."

"I protest against any payment to Mr. Falconer of money raised upon the sale of property here, until this claim is investigated and settled," said Mr. Hazelwood; "and I suppose if there is to be litigation, you will prefer to work with funds in hand."

"I certainly shall," said Mr. Penacre, smiling; "at the same time regretting that a gentleman like you should be caught by the popular delusion, which supposes that we only endorse a case which bears our own interests on its title page; however, if people will be wrong-headed, I cannot help it. Produce this deed, and I promise you that Mr. Falconer must look elsewhere for his defence against the widow and the fatherless."

This brought right hands to a hearty clasp, and having arranged the plan of procedure, Mr. Hazelwood was glad to find himself early the next morning on the box-seat of the Royal Mail Coach, with thoughts of home and its welcomes warming his heart.

The passengers breakfasted and dined on the way, and the shades of evening were beginning to gather, and tired travellers to feel cold ana cross, when the coachman dashed into a small village where a single oil lamp just lighted distinguished the wayside inn, and four fresh horses stood ready, with men at their heads, to replace the steaming beasts that had gallantly performed their ten mile task.

Speedily went strap and buckle to their proper places, for there was a kind of emulation among the men at the posting-houses on the roads in those days, with regard to the rapidity with which the operation of "changing horses" could be performed; and many a fee from the coach roof rewarded the zeal of the skilled hostler who thus expedited the journey.

The coachman was gathering up the reins, the guard was taking his last survey, when a woman rushed up past the group or gazing idlers.

"Sir, please, Muster Guard!" she cried. "Wull ye do a kindness for a poor body without any pay, just only for the love of God?"

"Well, what is it?" said the guard gruffly. "Profitable business, any way."

"It's only this, sir. Just when you come up to Oak Lodge—that's the doctor's, sir, three mile off, you know,—please blow your horn sharp, and throw it o'er the gate,—this paper, I mean; it's for him to come and see a poor body as I'm afeard is dying. They'll come out and look when they hears the horn."

"Some one belonging to you, good woman?" asked the Squire, bending down from his perch, his quick ear having caught the sound of poverty, and the plea of the love of God.

"No, sir, only in my cottage. My lad found her on the road, faint with tire and hunger, about two hour agone, and he brought her in, and she do seem right done for, and wants to go on, though she can't stand, poor thing, and her money's all gone. You'll drop the letter. Mr. Guard?—And please blow the horn pretty brisk."

"Stay, my good woman, where does she want to go to?" said Mr. Hazelwood. "Guard, there's room inside. Take her, and I'll settle with you."

"Bless you, sir," cried the woman, "she'd be right glad, but we'd have to carry her, and the poor babe's asleep, so it's too late now. She be very bad, rambling in her head too, and looks awful in her black skin."

"A black woman, did you say?—A stranger and foreigner?" said the Squire.

"We're all ready, please, your honour," said the guard, touching his hat, not disposed to delay for a black beggar's story.

"One moment, friends. Just let us hear how far she wants to go, and perhaps she can be helped somehow. Do you know, good woman, where she was making for when your kind lad found her?"

"Yes, sir, she keeps all the while crying out about some place called 'Moat House,' and one Squire Hazelwoods, and begs to be took there, but it must be a big way off these parts."

Before the sentence was ended, Squire Hazelwood had swung himself from the coach-box to the ground.

"I shall wait here, guard," said he. "Give that letter at the doctor's gate, and if my carriage is waiting for me at 'The Nelson,' tell one of the servants to bring it on here, changing horses if needful, and another to gallop home and say all's well, but I am hindered for a few hours, and shall be with them, please God, to breakfast. Now my portmanteau—all right—good-night, guard."

The astonished coachman and guard pocketed their liberal fees with much respect, privately suggesting to the nearest passengers that anybody in distress was enough to hinder Squire Hazelwood, even if he'd been going to meet the House of Lords.

THE START.

The passengers wondered, the horn sounded, and the horses pranced gaily off.

"Now, my friend," said the Squire to the equally wondering cottager, "take me where you have sheltered this poor stranger."

A few minutes' walk brought them to a neat little thatched cottage on the roadside, where in a rude cradle by the fire rocked a white baby, and on a settle, wrapped in her Indian shawl and supported by the poor woman's coarse pillow, lay the black nurse in charge, evidently exhausted by over-fatigue.

The best nourishment the little inn afforded carefully administered, and the Squire's kind words of encouragement, seemed to revive her a little.

"Tanks, massa," she murmured, "me bery tankful to you. Just like de dear Lord to send good Samaritan dis way. Oh yes, all good Samaritan in dis nice England. Cheer up, ole Phœbe, she do it all yet."

Then dozing a little, and suddenly starting up, she exclaimed,—

"Whar dat pickaninny? Neber let dem get her." And seeing the babe sleeping peacefully, she sank back again, murmuring, "Neber fear, missy. Phœbe keep going till she find de Moat House. Massa Guy tell her she be took in: den lie down and die quiet. Dis kind 'ooman let her lie and rest till morning."

The doctor's gig was at his door when the horn sounded and the letter was thrown down, and knowing the cottager who had hastily scrawled it as one of his honest humble friends, he drove off at once, taking sundry little possible requirements into account.

And after administering a composing draught to the excited over-wrought patient, he comforted her hostess with the assurance that after a thorough rest, she would be able to continue her journey. And the Squire was not slow to convince the doctor of his appreciation of promptitude and kindness.

The night had closed in when Mr. Hazelwood's carriage arrived at the village, and great was his surprise when the door flew open, and his own Dorothy sprang into his arms.

"Why, Dorothy, my little witch, who told you that I wanted you so much? Here's work to do, my lass, and none can do it so well."

Mistress Hazelwood had taken it into her head to go with the carriage to meet him on the road, and somewhat alarmed at the orders brought by the guard, had driven on with fresh horses at once.

Very much surprised was she at the strange story he told, very much gratified also that in her loving haste to welcome her husband home, she had unconsciously come to his aid in a moment of some perplexity.

Phœbe was now on the cottager's bed, calmed into restful slumber, while her kind friends arranged for such accommodation as the cottage and the little inn afforded, until morning should announce the result.

She then opened her eyes wonderingly on the sweet face that was watching for her waking, and that no anxiety should disturb her. Mrs. Hazelwood had taken the child in her arms, that she might be instantly assured of its safety.

"Phœbe been dreaming 'bout de angels," she said. "Is der come take care oh dear missy's chile?"

"The Lord of angels has sent friends to take care of her and of you," said the lady softly; "and you must lie still until you feel quite able to move with comfort."

Then she laid her hand upon the black brow, and felt the yet feverish pulse, while the kind hostess came forward with a tempting breakfast.

"Phœbe get up; 'shamed to lie like big log; can walk now bery quick again."

But poor Phœbe found that her powers would not justify her words, and dismay succeeded her hopeful smile.

"Must go on to de Moat House,—must, must find it soon," she said imploringly. "Massa Guy help poor Phœbe if him know."

"We shall help you, Phœbe; we will take you there as soon as you can travel: you are the very person they want to find."

"Tank de Lord! Massa Guy dere?"

"No, he is still abroad, but safe and well."

"Him safe eberywhere, lady, 'cause him de Lord's chile; him b'lieve de Lord's word. Can't no real bad happen to dem dat loves de Lord. Phœbe bery wrong to fink she die on de road, and missy's dear chile in her arms. No, no, Him not 'low dat."

And drawing the little one to her, she covered it with kisses.

"Then you would like to go on this morning, and rest when you reach The Moat?" said the lady.

"But all de money gone, lady; only chile's few tings left. Whar be dey?" she suddenly exclaimed, with a look of alarm, and feeling for some great pockets.

"All right dere," said she, subsiding contentedly again. "Now, dear lady, you de Lord's angel, and Phœbe do what she tell."

Judging that, notwithstanding her enfeebled state, it would be wise to obtain as speedily as possible the complete rest and comforts of which she stood in need, Mrs. Hazelwood hastened preparations for departure, and the poor black woman was as tenderly "settled in the carriage as if she had been a white lady," the admiring villagers said; while "the real lady" took charge of the child; and after liberally rewarding all who had shared in the act of genuine charity, the Squire turned his horses' heads towards home.

Anxious faces were looking out at Falcon Range, where The Moat interests had become everybody's interests, and the gatekeeper and his wife were on the watch for the carriage.

"All well, Bennett," said the master, meeting the inquiring look with a smile as he drove in.

"Thank God, sir!" said Bennett, reverently lifting his hat. "They'll be mortal glad up at the house, for Miss Evelyn and Miss Maude have been down many a time this morning to listen for your coming."

"We have all cause to be thankful for wonderful things, Bennett," said the Squire.

"Aye, and for things that ain't wonderful, too," said Bennett to his wife, as he closed the gates; "and one of them is, that if there's a good turn to be done, he's the one to do it. I say, wife, didn't you catch sight of a queer bundle in the shay corner? There's some poor body as wanted a lift, I'll be bound, for he'd never pass such on the king's highway without lending a hand."

The wife had noticed, and moreover she noticed that the "bundle" had a curious dark top to it, unlike anything she had ever seen, but if it should even be one of the savages who had helped to rescue Master Guy in his Popish perils, he would surely be welcomed by the whole clan of the Falcon Range as warmly as by the family at The Moat House.

Poor Phœbe was perfectly bewildered at the open doors of the hall, when a youthful resemblance of the lady she already reverenced flew into the Squire's arms with a cry of delight, and another differently, but not less, attractive, greeted Mistress Hazelwood with equal warmth, while an older lady of calm and graceful mien received with smiling astonishment the infant held out to her, and then gazed at Phœbe's dark face with something of dawning comprehension of the fact.

"Dis de Moat House? Dis Massa Guy's moder?" cried Phœbe, clasping her hands with joy. "No 'casion tell, dem like as two stars ob de sky. What for de kind Lord bless ole Phœbe like dis at last?"

CHAPTER XIV.

THE OLD BUREAU.

A NURSERY was immediately extemporised, where Phœbe and her little charge were tenderly cared for, and soon became a centre of attraction to the household. Her story, when able to tell it, was sad and simple.

"Bery hard to leab dear missy," she said, as by degrees she explained to her interested hearers, how she had received from her late mistress special directions to proceed if possible to India, and place the child under the protection of its grandmother, Mrs. Geoffrey Falconer, with strict injunctions that it was to be brought up in the Reformed faith.

"She once like you, young lady, jes' so fair and happy, but it hab to be done. And when de dear Lord say so, sure find de way to do it somehow. So when de spirit gone up to hebben, I keep all quiet, make all straight, put white lily on de breast, and step out ob dat house soft and still, while all dem priests fast asleep, and get quite out ob city, rest in day, trabel in night. Den not care, all right, for ole Phœbe know dat real dear missy not left behind, only poor body, noting but bit ob dust for dem to bodder wis, jes' fit dem and dere ways, all cold, no heart, no life.

"Afore she go, she put up pretty jewels for de chile, and gib money to pay. Money too soon gone, but tings all safe, dere dem is."

And she placed several packets in Mrs. Falconer's hands, requesting her to retain them until they should be required again.

"Den at last, get on board Englis' ship, to be safe away from de priests, can't neber breave right whar dem is, no truth in dem; and anybody who know whar de chile be, must gib her up to dem: deys de Church, ob course. Good Lord 'liber us from dere cruel ways! Him, de great good Head ob de Church neber hab crooked body like dem to be His Church. Now Phœbe know about England and missionary, and dat precious martyrs die to hold fast de truth as it is in Jesus, so me tink jes' get dere first, find de old Moat House, and Massa Guy's moder, and get put in East Indiaman to get home.

"Long as de money last, poor old Phœbe bery comfortable and brave, and full of false stuff she call faith, and tink de Lord bery good and pleasant; but ah! Money too soon go, she come to last bit ob silver, and den! She frighten and fret like any poor unbelieving sinner; so Phœbe only sunshine Christian arter all! Ah, dear lady, dem dat trust in de Lord must trust Him in cloud and darkness too, else neber know half how good and true He be. But He pass ober bad ole 'ooman's doubt and fear, and when she cry to Him, He lay her down jes' whar somebody find her, and put her to sleep, and wake up 'mong eberyting she want!"

"And in the very place where you are most wanted," said Evelyn.

"Sure. Dat de Lord's way, and His way allays de best way. You 'member dat, missy, neber you do noting 'thout askin' de Lord. Den you strong, cause He say:

"'Fear not, for I am with thee; I will teach thee, I will uphold thee.'

"When de dear Lord teach, His chillen must larn; when Him uphold, dey shall stand. Poor tings, dey wriggles about, and doesn't allays like it, but Him knows dem only worms, and wants pickin' up, and puttin' out ob way ob mischief. So He say, 'Fear not, thou worm.'

"Ah, dear missy, only tink de mighty Son ob God come to save worms from getting trod under foot when debble and hosts come sweepin' by! Dats de right Saviour for poor ole Phœbe—aye, and young pretty missy too. B'lieve dat?" she asked, anxiously, trying to look through the fair young face into the heart behind it.

"Yes, Phœbe," said Evelyn, timidly, "I do believe it; but—"

"But what, dear chile?"

"I've never been tried, Phœbe. There are no troubles at The Moat House; everybody here is kind and good, and I'm afraid of being as you said just now, only a sunshine Christian."

"Is dat it? Bless de Lord. Why, don't missy know dat de Lord's sweet flowers must hab de sunshine to grow in, as well as the clouds? And while He gib sunshine, tank Him, and lub Him dearly, and grow, and spread out nice colours and fragrance. Neber be lookin' for troubles to find out 'bout self, leave dem all to de Lord; and, chile, dey 'll come sometime, 'cause Satan hate happiness eberywhar, and he'll find de way to de Moat House, and 'sturb de peace somehow; but never fear, keep close to the Lord Jesus, and so keep looking at Him, and 'miring Him, dat not care bery much 'bout oder tings; maybe deys bery holler, arter all, but de Lord, Him sure and true and full ob blessing."

"You have known Him well, and loved Him long, Phœbe, haven't you?" asked Evelyn.

"Pretty long spell now, missy, but de Lord Him know and lub poor Phœbe first. He gib her His own word. Good missionary tell, and Phœbe larn; den no more idols, no more priests. Dey talk to Phœbe foolish tings, but she know better and say, 'You go 'long, and neber tink to lead dem dat knows de blessed Gospel; Phœbe lead you now to de foot ob de cross, and you larn with her de salvation ob de true God."

"And did any of them listen to you, Phœbe?"

"Ah, Phœbe not know; she got de good seed, and she drop it in. De Lord gib de hearing ear, only His servants take care to speak, and He do say:

"'My word shall not return to me void.'

"Maybe some poor broder 'mong dem meet Phœbe in glory and tank her for true word. But, missy, dem priests in Italy won't neber listen to de true word, dey blind leaders ob de blind. Ah, de poor sheep got no good shepherds dere! Dey say, 'Bery fine 'ligion for priests, fine shows, fine robes, fine chants, fine little box to hold dere God, but who b'lieves anyting? Ah, no God, no noting; we lib and die, and dere's de end.' Poor tings! Dem want missionary much as Hindoos. You don't know, missy, cause ob de blessed Gospel in your country. No priests, no nuns, no popes here, blindin' poor souls from looking to de Lamb ob God."

"Phœbe, I want to know how it is that you can repeat texts from our English Bible so correctly?"

"Well, dear chile, it jes' dis ways. Phœbe bit ob a gal once when poor slave, and Missy Falconer like her, and made fader buy her; so when missy go away from West Indies to Calcutta, she take Phœbe dere too, and make her free. Den Phœbe hear good missionary teach de Gospel, and de blessed Lord make it go right in her heart, and Phœbe free indeed. Den she want see good words with her own eyes and tell dem to odor sinners: plenty sinners dere too. So poor Phœbe try to read Bible in English, and learn plenty chapters, and say dem to dear missionary lady. Dis ways make say texts all right, in good words, but when Phœbe talk random, she only like poor chile, to de end ob her days. Ah! Noting like speakin' de Lord's own words, missy, allays say right den."

"I wish I could always say right, Phœbe, but I have such a jumble of things in my foolish head, that the right ones are seldom found in time."

"Ah! Dat not right, missy; what she lub best sure come uppermost. Lub de dear Lord Jesus, and eber be tinking what please Him; dat's de secret ob de Lord, and bery strong blessed secret too. Missy lub fader and moder, don't she?"

"I should think so, indeed!" said Evelyn, quickly.

"Sure, neber doubt it; and missy do anyting dey tell; neber stop to say, is she sure she lubs dem 'nough to wish please dem. Oh, no, cause she dere own chile, born to lub dem. Same ting de chile ob God, born again to lub Him; it's in de new heart, and can't help it so long as feel like chile. It's dem dat don't b'lieve Him real kind fader dat forgets, and wants windin' up like clock. God don't want no chillen ob dat sort, but livin', lovin' chillen, dat run in His ways free and happy, and willin'. Can't force no lub, missy. God make His chile born with it in new heavenly life."

In her frequent visits to the nursery, and loving reverence for the "black but comely" Christian there, Evelyn learned much and also taught something; and became scarcely less an object of interest to Phœbe than the orphan infant on her knee. The nurse was easily prevailed on to remain at The Moat House until circumstances should render her important evidence available in the matter of the missing document, and while Mrs. Falconer undertook correspondence with the maternal grandparent of the babe.

* * * * * *

Among the warm friends taken into the family confidence concerning the old bureau was Mr. Spadeley, whose knowledge of circumstances amongst the living and dead of the Falcon Range was indisputable. But it cost him many scratches of the head, many vigorous digs into the old churchyard, many untimely whisperings beneath the elms with the worthy landlord of "The Falconer's Arms," before he could make anything of it. Then a glimmer of light seemed to arise in his mind, and before he had exactly fixed whether its source was north, south, east or west, Miss Evelyn flitted before him, to enjoy the first effect of its beam.

"Well, Mr. Spadeley, you really look mysterious. Have you made any discovery?" she asked, seating herself on the low wall that divided the churchyard from her father's lands.

"Well, miss, I've got a bit of idea, as it were, but I doubt if it brings us any nearer after all."

"Surely it will," cried Evelyn, eagerly; "you will tell it me, won't you, Mr. Spadeley? Or shall I run for my father?"

"Bless you, miss, I'd rather tell you than fifty fathers, and no disrespect to his honour but what will your pretty wit do with it, I wonder?"

"Only try," she replied, laughingly, "it will be the greatest compliment you can pay it."

"Well, then, I've been reminding and recalling things, as it were, for some years back, and I do mind when them rooms was opened, a lot of lumbering things all lying about in the way, and the master bidding the work-people do what they liked with them, and some I know was broke up for fire-wood."

"But no one would break up a piece of furniture that could be put to any use," said Evelyn. "Don't you think it more likely that someone took it home, and that after all it may be standing in some cottage not far away?"

"Well, no, Miss Evelyn, I don't; 'cause why, what sort of folks would they be that would keep anything they found in it that didn't belong to them? No, no, I don't believe there's any of that sort near the old Moat House."

"But, Mr. Spadeley, you know there is a secret drawer: it may never have been discovered."

"There now!" said the sexton, brightening up. "I thought you'd put something to it, and it do make a difference surely; for I were loath to think of false vassals hiding under the wing of the Falconers; leastways, if they've got a wing, which in course they haven't now-a-days; but it don't matter so much, seeing Squire Hazelwood's a good master to serve, and shame to them that don't be thankful. Only you see, Miss Evelyn, it might have been otherways."

"Well, then, Mr. Spadeley, for all our sakes, it is right to have a fresh search, and my father has decided to advertise, with a handsome reward to anyone who will give information."

"Well, Miss Evelyn," said Spadeley, meditatively, "I can't say as I shall feel much beholden to anybody as gives information for pay, while there's opportunity to give it without, and I don't believe we'll get any nearer to the old bit of furniture so. But you and Miss Maude just try again, out of our parish a bit, and if it be above ground, surely you'll come at it for love."

Smiling at the old man's tenacious interest in the honour of the inhabitants of the Falcon Range, and his chivalrous tribute to her own and Maude Falconer's influence, the young lady went home to discuss the melancholy fears of the bureau having been, broken up for fire-wood, and the document in question perhaps having served to feed the flame.

The Squire gave his humble neighbours credit for a little more sense than this reckless destruction would have indicated, and had some confidence in the effect of his offer, largely placarded in very large letters and figures, of "Twenty pounds reward" for the recovery of an old bureau, supposed to have been given among other lumber to any person who might think it worth carrying away, when the workmen were engaged upon repairs of the old Moat House.

In the direction of N— Park, the young ladies seldom rode, as great changes had occurred there; but now, furnished with a clue by Jane Spadeley, the efficient mistress of their school at Pine-wood End, they determined to visit the farms and cottages around a long forbidden scene of much regret to the old-fashioned Protestantism of the true-hearted Squire.

Bound for some cottages a little way beyond, Maude and Evelyn instinctively reined up their ponies at the open gates of N— Park, just within which appeared a scene well calculated to arrest attention.

On a gentle elevation, selected for picturesque effect, stood a beautiful little chapel, built in miniature imitation of an admired cathedral church. Building materials still lay scattered about, but it was evidently open for use, for two old women, one old man, and three or four children were coming slowly down the steps, and a robed priest appeared behind them, looking out and about from the doors.

Quickly observing the young horse-women at the Park gates, he retired for a moment, and reappeared in ordinary dress, to pay his respects and to request the pleasure of showing them the new church.

"We have no congratulations to offer on its completion," said Maude, gravely, "but we are duly surprised at the speed with which it has been erected."

"And the wonderful fact of a congregation already!" added Evelyn, mischievously, as the three aged villagers passed solemnly out.

"There was no reason for delay, when the death of Sir Ryland left his son at liberty to carry out his pious design," replied the priest; "and as for the congregation, the people are not yet prepared for the privileges which the Church offers in her observance of holy-days."

"Mr. Freakes, why don't you put things in the right light?" said Evelyn. "You should have said, 'as his advisers thought proper.' Everybody knows that the poor young gentleman is weak, and had no more thought of building a Roman Catholic Church than of building Noah's ark, until you put it into his head."

"Then you should estimate the advantage of wise advisers, and rejoice that the young gentleman is susceptible to such influence," replied the priest. "But can I not prevail on you even to ride round the church? The view will well repay your trouble, and you can prepare Mr. Guy for the new object in his landscape, when he returns to paint it."

"Not omitting the picturesque effect of the congregation slowly descending its marble steps, and the great encouragement to be derived from such an appreciative audience! We have an errand near, or we had not known these facts so soon."

"Possibly you will feel a little more respect for the facts, if I inform you that I am not ignorant of your errand, Miss Hazelwood; that perhaps I can be of service to you, and may find a clue to the bureau where you cannot."

And Mr. Freakes seemed to enjoy the momentary surprise he had caused.

But Maude quickly perceived his meaning, and merely replying that they sought information only by honourable means such as British subjects should employ, they bowed and rode on

"Oh, Evelyn!" she cried. "Ought not this sight to stir us up to work as we have never worked yet?"

"We'll get my father to let us have a box of Bibles to distribute at once," said Evelyn; "but after all, Maude, two deaf old women, and an old man in his dotage are flattering proofs of the success of the experiment. Even Phœbe would smile at such an exhibition."

After visiting several cottages unsuccessfully, they observed one of the same deaf old women at a cottage door, and, once more dismounting, surprised her by following as she retreated within.

"We saw you at the chapel just now," said Evelyn.

"Anan!" said the old woman, putting her hand to her ear. "I be very deaf, ladies, can't hear nothin'."

"Do you know what saint's day it is?" said Evelyn, more loudly.

"Oh, aye. A very nice gentleman indeed, miss, a pleasant gentleman."

"If you can't hear, can you read?" shouted Evelyn.

"Ah, yes, it began with a cold like, and you see I'm not so young as I was, miss; I'm stone deaf."

"What shall we do, Maude? We shall raise the village at this rate."

Maude then spread out one of the great placards, and held it before the old woman's face, but with no better result; she shook her head, and looked distressed.

"Stay, Maude, let me try again. It strikes me that she might hear some words if she chose." And putting her lips close to the old woman's ear, she deliberately uttered, "Twenty pounds."

"Eh! What? What?" cried the dame with a start.

"Twenty pounds," repeated Maude, in the other ear.

"Do ye say twenty pounds, young miss?"

"Yes, twenty pounds to anyone who can give information about a bureau that was carried away as old lumber from the Moat House some years ago. A piece of furniture something like that, I should think?" added Maude, suddenly pointing with her riding whip to a dark-looking shattered bureau or secretaire, standing in a recess by the side of the old woman's bedstead.

"Eh, what? Like that?" she cried in alarm. "It's my own, my very own. What will Hodge say? Do they want my furniture, every bit my own?"

"No," said Maude, "but to give twenty pounds to anyone who can tell what became of ours."

"I'm not a thief, I'm not," whimpered she, rocking herself in her chair, and recovering from stone deafness with wonderful rapidity.

"Of course not. We did not say you are a thief; we only tell you about the twenty pounds for anyone who can find our old bureau, and we want you to tell your neighbours."

"I will, indeed, miss, I will. Twenty pounds, did you say, if I tell—if I hear of it? Twenty golden guineas should I get?" Again she was assured of the fact, and the young visitors had scarcely departed when the priest entered the cottage. The old woman rose with a curtsey, the door was closed, and he and his aged daughter had a long interview.

That evening a sealed packet was delivered at The Moat House, addressed to Mrs. Falconer, with Father Austin's congratulations on the recovery of a document so important to her interests, and expressions of high satisfaction that in the exercise of his holy functions, he had been permitted to afford her this assistance. Also that, with respect to the reward of twenty pounds, he felt it his duty to accept it, on behalf of the poor and sick members of his flock.

"We'll see about that," said the Squire, contemptuously; "no reward was offered for wringing secrets out of even guilty hearts, and whoever gave up the paper shall have the reward."

"But you forget that a priest may not reveal secrets told in confession," suggested Mrs. Hazelwood; "and he says, 'In the exercise of his holy functions.'"

"Tusk! Little simpleton," said the Squire, "this man forgets where he is. Our people are not the fools he takes them for, and I shall find a way to rival his confessional, or I'm not Roger Hazelwood. But now for a dose of law and justice for Mr. Penacre and his worthy client, I suspect."

Mrs. Falconer's head bent in thankfulness over the recovered deed, which detailed in legal terms the fact briefly alluded to in the memoranda confided to Phœbe's care, and there was no doubt of the fraud which had been perpetrated by the younger Mr. Falconer, nor of the power on the part of the widow and children of the late Captain Guy Falconer to demand restitution. That the claim would not be in vain was owing to the promptitude of Mr. Hazelwood, in his timely prohibition of any payments to the late owner of certain estates in England, until it should be proved and answered.

"Father," said Evelyn, gravely, "Maude and I have an idea of the conscience that has been probed in this matter, and that in reality our words screamed into two deaf ears have had more effect than the priest's 'functions.' We made a great impression with 'twenty pounds,' and another visit which we planned to make would have secured a victory. Mr. Freakes has only anticipated us."

"And," added Maude, "we think there may have been something else discovered in the bureau, because a mere old parchment like this would not sufficiently account for the old woman's evident alarm, nor for concealment of her possession of it."

"Very well thought of, my wise little wenches," cried the Squire. "We will look into it, and do to others the justice we ask for ourselves. And you must teach your old woman that if she should lose twenty pounds, it will be because of her roundabout way of doing things, instead of going straight at the truth like a Christian."

Just as the great doors of The Moat House were being secured for the night, a solitary figure shyly begged admittance to a few minutes' speech with the master.

"Hodge! Why Hodge, my man! What brings you here this time of night?" exclaimed the Squire, at once recognising the man as a thrasher who was often employed on farms in the neighbourhood. "Come in and tell me your trouble; nothing very bad, I hope, though it is a late hour for honest folk to be abroad by choice."

Hodge was bidden into the hall, and stood before the Squire, the light from the last blazing log on the ample hearth revealing his pale and anxious face.

"Your honour, sir," began Hodge, stroking his hair straight down his forehead, and kicking out behind with his right foot, "you see, I be come about that 'ere twenty pound. The old bit of furniture as was turned out of Moat got away to us, and mother she set it up in our kitchen. And, master, we never knowed of no paper in it till a week agone, and then when I hears about the advertising, we hunts it over, thinkin' it were wanted for sake of summat in it, and sure enough we finds the paper."

"And did you not think the right thing to do was to bring it here at once?" asked the Squire, as Hodge came to a pause.

"Yes, sure, master, that I did. But mother's got took up with the priest and his new religion, along of him getting her to heaven comfortable, and she goes and confesses to him summat as lay on her conscience, and he gets hold of the paper somehow, and made a deal about it. So when I comes home, I says,—

"'I'm goin' to give up that old lumber, and get twenty pounds for it, and you give me that bit of parchment to go with it.'

"And to that, she screeches out that his reverence, as she calls him, took it away, and it seems he be going to get the twenty pounds into the bargain, for the good of the Church, he says; and if we don't let him, he'll bring summat against her in t'other world, so as she'll get no blessin' nor absolution. But, master, you see, I'm not of that persuasion, not I, nor don't mean to be, and I'm a poor man with a large family, and mother to keep, so I says,—

"'I'll go and make confession too, and to a right honest gentleman what 'll do right.'

"So I come, sir, and if I'd 'a had my will, I'd 'a come at first start, soon as I knowed you'd a regard for th' old lumber. It ain't worth much, and can go into th' bargain, sir if you've a mind."

"We have no particular regard for the old lumber, Hodge, but we ought to have been asked to take the overhauling of it, after you knew it was being inquired for," said Mr. Hazelwood.

"Yes, sir, it was all along of mother going to that 'ere chapel, I do assure ye," urged Hodge, gloomily.

"Will you answer me one question, friend?" said the Squire, after a few moments' consideration. "Fear nothing, I shall not impose any penance, nor refuse absolution. But tell me truly: Did you or your mother find anything else in this old bureau with its secret hiding-place?"

Hodge shuffled, stood first on one leg then on the other, looked earnestly at the four shadowed corners of the hall, consulted the antlers of a once famous stag over the great mantelpiece, coughed a little, stroked his head, twisted his hat into indescribable shapes, and finally, resolved to bring himself through his trouble and make an end of it, he faced the Squire more boldly.

"Master, I been honest, boy and man, all my life, and I wouldn't wrong nobody; but mother be very old, and she did say how them few guineas would bury her when she's dead, and no thanks to the parish; and I didn't say no, 'cause I thowt p'raps it were providence like to find 'em there, and no harm done to nobody. Now as I'm a living man that's all I knows about it. Mother she put the gold away somewheres till the burying, and I ain't touched a penny of it."

"Very good. Then, Hodge, you must ask your mother to give up those guineas, for though I bought The Moat House as it stood, I did not bargain for secret hoards in old bureaux, and anything of that kind still belongs to Mr. Falconer, if we would do our duty to God and him. You had a right to the piece of furniture, thrown out to anyone who chose to pick it up, and you are entitled to the reward offered for the discovery of the paper found in it."

"Thank ye, sir, thank ye; I knowed you'd set it all right."

"But, Hodge, let me advise you to comfort your mother's heart by setting aside a portion for her use, and don't let any man calling himself a priest get into your house or presume to manage her or it."

"Wish I could help it, master, but ye see our young gentleman shows most favour to them as goes to his new chapel, and minds his priest, and I'm only a poor man, and can't afford to 'front him. And the children what used to go to school at Pine-wood End, why they be getting imperent and bad and lazy, and scoffs at commandments, and says priest knows better nor Bible, and bids 'em not read it no more. So then, sir, you won't give him the twenty pound?"

"Certainly not. I shall give it to you, and inform Mr. Freakes to that effect."

"And, sir, if I gets into trouble about it, would you stand a poor fellow's friend? We could live a while on the twenty pound, but I couldn't do 'thout work for any long spell, ye see."

"You may depend on me to see you through this business, Hodge, but I scarcely think it would suit Mr. Freakes' plans to interfere with you and your livelihood; the circumstances will soon be public, and will not tell to his advantage if he turns you off."

"But, sir, he makes out that everything is for the good of the Church, and to do his bidding is as good as doing God Almighty's. Lord forgive 'em! I know it ain't gospel though."

"Hodge, take my advice: read the Bible for yourself, and see what the Lord God says. Take no man's report, but, like a straightforward fellow, judge for yourself. Popery fears everything, Protestantism nothing, from God's Holy Word. Use your common sense and English birthright, and in the matter of faith and duty, listen first to Him who has told us what to believe, and guides us what to do—God in Christ, reconciling us to Himself. Between your soul and God there is nothing but sin; let that be put away by faith in the blood of His dear Son, and you and God are one, as free to speak and love and trust, as your child to you. Only take this in, my friend, by the power of God's Holy Spirit, and the priest will be much more afraid of you and your influence than you of him and his."

"I do wish, sir, if it baint taking too much of a liberty, somebody might call round, and tell all this to mother; she be greatly feared of this man," said Hodge, earnestly.

"We will see to that. I will call to-morrow, please God, and tell her that she and you are to draw on me for twenty pounds whenever you please, but Mr. Falconer's guineas must go back to him."

"All right, sir; they be in a stocking-foot tucked in among feathers of mother's own bed, against the burying, she says; but I reckon yourn 'll be a deal comfortabler to sleep on. Good-night, sir, and many humble thanks to your honour."

This turn of affairs brought a speedy visit from the priest to the Dowager Mrs. Hodge, but her deafness that day was impenetrable. In vain, he shouted in her ears,—

"You must make your son give up that money: it is sacrilege to keep it."

"Take sacrament? Oh, yes, I'll tell him," said she, demurely.

"Sacrilege, I say: it belongs to the Church. He shall be dismissed Sir Gilbert's service."

"Come with Sir Gilbert's servants? Yes, sir; thank ye, sir; be sure to."

"Stupid old crone! What am I to do with her? I don't know how to deal with such boors as these."

And reiterating his commands in a voice that brought several urchins peeping in at the window, the discomfited gentleman departed in displeasure.

"There, good riddance to ye!" muttered Mistress Hodge, shutting her door. "It's a deal too botherin', this new religion, and I don't know as I'll come to mass no more: 'taint so smooth and easy if one 'fronts 'em, I can see. Twenty pounds ain't going his way, for good of Church indeed! I shan't quarrel wi' Hodge about it, and no law won't take it from us, nor no Church neither. So if I has to go through purgatory, why let it be, and I don't see as my old bones won't stand it as well as rheumatics, so that's no odds."

While Mr. Freakes was pursuing his impracticable converts, Maude and Evelyn became cottage readers, and Bibles found way into every dwelling within reach. The Catholic experiment did not prosper in that neighbourhood, and the only funds available for the maintenance of the chapel came out of the purse of the young baronet, while he was testing in some happy novitiate abroad his vocation for monastic life, and leaving his ecclesiastical friends to prey upon the resources, and conduct the affairs of his estate at home.

With the recovery of the lost document, ended, as he had promised, Mr. Penacre's interest in the affairs of his absent client. The claim was substantiated by competent authority, and Mrs. Falconer and her children were no longer dependent upon personal exertion, or the sympathy of friends.

Phœbe, having conceived a great terror of Mr. Freakes, earnestly entreated that her departure for India with her orphan charge might be hastened, and not even the prospect of welcoming "Massa Guy" could overcome her dread of some scheme to rob her of her dear mistress's child, or keep her calm and patient after she became aware of the near neighbourhood of a priest of Rome.

She confided to Evelyn the Bible which Guy had given to the Countess, and charged her with many a quaint message of love and praise. But her ideas of England's greatness had been modified by the fact that an idolatrous temple could be erected where martyrs had died to purchase a glorious Reformation. And when instructed on the matter of liberty of conscience and tolerant rule, her simple, God-honouring faith was sorely perplexed to comprehend how national dignity could be advanced, and national character profited, by upholding Truth on the one hand, and pandering to Falsehood on the other.

"Sure," said she, sorrowfully, "dey isn't goin' to let de bad Spirit come back after the grand ole place swept clean, and de rubbish cast out; sure they knows him got seven fine friends to help him, lookin' out for nice home to lib in, and once dem gets in, dey 'll let it be tore to ruins afore dey 'll go out again! Oh, dear Lord, don't let 'em blind dis blessed ole' England nebber no more! Stop de wolf afore him get into Sheepfold! Oh, don't nebber let de grip ob Confession lay hold on dese Englis' homes. Better be black slave in de market, dan kneel white slave at de priest's foot! Amen."

CHAPTER XV.

UNDER THE ELMS AGAIN.

THE few years which bring young things wonderfully forward make very little perceptible difference in elderly trees, excepting perhaps to increase their luxuriance, and expand their shadow.

Be that as it may, while boys and girls were assuming the attributes of men and women-kind, the same portly landlord, and the same garrulous sexton still smoked their pipes beneath the Elms, and discussed the affairs of the country in general, and of the Falcon Range in particular, while over the Inn door swung the same honoured sign, the annual revival of which had at last resulted in the production of a new species of the feathered tribe.

The discovery of the old bureau had not lessened Mr. Spadeley's pride in the tenantry of the Falcon Range, who, he averred, could never so far forget themselves as to secrete anything likely to benefit the old family; and the delinquent proving after all to be one of Mr. Freakes' perverts, supplied him with texts for many a profitable homily on straightforwardness and honesty among the village listeners.

Mr. Freakes rejoiced in medieval ease, performed his little fasts and penances unquestioned, so long as he did not inflict them upon other people, and shrugged his shoulders with infinite contempt for the unappreciative rustics amongst whom he had been sent to try an unsuccessful experiment. His beautiful little chapel was one of the curiosities on view when arrangers visited the neighbourhood, and peeping and staring with amusement or amazement at his very unapostolic costumes was the utmost tribute he could win for himself and his Popish pretensions; while Mr. Herbert's diligent and devoted care of the parish and people afforded him no opening for assuming any want, or supplying any deficiency.

The people did not take kindly to confession and penance, and matins and vespers, especially in hay-making and harvest, and declared that six days work and one day's blessed rest was the Lord's own way, and no son of the Pope could improve upon it. And if he came making new laws for honest folk, maybe they would follow his example, "and make one that showed nearest road to the horsepond afore he'd done tellin' 'is beads." And as Mr. Freakes thought himself too useful for immediate martyrdom, he wisely forbore to press matters to extremity.

"Here they come! Here they are!" cried the landlord of the Falconer's Arms, throwing down his pipe, and snatching off his hat, joined heart and voice in the shout which came floating on the air from the entrance of the village.

And in a few moments, he and the sexton, with other of the seniors, were amidst the noisy escort of Guy Falconer, as he rode between the Squire and Mr. Herbert on his return home after his long absence in the pursuit of study. His improved appearance and pleasant manner elicited warmer and louder demonstrations of delight, as with outstretched hand, and grateful smile, he sought to convey to the kind hearts around him his appreciation of their welcome.

The generous Squire was well content to come in second on such an occasion, and felt as proudly pleased at the sensation excited by the return of his young friend as if he had been a Falconer himself.

Nor was Mr. Herbert forgotten in the general joy, for he had endeared himself to the people to an extent that astonished themselves, when they were able without a dissentient opinion, to agree that their beloved young lady, the only daughter of the Falconers, could not do better than bestow herself on the village parson, and thus insure the blessing of her sweet presence among them for aye. For Maude had agreed to the same some time ago, and the return of her brother was the only event needed to complete the universally approved arrangement.

"Hark!" said Timothy, as he resumed his pipe, "I thought I heard a screech."

"Very like you did," said the sexton, "the owls often screeches about the old Church tower."

"It ain't very good manners to be screeching now though," remarked the landlord. "I declare it does one good to see the Squire! Never a bit of envy or ill-will against the feeling for the old family, and the boy rides by his side just as if he was his own son."

"Aye, aye," said Mr. Spadeley, with his most sagacious look, "I've planned it all: there's one thing that's next best to being his own son, hey, Mr. Turnbull?"

Possibly Mr. Turnbull did not see it, but he went on to expatiate on the good which had been done since Mr. Hazelwood became the possessor of the Moat.

"If you want to do good to people, live among 'em," he said. "Our Squire has done more in seven years than the Falconers could have done in fifty, living away the while."

Mr. Spadeley could not deny the fact, and since the fraud practised upon the widow and her children, he certainly had not been heard to boast so loudly of the untarnished honour, and high-bred nobility of the lordly race that came in with the Conqueror.

The gossip was proceeding into the interesting subject of another wedding in prospect, and the landlord was describing his intentions with regard to his trusty factotum Joe, who, he said, had proved himself as good a judge of a wife as he knew him to be of a horse, when suddenly one of the men-servants from the Moat came panting along.

"I say, have you seen Miss Evelyn pass this way?" he asked.

"Miss Evelyn? No, where should she be, but at home welcoming her old playfellow back?" said the sexton.

"Ah, but she ain't there, and we're all wondering what's become of her."

"Pooh! Why, man, she can't be nowhere else. Somebody's sent you on a fool's errand."

"I tell you she's been called, and hunted for, all over the place, and the Squire isn't best pleased at her not showing herself."

"Who saw her last?" asked the landlord.

"Why, Cook saw her last, for she give her a pot of jelly for old widow Pratt, and Cook says, says she, 'Let me take it, Miss, after they've all come in: you'll be wanted in a few minutes.' But no, Miss Evelyn would take it along herself, saying that widow Pratt would like it better for her bringing it."

"There ain't no doubt about that," said the sexton; "and in course something has kept her with the old woman."

"No, that's just what it hasn't, for we sent there when we saw how vexed the Master was, and she ain't been there at all, and the old woman hadn't heard of her jelly."

"Bless us all!" cried Timothy Turnbull, starting up. "Where can she be, poor lamb?"

The sexton looked aghast. His first thought had been a question on the astounding possibility that she might in her wilfulness have taken a sudden dislike to Guy, and did not choose to be among the eager party of home welcomers. Then a second changed his idea from annoyance to horror.

"I say, Turnbull," he stammered, "do you remember you heard a screech?"

"Aye, and you said it were the owls in the old tower."

"So I did. Surely she didn't go that way."

"Most like she did," said the servant, "for Cook said, 'If you go down the avenue, Miss, you'll be first to welcome them, so I won't hinder you.' And Miss Evelyn said, 'I shall just run across the churchyard, and be back again directly,—it's the nearest way.'"

"My lamb! My dear young lady!" burst out poor Mr. Spadeley. "Then she's jumped the wall and come down into my new grave!"

"Didn't you cover it over?" cried the landlord, dashing his pipe to the ground. "What on earth wert thinking on?"

"More shame for me; no, I didn't. Who'd have thought of her scampering off like that, and Master Guy at the threshold too?"

And away he went after the impatient servant and the angry landlord.

There at the bottom of a deep grave, insensible, and her brow within an inch of the sharp point of Mr. Spadeley's pick, they found the fair truant, and in consternation and dread bore her home to her mother's care. While thoughtful Joe, who as his friend Jane believed always did the right thing, and was always at hand when wanted, mounted a more obedient beast than the sage black horses, and brought the Doctor before others thought of sending for him.

It was some time before the young lady recovered consciousness, to find herself bruised and shaken, but happily no bones were broken. And as she opened her eyes upon the anxious mothers and Maude, she only said,—

"Mother, did widow Pratt have her jelly?"

"Bless thee, my darling," cried the Squire, bursting in at the sound of her voice, "is thy life so little worth that thy first thought goes after that foolish errand? Why, Evelyn, here's Guy mightily astonished to find his little playmate jumping hedges and ditches yet."

"It's only a very low wall there, father, and I often go that way to the village."

"Ah, you mistook your time for once, my lass; but we thank God that your frolic has not ended in the grave as it might have done. Spadeley and I have had a word about leaving graves open like that."

"Don't be angry with him, dear father: he would give his life for mine, though I didn't come in with the Conqueror."

"Thou'rt a mischievous little elf, after all," said her father, fondly noticing the smile that played round the saucy lips again, "and to-morrow you must make amends to Guy for the sorry welcome you've given him to-day. He looked as much like a ghost as you did when they brought you home in such fashion."

Evelyn looked for a few moments very unlike a ghost, which improvement the Squire duly reported, and reluctantly submitted to leave his daughter to the repose and darkness imperatively commanded by her medical attendants.

The preparations for the marriage of Maude and Mr. Herbert were taken entirely out of Mrs. Falconer's hands, and the master and mistress of the Moat insisted that it should be celebrated with precisely the rejoicings and hospitality pertaining to the condition of her birth and ancestry; and Mr. Spadeley oracularly declared that the proudest Baron of her ancient line could have found no flaw in the programme.

To the gentle girl herself, the honour done her made little difference; her heart was full of the happiness of sharing a good man's home and work, and justifying his love and choice; and her true womanly feeling could not but rejoice in the general tribute to his noble Christian character, and appreciated labours among an attached people.

Not long after this happy event, Guy Falconer announced his intention of taking another long tour, in the interests of study, and as he seemed to produce good reasons for the resolve, his friends were obliged to acquiesce. His paintings were admired and bought, and lovers of Art were desirous to employ his talent.

The Squire grumbled audibly, Mrs. Hazelwood was perplexed, Mrs. Falconer silent, and Miss Evelyn appeared in her most "don't care" mood. So nobody could exactly understand it, and Guy went away. He was making a mistake, and one that made him too uncomfortable to remain, but it was a mistake made by many before him, and he was not equal to working his way out of it.

* * * * * *

Then a dark shadow came slowly creeping over the old Moat House again. The shock sustained by its gentle mistress when her only child was laid apparently lifeless before her, had developed incipient disease, which was pursuing its fatal course throughout her system. And though the moment alarm was taken, every remedy which skill could suggest was tried in turn, she was far on her way to the better land before the Squire and his daughter could fully apprehend the fact, or endure to listen to the possibility.

For herself, she had neither fear nor disinclination, because she knew Him who had trodden the valley before her, removing the causes of terror and leaving the light of His conquering track for the timidest footsteps to follow; and because she believed that though "to live was Christ" yet "to die was gain," and that sweet and happy as her earthly lot had been, "to depart and be with Christ was far better." Long, long ago she had accepted the blood-bought gift of pardon and peace through the crucified Redeemer, and having given herself to Him in loving faith and conforming will, she was ready to obey His call when He bade His dear child and faithful servant come up higher.

But not so the loving husband, Christian though he also was. His faith had not thus been tried before, and his strongly demonstrative nature writhed in agonies of grief over the impending separation.

Oh how proud he had been of her! How readily he had deferred to her calm judgment, her unobtrusive wisdom! How he had expected that she would go with him, hand in hand, to the heavenly home! He battled with his trouble; he groaned in unutterable distress, and murmured at the Divine decree. But who has not passed through some similar experience by the couch of a treasure passing away?

No one but Mrs. Hazelwood herself ventured to speak of it to him unbidden, but as the sorrowful news spread abroad, there was tender and respectful sympathy wherever he turned, and he knew that the whole neighbourhood mourned with him.

Sometimes he would rush away, unable to bear the sight of the daily fading of his precious flower, and then in bitter self-reproach grudge every moment spent away from her side.

"It is so mysterious," he said: "we have been so happy; you are so necessary to us all. It is very hard."

"Nay, dearest Roger, take up the plain understanding side. 'Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth,' and we have had very little chastening, and need to learn that phase of His love. It is a sweet remembrance that we have been so happy together. You have made a pleasant home for me on earth, I know, but the gracious Lord Jesus has prepared a happier one for us both in heaven. I have always been here to receive you after your journeyings, and I shall be there to welcome you when the journey of life is done,—and it is but a little while."

"Dorothy, my precious wife, can't you pray that I may go with you or follow very soon? I don't know how to live without you." And the strong man broke down, and kneeling by her side, wept the tears of unrestrained sorrow.

Yet even in this terrible hour, the faith and love of the Father's own Spirit-born child bore her through; and it was her privilege to soothe and comfort where none other dared to inter-meddle.

"We needed a test, my husband. While all was as we wished and liked, it was easy to profess faith in our Lord Jesus. We could not be sure of our ground, we could not know ourselves; but now we know in Whom we believe, and can prove that we stand on the only foundation where God is honoured, and sinners are safe for ever. Oh the blessed peace of sin forgiven through the only atonement,—the blood of the Lamb of God! Oh the sweet joy of seeing His face, and sharing His glory! He will teach it all to you, beloved, when I am gone to Him, if not now. And we must for this little moment of pain and trouble, prove that we trust our Father in the clouds as we thought we did in our happy sunshine. Let us only pray His will be done."

And now Evelyn, in her deep anguish, recalled the faithful words of her black friend Phœbe, and prayed that she might not be a mere "sunshine Christian," to bask in the golden rays of prosperity only, but a faithful and true witness to the upholding strength of an Almighty arm, and the ever present Love which whispers in watchful tenderness to the troubled ones who will listen,—

"Fear thou not, I am with thee, I will strengthen thee, I will help thee."

As the end drew near, Mrs. Falconer became again an inmate at the Moat House, and her loving sympathy shone with rainbow tints upon the cloud, such as she had once passed through herself, and she was best fitted to speak to the broken-hearted master of the light that beamed behind it.

"My love and my blessing to Guy," said the dying to the living mother beside her. "Tell him, whatever changes may befall him in his earthly lot, to hold fast the title deeds of his Eternal Inheritance. I have loved and prayed for him to the last, and would have liked to see him once again before going home."

"My precious friend, Guy's almost mother, you will see him again. Our letters have found him, and Guy is on his way home."

And Guy did arrive in time, and knelt reverently by the bed where his early friend and helper lay dying, and wept bitterly at the sight.

"My dear boy," she said, "since you have come, I must say what is in my heart. Have I read you aright, Guy? Are you proud still?"

"I fear I am, dearest friend; at least, what you think proud."

"Is it right, Guy, to deny yourself as you are doing, to rob your mother of your society, and wander homeless about the world, and all for money?"

"Oh it is not so, Mrs. Hazelwood."

"It is like it, Guy. Has your old fancy revived of buying back the Moat?"

"No, no, no. That covetous thought has never disgraced me since the day when—"

"When you saved the life of its new master, and I honoured you for a glorious self-conquest. Then why? Trust me, dear boy; let me know the truth before I go hence."

Then Guy bent his lips to the kind listening ear, and told into it his heart's secret hopes and fears; and Mrs. Hazelwood laid her hand on his bowed head, and blessed him with a blessing that he prayed might go with him the journey of life through. She had understood him better even than he had himself, and her delicate tact and wise advice once more set him on the path of hope, and possible success at last.

Soon afterwards she exchanged the couch of pain for the arms of the angel band waiting to bear her to the Eternal Presence.

Of the funeral it is needless to tell; it was what many a good woman's funeral has been since the Dorcas days of old, and will be while such women live "not unto themselves, but unto Him who died for them, and rose again;" until "there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, and there shall be no more pain."

It is pain and sorrow and death that make God's servants what they are, when they obey their sweet vocation; the pain and sorrow and death of their beloved atoning Saviour for them first, and then the following of His gracious steps in a ministry of sympathising love amidst the wants and woes around them. The same Spirit imparted to the members through living union with the Head prolongs the witness, and proclaims "whose they are and whom they serve."

CHAPTER XVI.

CLOUDS WITH SILVER LININGS.

TO the surprise of all his watchful friends, an unexpected change occurred in the Squire. At the grave side, he stood "more than conqueror," though his hair had become white, and his stately figure drooped a little. Twice some mortal agony had convulsed his frame, and he had insisted on knowing its meaning, which with reluctance his physician told him, but which information he wished concealed from all others.

He became cheerful and bright; not quite as before his great sorrow, but with a chastened sweetness that was more equable if less demonstrative. He carefully attended to the business of the estate, and urged on the execution of every contemplated improvement, letting Guy drive him in the pony-carriage, where he admitted that his bodily strength would no longer carry him.

A few months passed. Everyone seemed dreamy and restless, as if fresh changes were pending, and no one dared whisper a fear or fancy to another.

Evelyn was always with her father, and one day as she sat by his side, he had just time to warn her as tenderly as he could, that he was going to join his beloved wife, that God had graciously granted his heart's desire, and soothed away all his sorrow; that she, his and her mother's Evelyn, must think of them henceforth reunited in the home above, leaving her to represent them in blessing and caring for all around her, and fulfilling their wishes as she might feel able and willing, in any future unfolding that her guardians might lay before her.

Evelyn gazed awe-stricken on her dear father's calm pale face. With his hand on her head, and a blessing on his lip, and a smile of infinite content overspreading his countenance, he waited the last pang that would ever rend his frame, and so passed away. Rapid and fatal disease of the heart was the message which had come to tell him of soon rejoining the wife so dearly loved and prized, and Evelyn Hazelwood was an orphan indeed.

Very simple was the will, yet a marvel of its kind; no great surprise to some, especially the worthy sexton, who professed to much prescience of things to come, but a very great one to the parties chiefly interested.

The old Moat House and estate of the Falcon Range was left to Master Guy Falconer, subject to certain conditions affecting in some degree the income of the Squire's only child, and also that of Maude Herbert; while Evelyn, with an ample fortune from other sources, was confided to the guardianship of Mrs. Falconer and Mr. Herbert.

When the document was read in the presence of the sorrow-stricken girl, a glow of pride and pleasure for a moment lighted up her sad face, and she ventured one glance at the startled, astonished Guy, in a triumphant thought of the change which had passed over her dear father's estimate of the "poor lad" of earlier days.

As for Guy Falconer himself, he was utterly confounded and overwhelmed at this proof of confidence and affection, and for some time argued against the possibility of accepting such a disposition of the property. Then he forbade everything like rejoicing, shunned congratulations, and declared that the Moat House should mourn in silence and desolation for at least a year. He would spend that time abroad, and Evelyn decided to accept a home alternately under the roofs of her two guardians, continuing the retired and useful life among the people to which her mother had accustomed her.

The year passed away, but the signs of mourning still hung over the old Moat House, though things within began to resume something of their former aspect.

Mrs. Falconer was once more presiding, but now on her son's behalf; and the fairy sprite, so lately almost an idol there, was seldom to be found in any of her old haunts. She smiled through tears when Guy came home, told him truly how glad she was that, since the owner there might no longer be her own honoured father, he should fill his place, and then fled away to her home at the Vicarage.

Still Guy Falconer would permit no demonstrations among the villagers, and took to his studies industriously. Things were not going happily, and all the family felt it, until brave sisterly love came to the rescue.

"Guy," said Maude one morning, "I want Evelyn to see your picture. May I bring her yet?"

Guy hesitated.

"It is not finished, and I did not intend to show it to anyone at present; but you may do as you please, Maude."

And into the favourite sitting-room of the late mistress of the Moat came the two friends, where the artist stood before his picture. It was an interior, exquisitely representing that very room, its beauty, its comfort, its view of gay parterre and undulating distance.

"Oh, how beautiful!" exclaimed Evelyn. "How true! Ah, there is my dear mother's chair! Only represent her in it, and the picture will be perfect. Shall I send you her likeness to copy from?"

"I know her sweet face as well as you do, Evelyn, and I have tried to paint it there, but it did not please me."

Then a sudden thought flashed through his brain, and added secretly, "Maude is right: try it at once and learn the truth."

"I had no one to represent her suitably," he said. "Neither my mother nor Maude could sit for the portrait of the lady of the Moat: you are most like her, Evelyn; will you let me try?"

"Oh yes, do flatter me, if you can, into the fancy that I am like my mother," said Evelyn, with the tears filling her eyes, and taking the seat as he placed it for her in the right position.

So Guy worked, and Evelyn sat patiently, and at last dreamily, a long time, unconscious that Maude was gone.

Suddenly he asked her to come and view his progress, and standing by his side, she saw a fair likeness of herself sitting in her Mother's chair.

"Evelyn," said Guy, "that is how I want it to be: you are the only lady who can take that place; you must be the Mistress of the Moat if I am to be the Master."

And Evelyn's reply saved him and herself from all further fears, and doubts, and misunderstandings.

Then he told her how the dear ones who were gone had encouraged him to ask this grace sometime, if he could hope to win her love, and had left their blessing to hallow the union, if so it should ever be.

And Evelyn was happy and bright again, and everybody felt that things were going on more comfortably. Guy had found his right place now, and with the tenderest love and respect for the memory of those so soon reunited in heaven, set himself, with the sweet companion they had both wished to confide to his care, to fill their place, and carry on their works of improvement and usefulness among the people.

"It's the very properest providence, among all the providences ever I heard tell of," remarked Mr. Spadeley to his friend Mr. Turnbull. "It's pretty near just how I'd laid it all out myself, except that I didn't think but the Squire and his lady might have lived a bit longer, for we all miss them sorely; but then you see, neighbour Turnbull, if they had, I mightn't have done for them as I did, and we're sure they've got something better up above, so it's all for the best, you see." And the sexton looked extremely resigned to the "providences," in which he almost thought some, at least, of his own ideas must have been suggestive.

He was highly flattered by being made chairman of a small village committee, intending to supplement more important demonstrations on the day which was to celebrate the union of the houses of the Falconers and Hazelwoods, and he highly applauded the achievement of the village schoolmaster in the poetical reception to be sung by all the musical talent of the Falcon Range when the bride and bridegroom should reach the entrance to the old Moat House.

And they stood there, Guy and his Evelyn, with their friends, on the steps beneath the porch, while the whole village swarmed around them and the Church bells sent their sweet chimes through the foliage of the grand old trees, and young men and maidens, old men and children joined to sing:—

"Ring away, joyous bells, ye have tolled long enough,
Life hath smooth places as well as rough;
The Old Moat House, without sin or stain,
Is restored to its banished chief again.
Sorrow and loss good fruit have borne
And earthly honours are meekly worn;

"While the sainted ones in their world of bliss
See their places filled again in this.
Then merrily welcome the noble pair,
The Saxon bride and the Falconer's heir.
May love and peace, without saddening change,
Overshadow the halls of the Falcon Range."

WEDDING BELLS.

"De good Lord bless dem!" said Phœbe, solemnly, as she read in her prized English letter of the happy event. "Dey begin at right end ob de way. Seek first de kingdom, all oder tings come right den, and what de dear Lord join togedder, no priest, nor debble, nor noting put asunder. De Lord him pity and forgib great deal, but don't know what him say about takin' his place, and makin' poor sinners crush dere hearts out 'fore de 'fessor. Keep quiet ole Phœbe, nebber get no good for bein' in a hurry, If de dear Lord 'ford to wait a good spell 'fore him show it, Phœbe 'ford to wait too, while dear Missy safe in hebben singin' hallelujah. Lord 'liber us from tinkin' He don't see no difference 'tween black and white, de priest' absolution and His own blessed snow-white pardon.

"So now fill up de time dat's hurryin' on wis praises and prayers, goin' round de world, catchin' up dat blessed ole England and de ole Moat House ebery day 'fore de 'trone, and leab it to Him to make crooked tings straight in His own good time. Bery crooked tings sometimes puzzle de Lord's chillen; but dey walks by faith and waits, and ole black 'ooman know for sure de Lord's ways equal, and His lub de same in hebben for broken-hearted wife safe dere, and de pilgrim bride at the Moat House, happy and willin' for de life road afore her. De Lord's will be done and His blessing on dem all."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74189 ***