Clarice Egerton's Life Story; or, What She Could, by Annette Lyster │ Project Gutenberg (2025)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74427 ***

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

HE LIFTED THE CHILD IN HIS ARMS.

OR

WHAT SHE COULD.

AUTHOR OF

"Karl Krapp's Little Maidens," "The Rutherford Frown,"
etc.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY;

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. SIR AYMER EGERTON

II. A PLEASANT HOUR

III. HOW IT HAPPENED

IV. HOW THE YEARS WENT BY

V. CONSULTATION

VI. ELISE ANDERSON'S PLAN

VII. THAT BELOVED BAG

VIII. EGERTON HIGHFIELD AGAIN

IX. VILLIERS

X. A PAIR OF SHOES

XI. GUY'S FRIEND, TOM PRICE

XII. HOW THE BAG WAS EMPTIED

Clarice Egerton's Life Story

OR

WHAT SHE COULD.

CHAPTER I.

SIR AYMER EGERTON.

THE stately homes of England! Well may the poet exclaim; and amongthese stately homes it would be hard to find one statelier thanEgerton Highfield. Its grey old walls, close covered by a mantle ofivy, which clings even round the immense chimneys; its fine terrace,with broad steps leading down into a quaint old flower garden, with ahuge fountain in the centre, and only separated by a wire fence anda wide ha-ha from an extensive deer park, through which winds one ofthe approaches to the house; the age and grandeur of the trees, andthe extent of the massive buildings, all combine to make this a truly"stately home."

But perhaps the grandest-looking thing about it was its master, who,on the day on which I mean to introduce him to you, was walking upand down the terrace of which I have spoken. This terrace ran alongthe west side of the house, and was therefore a sheltered place evenin March—though March, in Yorkshire, is not exactly a balmy month.Perhaps it was for this reason that Sir Aymer had gone to walk there,when he became too restless to remain indoors, and there he might beseen walking up and down, up and down with slow and measured tread,always turning at the same spot, always going at the same pace; alwayscarrying his handsome old head well up, and keeping his arms foldedacross his broad chest.

He was a perfect picture to look at; for though his hair was turninggrey, it was still thick and curly, and in his dark blue eyes age hadnot tamed the fire of youth, while his finely cut, haughty features,and pale, clear complexion were scarcely changed by the touch of time.Yes, he was very pleasant to look at; but, alas, that was all! For hewas by no means pleasant to live with. An only child, he had become SirAymer Egerton while yet in his cradle; a weak, doting mother spoiledhim utterly, and as she educated him at home, there was no schoolinfluence to undo the mischief. She died while he was still young, andhe married soon afterwards.

He had two sons and one daughter, and soon after the birth of thelatter, Lady Egerton died, literally worn out, poor lady, by hisimperious temper. The elder boy, Aymer, was a fine, open-heartedcreature, full of life and joy. He was sent to school early, which waslucky for him. The other son, Guy, was his father's special pride anddarling. He was exceedingly like him in appearance, and, unfortunately,so far like him in disposition, that he had a most difficult temper,though not a passionate one. He was wonderfully clever, particularly asa linguist; and as his sister Clarice shared his tastes, he was wellcontent to remain at home.

But Clarice did not live long to brighten his life, and her death wasthe more sad because it was the result of accident. She was riding withGuy and her father, when the horse took fright at the fall of a treewhich some labourers were felling in the hedge at the roadside. SirAymer stopped to swear at the careless woodmen, and to dismiss themfrom his service on the spot; Guy rode after his sister. Her horse keptto the road.

He perceived that by crossing the fields, he could shorten the distancebetween them, if not get before her, which was his best chance ofgiving her effectual help. Some trees hid the road from him as he flewacross the fields, but when he regained the road, he knew by the soundof the horse's feet that he had gained his object—he was in front ofthe runaway. A moment more, and the terrified horse came in sight.Alas, he was riderless!

Guy uttered a cry of horror, and rode back along the road, but when hereached his sister's side, she was dead. She had been killed on thespot.

Guy knelt beside her in silent agony, and before he had quite realisedthe awful truth, Sir Aymer rode up, still swearing and gesticulating,too angry to see the sad group which barred his way until Guy shoutedto him hoarsely to stop.

The horror of this event shattered the young man's nerves completely,and, for a time, seemed to threaten his reason. He was of a nervous,delicate temperament, and it really seemed as if he never quiterecovered from the effects of this shock. He was seriously ill for sometime, and when the illness passed away, he had become possessed by theunfounded notion that if his father had followed poor Clarice, insteadof stopping to rage at the workmen, she might have been saved. In verytruth, Sir Aymer could in no way have prevented the accident; but Guyduring his illness was haunted by the look of his father's face as herode up, panting and furious, to where he knelt beside his dead sister.

As soon as he was well enough to travel, he left home, in spite of SirAymer's wrath, and for ten years he travelled about without once seeinghis father. Then he wrote that he was in London, and Sir Aymer orderedhim to come to Egerton Highfield without delay: it was for Guy that hewas waiting now, as he paced the west terrace on that bright blusteringMarch day.

Presently a door, opening from the great hall on the terrace, which, toall appearance, was merely a window, with the usual heavy wooden frameand the stone wall of the house beneath it, swung open, and young AymerEgerton came out.

"Sir Aymer, I am going up to the East Lodge to meet Guy. He'll think itstrange if I don't meet him there, at least."

"Never mind what he thinks. I wish to see him first, and alone,"replied Sir Aymer, curtly. "I desired you not to meet him at thestation—why then should you think I want you to meet him at the Lodge?It is quite enough that you should be an obstinate fool yourself,without teaching him to be another."

"I should hardly have time to do that, sir, in the drive up from thegate."

"Don't go! That's all about it," answered Sir Aymer, in a voice whichone would hardly use in speaking to a dog, unless that dog were ingrievous error.

Aymer shrugged his shoulders and walked back into the hall, and almostas he did so, his father heard him cry out, "What, Guy! Is this you,old fellow? I hardly thought you could be here yet."

Sir Aymer looked in. His sons were shaking hands hurriedly, and hecould not distinguish that any more words passed between them.

But, in fact, the elder was whispering rapidly, "Guy, for pity's sake,don't contradict him whatever he says, don't refuse bluntly."

Guy passed on to the terrace, and found himself face to face with hisfather, who seized his hand, looked earnestly into his face, and thendrew him close and held him fast. He really loved Guy; yet his firstwords were not gracious.

"So you have obeyed me at last, Guy."

Guy made no answer, and his brother made his appearance on the terracebefore Sir Aymer could speak again.

"Here, old boy—let's have a look at you," he said, with his cheery,careless smile. "What has ten years of wandering done for you? Notmuch—you look older than you ought, and yet you are not much changed."

"You don't look a day older than when we parted," answered Guy, "andneither does my father."

"Go in, Aymer; I told you I wished to speak to Guy alone," said SirAymer, imperiously.

And his son obeyed, with a furtive but expressive glance of caution athis brother.

"Now, Guy, walk beside me. I have much to say to you. From your lastletter I have concluded that you are at length weary of wandering,and mean to take your proper place in the world again. I hope it isso. Aymer is a fool, without an idea in his head beyond hunting andshooting, and he insists upon marrying Lady Anne Villiers—do youremember her?—the daughter of a man I never can get on with for fiveminutes. I look to you, Guy, to bring honour to the family. I will getyou into Parliament, and make a man of you, if you will only use yourbrains for something practical. All this archæological and antiquarianand philological nonsense—only fit for magazine articles—will neverreally advance you a step; and you used to have ambition, Guy."

"Had I, sir? Well, I am as anxious as you can wish to begin a moresettled life and to increase my income."

"I'm glad to hear it, very glad. Then you will be pleased with my planfor you, which will at once give you 20,000£. a year, and open a careerfor you in Parliament."

Guy stared. He knew that Sir Aymer could not give more than that, if somuch, to his elder son.

"I don't think I understand you, sir," he said.

Sir Aymer laughed: he was in a wondrously pleasant humour.

"Did you wonder why I desired you to come here, instead of answeringyour question, as you asked me to do, in writing? Come here, Guy—comethis way."

He walked on a little beyond his usual place for turning, to a windownear the corner of the house. It was the window of what had been hisdaughter's sitting-room, and Guy hung back and turned pale, but SirAymer laid his hand on his shoulder and pushed him on.

"Look in!" he said, in the well-remembered tone of command.

Guy looked in, and saw a young lady reading quietly in the pretty roomhe knew so well. A bright, handsome girl about eighteen; but I need notdescribe her, as she has nothing more to do with this story after thehasty glance Guy cast upon her before his father drew him back.

"There, Guy; that's my ward, Adela Chenevix; she has 20,000£. a year,and is cousin to the Premier. Now do you understand?"

Guy looked round helplessly. He was a student—a scholar—with half adozen languages at his finger-ends, but not one of them came to his aidat that moment.

"Do you understand, Guy?"

"You want me to marry her?" he said at last.

"Yes. Aymer ought to have had the first chance; but you, Guy, you willbe a greater man than Aymer would ever be."

In this assertion I think Sir Aymer was wrong. Guy had not the makingof a great man about him. His cleverness was all of the most dreamy andunpractical kind, and he had not even readiness enough to temporisewith his father, as his brother had tried to advise him to do. Aymercould not have done worse, and would probably have done better.

"I cannot do it, Sir Aymer."

"Nonsense! Stay here a while, and see her; she's a very good girl Ibelieve, and she's certainly very pretty. I don't want you to marry herto-morrow morning. You're six and thirty—you ought to marry: don't be afool!"

"I cannot do it!" repeated Guy.

"Why not?"

"Because—I am married already."

Sir Aymer's face grow crimson. He could scarcely speak, and it was in astrangled whisper that he said,—

"Married! Secretly! And trying to keep concealed from me. Guy! Tell mein one word; have you made a low marriage?"

"I have been married for nearly a year, and—"

"I don't care how long. Who is she?"

"It was for this reason that I wrote to you. I must settle somewhere,and my allowance is not enough now. I must add to my income in someway, and—"

"Answer my question, sir! Money I can give you, if that is all. Youhave disappointed me, you have defied me; but only tell me that youhave married a lady, and I will try to forgive you."

Guy was silent.

Sir Aymer waited, staring gloomily at his son's agitated face.

"Father! If you cast me off, I shall be a beggar. She has only afew hundred pounds—I have nothing. She's a good girl, and a prettycreature. I was ill—a sudden attack of fever—and she nursed me throughit; and when I recovered, I found that she had learned to love me, and—"

"You have not answered my question. Until I know who and what she is, Ihave no ears for a romantic story."

Sir Aymer was trembling from head to foot, and his voice sounded likethe muttering of distant thunder.

"Her father is an innkeeper in the Black Forest," blurted out Guy atlast.

Sir Aymer turned nearly black in the face: his voice was now quitegone, and he stamped his foot and shook his fists more like a madmanthan a sober baronet of the nineteenth century.

At last he pulled out his pocket-book, opened it with blundering,shaking hands, and drew out a bank note.

"Take that," he shouted, "and go!"

Guy tried to remonstrate, but he might as well have talked to the wind,which at that moment rose with a long wild moan, as if of sorrow.

Sir Aymer thrust the note into his son's pocket, and turning sharpround entered the hall. A servant stood there waiting.

"Bid them bring the carriage round again. Have Mr. Guy's luggage putin, and let it follow him to the East Lodge. Leave the house, sir; Iwill never see your face, nor speak your name again!"

He walked through the hall and disappeared; and almost at the samemoment, his older son came in, having been watching the scene from thewindow of another room.

"What is it, Guy? Why on earth did you contradict him?"

"I couldn't help it; he would have the truth. And there was no use inputting it off for a day or two. I have done for myself, Aymer. I ammarried,—to a German girl, little above a peasant. And you know bestwhether my father will ever forgive that!"

"Whew!" whistled Aymer. "What possessed you?"

"I don't know," was the dreary answer. "Poor little Elise! She deserveda better fate. Good-bye, Aymer; don't risk getting into a scrape bycoming with me; good-bye, old fellow."

Aymer, however, insisted on walking with him until the carriageovertook them; and during that time he contrived to form a very trueopinion of his brother's strange marriage. Elise was very pretty, verygentle, and very innocent, and she let the handsome, pleasant-manneredstranger see that she loved him; and Guy, always purposeless, was weakand ill, and let himself drift into an engagement.

"She could read and write," he said; "and her father gave her what heand all his neighbours considered an immense fortune!"

Five hundred pounds of our money is not, however, a large sum on whichto begin the world, nor was Guy Egerton the man to make the most of it.

"He gave me this," Guy said, drawing out the note. "Take it back tohim, Aymer. I won't have it."

"Nonsense! You have a journey before you, and you'll never get anotherpenny from him, I'm afraid. Keep it, and I'll send you more as I can.Where is your wife?"

"In London. I must go back to her."

"Of course; and when you are settled, write to me. I'll consult Anne—doyou remember Anne, who used to come here to play with poor Clarice?I'll ask her father to get you something—some Government situation.I'll do what I can for you, Guy. I wish, old fellow, I could comfortyou up a bit. I wish—oh, Guy, I wish you were in love with the girl,since the deed is done."

"Ay, I wish I was," answered Guy, as he entered the carriage.

So the brothers parted, never to meet again in this life.

Guy did not write for many months, for, when his brother's kind voiceno longer soothed him, his foolish, morbid pride was up in arms. He wasnot going to be a suppliant for some small place, or dependent upon anyone. To return to his wife's native place was also distasteful to him,for the rude plenty of her father's house disgusted him; and thus itcame to pass that he threw himself headlong into the first scheme thatsuggested itself.

He saw in a newspaper an advertisement of the "House and Lands ofBallintra," (pronounced as if written Ballintray), "in the County ofW—, in Ireland, and within six miles of the town of E—"; and thenfollowed a description of the fertility and beauty of the estate, theexcellent dwelling-house, spacious gardens, etc.—all going a-begging,apparently, for a long lease was offered for thirty pounds a year; andthere were sixty acres of land.

Guy Egerton, who shared in the very common delusion that every man isborn a farmer, thought that this was the very thing for him. In orderto be prudent, however, he wrote to the attorney who had advertisedthe place, to make a few inquiries, and heard that the reason for thelowness of the rent was, that the house required repairs, though itwas quite habitable, and that the land was a little "out of heart,—""whatever that may mean," thought Guy to himself—but that even as asheep farm it was sure to prove a good investment to any one possessinga few hundred pounds to stock it.

Guy at once closed the bargain. He took his wife over to Ireland, andbefore he wrote the promised letter to Aymer, they had been some timesettled in their new abode, and their eldest son had been born. Indeed,it was to ask his brother to be the child's godfather that he wrote atlast: and he named the boy Aymer.

It has seemed to me necessary to sketch the early life of the fatherof my heroine—Clarice Egerton—that my readers may be prepared to makesome allowance for him when they meet him again after the lapse of someyears. This chapter is, therefore, merely introductory, and I hopeI have not made it too long; but without it, I do not think I couldhave made my story clear and plain, without going back frequently toexplain, which I wished to avoid.

CHAPTER II.

A PLEASANT HOUR.

CLARICE EGERTON was the fourth child of the couple who so rashlysettled themselves in Ballintra. The three children who were bornbefore her were very like their mother in appearance. But Clarice wasan Egerton, and, more than that, she was lovely Clarice Egerton overagain; and for this reason, she was the only one of his children ofwhom Guy Egerton ever took the slightest notice.

Time and disappointment had not improved him. Long before the birthof his fourth child, he had discovered that farmers are not bornready-made, or that if they are, he was not one of the number; and hehad bought this piece of knowledge at the expense of every penny ofhis wife's money, besides getting into debt and living in a scramblingfashion, which was a continual misery to him.

His lovely little baby-faced wife was even more changed than he. Shewas so young at the time of her marriage that she had actually grownsince then, and was now a tall, pale woman, with a few silver threadsin her abundant light-brown hair, and a sad pair of blue-grey eyeslooking out from a face no longer young. Poor, pretty Elise! She hadlong ago discovered that she had nothing in common with her husband,and that he had not that love for her which would have drawn themtogether. He was never unkind, but he rarely spoke to her.

His time, when in the house, was spent in reading (he had plenty ofbooks, for he had been all his life buying them, and his brother hadsent them to him some years before this), writing, and dreaming; and,for any good he did when out about the farm, he might as well havespent all his waking hours in these more congenial pursuits.

Elise never complained. She possessed a wonderful force of character,and more cleverness than her husband ever gave her credit for, in proofof which I may mention that she learned English so thoroughly that noone would have suspected that it was not her native language, and thatshe taught herself enough to enable her to teach her children, andthis without other help than the use of good books and an occasionalquestion asked of her husband. She never complained, as I have said,but she watched and observed; and, being a peasant by birth, she oftenfelt sure that she could have managed the farm better than her husbanddid.

But, at first, he would not allow her to do anything—there wereservants to do the work, and she must learn to be a lady. But thosedays were long past when Clarice was born. One elderly, rough-lookingwoman—Katty Simnott by name—formed the whole establishment then, andKatty had become so fond of "the misthress an' the children, God blessthem!" that I believe she considered herself one of the family. As toher master, she was wont to remark that "Shure he was nawthin' on earthbut an English Omadahn, and what would yez expect ov him?"

Little Clarice was named after her long-lost aunt by her father'sdesire; and a lovely, healthy, noisy creature she was. The next childwas a boy, and, like Clarice, he was an Egerton in appearance; butbeyond giving him his own name, Mr. Egerton (as I must now begin tocall him) never took the least notice of him. Clarice was the onlychild he ever did notice, in fact.

Soon after Guy's birth, Mr. Egerton had a severe illness—acuterheumatic fever—and it aged him terribly. His hair grew grey, and this,with his stooping figure, made him look quite old—very much older thandid his father, who still flourished at Egerton Highfield. When Mr.Egerton recovered, he told his wife that he intended to let the farm,either for grazing, or, what they call in Ireland, by con-acre: whichmeans that several poor men join to take a field, of which each of themcultivates his own proportion.

"I cannot struggle on any longer, Elise," he said. "I lose byeverything I undertake, and I can get thirty shillings an acre for themoorfields, and forty for about twenty acres. And there will always bethe house and garden—though, indeed, the latter is of no value to us."

Elise saw her opportunity.

"Do not let the garden on any account, Mr. Egerton," she said eagerly,"nor the lawn."

"The lawn!" he repeated. "Why, there are eight acres in the lawn. Ithink I had better let it. The children can play there as usual, youknow."

"Yes; but I could keep a cow, Mr. Egerton, and other things. And whatshall I do without milk for the children? Leave me the lawn, thegarden, and the peat bog, and let me do the best I can. You know I amnot a helpless fine lady; I know about these things, and Katty willhelp me. Aymer is growing fast, and he is very strong; he will soon beof use: and as so much of what you will get for the land must go to paythe interest on our debts, I must work for the children."

Mr. Egerton looked nearly as black as his father could have done, andhe answered very coldly, "You really think that you are likely tosucceed where I have failed?"

This was exactly what Elise did think, but she only answered gently,—

"I do not mean to attempt so much, you know; and I was born among suchwork, and know about it."

"I had hoped you had forgotten that. You might at least let me forgetit."

"I would gladly forget it," she answered, firmly, "if it did not meanbread for my children."

"Perhaps you even think that if I gave up the farm to you, instead ofletting it, you would make a fortune?" he said angrily.

"No; there is no fortune to be made out of this wild place, but breadmay be. I have no capital to farm, but I can and will feed my children.Let me do it, Mr. Egerton. I have never complained, but do not deny methis."

"It shall be as you will," he said, sullenly. "You shall have the lawn,the home field, the garden, yard, and orchard."

"And the turf bog?"

"Very well. This decreases my number of acres for letting veryconsiderably; but the responsibility, is yours. I have nothing to dowith it, remember."

Which was exactly what the poor woman wanted, for nothing seemed toprosper in his hands. But if anything was wanting to complete hisalienation from his wife, this did it very effectually. He might haveforgiven her if she had failed; but she succeeded, and her very successmaddened him. He became more silent and absent than ever; read andwrote, and wandered out by the river, neither noticing nor caring foranything that was going on. Her tender care for his comfort never won asmile from him, and even little Clarice was no longer noticed.

Everything fell into her hands by degrees, and by exercising a stricteconomy, and as much as possible keeping house with her farm and gardenproduce, her eggs and chickens, her milk and butter and cheese, sheeven contrived to pay off some of the debts.

Her time was fully occupied, and the three elder children were becomingvery helpful; all things were prospering in her hands. But a terriblemisfortune happened when this simple, hard-working life had been goingon for about eight years, during which time Mr. Egerton had becomecompletely confirmed in his moody, unsociable ways—a misfortune whichcost poor Elise many bitter tears, and my pretty Clarice life-longsuffering; and yet a misfortune which most certainly was the greatestblessing which ever befel the family at Ballintra. That is a strangeassertion, is it not? Yet if you read this story, I think you willacknowledge its truth.

Aymer was now a fine, sturdy, strong fellow of fourteen; Elise, or,as they all called her, Lizzie, was twelve, and Helen eleven. Claricewas just nine, and little Guy was so like her, and so nearly the sameheight, that they looked like twins; there was also a little girl babyin arms.

Aymer was now the principal gardener, and with the two girls under hiscommand, had been working in the garden all the pleasant, breezy Maymorning. After dinner, he asked his mother if he might take all thechildren in his boat to the other side of the river—for the silverSlaney ran by the end of the lawn, and Aymer had a small flat-bottomedboat, which he found very useful in fishing, and a row in it was agrand treat to the rest of the family. The other side of the river wasa delightful spot: rooky, full of trees, ferns, and wild flowers ofevery description; and as there was no bridge within many miles, andthe river, though in its infancy, was yet not fordable, this lovelyspot had all the charms of comparative novelty.

Great, therefore, was the acclamation when mother was heard to say,"Very well, Aymer; but don't take more than two over at the same time,and don't take Clarice and Guy together. I am always afraid they willupset the boat with their wild ways."

Aymer promised obedience, and the two children raised a yell ofdelight, which sank into silence in a wonderful hurry as their fatherentered the room. He seldom spoke to them, and never scolded orpunished them, but in their merriest moment, his appearance would worka wonderful change in their demeanour.

Hats and baskets—the latter to bring home primroses, cowslips,wood-anemones, and any foolish little fern which might have beentempted to uncurl himself thus early, were soon snatched up, and awaywent the whole party down the steep green lawn, bounding, shouting, andchasing each other right merrily. Elise Egerton stood at the door andwatched the crossing of the river. Guy was first ferried over, withsteady Lizzie for a companion; then Helen with Clarice.

As Clarice jumped into the boat, she caught sight of her mother, andwaving her hat in the air, her dark curls flying wild in the springwind, she called aloud,—

"Have a hot cake for tea, mother; we shall all come home so hungry!"

"Sit down, child; sit down!" cried Elise, making a sign to the wildlittle lassie. "You'll fall into the water."

Clarice sat down,—in fact, Helen pulled her down; and away went theboat. Elise Egerton never saw her pretty Clarice stand upright again.

Primroses were plentiful: Clarice said they were like stars in a darksky, and Guy, being of a literal turn, said that the sky never wasgreen, that he could see.

"For all that, they are like stars," said Clarice, filling her basketwith them as fast as she could; "and I've more stars in my basket thanyou have, Guy."

"Wait a bit," said Guy.

Soon the baskets were full. And sitting down to rest, Lizzie made athick wreath, with a plait of rushes for a foundation, all stuck fullof primroses; then she got up and came behind Clarice and put it on herhead. Clarice's hat was not in the way in the least; she had left it inthe boat.

"Isn't that becoming?" said Lizzie, turning up the beautiful littleflushed, sunburnt face, that Helen might see it.

"Oh, Clarice is the beauty of the family," remarked Helen, gaily.

"I'd rather have nice light hair like yours," exclaimed Clarice, "andthen Katty wouldn't call me a gipsy! What does she know about gipsies,though? There are none in Ireland."

"Are you sure of that, Clarice?" asked Guy, earnestly. "Oh dear, whata pity! For I'm writing a story all about gipsies, and I meant to makethem live in the rooks here, and come over and steal our chickens."

"I'd like to catch them!" said Aymer, who was lying on his back halfasleep.

"Have you got the story in your pocket, Guy?" inquired Lizzie. "Ishould like to read it."

"No, it's at home. And you couldn't read it. I can't read itmyself—only I know what I mean." And Guy stood on his head for amoment, as a delicate hint that the conversation was becoming prosy.

"You can describe this place, Guy, and say it's in England," saidClarice, with a fine disregard for literary accuracy. "Don't stand onyour head, Guy! Mother says I must not, and so you shan't. Now I'lltickle your feet, mind, if you don't stop."

"Don't be an iron," answered Guy, meaning a tyrant. "One iron's enough,and Katty says papa is a rale one."

"Guy, hold your tongue!" cried Lizzie and Helen in one breath. "Youmust not speak so of papa."

"It was Katty said it, not me. Come along, Clarice, and I'll show youwhere the gipsies were to have lived."

Clarice seized her basket, and off went the two allies; and theirpleasant laughter was heard for some time by the grave seniors as theysat quietly on the bank of the river.

"Think of Katty saying such a thing before Guy!" remarked Lizzie. "Iwonder if I ought to speak to her. I would tell mother, only it wouldvex her."

"Leave it alone," growled Aymer. "People will talk, and Guy will findit out for himself soon enough."

"Oh, Aymer! But he's our father!"

"I can't help it. I wish I could! I'd rather have one of the commonday-labourers for my father—one who would work for his family andbehave himself. There, girls, never mind, only don't talk to me anymore about it."

Aymer was a very silent fellow, and it was but seldom that his sistersgot a glimpse of his feelings: but there was a bitterness in his voicenow which startled them. He sprang up from the ground, saying,—

"It is getting late; come along, girls. I want a stout ash stick, andit will be a pleasant walk to the plantation."

The girls hid their baskets in a quiet corner, and they all set outfor the ash plantation. Having cut a stout sapling, they walked slowlyback, and were gathering up the basket and wondering where the childrenwere, when they heard a cry of distress.

CHAPTER III.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

IT was Guy's voice, and he was crying aloud, either in fear or in pain,—"Aymer, Aymer! Oh, where are you?"

"Why, what has happened to him?" exclaimed Helen. "He's down there, Ithink, by the sound." And she pointed along the bank in the directionopposite to that which they had followed in their walk.

Aymer shouted, "Here, Guy, at the boat!"

And they all set out to meet him.

"There he is! But he is alone. Where is Clarice?" said Lizzie, as thefigure of the little boy came in sight. He was running us fast as everhe could along the shingly shore; his dress was all disordered, his hatgone, his black curls wet and matted on his forehead, and his face wildwith fright and haste. He was so spent, poor child, with running andshouting, that he could not stop himself, but fell into Lizzie's arms.

"Oh, Aymer," he panted out, "Clarice is hurt! A big stone fell on her.I couldn't move it—and she's hurt, Aymer, and I had to leave her tofind you. Oh, it was so horrid to leave her."

"Where is she?" said Aymer. "Come, Guy, you must show me the way. Youcome after us, girls."

Guy was nearly fainting from pure weariness and terror, yet he rousedhimself and took his brother's outstretched hand.

"Run, Aymer; never mind me; if I fall, you can pull me along."

But the running was soon over, for they came to a little creek, or bay,where a tiny rivulet emptied itself into the Slaney, and Guy said, "Weclimbed up here. It is quite near now."

Aymer lifted the child and pushed him up as high as he could,scrambling after him. The rooks were not difficult to climb, and thelittle waterfall guided them. They were soon at the top, and Guypointed down into the bed of the stream, which had hollowed out asdeep a channel for its insignificant waters as though it had been amuch larger affair than it was. Down there, partly in the water, layClarice. From the edge of the bank, just where Aymer stood, a largestone had fallen; its bed was sharply defined in the black peatysoil, and the stone lay on the child, who was quite still and silent,uttering neither moan nor cry.

"Stand here, Guy; don't follow me."

And Aymer jumped down. He touched the child's forehead, and she moanedfaintly. Just then Helen and Lizzie reached the bank where Guy stood,looking down.

"Oh, Aymer, is she dead?" cried Helen.

"No. She moaned just now. The stone must be moved somehow; it's on herright knee."

"You'll never be able to move it, it's far too heavy. Shall I run downto the boat and bring some one to help you—Katty, or mother?"

Aymer made no answer. He set his white teeth firmly, took a steadystand on the turf at either side of the tiny stream, and stooped overthe stone. Never could he have lifted it at any ordinary moment, thoughhe was as strong a young fellow as any of his years; but now excitementand sorrow made him twice as strong as usual, and with a shout heraised the stone, and let it splash into the water.

Clarice moved, uttered a terrible scream, and then lay silent.

Lizzie was down beside her now. "Oh, Aymer, I do think she is dead; Ido, indeed. Oh, poor mother!"

"No!" shouted Aymer, almost fiercely. "Don't say that! It is her kneethat is hurt, and she is cold from lying in the water. It's well herhead was on the bank."

He was examining the child's knee as he spoke, and his face was paleand his hands trembling, both from the strength of his feelings and thetremendous exertion he had just made.

"The stone lay here; she's not injured anywhere else. The ground issoft, or her leg would be ground to powder. Is it broken, Lizzie?"

"I don't know, it looks terrible. What are we to do now? How can weever get her home?"

Aymer raised himself; stood upright, and turned to calculate the heightof the bank. On the edge above him knelt poor little Guy, his dark blueeyes fixed on Clarice in utter misery.

"Clarice is not killed, Guy. My poor little chap, don't look somiserable!"

"Aymer, if she is killed, I hope the police will take and hang me! Forit was because I stood on the stone. She jumped down, and then stoodcalling me to jump too; but it looked so steep, and I felt the stonegoing and went back—and then it fell, and Clarice screamed, and—oh,Nelly, Nelly!"

Helen kissed and soothed him, but Aymer said, "Don't make a fuss now,Guy. We must not think of anything but Clarice. Girls, I'm going tolift her; she must not lie in the water any longer. I'll lay heron this bit of turf. There, my poor little pet! Now give me yourhandkerchiefs, girls; and your apron, Helen. Hand me that bit of stick.See, Lizzie, help me. I must tie it so as to prevent it from hangingdown or moving. There!—" As he finished his rough surgery (rough inappliances, but not roughly done) "There, that's all I can do. I nevercould get her up there without shaking her. I must carry her up the bedof the stream until we come to the place where the banks are low. ThenI'll go through the field into the lane,—you know where the lane leadsdown to the river? You, Helen, go down at once and bring the boat tomeet us there. Do you think you can?"

"Yes, I can; Guy will help me. Come, Guy, we'll climb down here."

"You come with me, Liz; I may want help."

Then he lifted the child in his arms, and up the stream they waded. Itwas never up to their knees, and generally only covered their feet.Clarice moaned a little, and the sound was sweet music to their ears,for she was so white and cold that their hearts misgave them sometimes.

It seemed a weary way; but they reached the lane at last, and weresoon at the river side, where the boat was waiting for them. Claricewas gently laid in the bottom of the boat, and Lizzie got in, that shemight help Aymer when they reached the other side.

Meantime Elise had got through a great deal of hard work; generally theafternoon was lesson time, but the children's holiday was no holiday toher. When the sun began to get low, she went with a smile to mix thecake for which saucy Clarice had begged. She set it on the griddle (ifyou don't know the taste of hot griddle cake, I am sorry for you, andhope you will, some day), and then left it to Katty's care, while shewent out on the door-steps to see if the children were coming over theriver.

What she did see was Helen slowly and carefully pulling the boat up theriver, while Guy followed as best he might along the shore; in a momentthe mother's heart took alarm. Where were the others? What had gonewrong with them? She was sure that Guy was crying, and he did not oftencry. In her alarm, she did what she had not done for many a day. Shewent into the room where her husband sat at his desk, and put her handon his shoulder.

"Mr. Egerton, something has happened to the children."

"What!" he said. "Where are they?"

"Over the river. Helen is taking the boat round the point."

"Well, what of that? Do you think she cannot do it safely?"

"It is not that, but why is she doing it? Where are the others? Whathas happened, that they cannot come to the usual place?"

"Really, Elise, I think you are exciting yourself for nothing. I amvery busy. They will all be home directly, you'll find."

She turned and left the room. It was growing dark, and she could nolonger see clearly; but in a few minutes, a figure came quickly up thesteep lawn, and Lizzie ran up to her.

"Mother, Clarice has had a fall, and is hurt. A stone fell on her.Aymer is carrying her up from the boat."

Aymer was beside them already.

"Don't try to take her, mother, darling. Her knee is badly hurt, butshe's not hurt anywhere else, I think. Let me carry her to her bed atonce; she's all wet and dripping."

At the sound of the voices Katty came running out of the kitchen.

"Och! Murdher! What's the matter with the darling of me heart?"

But Elise spoke not a word. She went up-stairs before Aymer, and tookan old waterproof cloak from the place in the passage where it hung,laying it over Clarice's little bed, to keep it dry. Aymer laid hisburden down tenderly.

"I must go back for the others now," he said; "but then I'll go for thedoctor. I think you must have a doctor, mother."

She made a sign to him to go, and began to unfasten the child's dresswith steady hands, though her face was white.

"Aymer, I'll go over in the boat for Helen and Guy," whispered Lizzie;"I shall not be afraid. You catch Rufus and ride to E—. Katty, you getany thing mother wants. I will be back as soon as I can."

Poor little Clarice! There she lay with the thick wreath of primrosesstill crowning her dark hair, and her basket of flowers crushed up inher arms—a poor little crushed flower herself.

Aymer had a long six miles—six Irish miles of a hilly road, to ride onhis rough but sure-footed little pony. But he got to E— at last, andfortunately found Dr. Garvey at home. The doctor promised to come "asfast as the car would be ready," and to bring what he thought might beneeded; and Aymer rode back, glad to be passed by the doctor on theroad.

Mr. Egerton sat at his desk; not hearing any unusual sounds, he soonforgot his wife's "absurd panic." The daylight faded, and he lightedhis lamp, and read, wrote, and dreamed on. He was not called totea, but that did not disturb him in the least; he would never haveremembered any meal for himself. But when several hours had passedsince tea-time, he began to feel hungry, and while he was dimlywondering what ailed him, Aymer entered the room.

"Father," said he—and no one would have known his voice, nor indeed hismanner; nay, his very face was different, somehow—"Father, Dr. Garveywants to speak to you."

"Dr. Garvey! Why, who—what brings him here?"

"I went for him; Clarice has had a fall; she is badly hurt. Here is Dr.Garvey."

He let the doctor enter, and then left the room. Mr. Egerton lookedlike one but half awake.

"What is it, Dr. Garvey? I did not quite catch what the boy said. Anaccident to little Clarice, was it?"

"Yes, and I fear a very serious one. A large stone was loosened in itsbed, first by her own jump from it—they were all scrambling about onthe other side of the river—and then Guy got up to jump after her, andfelt the stone going. He contrived to jump off, and the stone fell,knocking the little girl down and crushing her right knee very badly.I don't think any bones are broken, for the damp and soft ground savedher a good deal, but it is a bad injury, and I fear inflammation. Thechild's whole system, too, has received a great shock, for she lay halfin the water for some time before Guy could find the others and bringhelp. I would not tell Mrs. Egerton how serious it is, because sheseems so unhappy already that I quite dread knocking her up altogether."

Mr. Egerton, wide awake now, listened to all this with a dark frown. Ifhe had a soft place in his heart, it was for little Clarice; and theimpression left upon his mind by what the doctor said was, that therehad been great carelessness on the part of the elder children, and thatGuy was in some way to blame for the whole affair.

So instead of going up-stairs to say a few kind words to his poor wife,as soon as the doctor had left him, he sent for the children, and gavethem such a rating that he soon had Lizzie and Helen in tears, andAymer in a state of speechless fury. As for poor little Guy, he wassent off to bed supper-less, as a punishment for the accident which wasbreaking his warm little heart!

And need I say that not one of the four ever forgot their father'sinjustice? Oh, if people would but remember that injustice is the onething a child never forgets! One act of that, and your child neverreally trusts you again. And why did not Mr. Egerton remember howterrible he had thought his father's face of anger, when he raisedhis eyes from his sister's dead face and saw him riding up? Was henot doing the very same thing now? However, having thus relieved hisfeelings a little, Mr. Egerton went up to the room where the child lay,and where Elise sat, pale and quiet, beside the bed.

Next day Clarice was in great danger. The knee was frightfullyinflamed, and fever ran high. All her long thick curls had to be outoff to cool her poor little burning head; and her mother and sistersspent every hour of the day, and of the next night, in bathing the kneewith cold water, to keep down the inflammation.

For many a day, the child hung between life and death; and when at lastshe began to get better, she was but the ghost of the lovely, rosy,sunburnt child of a little time ago; and, what was worse, the injuryproved to be a lasting one. The slightest attempt to stand, or even tomove, without actually using the right leg, brought back inflammationand every bad symptom. Perhaps, if the Egertons had been very richpeople, and could have had the best surgical advice from Dublin, shemight have made a better recovery; but that of course was out of thequestion. And though Dr. Garvey did his best for her, poor littleClarice seemed likely to be a cripple for life, even if she did notsink under her terrible sufferings.

Mr. Egerton, after that first night, when he found (or fancied) himselfin the way, returned to his usual habits. The sight of suffering waspainful to him, and the little one's moans and cries were dreadful tolisten to. So he kept out of the way, and only went occasionally to seethe child. He wondered angrily why her constant companion, Guy, alwaysfled on his approach; why Aymer looked sullen, and the girls nervous,when in his presence. But, though annoyed, he was not sufficientlyroused to inquire; so he wrapped his mantle of selfish abstractionstill closer round him, and went back to his books and papers.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE YEARS WENT BY.

IT was a sad change for poor little Clarice! From being the most activeand daring among the children, the leader in all play, and, indeed,in all mischief too, frolicking about full of health and glee, to liethere in sore pain day after day, night after night, never able to movefrom her bed, or to join in any the old plays!

It was not wonderful that she was cross and fretful; and as every onewas ready to humour her, and do anything to alleviate her suffering,she ran a terrible risk of becoming selfish and overbearing, and agreat burden to all about her. But her heavenly Father had His own goodpurpose for little Clarice. The dark cloud was full of blessings, notfor herself alone. She was to be blessed herself, and a blessing to allshe loved; and do you suppose that her baptism of sorrow was a thing tobe deplored? Ah, no! And so Clarice would tell you now; but it seemedunbearable then.

For a long, long time all seemed very dark. Poor Elise's heart wasalmost broken with watching the suffering which she could so seldomrelieve, and the weariness she began to fear would be for life. Guy,who hardly knew himself without Clarice, gave up all his old ways, andsat by her bed patiently, trying very hard to please and amuse her; buthis mother saw that he was growing pale and thin, and so she refused tolet him remain indoors all day.

And this was the cause of the first serious struggle between Clariceand her mother. Clarice wept and fretted, and wanted her willing slaveback again; and the poor mother found it very hard to deny her, but forGuy's sake she could not permit it. Then Clarice screamed, and thrustaway the gentle hands that were always busy for her, and abused everyone with such vigour and heartiness, that she proved herself quiteworthy to be old Sir Aymer's grandchild. But she was very penitent nextday, poor little woman, though she still cried and fretted to haveGuy beside her. This was more than a year after the accident, and themonotony of her life was getting harder to bear every day.

One day Mrs. Egerton was alone with her; the rest were busy in thegarden, digging and wheeling in the potatoes for the year.

"Mother," said Clarice, after a long silence, "how long do you think Imust live?"

"My darling! Don't talk like that. I cannot bear it."

"But I was thinking last night, and I must talk about it. You see, I'mof no use now, and no pleasure to any one, not even to myself. And Isuppose I never shall be any more; so I wish I was dead!"

"Clarice! We don't want you to be of use. My poor little darling!—Wecan do well, there are plenty to work and care for you."

"But I have so much pain, mother, and no fun now; so it would be agood thing if I was dead. What is the use of being alive, if I must bealways like this?"

"It's the will of the good God," said Mrs. Egerton. Poor thing! It wasa phrase she had heard her own hard-working mother use when things wentwrong; and she thought it was the right thing to say.

But, alas, she know very little about Him whose name she thus used as asort of spell. In the part of Germany where she was born, religion isat a very low ebb; and since she came to Ireland, neither she nor herhusband, nor, of course, the children, had over been inside a church,except when there was a baby to be christened. The nearest church wassix miles off, and they had no conveyance, save a common cart.

At first the Rector of E— used to visit them when he could find time;but he never saw anyone except Mr. Egerton, who let him see that hisvisits were unwelcome, and were considered an intrusion. At last Mr.Egerton was almost rude to him, so he gave up coming.

"Is He good?" asked Clarice, after a long silence.

"Is who good, dear?" Mrs. Egerton said, rousing herself from thought.

"God. You said that I am like this because it is His will. Is He good,mother?"

"Yes, my dear," answered the mother, promptly.

"But how do you know that? If He is good, why does He wish me to belike this? Are you sure He is good?"

"The Bible says so; and besides, He made us all—He gives us all wehave—He redeemed us."

"What's that?" said Clarice.

"Oh! Clarice, liebchen, I don't know these things well enough to talkabout them. We were all lost, and so He sent His Son to save us."

"Lost! Tell me all about it, mother."

"Why, you know all that, don't you, dear? I've taught you every one asmuch as I know myself."

"But it is so long since I did any lessons that I forget things. I knowHis name was Jesus, but I don't see, I can't remember, how He saved us.And what does being lost mean, mother?"

"Being bad and wicked, and not going to heaven."

"But we are not all bad. I dare say papa wants to be saved; but you aregood, and so are Lizzie and Helen, and Aymer, and Guy, and Katty. No:perhaps Katty wants saving, for I've heard her swear, and sometimes shetells lies."

"We are all sinners—the Bible says so," Mrs. Egerton answered,helplessly. It was terrible to her to have to answer such questions andto hear such strange remarks.

"I think I am," Clarice said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is not right tobe cross and to cry and fret and vex you. But, there, I never did whenI was well and strong, and I would not do it now if I was well again.And yet you think it is God's will that I should be like this!"

She remained silent for so long a time that her mother hoped she hadforgotten all about it. But poor little Clarice had not forgotten, andwas floundering about very hopelessly on the margin of that wide anddeep sea of perplexity in which many a better-found boat than hers hasgone down. Presently she sighed deeply and said,—

"I wish I knew how to be good! I am afraid I am not good; and then ifI die, I might not go to heaven; and then it would be better for meto live, even though I never get any better. You would go to heaven,mother—you're always good!"

"Ah, no, Clarice! I'm afraid not."

"Afraid you won't go to heaven?"

"No, no—afraid I'm not good."

"But that's all the same thing, for only good people go to heaven. Iremember that much, at least. But I know you are good, mother dear, sodon't you be frightened; but I ought to be frightened, for I am not abit good. I feel full of crossness, and sometimes nearly hate peoplewhen I hear them running and jumping. And when baby was born, I hatedher, because then you could not nurse me so much; and I hate—"

"Oh, Clarice, be still. It is wrong to hate any one, and I am sure youdon't."

"I do sometimes, really. I'm afraid I am not good at all. If I was welland strong, I would be good; so it's not my own fault, after all."

"God will make you good, if you ask Him," Elise said, after a silentstruggle. Her heart reproached her, both for her own ignorance and thatof the child; but she did not know what to say.

"I should like to know more about Him, and about His Son who came tosave us. Mother, where's the big Bible with the pictures, that you usedto read us the story of Joseph and his brethren out of? Won't all aboutGod be in the Bible? Do, mother, put down your work and read me a bit,just a story, out of the Bible."

Very glad to exchange talking for reading, Mrs. Egerton put away herwork, and went down-stairs for the big Bible.

"What shall I road, Clarice? Joseph and his brothers, is it to be?"

"Not to-day. I want to read about God's Son. Begin at the beginning,please."

So Elise began at the first chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. Thechild listened eagerly, and her questions and remarks prevented anyinattention on the part of the reader. Among all Mr. Egerton's booksthere were none that a child would be likely to care for, and the elderchildren had never wished for any, so that reading was an amusement forClarice of which no one had thought until now. She was a clever child,and her life of inactivity forced her to be a thoughtful one; and nowshe drunk in the words of the "sweet story of old" as if she heard itfor the first time—which, indeed, was the case—for she had only learneda few of the leading facts as a lesson, and that long ago.

"'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people fromtheir sins.' Why, mother, that must mean that He will make them good."

"I suppose so, dear."

"His people. Who are His people, though? Am I one of them?"

A question which Mrs. Egerton could not answer; so she said,—

"Let me read on, Clarice; the others will be coming in soon."

She went on with the story; but the death of the babes of Bethlehemproved too much for poor Clarice, and her burst of lamentation broughtthe first reading to an abrupt conclusion.

"Oh, the poor little babies!—Little, small babies like our Agnes—allmurdered; and their mothers loved them as you love us. Oh, how could hedo it? Mother, are you sure it is true?"

And when she was going to sleep that night, Clarice begged that babyAgnes might be brought to her, that she might kiss her.

"Oh, little baby," she whispered, "I said I hated you, but it was nottrue! How could that Herod hurt a wee little white thing like you?"

But next day, she had got over her horror sufficiently to permit herto wish for more of the "story about His Son," as she called it. Andpatient Elise laid aside her needle and read on. The history of thepreaching of the Baptist, of our Lord's baptism, and of the temptationwere read and listened to in silence; but when they reached thetwenty-fourth verse of the fourth chapter, where miracles of healingare recorded, Clarice sighed deeply.

"If I had lived in those days, Aymer would have carried me a hundredmiles to find Him," she said.

Mrs. Egerton hastily turned over the leaf and began the Sermon on theMount.

Neither mother nor child ever forgot that reading. Clarice had neverheard it before: Elise had read it with her eyes only. But now, witha pair of great blue eyes, dark and bright, fixed on her face, and alittle eager voice insisting on a meaning for every word and sentence,somehow there was a great deal in that sermon that Elise had neverseen there before. There was much that she could not explain, for shewas very ignorant, and her mind was smothered under all her cares; butthere was much that seemed very plain.

They went no further that day, and the result of Clarice's meditationswas expressed when her mother was leaving her for the night.

"Mother, one lovely thing is that even if I don't get well, I may tryto be good. You know He said that it was meek people, and peace-makers,and those that mourn, that are blessed. And all those things I can tryto be. Only it won't be easy, because when I have bad pain, I do liketo scream and be cross."

I cannot delay to tell of each day's reading; but before they reachedthe end of St. Matthew's Gospel, Elise Egerton had begun to find restfor her poor wounded heart and troubled mind in Him whose "name isJesus, because He saves His people from their sins."

The picture Bible was too large and too heavy for Clarice to hold,which was a great grief to her, because she had no other books, and,besides, if she could have been the reader, her mother could havelistened and gone on with her mending at the same time. One day, whenher father paid her one of his rare visits, the child gathered courageto ask him a question.

"Papa, are Bibles ever made into small books?"

"Yes, certainly," he answered, absently.

"And yet all the Bible is in the book?" she asked again. "They don'tleave out bits, do they?"

"No. The print is small, you know, so that it requires less space."

"I do wish I had a little Bible," she half whispered.

"What do you want with a Bible, child?"

"To read; mother reads to me when she has time, but if I could read,she might work and listen. But I can't hold the big Bible, you see."

"Why do you want to read it?" Mr. Egerton asked, with a smile upon hislips.

"Because it makes us happy."

The answer puzzled him, and touched him too.

"Poor little Clarice! If it does that, read it by all means. I willgive you a small one."

He left the room, and she heard him go to his study.

"He will forget all about it!" she thought: but no, he was comingup-stairs again.

In his hand he carried a small Bible bound in crimson velvet. A goldshield on the cover bore the name "Clarice." Mr. Egerton's face wasunwontedly soft and sad, as he looked at the book, as if half unwillingto part with it.

But Clarice did not perceive this as she stretched out her hands andtook possession of the book.

"Oh, papa, how beautiful! I did not know that a book could be sobeautiful. And my name is on it! How very strange!"

"It is yours now," he said, slowly. "It was once—It once belonged to mysister Clarice, after whom you were named: you are like her too, verylike her. I will give you the book, child; but keep it out of my sight,I could not bear to see it lying about."

"Indeed, it shall never lie about," Clarice said. "Papa, I don't knowhow to say thank you."

She was too much awed by his agitation and by his unusual kindness,to say anything more, and with instinctive tact, she covered it untilhe left her. But when he was gone, she began eagerly to try to readit; and, behold, to her horror, she had forgotten all but a very fewwords. Guy, coming in with some flowers, (he brought her fresh flowersevery day, even if he had to trudge two miles to find them), found herbewailing herself sadly.

"Oh, Guy, isn't it too bad? Look at the lovely Bible papa has given me,and I've very nearly forgotten the letters. I'm like Katty, for I couldread my own name on the cover, just as she can write hers, and no more."

"Don't cry, Clarice; I'll run for my spelling-book, and teach you allover again," said Guy, promptly.

This lesson proved the beginning of much pleasure to both. Guy wasa clever boy, and Clarice was clever too, and the accident whichhad overshadowed both the bright young lives, made them thoughtfulchildren. There were plenty of books, English, Latin, Greek, German andFrench; some not very good for such young readers, perhaps, but nonethat any child was likely to read unless under peculiar circumstances.

As to the Latin and Greek, when this fever for study seized upon thechildren, they were in despair, to find so many books that were uselessto them. But, nothing daunted, Guy coaxed his mother to buy him aLatin Grammar one day that she went into E—, to buy some clothing. Andamong his father's books, he found a dictionary. These were treasuresindeed! And it was really astonishing to see how much they succeeded inlearning without help.

But it happened that one day Mr. Egerton found Clarice strugglingwith a difficult sentence in a Latin book, and questioning her, wassurprised to find how much she knew. Clarice was the only creature heever seemed to care for, and, to her surprise and delight, he offeredto give her lessons.

"Teach me Latin! Will you really, papa?"

"I will," he answered, with a sigh. "Your life needs any brightnessthat I can give it."

"And Guy, too, papa—we work together."

"No," he answered, frowning. "Of what use would Latin be to him? Lethim learn to dig and plough, like his eldest brother. If you couldwork, I would not teach you; and I am not sure that I am doing you akindness as it is."

"Oh yes, papa; indeed you are," she answered, timidly.

After this, Mr. Egerton gave her an occasional lesson. Sometimes heforgot all about it for days together, and at other times would getinterested in her intelligent way of learning, and give her severallessons day after day. How hard Clarice worked, and how delightedly shetaught her new acquirements to Guy! It was new life to Clarice, thisworld of books; and as to Guy, he soon left her behind in many things,though they still worked together and helped each other.

Mr. Egerton's fancy for teaching Clarice only lasted a few months;about a year and a half. At the end of that time, she was well enoughto long to be in the room where the others worked and took their meals;and Aymer and Guy contrived a couch for her, made out of six disabledchairs. On this, by means of stout poles passed under the head andfoot, they could lift her without hurting her. A little room insidethe parlour, which had hitherto been unused, was got ready for her,Aymer papering it afresh with his own hands; and in this room and theadjoining parlour, lifted from one to the other by her brothers andsisters, did Clarice spend many a year of her young life.

But when she came down-stairs, and was again one of the family, Mr.Egerton quite left off teaching her, or taking any special notice ofher. However, by that time, Guy and Clarice could get on by themselves.And many a boy and girl, with teachers and governesses ever trying toimprove them, would have wondered at the amount of good solid learningwhich they contrived to acquire.

Nor was Clarice content to be any longer a useless member of that busyfamily.

"Mother, dear," she said, "you must teach me to knit and sew and darn.I am afraid I cannot do very much, but even a little will be some help."

She soon learned, being very much in earnest. But, one day, havingworked at hemming some stiff new sheets until she was over-tired and alittle feverish, she burst into tears, exclaiming that she was a burdenand a bother! She could do nothing, though she wished to do so much!

"Clarice, liebchen," said her mother, softly, "listen now to me. Itseems to me, dear little one, that you are making a mistake. If you dowhat you can, the good God knows why you don't do more."

Clarice ceased crying; and after a few moments, she took hervelvet-covered Bible from under her pillow, and turned the leavesslowly. At last she found what she wanted, and read aloud the words:

"'She hath done what she could.' Mother, I will try to remember that.It was not much that she did; yet He said that it should be toldwherever His Gospel was preached, for a memorial of her. I shall neverbe good for much; but I'll do what I can."

"Yes; for His dear sake, my child. Yes, and you are to fret no more.Just do what you can; you are very useful to me, Clarice; and whenyou are tired, rest, and don't make yourself miserable. Thou hast butlittle strength, poor child; thy heart is greater than thy strength."

When Mrs. Egerton was moved, she sometimes fall into the "thee" and"thou" of her native tongue.

I have now given you a brief account of things which took three or fouryears in passing. Clarice was nine years old when she met with heraccident, and I leave her now at thirteen, a sufferer still, but nolonger a hopeless, repining sufferer. In the rest of my story, I hopeto show you what kind of girl this poor little Clarice became, and howshe bore her part in the battle of life.

CHAPTER V.

CONSULTATION.

SEVERAL years passed away, having brought with them several changes.

First, the universal failure of the potato crop all over Irelandutterly ruined many of the hard-working poor men who used to rent Mr.Egerton's fields; and the greater number of them emigrated—the greaternumber, I mean, of those who did not die of the terrible fever whichfollowed the year of famine.

The land thus thrown upon their hands, Aymer and Guy manfully triedto work; but though Aymer would certainly have done well if he had alittle capital, all he could do now was simply to ward off actual want.There was no help to be looked for from Egerton Highfield, for the kindolder brother was dead; and Elise had lost both father and mother, andhad no one left who could be expected to aid her. Actual want of breadwas never felt at Ballintra, but, oh, it was a hard life!

Aymer took the "famine fever," and was very ill for many weeks, and hismother was sadly worn in nursing him.

Some time before this, Lizzie had been married to the son of a Scotchfarmer who had recently come into the country; and when the distressbegan, Helen, with her mother's consent, took a situation as nurserygoverness in the family of a Mr. Wynne, who lived a few miles fromBallintra. So there were two less to provide for; and Helen sent everypenny she could spare to her mother.

But of course the work all fell upon poor Elise, and the nursing ofAymer too. She worked, and stinted herself, and kept things going; andAymer recovered, and was soon as well as ever. But his mother was wornout, poor gentle, loving woman! worn out and heart-sore, and had nolonger strength to bear up under her trials. Another babe was born toher at about this time, and though she recovered, and was once moreabout and at work, she felt that her days were numbered; her long,weary work was done. And so it proved. Silently and meekly, as she hadlived, she passed away.

Helen had come home to nurse her; Lizzie was there too; all herchildren were about her, even poor Clarice, propped up on her couch,that she might watch the dear worn face to the last. If deep andreverential love could have made her happy, she surely had it fromthose warm young hearts; but all their love could not keep her withthem. Her work was done, and she entered into her rest.

A week passed like a dream. Elise Egerton lay buried in the littlechurchyard of Kilsteen, and her children sat in the bare, tidy parlour,trying to face bravely their future life. In losing their mother, theyhad lost their provider, their adviser, their head and guide; and verydesolate the poor things felt. Yet they must live, and the question washow could their orphaned life be best managed?

"One thing is certain," said Helen, "I must stay at home. In fact, Ihave written to Mrs. Wynne to explain to her why I cannot go back, evenfor a week. But I am afraid I shall make a bad hand of it, having beennow for some time out of the way of such work; and the twenty poundsa year is a loss, too. Aymer, have you any idea how much we have todepend upon?"

"Oh yes," said Aymer, with a short laugh—not a very mirthful one. "Andit won't be much trouble to you to count it. Nothing. That's the sum."

"Nothing! But there must be something, or how do we live at all?"

"Nothing to depend on, I mean. There's no letting the land now, youknow; the country is a desert, and there's no one left to take it. Guyand I put our work and strength into it, and we get out of it just whatfeeds us and helps to clothe us, after paying the rent. It is well forus that the debt was paid off before the famine, for we could not evenpay the interest now. But as to depending on it, why, if one of us wasill again, or had an accident, the game would be up. And that's not theworst of it, either."

"Why, what worse can there be?" exclaimed Lizzie. "I am sure that's badenough. You all work like slaves, and just get coarse food (not toomuch even of that), and clothes that barely keep you warm in winter.What worse can there be than that?"

"This," Aymer said, looking round cautiously, and then getting up toshut the door. "Girls, you must know it sooner or later; and Guy says Ihad better tell you, for that secrets are bad among those who mean tosink or swim together. Only for that I wouldn't make you sadder thanyou are already. Do you know that my father only holds a lease of thisplace for his own life and hers—my mother's?"

"No; but I don't understand," said Helen.

"It means this: that we are working for bare bread, not laying by apenny; and that if my father died to-morrow, we should all be turnedout on the roadside."

"Oh, Aymer, that can't be."

"It is, indeed."

"But I thought the place, such as it is, belonged to us?" Helenpersisted.

"Not an acre of it."

"At all events we could take it on: get another lease of it."

"I fear not, Nelly. The person my father took it from is dead, and thenew owner is rich, and could improve the land, and make it worth doublewhat we pay. He would never let it to us, without a penny of capitalto do it justice. I cannot help it, so there's no use in fretting; butI do feel ashamed sometimes at the way I'm obliged to rack the land,taking out all I can get, and putting nothing, or next to nothing, in.There's no help for it. I don't see what we can do."

"But I do," said Guy, his dark face flushing with animation. "We mustemigrate! I know you think this nonsense, Aymer, but indeed it is not.Just listen to me. You know, Liz, I go every day to Kilsteen, to helpBilly Cox, the postmaster."

"What does he want help for?" said Lizzie. "I don't suppose he has sixletters a day to sort."

"Six too many, dear Liz, for a postmaster who does not read 'hand o'write,' as he calls it. And he gives money orders too; and nicely he'dmanage that without me! Well, the other day Miles Murphy (you know him,Aymer, Smiley Miley, of Askinagap) came to the office to get money onan order from New Zealand—enough money to pay his passage out, and gethim a small outfit. And he told me all about it. His cousin Tom, BigTom of the Ferry, was the first to go; he went the year the diseasecame," (Guy meant the potato disease, but he had learnt from thecotters to call it "the disease" simply), "and the next year he sentenough to get out his wife and children; and now he's getting Milesout; and he sends such accounts of the wages out there that you'd befairly surprised. He gets seven shillings! Think of that, Aymer! Threehalf-crowns, all but sixpence, every day. And he was nothing but acommon labourer. A fellow who can do what Aymer can—or I either, when Istop growing—"

"Ay, if you're ever going to stop, you young giant," said sturdy Aymer.

"A fellow who can reap and mow, and thatch and plough, shear, andcarpenter, and everything—would get ten shillings a day there as easyas tenpence here; and it was Miley said it!"

In spite of their sad hearts, there was a general laugh at the finerich brogue in which Guy concluded his story. The young Egertons allhad pleasant accents, thanks to their foreign mother and Englishfather, and a softening touch of the Irish brogue, but in hisexcitement, Guy unconsciously gave Smiley Miley's voice as well as hiswords.

"If half of that is true, I wish I was there," said Aymer. "One wouldsoon save enough to get you all out."

"And that is what we must all look to and work for," went on Guy. Hewas a tall, slight lad of sixteen now, with a handsome, refined faceand a thoughtful expression. "We must lay our heads together, see howwe can make and save a little money; and then one of us—you, Aymer, orI—go out, and get the rest out by degrees."

"Save money!" said Helen. "But how, Guy? I see no way to do that."

"If we only had a little capital—just a few pounds to buy sheep. Aymer,if we wrote to my father's people—"

"Put that out of your head!" Aymer interrupted him by saying, shortly."I will go to the poorhouse sooner, and see you all there too. Takemoney from those who let my mother slave all her life because theydidn't think her good enough for them! Never speak of it to me, Guy."

"If the matter were put before my father, he might write—"

"Hold your tongue, Guy!" thundered Aymer. "My father!—I'll starvefirst! You may swallow insult and contempt, if you like, and then lickthe hand that strikes you, but I won't! What possessed my father whenhe married, I don't know; but well I know, he never loved mother. Hebroke her heart, to begin with, and then he lived on her hard earnings;and as to us, he wouldn't know if we were all dead and buried, nor careeither. We are only so many memorials of his mistake—he—"

"Aymer dear," said a soft clear voice, which had not been heard beforein this consultation. It was Clarice who spoke, and her dark blueeyes were raised gently to his angry face, as she lay there still andpatient on her couch, just as she had lain for so many years.

Aymer turned and looked at her, his face softening, as it always didfor her.

"Guy did not mean to vex you; and papa is our father, you know. Shewould not have let us speak so of him."

"That's true," said Aymer, frankly. "But, Guy, like a good fellow, sayno more of writing."

"He won't," Clarice said; "only, you know, we must think of every planuntil we hit upon the right one."

Then she took Guy's hand and coaxed it a little, until his face lostthe angry flush his brother's words had called up, and he smiled at her.

"Blessed are the peace-makers."

"Well—but what can we do?" asked Helen, somewhat mournfully.

"Muddle on as best we can, and die in the poorhouse," said Aymer.

"No, old fellow," said Guy, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder."Surely, with youth and strength to help us, and a good cause that musthave God's blessing on it, we need not fear that fate. Let us see ifwe can't save a few shillings among us. We'll have a bag, and Clariceshall keep it; and every penny we can screw up shall go into it. No sumto be considered too small, remember; and not a penny to be spent thatcan be bagged. In time, we shall have enough to take one of us out."

"I never saw the penny yet that we didn't want to spend on actualnecessaries," said Aymer, despondingly.

"No, but you will soon. Now I mean to put a notice up in thePost-office window, offering my services as letter-writer andaccountant. I daresay I shall get a little employment. There are plentyof farmers who are much in Billy Cox's condition as to reading 'hando write' and keeping accounts, and maybe they'll employ me. As toletter-writing, I do that already for the whole neighbourhood, and forthe future, I shall charge two-pence ahead. And, if you wouldn't mind,Aymer, if you didn't dislike it, I could tell you of something."

"Tell away, old fellow."

But Guy's eyes sought Clarice, doubtfully.

"He will like it; go on," said she, smiling.

"Well, Mr. Pearson, the Englishman who has taken the farm the Costilloshad; you know, don't you? Well, he wants a person to undertake thecare of his cattle. He called at the Post-office about it, and askedBilly to let it be known. The cattle would have to be driven out in themorning and driven in at night, bailed up, and bedded, and cared for.The land lies all along the other side of the river, just as far us ourown goes on this; you could cross half a dozen times a day, and yet geta good deal done at home."

"What did he offer?" asked Aymer.

"Two shillings a day, and the man's food. Then that meant the wholeday, of course. I suppose he would not give you so much, because youwould only mind the cattle, and be of no other use to him."

"But then he would not have to feed me; I should live at home, youknow. I'll go at once, and see Pearson. I can easily do it, for ourland up there lies so much higher that I can keep an eye on the cattleall day long. We must repair the old boat. But tell me, Guy, why wereyou afraid I should not like this?"

"Oh, I don't know. You might have thought—"

"I suppose it is because I said that about writing to my father'speople? But that's the very thing, Guy. I couldn't take their grudgingcharity; but I don't mind how hard I work, nor what I work at. I hopePearson has not got a herd."

"I know he has not. One man he nearly hired, but then he found that hedrank."

"Well, I don't drink," said Aymer, with a short laugh. "If I get thisplace, my wages will be so much clear gain, for with Guy and Katty tohelp, nothing will be neglected at home."

"And I've thought of something, too," said Clarice. "Helen, do youremember what you told me of Mrs. Wynne's surprise at the beauty ofyour needlework? Do you think she would give us a line to a shop inDublin, saying we are fit people to be trusted? It's a shop where theysell children's clothes and ladies' things ready-made, and we, dearmother and I, were thinking of trying for employment; we were talkingof it the very day before she became so ill. She had written, and senta specimen of work; and the answer, which came that day, was that thework was beautiful, and that they would employ us, but we must get aline to say we might be trusted. They pay very well, too."

"What shop was it?" asked Helen.

"Mrs. Daly, 19, Grafton Street."

"Why, Mrs. Wynne deals with them!" cried Helen. "And I am sure she willrecommend us; but I must send a specimen of my work, for I don't workquite as well as—as she did."

Poor Nelly! She broke down and cried; it was so hard to be forced torealise that the mother's work was done.

"The little frock we sent was my work," said Clarice, after a pause.

"And I'm sure Helen will have no time for needlework, more than mendingand darning," said Lizzie Anderson. "You'll have all the work of thehouse to do, and you know what that means. Cooking, washing, cleaning,and baking once a week; minding the poultry; and then there's the baby,too."

"Well, but I'm young and strong, you know. I'll tell them not to sendme work that must be done at once."

"And Katty does part of the washing," said Aymer.

"And I will draw all the water, fill the boilers, and bring in plentyof turf before I go out," said Guy.

"And I'll run messages, Helen, and feed the fowls, and wash the cupsand dishes, and dust the rooms, and—oh, fifty other things!" criedlittle Agnes, looking up from her knitting. "We'll all help. OnlyClarice can't help. Poor Clarice! What will you do?"

Clarice's blue eyes filled with tears.

"I can't do much, indeed, but I can work a good deal. I have to stopand rest, but I get a good deal done, and I work very neatly. Oh, I dohope—oh, Helen, I hope I won't be a burden to you!"

"Clarice! If you say that again, I shall be quite angry!" exclaimedHelen. "Do you think I've forgotten to love you because I've been awayfrom home?"

Clarice drew a long breath, dried her eyes, and quieted herself as bestshe could.

Guy bent over her, and whispered,—

"Clarice, don't you know that you make home to me?"

And Aymer put his rough, hard hand on her head, and said, gruffly,—

"You're a goose, Clarice. Show me the baby."

For the baby was lying warm and safe in her arms. She could at leasthold the baby, so she did it.

"You get some bright stuff and make a bag, Clarice," wont on Aymer;"a good big one, because there will be pence, you know. You are to bebag-keeper."

"I suppose because you are sure I shall not run away with it," saidClarice. "I have a piece of queer thick silk, that I think was oncepart of our grandmother's wedding-gown, which will just do for the bag,and I will make it at once. Who is that at the door?"

The door opened as she spoke, and Mr. Egerton came in. He seemed to belooking for something, but he did not speak until Helen asked him, "Doyou want anything, sir?"

"I left a book here, yesterday, I think it was; and some days beforeI left some papers, loose sheets pinned together. I suppose you havethrown them away?"

He spoke slowly, and almost like a person in a dream, and his eyes keptwandering round and round the room, until they rested on the vacantwooden arm-chair by the table, the chair which none of them had theheart either to use or to set by. His colour changed—at least, his facechanged somehow, for he had hardly any colour—he pointed to the chair,and said hurriedly,—

"Put that away; don't leave it standing there!"

And he turned and left the room quickly.

"Put it away," cried Aymer; "that I won't!"

"Yet it would be better, Aymer," said Clarice; "and I cannot help beingglad that he misses her, and cares."

"Cares! He cares because his books and papers are no longer put by forhim; that's about all he cares, Clarice."

"Oh, Aymer! I thought he looked very sad. Agnes, do you see that greenbook on the shelf in the corner? That's the book, and here are thepapers in my basket. Here, Aggie, run to the study with them."

"But, Clarice, I'm afraid."

"Oh, you need not be a bit afraid, unless you're a little goosie. Run,now; you know you've got to be my feet, because I haven't any of myown."

The child went; and while she was absent, Clarice said, gravely, "Ithink we ought to make a resolution never to say anything of papa thatmother would have checked us for. If we give ourselves the habit, itwon't make things easier, and Agnes ought not to hear it; besides, itis wrong."

"So it is," said Aymer, briefly; "I won't do it again, Clarice."

"What did he say to you, Aggie?" asked Lizzie, as the child ran in,looking scared.

"He was crying," Agnes said, impressively; "he was sitting by thewindow, crying."

Clarice looked at Aymer, who shook his head.

"Oh, Aymer, don't be hard!"

"Be content if I am silent," Aymer said, quietly.

CHAPTER VI.

ELISE ANDERSON'S PLAN.

THAT evening, Lizzie's young husband, Donald Anderson, came toBallintra to take her home. The Anderson were respectable people,and rich compared to the Egertons; yet Donald was very proud of hispretty wife's high birth; and Lizzie was made much of by his thriftyparents, who were very fond of her. So it was with real sorrow thatMrs. Anderson became aware, as time went by, that Lizzie Was frettinggrievously, though she tried not to show it before her big, red-hairedDonald.

"Lizzie, lass, what's the matter wi' ye?" asked the old Scotchwoman,when several weeks had gone by, and Lizzie was still very low. "Is itfretting for your poor mother ye are? Do ye no believe that she's atpeace, Lizzie? And was her life such a bright one, that you'd want tokeep her at it for ever? Fie, lassie! I thought better of ye."

"I can't help crying, mother," said Lizzie. "It is not for her—indeed,I would not bring her back, for her lot was a hard one, and she was abroken-hearted woman. But, oh! Mrs. Anderson, I do feel so wicked; tolive here in plenty, with no more to do than what is pleasant to me,and all of you so good to me, while poor Helen is slaving there nightand day, with no one to help her but old Katty, who is better able forfarm work than for house work. And all of them living so poorly—barelyenough to eat, and no hope of better times to cheer them. I sometimescan hardly bring myself to eat a good dinner, for thinking of them."

"Hoots, child! Things are not so bad as that with them. You're low andnervous, my dear, and think too much of it."

"Because I feel as if I ought to be there helping. I am the eldest,you know; it is too much for Helen alone, and Agnes is only seven, andClarice has to be cared for as much as the baby."

"Poor child! I aye pity her the most, for you need only look at her toknow she'd help if she could. Well now, Lizzie, I tell you I honouryou for feeling like this. You're married to a man that has enough andto spare, and you ought to help. It never struck me before—to my shameI say it—but I see it plain enough now, and I'm the last woman in theworld to counsel you to show a cold heart to your own folk. You'd benone the better wife for that. But let us lay our heads together andsee if there's no way you could help them."

"Oh, Mrs. Anderson, there is a way; but I hardly like to speak of it."

"Speak your mind, dearie. If it's any way feasible, I'll help you toit; and if not, I'll tell you why, and it will go no further."

"You see, we have such nice comfortable rooms, and such plentyof everything, milk and eggs and fruit, and all that is good andnourishing. And I have plenty of time; it would be no trouble to me tocare for her. If I might have poor Clarice here for a long visit! Itwould be such a relief to Helen, and so so good for Clarice; and itwould make me so happy."

"Do you know, that's the very thing that was in my own mind? It's amost wise-like notion—far the best thing we could do for them. We couldbring her over in the big spring cart very easily. Then there's thatsofa the good-man would buy, and that I never could see the use of; andno doubt the poor child would be better here with you and me to seeto her; and Helen will get on right well if Clarice is taken off herhands."

"But do you really think, mother, that Mr. Anderson will allow it?"

"Lizzie, there's not a better man in Scotland—or out of it, which ismore to the purpose—than Andrew Anderson! A just man he is, and a kind.He knows well that Donald is his right hand, and that if Donald iscontent to live with us, it's but fair that he and his wife should havetheir own way in their own affairs. And more than that, he's real kindand tenderhearted; and once we have Clarice here, he'll be for spoilingher well, you see if he won't. But he's certainly a wee bit touchy,times; and so I'll advise you to leave the matter alone until I'll seea good moment to get his consent. I won't forget it; and there's notime lost, for we could not move her until fine summer weather, andbefore that comes, I'll get Andrew's consent."

"Dear Mrs. Anderson, you are very good to me!"

"'Deed, and so I ought! My one son's wife—who'd I be good to unlessjust to your bonnie self, my hinnie? So cheer up now, Lizzie, and don'tfret any more. We'll have Clarice on that sofa before long—mark mywords, we will."

Whether old Mr. Anderson was more "touchy" than was usual with him ornot, I do not know. Mrs. Anderson said that "lambing time was hard onfarmer's tempers." And after lambing time, there was sickness amongthe cattle; and after that the grey mare had a fall, and cut her knee;and all these circumstances gave Mrs. Anderson reason for delay. But Isuspect the dear old woman had made up her mind that Lizzie should notundertake this additional work until after the birth of her baby, whichtook place the last week in April.

Then more than a month passed before Lizzie could venture on solong a drive; so that it was fine warm summer weather when at lastDonald, Lizzie, and baby set off in a vehicle known to the neighboursas "Anderson's shanderadan," a queer nondescript carriage, with ahood which could be made to cover the front seat, and a long kind ofwaggonette seat behind, into which Mrs. Anderson put a feather bed anda mattress, for the accommodation of Clarice.

"And mind you tell Helen, with my love, that she's not to take it amissthat I sent yon basket along wi' ye, because truly Donald eats sucha hantle of food, that I'd think it a shame letting him take a younghousekeeper by surprise. And bring Clarice home wi' ye, Lizzie, lass,or I'll not promise ye a welcome from me and my good-man."

Whereon her good-man grunted loudly, and was of opinion that betweenhimself and his wife, they had put the thing very well, and said allthat was needful.

Ballintra, if not a place where money was to be made, was surely a verypretty place; and so Lizzie Anderson thought as she was driven up tothe door. The waters of the lovely Slaney—the only river, save one,with which I am personally acquainted, that deserves the name of a blueriver; the other being either the Tamar or the Tavy, in Devonshire,and I cannot remember which of these is brown and which blue,—the bluewaters of the lovely Slaney were glancing and dimpling in the summersun, and the steep lawn, which they both met and reflected, was ofthe most exquisite green. A few fine old trees, beech, both green andcopper, shaded the house, and were dotted here and there over the lawn;and the hawthorn, which was late that year, was still in full blossom.The house was old-fashioned and irregular, much smothered in ivy, andaltogether it was a very pretty spot.

At the sound of wheels, little Agnes ran to the door, peeped out,screamed with joy, and flew back into the parlour crying out,—

"Clarice, Clarice, here's Lizzie and Donald in the shanderadan, andLizzie's baby in a scarlet shawl!"

For the bit of colour pleased the child's eye, used only to the blackdresses of her sisters and herself; though when Agnes first put on hermourning, she had felt a little important, the frock being actuallynew, and not some one's dress cut down to suit her!

Lizzie, springing to the ground, carried her baby into the house. Inthe parlour, she found Clarice, with her baby beside her, and her facelighted up with joy and welcome.

"Oh, Lizzie, dear Liz," she exclaimed, "is that really you? I saw thehorse's head, and wondered what could be coming. Aymer and Guy are inthe fields, but Helen is only in the garden. Oh, Lizzie, show me yourbaby, and kiss me. I'm so glad you have come!"

The baby was unpacked from among his shawls and blankets, and the twoinfants were critically compared. The Egerton baby had black eyes, andthe Anderson baby had blue, otherwise they were somewhat alike.

Agnes danced with glee, exclaiming, "I'm his aunt, Lizzie! Clarice saysso. She says I'm just as much his aunt as Helen or herself."

"Very true, Aggie! But, stranger still, baby here is my baby's uncle,just as much as Aymer or Guy."

But this was too much for Agnes. She sat down and stared gravely at thetwo babies, uncle and nephew.

"I see Donald has gone round to the stable," said Lizzie. "Had I notbetter go out to the garden and call Helen, Clarice?"

"Oh, not you; you must be tired after your long drive; Agnes will go."

"I have not finished my lessons, Clarice," said the child,conscientiously.

"You must have a holiday, Aunt Agnes," Clarice answered, laughing. "Runnow, my dear, and tell the boys too; but find Helen first, for she willnot like to lose a moment of Lizzie's visit."

Agnes ran off, and Lizzie picked up the fallen book and said, "I didn'tknow that Agnes had begun lessons."

"I began to teach her a year ago. Mother was very glad to be spared thetrouble, and we get on very well. She can read nicely, and write allthe letters, both capital and small ones. She is very quick, I think."

"Ah, that big work-basket," said Lizzie; "dear mother! It brings her upbefore me. What have you in it, Clarice?"

"Oh, things to make and things to mend," said Clarice. "Helen and Ikeep it going; we like to have everything just as she had it."

She drew out a half-knitted blue stocking, and went on with it as shespoke. Then the sound of steps was heard, and Helen, Aymer, and Guyarrived in rapid succession. Donald came in from the yard. Many werethe handshakings and kissings, Lizzie's baby coming in for a fair shareof the latter. He was handed round to be admired, and was admired,though Guy hurt his sister's feelings by gravely proposing to prick amark on his own brother's arm, lest he should be carried off by theAndersons in mistake.

Lizzie thought that Helen looked worn and overworked; and there wasan anxious look in her eyes which made her like her mother. But partof poor Helen's present anxiety was her fear that Donald, when he sawthe dinner, would feel that he could easily eat it all himself! A veryunpleasant reflection for any housekeeper. However, her anxiety on thatscore did not last long, for when Donald was setting off with Aymer andGuy to look at the cows and sheep, Lizzie asked him to bring in the bigbasket out of the shanderadan.

"Mrs. Anderson thought it wouldn't do to take you by surprise, andexpect you to have dinner enough for all, particularly as Donald hassuch an appetite. So she sent this basket—I don't know what there is init, for she packed it herself."

"Everybody talks as if I was never done eating," said Donald Anderson,gravely; "and I don't think, myself, that I eat more than other people."

His wife knew that he was only pretending; but little Agnes, fancyingthat his feelings were really hurt, said softly,—

"You must want a great deal, Donald, because you're so dreadfully long!"

At which there was a general laugh, much to the speaker's confusion.

"Now that was very thoughtful of Mrs. Anderson," said Helen, as soon asshe could speak. "I was in such a hobble, and longing to find out ifClarice could think of anything. For you must know, Liz, Clarice hasall the brains for both of us. I have feet, and she has brains."

"Clarice has feet, too, only she has no shoes," remarked Agnes.

"I was puzzling my head over the same question, and could think ofnothing but a huge rice pudding," Clarice answered, smiling at Helen;"and that would be light food for a hungry giant."

"Come along, boys," cried Donald, making for the door. "Even Claricehas a word to throw at me. I won't stay here another moment!"

"But, girls," exclaimed Lizzie, when the three young men were gone,"don't tell me that you have come to not having enough to eat! Oh,don't say that!"

"No, no, Liz there's always enough, I'm thankful to say; but it justhappened I had no fresh meat to-day, except enough for papa. To-morrowis the day for the butcher's cart to come, and I took too little lasttime. It is hard to hit it off exactly. Last time I took too much, andsome got bad!"

She was unpacking the basket as she spoke, and now said, with a laugh,—

"You'll have your rice pudding after all, Clarice! Look at this one,what a beauty it is! And chickens, as fat as they can well be—all readyroasted, too; and a huge ham—Aymer and Guy will shout when they seethat, for they say no one cures such hams as Mrs. Anderson's—and acheese, and the bottom of the basket filled with cakes and tarts. Lookat Agnes, how she opens her eyes!"

"Ah, Mrs. Anderson loves to make presents," Lizzie said, with a sigh.

It was very sad to her to see how her sisters rejoiced over things towhich she was so well used.

Old Katty was summoned to see the baby and his mother, and to assist incarrying off the provisions.

Agnes was made happy with a plump bun, on which she had silently fixedloving eyes, and in which she quickly fixed her little white teeth.Then the babies woke up and had to be fed; after which, they went tosleep in the same cradle, like the excellent babies they undoubtedlywere, and left the sisters leisure for a comfortable chat.

CHAPTER VII.

THAT BELOVED BAG!

"NOW then, girls," cried Lizzie, rocking the cradle softly, while thetwo other girls got each a piece of work to go on with; even Agnesproduced a coarse blue sock, and knitted away woman-fully—"now then,girls, tell me everything; and first, how do you get on?"

"Wonderfully, Liz, just wonderfully! Of course, we miss her every daywe live, poor Clarice most of all. But then we are always busy, and,somehow, we have got to have a way of looking forward that is a greathelp, and keeps us going."

"That is Guy's doing," added Clarice. "He borrowed a book about NewZealand from Miles Murphy, and we read it in the evenings, and talk ofour plans. And look, Liz, at the 'beloved bag,' as Guy calls it, lookhow fat it is!"

"What a grand bag!" said Lizzie. "But where does the money come from?"

"Helen and I, I think we wrote you word, got work from that shop inDublin, and we earn three shillings a week, and sometimes four."

"Three shillings each, do you mean?"

"Oh no; between us. You know there is home work to be done, too—plentyof darning, eh, Nelly?"

Helen groaned.

"Aymer's stockings are more darn than stocking," she answered. "Isuppose it is the digging, and all that."

"Still, we are saving money," said Clarice. "I'm bag-keeper; and Ijingle it sometimes when Helen is low—listen, Nelly; isn't that apleasant sound?"

"Aymer has been able to put by every shilling he gets from Mr.Pearson," Helen said, brightening up as Clarice smiled at her; "andthat is really a good deal, you know."

"Mr. Anderson told me the other day," said Lizzie, "that the Governmenthelps people to emigrate. If we only knew how to apply for it! Not now,of course, but when Aymer thinks of going."

"Perhaps some of papa's relatives would manage that for us," answeredClarice. "That would not be like asking them for money. But Aymercannot go—we have quite settled that—until Agnes is old enough tomanage here with me to see after things, so that Helen can go with himand Guy."

"And what will you do about papa?" asked Lizzie.

"I am sure he will not care. He will go when they send over money forus. We have not said anything to him yet, for he would forget it beforethe time came."

"Who knows how to get at his family?" inquired Lizzie. "I don't evenknow where they live."

"But I do," answered Clarice, "for mother wrote to them once, askingthem to get Aymer and Guy into some school, and her letter was sentback, torn in two. But I saw the address. Sir Aymer Egerton, Bart.,Egerton Highfield, Normanton."

"Very good, Clarice, my dear; but if Sir Aymer sends back all letterstorn in two, I don't see much good in writing to him—do you?"

"We'll send Guy!"

"He can't tear him in two, certainly, however savage he may be,"replied Helen. "But we must tell Lizzie about Guy. He put anadvertisement in the Post-office window at Kilsteen, offering to makeup books and to balance accounts for any one requiring his services,for two and sixpence each. And he has had five or six—which was it,Clarice? Six—to do. And though he had to have a pair of shoes out ofit, poor fellow, all the rest went into the bag."

"And how did Guy learn to keep accounts?" asked Lizzie. "For I know itwas one thing dear mother never could teach us."

"He studied arithmetic out of a book of papa's," answered Clarice."There is nothing Guy cannot learn if he can only get a good book."

"Where is my father, by the way?" asked Lizzie. "I have not seen him."

"He's in the study," Helen told her.

"How is he? Does he seem sad—does he miss mother at all?"

"How can I tell? He never opens his mouth, except to eat; and indeedof late, he does not eat half enough. I declare, Lizzie, when I seehow clever poor Guy is, and remember that papa could teach him allhe wants to know, I get quite angry. Only yesterday, Guy asked hima question—something he and Clarice (who is just such another) werepuzzling their heads over; and if you will believe me, papa did noteven listen, and begged him not to interrupt him again."

"I remember when mother tried to get him to teach us," said Lizzie,"and he answered that 'he was unsuited to such elementary work, andthat as the children were doomed to be mere boors, education would onlymake them discontented;' so she had to teach us herself."

"Guy only wants opportunity," said Clarice; "and we pray every day thathe may get it."

Lizzie stared. To say your prayers every morning and evening, is onething; to say that you want a particular thing, and mean to ask for it,is quite another.

"You pray about that, Clarice?" she said, doubtfully.

"I think she's always praying," said Helen, half fondly, half sadly;"and it seems to help her along wonderfully. I wish I were like that,Lizzie. I do get so fretted."

"You can always begin, Nelly," said Clarice, quietly.

She took her crimson-covered Bible from under her pillow, and openedit, finding what she wanted so easily that it was plain the book was nostrange volume to her.

"'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, andit shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh, receiveth, andhe that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.'That means, I suppose, the kingdom of heaven shall be opened. The LordJesus is the door, you know. Then in another place He says, that if twoor three agree together about a thing they ask for, it shall be donefor them. So Guy and I have agreed to ask for this."

"Did you ever hear anything like that?" whispered Lizzie to Helen,while Clarice was putting away the little Bible. "I have read thosewords often enough, but never thought they meant that. Who taught her?"

"I don't know. She is always reading her Bible, when she has time.Clarice, Liz wants to know who taught you to pray."

"It is all in the Bible," Clarice answered, taking up her work again."You just read, and do it the best way you can, and then you find outmore and more."

"But the Bible is so difficult to understand, Clarice."

"Parts of it are difficult; and then, you know, we are very ignorant.But a good deal of it is very plain; and those are the very bits thatconcern us most. Now what I read just now is plain enough, and I thinkway is, to go and do that, and then read a bit more."

"And there are such pretty stories in it," cried little Agnes, eagerly."About little Samuel, whose mother made him a little coat every year,and God spoke to him in the Tabernacle, and he said, 'Speak, Lord, forThy servant heareth.' And poor Joseph that was put in the pit; andDavid with the sling that killed the big, enormous giant. I know Davidwas like Guy. Oh, Clarice tells me lots of stories, and teaches me whatthey mean, too."

"What they mean? Why those are true histories, child, of things thatreally happened."

"Oh yes, they happened, but they have a meaning, too, like a—what isit, Clarice?—the sower, you know, and the vineyard; what is the word?"

"A parable."

"Yes, like a parable—that's it."

"But, Clarice, what do you mean by that? How have the Bible stories ameaning?" Lizzie asked.

"I don't know that I can tell you, Liz. When I am teaching Agnes, I tryto make those stories into pictures of the Lord Jesus."

"But how? I cannot think how you do it. Samson, now—I don't see howSamson could be made into a picture of Him."

"Not of Him, but of something about Him. Samson overcame his enemies bydying. His great strength, too—Jesus is strong to save."

"And Joseph, Liz! He was sold, and then saved his bad brothers—justlike Him!" cried Agnes.

"It is a great thing to have a turn for reading," said Lizzie, withgrave admiration. "At least, it is a great thing for you, Clarice, foryou must find the day very long sometimes. I must make Donald get booksfrom E— when you are at our place."

"At your place!" exclaimed Clarice.

"There! I was to have waited for Donald, and now I've let it out! Hewon't mind, though. You must know, girls, it fretted me dreadfullyto know how you were all slaving and sparing, in the hope of givingthe boys (who are my brothers as much as yours) a chance of betteringthemselves by-and-by. And I, the eldest of you, living in ease andplenty, and yet not able to do a thing to help. For you know Donald hasnothing of his own yet—it is all Mr. Anderson's. Then that kind, goodMrs. Anderson saw how it fretted me, and we thought of a plan by whichwe can help; and it will be so good for Clarice to have plenty of milkand fruit and everything. They both wish it—Mr. and Mrs. Anderson andall—and Donald and I can take her home to-night—that's why we broughtthe shanderadan—if you agree to it."

"Agree to what?" said Helen. "For Clarice to go for a visit to you?"

"Not for a visit, but to be like a daughter to the old people—to livealways with us. We shall never let her want for anything, nor be aburden on any of you again."

Poor Clarice shivered at the word burden, but she said nothing, for sheknow that Lizzie did not mean to hurt her. She was always afraid thatshe gave a great deal of trouble, and she had no idea how useful shewas; so she held her tongue and tried to feel grateful.

But Helen did not hold her tongue, and, to judge by the use she made ofit, she did not even try to be grateful.

"Take Clarice away from us for good and all!" she cried. "Why, Lizzie,I was going to say that I did not see how I could spare her even fora few days! If you were living here, you would know better—indeed, Ithink you might know better even now. Why, Clarice takes care of babynight and day. What could I do if I had him on my hands always? Andshe knits every sock and stocking that we all wear—except what Agnescan do—and darns them too. And she does a great deal more than halfthe work for the shop, and helps Guy with his books. Guy would go outof his mind if he had not Clarice to talk to. And she never forgetsanything, but puts Katty and me in mind of all the different things,even to the winding of the clock, which ran down regularly every weekuntil I asked her to remind me of it. And she's the only one of thefamily that can get papa to answer a question. Why, if Clarice and herBible, and—well, just her precious self—were gone out of this house forgood, I'd take to my bed in a week!"

She stopped, and looked at her sister's pale thin face. "Perhaps,though, it would be for her good. Oh Clarice, Clarice, must I let yougo?"

Before any one could answer, the door burst open, and in rushed Guy,his face crimson, closely followed by Aymer with little Agnes in hisarms. In the background appeared the tall form of Donald Anderson, anamused smile upon his face. To account for their sudden appearance,I must tell you that Agnes had no sooner perceived what Lizzie meantthan, in great dismay, she had ran out to inform her brothers, and tobring them to the rescue. She found them close to the house, looking atthe early potato crop.

A hurried rush to the parlour ensued. Guy made but one step toClarice's side and caught her by the hand, unable to speak, he had runso fast.

"What's all this?" Aymer began, somewhat roughly. "Helen, what doesthe child mean? She says you are all planning for Clarice to live withLizzie and Donald."

"No, no, not planning it. Only Lizzie thought it would be a help to usall. But I have told her that, for my part, I could not possibly get onwithout her; and yet, when I looked at her, I thought perhaps we areletting her do too much. You see, boys, they thought it impossible thatshe could do anything—and perhaps she ought not."

Aymer looked puzzled. Guy said nothing, but tightened his grasp ofhis sister's hand. Agnes set up such a howl that the two babies verynearly jumped out of the cradle, and poor Lizzie looked ready to cry atthe reception her well-meant proposal had met with. But by this time,Clarice had conquered the choking sensation which the sudden fright hadgiven her, and was able to speak for herself.

"Lizzie dear, you are very, very kind! And if I were really useless athome, it would be right for me to go with you; and I know how kind andgood every one of you would be to me. But, you see, I am of some use,and so—oh, Lizzie, to tell you the plain truth, it would just break myheart to leave them, useful or useless."

"And what should we do without you, Clarice?" said Aymer—silentAymer—who seldom put ten words together. "Why, Liz, when we are tiredout in the evening, you don't know the rest it is to have Clarice readto us—bits of books that she searches out during the day—books thatI am sure I should never open but for her. Home would be very drearywithout Clarice."

"And what should I do?" said Guy, with a half sob. "You don't want togo, Clarice, do you?"

"Want to go! If you were all as anxious to get rid of me as you are tokeep me, I might go—though even then I'm afraid I should beg to stay.But it was a very kind thought of yours, Lizzie, and of all of you; andplease, dear, don't be vexed about it."

Lizzie went over and kissed her.

"You're the dearest—I don't wonder they don't want to lose you. Butindeed, boys, I mean it kindly. I never for a moment imagined that poorClarice, who can't move hand or foot, as one may say, could be of anyuse; and even now I cannot think how she manages it!"

"Oh, just do the best I can," said Clarice, smiling; "and it is notvery much after all. They are all so fond of me that they think I helpthem; and I do remember things. Lying here always, that is easy, youknow."

"Indeed I don't know it," Helen answered. "What I do know is this, thatmost people who suffered all the pain you have, would say that they hadenough to think of without helping others."

"But being busy helps me to bear the pain," said Clarice, simply. "Now,Agnes, you little silly, stop crying. Helen dear, it is almost twoo'clock."

So Lizzie Anderson and her husband went home without Clarice, andfilled with wonder, in which the old couple were not slow to share,as to how so weak and suffering a creature managed to make herselfnecessary to everybody in the house.

Yet her plan was a simple one. She thought of her sufferings as littleas possible, and talked of them not at all. For the rest, she lookedabout, not to see what she ought to do, must do, or could be expectedto do, but what she could do. And having seen it, she did it. Verysimple; but what a changed world would this be if even every woman init deserved the words,—

CHAPTER VIII.

EGERTON HIGHFIELD AGAIN.

LET us pay another visit, this fine June weather, to the terrace atEgerton Highfield, and see who walks there now, and how that amiableold gentleman, Sir Aymer, is getting on.

It is evening—at least, it is six o'clock, but the sun is still high inthe heavens, and the west terrace lies bathed in a glow of warmth andlight.

A lady is walking there alone—a small, delicate-looking womandressed in black, with wonderful cobwebby old lace round her slenderthroat and wrists, and covering her still dark hair. She wears nospeck of colour to relieve the blackness of her rich silk gown or thewhiteness of her plain, but pleasant face. This is Lady Anne Egerton,the widow of Sir Aymer's eldest son, and the mother of the heir ofEgerton Highfield. She had been a very happy woman during her husband'slife, but his death had left her entirely dependent upon Sir Aymer (forshe had no fortune of her own); and that her lot thenceforth was not apleasant one, I think I need scarcely tell you.

She had but one child, a boy, who was about a year older than hisunknown cousin Guy. She had had elder children, but they had all diedin infancy. Her son, who was named Villiers, was a fine boy, and aslike my poor Guy at Ballintra as if they had been twin-brothers; whichof course implies that he was very like what his uncle Guy had beenat that age; and Sir Aymer's doubtful affection for his heir was notincreased by this likeness. Sir Aymer had loved his son Guy as much asa selfish, tyrannical man can be said to love any one; and the verypain it had given him to cast him out of his heart made it disagreeableto be reminded of him perpetually.

Villiers Egerton was a spirited lad, full of promise, clever, manly andaffectionate; but it must be confessed that he chafed sorely againsthis grandfather's unloving despotism. He had now just left Eton, andwanted very much to go at once to college, but Sir Aymer forbad it,saying that he was too young. Then Villiers asked leave to travel,but Sir Aymer would not hear of that, though Lady Anne proposed to gowith her son. He desired the boy (as he always called Villiers, to hissecret wrath) to remain quietly at home, until it was, in his opinion,time for him to go to Oxford. Against this long residence under thesame roof with his grandfather, Villiers chafed sadly, and Lady Anne'sgentle face was clouded by anxiety, for every day she feared that anactual quarrel would take place between these two.

Suddenly the concealed door which I have before described, swung open,and Villiers came out, looking flushed and harassed. He had a letter inhis hand, and was dressed as if for riding.

"Why, my boy, I thought you were miles away by this time! What hasdelayed you?"

"I shall not go at all, mamma. Sir Aymer had desired them not to takeout any horse to-day without going to him about it!"

"Now, I wonder why?"

"Oh, for no reason, mamma dear, but because he wants to force me to askleave when I go out to ride. I won't do that—so I shall give up theidea of riding for the present. It would only lead to words, for thenhe wants to know exactly where I am going; and if I change my mind,and go somewhere else, he suspects a hundred bad reasons for it. Butlook here, mamma, I have just had a letter from Eustace," (one of LadyAnne's nephews, who had left Eton a little time before Villiers), "andhe and one or two others are going for a walking tour in Ireland. Theymean to go to the Lakes of Killarney first, and then to the Giant'sCauseway, and afterwards to Connemara; and they want me to go withthem."

"And you want to go!" she answered, with a sigh. "I don't wonder at it,dear boy; but I do wonder sometimes if I shall ever see you for a monthor so, quietly."

"Dear mother, I would do anything to make you happy—you know I would;but I don't think my presence here adds to your comfort. I know youare in a continual fright; and I don't wonder at it. Sir Aymer isreally intolerable sometimes. I quite long to fling something at hishead as he sits there, thinking of something unpleasant to say. If Iwere older, I suppose he would not be so bad; but that half-hour afterdinner, when you are not there, is more than I can bear!"

"It is all bad enough," Lady Anne said, with a sigh. She had borne itpatiently, for Villiers' sake, for many a year; and now he could notbear it, for her sake, for a few months!

"It is indeed! I don't know how you bear it; but positively, mamma, Ican't! Last night, as soon as we were alone, he began to cross-examineme as to where I had been, and what I had been doing all day. I toldhim that I had been riding, and met Mr. Lowther and his daughters, whoasked me to go home with them to lunch and play croquet, which I verygladly did; and, said I, 'Miss Gertrude Lowther is a very pretty girl.'

"Well, upon that, he burst forth in his best big bow-wow style—theLowthers are not fit companions for me—Mr. Lowther is only aniron-master—the girls designing flirts, every one of them; and finally,he was sorry to see that I had a taste for low company. I assured himthat the Miss Lowthers are very nice girls, highly educated; upon whichhe remarked that patches of gilding only draw attention to the coarsegrain of the wood! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Finally he said Imust never go to Heather Hill again, and must cut the girls at once;which I simply refused to do."

"Did he say anything more?"

"Oh yes! A heap of nonsense about liking low company and marryingbeneath me! As if at eighteen I was thinking of marrying any one."

"Oh dear! I wish he had not got that idea into his head. Yet you mustbe patient, Villiers, with your grandfather. He has had one terribledisappointment; and you see, unfortunately, you remind him of itconstantly."

"I'm almost inclined to be glad of that," said Villiers, with a gaylaugh. "It's only fair that I should aggravate him, when he aggravatesme so much. But how do I manage it, mamma? Tell me, that I may enjoythe fun."

"The fun! You wicked boy, it is no fun!" said Lady Anne, glancing roundas if half afraid to speak, lest some one should overbear her. "Shutthat door, my dear."

Then, as she walked down the terrace with her boy at her side, she saidin a low voice, "Did you ever hear of your uncle Guy?"

"My uncle? No, certainly I never did. An Egerton or a Villiers uncle?Egerton, I suppose; for now I remember Rowe, the old keeper, who ispensioned off, you know, telling me I was the image of Mr. Guy; but Ithought he was speaking of a brother of Sir Aymer. Rowe is so old, youknow."

"Sir Aymer never had a brother. It was, no doubt, your uncle of whomRowe spoke, for you really are as like him as ever you can be. But youmust never speak of him, Villiers, remember that, nor let Sir Aymerknow that I have done so."

"But tell me why? Of course I shall not speak of him, but you havefilled me with curiosity."

"I will tell you about him, for perhaps it may help you to havepatience with your grandfather when he lectures you on the subject oflow marriages. Guy was the younger son, and his father's favourite.There was a sister too, poor Clarice—such a lovely creature! She andI were great friends. I knew them all from childhood. Guy was veryclever, quite a genius, we used to think. Clarice was killed by a fallfrom her horse, and Guy was so ill from the shock, that he was sentabroad; and he would not come home again, though Sir Aymer was veryangry about it. I rather think he must have had some difference withSir Aymer before he went."

"I can quite believe that," put in Villiers.

"But I never knew for certain. He wrote accounts of curious antiquitiesand other things, for scientific journals, and he published a smallvolume of poems. I have been told that they are very fine, but I don'tunderstand a word of them. I believe he spoke every language that everwas heard of. At last he came home, and then it was discovered that hewas married."

"Well—and was it a low marriage?"

"My dear! She was the daughter of a man who kept a small inn, orpublic-house, in a wild, out of the way part of Germany."

"Oh, jolly! Oh, delicious!" laughed Villiers. "What would I not havegiven to see Sir Aymer's face!"

"You wicked boy! It was no joking matter, I can tell you. He turnedpoor Guy out of the house at once, and never has he spoken his namefrom that day."

"And what became of him?"

"He may be dead, for what I know; but he was alive when your dearfather died, for he wrote to me, poor fellow! I have fancied once ortwice since then, that he has written to his father, for Sir Aymer gota letter one day which put him into a terrible state of excitement, andhe tore it in two without opening it, put it in a cover, and sent itback, but I did not see the address."

"Then you don't know where he lives?" asked Villiers.

"I am not even sure that he is still alive," was his mother's answer.She was not going to say that, if alive, Guy Egerton was in Ireland,when there was a chance of Villiers going thither.

"What an old Turk Sir Aymer is!" said Villiers, presently.

"Well, but my dear, the marriage was a very great mistake, to call itby no harsher name. Your father was under the impression that Guy hadbeen in some way taken in, for he did not seem very fond of her, and hesaid she could neither read nor write."

Which was exactly the reverse of what Guy had said; but Lady Annereally believed that she was speaking the truth.

"But, for pity's sake, why should Sir Aymer conclude that because hisson made a fool of himself, I should do the same? There never was anyone less fond of low company than I am; and as to marrying beneath me,why, I am not that kind of fellow in the least," said Villiers drawingup his slight person, and looking very dignified.

Lady Anne turned away to conceal a smile.

"You are so like poor Guy that you never allow your grandfather toforget him, my love. Do try to have a little patience with him."

"Mamma, believe me, I shall have more patience with him when I amwalking over Ireland with Eustace and all those fellows, than when—Isay, here he comes! Now, I'll ask his leave; and do you back me up,like the very best and dearest mother that ever was."

"No, no!" said Lady Anne, hastily. "If it must be, let me manage it. Gointo the house before he sees you, change your dress, and come back;bring your drawing things, and that unfinished sketch of the westfront: go, now, if you want me to help you."

Villiers fled by the door through which he had appeared, and hastenedto obey his mother's mysterious directions, wondering much what theymight mean.

Sir Aymer came up the terrace stops and joined his daughter-in-law.

"Out still, Lady Anne?"

"Yes, it is such a lovely afternoon. I had a letter from my brotherthis morning, Sir Aymer. He wants Villiers to go to Deepdale for atime, and I should like him to go, if you don't mind. I wish him toknow and to be liked by my own people."

If Lady Anne had really wished her son to go to Deepdale, she wouldnever have made that speech. In fact, it looked rather as if she wishedto provoke the old gentleman.

Sir Aymer fell into the trap, if trap it were, at once.

"I do not wish my heir to be made a Radical, Lady Anne! The Egertonshave been Conservatives ever since—well, for many generations; andyour brother is enough to corrupt any lad, particularly one who, likeVilliers, has not an ounce of brains."

"I do not think his Eton course shows any lack of brains," Lady Annereplied, quietly, and then went on to urge several reasons why Villiersshould go to Deepdale; among others, his intimacy with the MissLowthers.

The argument was still going on, when Villiers appeared, carrying ahalf-finished drawing, a box of water-colours, and a camp-stool; alsohe had a cigar in his mouth, and was attired in a loose kind of blouse,very suitable for painting in, if not very ornamental.

"And where may you be going, young gentleman?" asked Sir Aymer.

Villiers glanced at his mother for directions.

"Oh, are you going to colour that sketch?" she said. "Well, you won'thave much time now, dear, so we will not delay you."

So, of course, Sir Aymer delayed him as long as he could. I would notventure to suggest a comparison between Sir Aymer Egerton and Paddy'scelebrated pig on the road to Cork, so I will merely say that a longcourse of petty tyranny had taught Lady Anne the art of getting whatshe wanted by indirect means to perfection. She was not by nature aninsincere woman, but she was weak, and when you bully a weak personcontinually, you drive them into crooked ways.

"Show me that drawing," said Sir Aymer. "Ha! Not bad, I dare say. Ifyou were some penniless lad looking out for a livelihood, I dare sayyou could make something of your drawing; being what you are, it issimply so much time wasted."

VILLIERS APPEARED, CARRYING A HALF-FINISHED DRAWING.

"Is this the drawing you promised to Miss Lowther?" asked Lady Anne.

"Yes," Villiers answered, unwillingly; and privately added, "You aremaking a mull, little lady."

Lady Anne went on without attending to his looks.

"You naughty boy! Answering your poor little mother so shortly, and allbecause I would not hear of you going tiring yourself to death withEustace and all those men. Only fancy, Sir Aymer, this overgrown boy ofmine wanting to set out on a walking tour with Eustace—my nephew, youknow—in Ireland; as if Villiers were fit for such a trying performance!"

"He is as fit for it as any lad of his years," said Sir Aymer; "andit would be a great deal better for him than playing croquet with oneMiss Lowther, and doing paintings for another; ay, or listening to LordVilliers talking rank revolutionism every day after dinner. Go, by allmeans, boy; I'll give you a cheque—By the way, though, what part ofIreland are they going to?"

"Dublin," Villiers answered with alacrity, "and by train to Cork; walkto Killarney, back to Dublin, and by train to the north; walk to theGiant's Causeway, and finish by doing Connemara, if time and moneypermit."

"They shall permit in your case," said Sir Aymer. "Write and accept,and stay as long as you like. Dublin, Killarney, the Causeway,Connemara; yes, no danger. Lady Anne, you don't seem to be pleased, butyou cannot tie a lad to your apron-strings all his life!"

"Yet I may be excused for wishing to see something of my only child,Sir Aymer. Now, if he went to Deepdale, I could go also."

Sir Aymer smiled, and walked away without answering. The gate ofCork (supposing Cork to have a gate) closed behind the deluded pig.Pig-driving is tiring work.

"There, Villiers, I have managed it for you. Oh, dear, how weary I amof it all!"

"Managed it for me, mamma! Why, you fought hard on the other side; Ideclare I thought it was all up with me!"

"Oh, go away, you literal-minded boy! I am going in to get some tea. Anengagement with Sir Aymer tires me to death."

In a few days Villiers set out for Dublin, where he was to meet hiscousin and the rest of the walking party.

CHAPTER IX.

VILLIERS.

WHEN Villiers Egerton went to Ireland, nothing seemed less likelythan that he would encounter his uncle or any of his cousins. Theinhabitants of the county in which Ballintra is situated are wont toboast or to complain (according to their temper) that it is the "end ofthe world, and leads to nowhere;" nay, I have even heard it called an"after-thought," as if, Ireland being already finished, a little bit ofmaterial had been left, and added on to it, to make this county. Forall that, it is well worth visiting, though no one visits it, becauseits beauties are less well known than those of its sister county,Wicklow, or the more distant Lakes of Killarney.

Altogether nothing was less likely than that Villiers Egerton wouldfind his way to the banks of the beautiful Slaney; so his grandfatherdid not caution him against turning his steps in that direction. But,as time went on, Killarney and the Causeway having been visited inturn, Eustace Villiers was summoned home by the illness of his father,and the merry little party broke up without having made the projectedtour in Connemara.

The others all returned, but Villiers was in no hurry to follow theirexample. Home he was determined not to go until September brought theshooting season round again, when the presence of a few guests wouldmake Egerton Highland more endurable. He had promised Eustace to gowith him next year, if possible, to Connemara, so he would not gonow in that direction. He had plenty of money, and as Sir Aymer didnot know that Eustace's departure had broken up the party, Villierswrote to tell his mother not to be uneasy if she did not hear fromhim for some time. And returning to Dublin, he set forth alone towander through Wicklow, sketching, dawdling, poetising, and thoroughlyenjoying himself.

He had a whole month to dispose of, and did not care to keep inthe track of the general tourist, so he wandered far and wide, andpresently wandered as far as to Newtownbarry, and thence determinedto follow the course of the infant Slaney down to the sea, as thebeauty of its banks and the scenery all along its course took his fancygreatly; all the more so, because he felt that he was finding it outfor himself, instead of obeying guide or guide-books.

Oh, had Sir Aymer only known where his young heir was, and whither hewas going, what a state of mind he would have been in!

The bright days of summer had an unusual effect upon Clarice Egertonthis year. Perhaps, because Lizzie and Donald had seemed to think itpossible to carry her off to their home in the shanderadan, the wish toget into the open air took possession of her; and Aymer and Guy carriedher out on her couch, and placed her in the shade of a grand old beechtree not far from the house. How she enjoyed it! The sunlight, greengrass, the blue river, the sky, with its ever-shifting cloud scenery!

It became quite a common thing for the boys to carry the invalid outafter the early dinner; and if the day was warm and pleasant, shestayed there until evening. While Agnes was always at hand to run forher brothers if Clarice got tired, or the wind rose, or the baby criedtoo much, and required change of scene to soothe his feelings. It wasnew life to Clarice; until this summer the least movement had broughtback inflammation and all the bad symptoms in her knee, but this year,she could bear the slight jolting quite well.

Here, under her favourite tree, with baby in her arms, and Agnessitting beside her, she was enjoying herself one lovely evening, whenshe perceived some one coming up the lane from the river, a tall,slight young man; but where she lay, she could not see him very plainly.

"Who is that, Agnes? He seems to be coming directly towards us."

"I don't know him; why, it's Guy," was the child's contradictory answer.

Clarice raised herself to look—yes, it was Guy. He was now quite near.

"Why, how do you come to take us by surprise in this way, Guy? Ithought you were in the garden, and here—"

The young man stopped short in his rapid approach and took off his hat.It was not Guy! How had she ever made such a mistake? When did Guypossess such a well-made, easy-fitting grey suit, or such a soft feltwideawake, or such a pair of boots, or such a dandy knapsack as thisyouth carried? Then she looked again at his face.

"Guy—surely it is Guy? What trick are you playing us, Master Guy?"

Then the new-comer spoke, and his voice ended her delusion. It was apleasant voice too, but higher-pitched, sharper and more ringing thanGuy's, and he spoke much faster, too.

"I fear I have startled you; and I am sure I am trespassing; butbelieve me it is an accident. I only saw this little girl, and came upfrom the river to ask her a question."

"It does not matter at all," Clarice answered, smiling. "You are in ourlawn; but you need not mind that. What did you want to know?"

"I want to know if I am near any town or village where I can getsomething to eat and lodging for the night. I am quite a stranger,travelling for amusement, and to see the country; and I have followedthe course of this river from Newtownbarry to-day, coming part of theway in a boat, or float, rather, which I borrowed at a cottage. I fancyI have come a long way."

"Newtownbarry! Why, you must be half dead, I think you must be starved!And there is no inn at Kilsteen, which is three miles off, or more; andE— is six miles off."

All the time she spoke, she kept looking at him, half wondering if hewould not resolve himself into the familiar Guy, and confess that hewas playing her a trick. Clarice was a little short-sighted, whichadded to her perplexity.

The stranger cast his hat upon the ground in pretended despair.

"Will you kindly dig a grave for me at once?" he said, gravely. "I mayas well die here, for I shall never live to reach E—. I am dead-beat,and half-starved already."

"We can at least give you some dinner," said Clarice, laughing shyly."Agnes dear, run and call Guy. I suppose he is somewhere about thegarden; and go to Katty, and see what you can get to bring out here."

The child, whose blue eyes were full of astonishment, ran off at fullspeed, and Clarice continued:

"There's a chair there; won't you sit down? You must not think I amrude, but I cannot move."

Villiers Egerton (for of course you know that it was Villiers) feltthat at last he was beginning to meet with adventures, which was allthat was wanted to make his holiday perfect. He took off his knapsack,and let it fall beside his hat, brought forward the chair, and satdown, looking curiously at Clarice and the baby. What a lovely face, ifit were only a little less pale and thin; but why on earth did it seemfamiliar to him?

"What did you call me just now?" he said. "You mistook me for some one,I think; and the curious thing is, that you remind me of some one."

"I thought you were my brother Guy. Indeed, I cannot quite get rid ofthe idea yet, until you speak; you have a different voice."

"Your brother Guy? Where have I heard that name before? It is not acommon one."

"Not here; but we are not Irish."

"What is your brother's other name?" asked Villiers, thinking withpride that he had managed that question very nicely.

"Egerton," answered Clarice, and then uttered a very small scream, forthe mysterious stranger sprang to his feet with a shout, and Claricefor one moment thought that she and the baby were lost!

"Egerton! Why, that's my name! I am Villiers Aymer Egerton."

Clarice forgot her shyness, and looked at him earnestly.

"You are very like Guy. My eldest brother's name is Aymer. I wonder—"

"I know who you are now," he interrupted, eagerly. "Why, this is asgood as a play! You must be my uncle Guy's children. I never heard ofhim till the other day; but I remember now. Am I not right?"

"Yes; at least my father's name is Guy. His father is Sir AymerEgerton, of Egerton Highfield; is that the same?"

"My venerated grandfather! Then you are my cousin; do shake hands withme! What's your name? It ought to be Clarice, for I know now who youare like: the picture at home of another Clarice Egerton."

"I am Clarice. You have guessed right, and I believe I was named aftermy father's only sister. Oh, I do wish Guy would come; this is so verystrange."

"Yes, is it not? Ireland's the place for adventures, after all. Here amI, taking my solitary ramble in unknown regions, and I find a cousinlying under a big tree—quite promiscuous, as I may say."

"Three cousins, for you have found Agnes and baby too. Here comes Guyat last. Oh, Guy, only think what has happened: he came here quite byaccident, and he is our cousin Villiers Egerton! And oh, Guy, what willpapa say?"

Guy was the handsomer of the two, she thought, as they stood face toface, looking curiously at each other.

"He cannot be displeased, I think," Guy answered. "You are verywelcome, Cousin Villiers. Agnes told me some one was here who wasstarving and tired; was that you?"

"It was, and is. Unless you give me food, and that quickly, I shallbe tempted to take a bite out of that nice soft baby there, who, I amtold, is another cousin."

"I'll go and speak to Katty," said Guy; "and I suppose I had bettertell my father, Clarice?"

"Certainly, tell him at once. Tell Katty to bring the tray out here,Guy; and you bring the little table I always use, that he may dinehere, for Helen and Aymer won't be home for half an hour yet. Theycrossed the river to go to the Pearsons."

"Helen! Another cousin, I suppose?" said Villiers. "Yes, and Aymer, andthere is one more—Elise; but she is married. She is not here."

Villiers sat down again, and smiled genially at Clarice.

"How glad I am I saw that child! I'm sure I shall like you all; and Ihave so few cousins. And, except in this way, I suppose we should neverhave met."

"I suppose not; and I am afraid papa will not be pleased."

"Oh," said Villiers, easily, "I'll talk him over. He won't turn meout, will he? Because now that I have found you, I want to know youall. I'll stay with you, if you'll have me. But I suppose," he addedquickly, "I ought to make my petition to Mrs. Egerton?"

"You mean my mother," Clarice said. "My mother is dead."

"Oh, Clarice, I am so sorry I said that. I ought to have noticed thatyou were in mourning. It was very thoughtless of me."

Meantime Guy had run to the house and hurried Katty's proceedings.Luckily, there was cold meat in the house, and plenty of bread, andKatty arranged a tray according to her own ideas of propriety, whileGuy went and knocked at the study door.

No answer was made, and muttering, "I shall never get him to hear me,"he went boldly in. Even then, though it was a rare thing for any one toenter the study, Mr. Egerton took no notice of him, though Guy fanciedhe saw him at once.

"Father, can you attend to me for a moment? Clarice is out on the lawn,and she sent for me because some one had come up from the river to askhis way; but before I reached her, they had found out that he is ourcousin, Villiers Egerton."

"Villiers—Aymer's boy? What brings him here?"

"I don't know, sir. I fancy it is an accident."

"Ay, I suppose so. I wish he had not come."

His face flushed crimson as he glanced at Guy, whose dress and handsbore evident marks of his late labours in the garden.

"How old is he? About your age, I think."

"About that, I think. Won't you come and see him, sir?"

"Yes, I suppose I must. It is an unlucky chance."

He looked down at his own dusty well-worn clothes, and said, "Can youget me a clothes-brush, Guy?"

Guy could quite sympathise with his desire to appear as little shabbyas might be. So he ran for a brush, and brushed his garments well, gothim his hat, and set out with him to the beech tree. Mr. Egerton walkedslowly, and looked so old, that Villiers never thought that this couldbe his uncle. Sir Aymer, though his hair was white, looked younger andmore vigorous.

"Here is papa," Clarice said.

And somehow her evident nervousness infected Villiers, who was far lesscertain of a welcome than he had expected to be.

Mr. Egerton came up in silence.

Guy said, "This is Villiers, sir."

"Ay, I see him. You are—welcome to my house, Villiers, though truly Ihave not much to make you welcome to. Did you come—do you bring anymessage to me?"

"Oh no, Uncle Guy. I am wandering about just to amuse myself, and passthe time. My coming here was accidental."

"Ah, I thought so. You are weary and hungry; I daresay they can supplyyour wants. Where is—where is Helen?"

"She went over the river with Aymer, papa, for she wanted to speak toMrs. Pearson; but Katty will bring out some dinner for my cousin. Hereshe comes."

Villiers opened his eyes a little as Katty, her gown of no particularcolour, pinned up so as to display a petticoat of every colour of therainbow—a perfect marvel of patches!—her battered sun-bonnet flappingwildly in the breeze, came up, followed by Agnes, who carried a smalltable.

Mr. Egerton caught the look.

"Yes," he said, "we can give you food, and perhaps a bed: I don't know;Helen will tell you. For the rest, you must be content with what yourcousins here are used to. It is late, too late for you to go on to-day,I fear; but you can escape to-morrow."

He turned and walked away, leaving Villiers in great dismay.

"What does he mean, Cousin Clarice? Is he angry? Shall I go away assoon as I have eaten?"

"Oh no, no!" she cried, earnestly. "He does not mean that. He ismortified, because everything here is so unlike what you are usedto,—but you don't mind that, do you? We will do our best to please you.Oh, do stay!"

Villiers was more flattered by her entreaties than he would have been,had he been aware that the thought in her mind was, "Surely he couldhelp Guy; this may be the opportunity we have been waiting for."

Guy and Clarice proved excellent entertainers, and Villiers made ahearty meal, and chatted away as if he had known them all. Privately,he concluded that their mother must have been a lady, and that Guy hadonly been digging for his amusement.

A loud halloa! from the river made them all look that way; and therewas the old flat-bottomed boat coming across with Helen and Aymer. Guysprang down the hill to help Helen to land.

"Ah, the old boat," said Clarice. "It makes me think of the day I metwith my accident; I've never been in her since."

"Was it an accident? I mean, is that why you cannot get off your sofa?"with a doubtful glance at the contrivance on which she lay.

"Yes, I have never been able to stand since."

"How dreadful!" Villiers said under his breath. "But you will soon bebetter, don't you think?"

"No, I think not. It is years ago now. I've nearly forgotten what itwas like to be able to run about; I was just as old then as Agnes isnow. Here they come. Helen is tired, I'm afraid."

Helen was only shy, a feeling from which Clarice was so free that shecould not think what ailed her sister. Aymer looked glum; that shecould partly understand, though she did not feel the same. But Villiershad so much ease of manner, such a pleasant, genial smile, that Helenwas soon herself again, and even Aymer was charmed, prejudiced as hewas against his father's family.

Villiers was cordially pressed to stay, and he stayed, nothing loth.He stayed long enough to perceive that neither Aymer nor Helen was aswell-educated or as naturally polished as Guy and Clarice; to see Eliseand her good farmer husband, and to know that his cousins' lives wereby no means either easy or bright, except for the brightness of mutuallove, and that shed round her by gentle Clarice's heaven-enlightenedheart.

All this Villiers had eyes to see, and he reverenced and admired thepoor crippled girl with all the warmth of his young heart. All hislife long, Villiers Egerton will be the better for those few days atBallintra. He wrote to tell his mother of his adventures, and in ashort time, he received an answer.

Lady Anne had been so frightened that she had actually put off tellingSir Aymer until some expected visitors had arrived, when, as she said"he could not scold all day."

But he knew now, and Villiers was to go home without an hour's delay.Lady Anne begged him to obey, and mildly wondered how he could be soimprudent! Villiers put on a look which none of his cousins had seenbefore (he was sitting with Clarice and her small charge), and Clariceasked him what was wrong.

"My grandfather is enraged because I am here, and he orders me home asif I were a groom. But I shan't go until I like."

"Oh, Villiers, how we shall all miss you!"

"But I tell you I shan't go!"

"Ah, but you don't mean that. You have told me how afraid of him yourmother is; and so you cannot leave her alone with him, if he is angry.It has been very pleasant—very; but you'll have to go now."

Villiers argued the matter for some time, but he knew he ought to go,so he suffered himself to be persuaded to do so.

"And now, Villiers, will you think hardly of me if I ask you to dosomething for me? You know us now; you see what our life is, and youwill forgive me, won't you?"

"What can I do for you, Cousin Clarice? Indeed I will doit—anything—you cannot think how glad I shall be to do anything foryou."

"But this is not a little thing, Villiers. You see what Guy is. He hashad no teachers, no help of any kind, except when papa gave me a fewlessons once. Yet you see he knows nearly as much as you do, though youhave been at school so long."

"He knows an awful lot more, I assure you. I was always an idle fellow."

"He knows Latin, German, French, and Italian, he knows a little Greek,and—"

"And is a better mathematical scholar than I am, though that is what Iknow best."

"And with all that, Villiers, he can get nothing to do here except whatany labourer could do as well, and that Post-office business, which isvery little indeed. If you could find something for Guy to do,—somesituation. Oh, Villiers, you don't know how he longs for this, thoughhe never speaks of it."

"But what should you do without Guy?" was the answer.

Clarice burst into tears. "I don't know! But it would be for his good.If we can save money, we mean to emigrate. We hope to go to Now Zealandsome day. You know this place is not ours, only held on a lease forpapa's life. So we really want to make money; and I am sure Guy couldearn more than he gets here."

"Of course he could! I'll do my best, Clarice. If I fail, don'tblame me, for I promise you, I will do my best. And don't fancy I amforgetting it, if you don't hear at once; for you know I am not my ownmaster."

Next day Villiers left them, and returned to Dublin. He sent them abig box before he left Ireland—a box so big that Aymer had to take thecart into E— for it; but no one grudged the time and trouble when thatdelightful box was unpacked.

For Helen there was an inlaid work-box, containing everything she couldpossibly want for needlework, and several cunning devices of which shedid not know the use, and with which she sorely pinched her fingers inmaking experiments. For Aymer a box of carpenter's tools, really goodones. For Agnes a doll of surpassing beauty. For baby a rattle. Whilefor Guy and Clarice there were books; a small edition of Sir WalterScott's novels, some of Miss Edgeworth's, some of Dickens', and a fewgraver volumes, chosen as well as Villiers knew how. Never having reada story of any kind, it can hardly be imagined what these books were tothe young Egertons.

Clarice read aloud to the rest every evening; and it never happenednow that Aymer fell asleep—a thing not utterly unknown before. "OldMortality" was the first they read; and the shouts of laughter overCuddie Headrigg disturbed Mr. Egerton in his study, until he actuallycame out to ask what was the matter—an event which his childrenconsidered little short of a miracle.

CHAPTER X.

A PAIR OF SHOES.

IT was about this time that Clarice became convinced that she couldventure to move without bringing back pain and inflammation in herinjured knee. Painful to a certain extent it must always be, for itwas twisted and distorted in a dreadful manner; but the acute agonywhich used to follow upon every attempt at movement seemed to have wornitself out. Clarice tried several experiments when she was quite alone,and succeeded beyond her hopes. She began to wonder if she could notcontrive some kind of support, which would make walking possible. Thepain in her back she believed to be only the consequence of lying somuch in the same position, and therefore determined "not to mind it."

In writing the story of Clarice Egerton, I find that I am not givingany true idea of the amount of suffering which she bore so quietly. Butreally she said so little about it, and gave way to it so little, thatthe fact that she was a great and constant sufferer was never broughtmuch before even her own family. To Guy alone did she ever speak of it,after her mother's death; and he always said that he only knew of hersuffering because she sometimes told him how pleasant it was to be freefrom pain again.

Having considered the matter thoroughly, Clarice took Guy into herconfidence. They were alone together one evening, and she said to him,—

"Guy, I want you to help me a little. You are such a clever carpenter,do you think you could make me a crutch, like this—" showing him a tinymodel made of morsels of stick tied together—"and a common crutch forthe other side? For, do you know, I think I could manage to walk if Ihad them?"

"My dear Clarice, it would hurt you terribly!"

"Not much; and it won't do any real harm. It would be such a comfort ifI could do more for myself, Guy; Helen has so much to do."

"If you really wish to try, I think I could make this. I see your idea;you want a flat place for your knee to lie on, and it must be soft.Don't you think it will be very heavy?"

"I'm afraid it will; but after a time, I may be able to do without it.I could not at first. Don't tell any one, Guy; we will surprise themsome fine day."

"Well, the first thing to be done is to measure you carefully. It mustbe exactly the right height, you know. Could you stand up, holding bythe sofa?"

"Oh yes, I have done it every day lately, when you were all out of theway. The worst of it is, I have no shoes."

"Poor Clarice! The little pair you wore that dreadful day wouldn't beof much use now! Oh, what a day that was! It haunts me in my dreamseven now."

"I don't recollect much after I fell. Look, Guy, don't I stand upgallantly? And, oh, how tall I feel! Kiss me; I want to be kissedwithout being stooped over."

Guy kissed her with tears in his eyes. "Clarice," he said, "you havethe spirit of a hero!"

Then he got a bit of string and made his measurements carefully; andnext day he lost no time in setting to work. The fact that for severaldays he covered the floor with chips and shavings, and that he andClarice had great consultations about a queer-looking pillow, raisedno suspicions, for Guy was often seized with a fit of inventing, andwould work away at every spare moment over his models. He was as cleverwith his hands as with his head, and the crutch was not so very heavyafter all. The whole way to E— did he walk to buy a pair of shoes forClarice; and surely no shoes, since Goody Twoshoes' time, ever gavesuch pleasure.

The first time Clarice crossed the room on her crutches, she verynearly fainted, so great was her nervousness. But perseverance doeswonders—"use lessens marvel." And after a few trials, she could usethem cleverly, and was quite fearless.

Guy's pride and delight at seeing her once more able to get about(though in far different fashion from the dancing step which had sooften led him into mischief in old times) were very great. He declaredthat the time had now come for letting the others into the secret.

Aymer, Helen, and Agnes, who were in the garden, were accordinglysurprised to hear him calling out—

"Holloa, there! You are very late! Here is Clarice coming to look afteryou."

And there, indeed, in the doorway, stood Clarice, whom Agnes had neverseen stand before! Her long black hair had fallen out of the net sheusually wore, and, hanging over her shoulders, quite concealed the fact(of which, alas! they soon became aware) that long lying in an uneasyposition had brought on a slight curvature of the spine; her cheekswere flushed with excitement, her eyes bright with amusement at theirsurprise.

Each one could see what a beautiful creature Clarice might have been!All hurried forward; Agnes, screaming with joy, would have thrown herarms round her, crutches and all, but that Guy caught her.

"Stop, stop, child! You'll have her down. You must only admire her at adistance until she gets a little steadier; but isn't it nice to see heroff her sofa?"

"Oh, Clarice, Clarice," cried Helen, "how could you do it, when I knowthe pain every movement gives you! I'm afraid you will make your kneeas bad as ever again."

"I don't think so, Helen. It's a long time now since there was anyinflammation; it is only twisted and stiff; and I did so long to try.See how well I get along; is it not a graceful movement? Now I can doso much more, Nelly."

"You do enough. Oh, Clarice, I should be so glad, if I wasn't sofrightened."

"But don't cry, Nell."

"I must. Oh dear, I can't help it, though I know it is foolish. Butwhen I remember how you were always the quickest and the most daring ofus—and now—"

"Too daring, I'm afraid. Don't think of that, Helen; think instead howlong I've been lying there, and how pleasant it is to me to be on myfeet again. Aymer, you haven't even wished me joy."

Aymer kissed her, taking up a great handful of her abundant hair, andgiving it a gentle pull.

"Here's papa!" said Agnes, suddenly. "Let us see if he will knowClarice."

Mr. Egerton came slowly towards the house, raised his eyes, and foundhimself face to face with Clarice. He started, and after an evidentstruggle for composure, said,—

"How did this—when did you get better, Clarice? Would none of you takethe trouble of telling me?" he added, sadly.

"Oh, papa, they none of them knew except Guy, until this evening. Hehelped me, and made these crutches. But indeed, papa, I should havetold you, if I had thought you cared."

He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said,—

"Just so. Don't hurt yourself, Clarice. If you were to bring backinflammation, it might cost you your life. I should advise yourstanding but little at first."

"I will remember, papa. I shall go and lie down now, for I am tired."

She went in and lay down, tenderly aided by brothers and sisters, and,to her surprise, watched in silence by her father.

She could not get his words and look out of her head. What did he mean?Was it possible that his heart sometimes yearned for a little affectionfrom his children—that he felt lonely and sad? But then, how could theybe expected to feel affection for him? He had so completely neglectedthem all their lives, that Lizzie had once said, laughing, that untilshe married, he had never made up his mind which was Lizzie and whichHelen!

"And I don't see how we could care for him," Clarice said to herself;but there was an uneasy feeling all the time. "He looked so sad," shethought, "that I cannot help pitying him. We are so happy together; heis so lonely. Mother was more to him than he thought. Yet after all, itis his own doing."

But Clarice had read her Bible too well for that to satisfy her. Wordskept coming into her head all the evening.

These thoughts made her so silent that Helen, who was helping herto undress, said, "I know you are in pain, Clarice; you have hurtyourself."

"No, indeed. I am only thinking of papa. How he did look at me to-day."

"Because you are like his sister, you know."

"Yes; but he seemed hurt. Perhaps we forget him too much, Helen. Hemust be very lonely without mother."

"Now, Clarice! He never seemed to know when she spoke to him! And asto us, we might all go to New Zealand to-morrow, and I don't think hewould miss us, unless Katty forgot to give him his meals."

"I'm not so sure of that. I can't help fancying that he thinks moreabout us now."

"May be so; but I have enough to do without thinking of him. He chosethat kind of life, so no doubt he likes it. Are you comfortable now,dear? Take baby then. Good-night, Clarice."

Clarice lay thinking. "Yes, Helen has more than enough to do; but thereis very little that I can do. Perhaps I ought to try to get nearer tohim if he will let me; I am sure he is lonely and unhappy. I won'tthink any more about his neglect of us, but only that he is lonely andsad, cast off by his own people, a stranger to his children, growingold, all alone; and, I'm afraid—"

But she did not pursue that thought. If she had, it would stand thus:"Afraid that in losing his wealth and worldly position, he had lost hisall."

Next morning, she ventured to get up and dress before Helen came toher. Baby lay in bed, staring round-eyed at her unwonted proceedings;but by the time Helen came, both she and baby were dressed.

"Now, Helen, see all the trouble I shall spare you. Is not this worth alittle pain?"

"Indeed it is not! I shall never forgive you, Clarice, if you hurtyourself to help me."

"It does not injure me; and the longer I put it off, the worse the painwill be. Now I shall hop gracefully out into the parlour; but you mustcarry baby."

Her appearance was greeted with loud applause by Guy and Agnes; but anattempt to sit at the breakfast table was unsuccessful. She got quitefaint from the pain in her back, and was obliged to lie down.

After a time, Mr. Egerton came in.

Clarice looked up at him as he passed, and said, "Papa, I dressedmyself and baby without help, and came in here on my crutches. Is notthat a good thing?"

He paused, as if not quite certain whether he was pleased or thereverse, but meeting her timid, gentle eyes, he half smiled and said,—

"Very good; but take care. 'Festina lente.'"

"Not much of a conversation," thought Clarice; "but it will do for abeginning."

"Why, I declare," cried Helen, "there's the postman!"

"The postman!" every one exclaimed at once.

Clarice felt quite sick with excitement. She had waited very patiently;but now, if that postman had not brought her a letter from Villiers, itwould be too much.

Guy went to the door, and returned quickly.

Mr. Egerton, naturally enough, held out his hand for the letter.

"It is not for you, sir. It's for Clarice, 'Miss Clarice Egerton,'quite plain; but who wrote it, I can't imagine."

"I know; oh, I know! Give it to me quickly."

She tore it open and glanced through it. Then she let it fall, andthrew her arms round Guy, who had knelt beside her to look at theletter.

"Guy," she sobbed out, "it has come! You have got what we asked for. Iknew we should, if we had patience. But, oh, what shall I do withoutyou?"

"Clarice dear, what do you mean? I don't understand it at all."

Clarice calmed herself by a great effort. "I'll read it to you all,"she said. "It is from Villiers."

"What made him write to you?" said Mr. Egerton, who was standing by thehead of her couch.

"Because he promised to get a situation for Guy; and he says he hasdone it."

"Did you ask him to do so?"

"I did. Was it wrong, papa? I did not think it could be."

"There was nothing wrong in it. What does he say?"

Clarice coloured. "When I said I would read it, papa, I did notremember that you were in the room; perhaps you would rather read it toyourself."

"No; read it. The worst was said and done before you were born, child;I'm past feeling it now."

And Clarice read:

The present proved to be a Post-office order for twenty pounds.

"Oh, Clarice!" Guy exclaimed. "I owe this to you. I have been longingfor it; and yet now that it has come, I don't know how to leave youall."

Clarice stroked his cheek and his curly dark hair; she dared not trusther voice to answer him.

Aymer said, "How kind of Villiers! It's a great thing for us all, Guy.I wish you joy, dear old fellow."

Helen stooped and kissed the top of his head, his face not beingvisible just then.

They had all forgotten their father's presence, until he said,—

"You none of you have the least idea to what a life of temptation andpoverty Guy will go—if he goes."

"Poverty, sir!" exclaimed Aymer, startled out of his habit of neveraddressing his father. "A hundred and fifty pounds a year! Why, it ismore than we all have to live on here."

"But how do we live? And how do we dress? And there is the garden andfarm, and—and—"

He paused, and looked puzzled. The truth was, that he knew his childrenso little that he did not know how to speak to them.

"I could not make you understand if I talked to you for an hour," hesaid at last. "But between poverty here and poverty in London there isa great difference. Here, there is no one to spy upon our misery; noone whose wealth and prosperity make our lot the harder by contrast.Here, too, there is little or no temptation. There, every one you meetwould be better off, better dressed, better educated than yourself, andyour life would be one of great temptation. In your place, Guy, nothingshould persuade me to go. But I do not forbid it. You are old enough tojudge for yourself, and I have never interfered, and never will. Do asyou like."

"I am glad, sir, that you don't forbid it. I am used to live poorly,and I'll try not to care for what others do. It would be cowardly toremain here, making the little there is less, when I can at leastsupport myself; and as to temptation, it finds one everywhere, and Godcan keep me there as well as here."

"Oh, if you come to that!" said Mr. Egerton, quietly, and somewhatcontemptuously. And he walked out of the room, leaving them all freeto consult about Guy's outfit. And they had a fight over it, but onlybecause Guy would not lay out the whole twenty pounds on clothes atonce.

"No, no," he said; "it must take me to London, and support me there fora time. I will not rob the beloved bag—it would break Clarice's heart.In spite of my father's doleful prophecies, I mean to do my part infilling that bag!"

Guy wrote to Dr. Majoribanks that evening, accepting the situation. Histime at home was very short, which was, perhaps, as well. Lizzie cameover to say good-bye, and gave him five pounds as her own and Donald'sparting gift; so Guy felt quite rich. Clarice kept sorrow at bay byworking hard, mending and making; there would be time enough to crywhen he was gone. She got Aymer to go to E— to make a purchase on whichher heart was set, a small Bible, as keepsake for Guy.

"Do read it often, Guy," she said; "and pray about what you read.Though we can't understand all of it, we can find out what is right."

"Clarice, I shall miss you sorely; you have been my guide."

"Oh, nonsense, Guy! How could I guide you? But you have a Guide, youknow, a Friend from whom nothing but your own act can part you. He isstrong, and He loves you. Oh, don't forget Him, Guy! Cling to Him,never forsake Him."

One who knew more would have urged the boy to attend church, to try tomake acquaintance with some clergyman who would take an interest inhim, to choose his companions carefully. But of all this, Clarice knewnothing. All she knew was that in her Bible she had found her Saviour;and the moment she began to speak of Him, the cloud of anxiety whichhad rested upon her face disappeared, and her words came freely. Of allworldly prudence, she was ignorant enough; but she knew and trustedHim; no one could hear her speak of Him, and fail to see that, to her,He was very real and very dear. All else that lay before her brotherwas hid from her eyes, but the Master, to whose service he was vowed,was clear enough.

"Don't think anything too small to ask Him about," she said; "until youreally trust Him in all things, you will never know what He can be toyou. Since I found that out, I have been so happy, Guy. When I am inpain, I pray, and He makes me able to be patient: when I get fretful, Ipray, and He makes me able to hold my tongue: when I want to do things,He helps me. Indeed, He seems always near, and so strong and loving. Dotry, dear Guy. I know you love Him, but try to never forget Him; andthen you'll be safe and happy, whatever happens."

"Pray for me often, Clarice. Your prayers won this opening for me, andnow they will be my safeguard. I'll try to remember, but I know youwill."

Neither of the speakers knew that their father had come into the roomwhile they were talking. He stood listening, with a doubtful look, andnow went away softly.

Guy left home next day. His absence made a terrible blank in Clarice'slife: all her natural strength and courage must have failed to supporther; but something supported her. She grew paler and thinner, and wassometimes guilty of not hearing little Agnes's merry chatter; but shenever complained, and was as gentle and as ready to help as ever. Shelittle knew how closely she was being watched, nor how her stedfast,cheerful patience surprised and puzzled the watcher.

CHAPTER XI.

GUY'S FRIEND, TOM PRICE.

A YEAR passed quietly away, bringing no change to Ballintra, except inbaby Frank, who grew and prospered, the joy and the terror of Clarice'slife. Her joy, in that he was the prettiest, merriest, most coaxinglittle fellow in the world: her terror, in that he was also the mostenterprising, with an innate love of climbing and scrambling, whichcost her many an uneasy moment.

Clarice did not forget her resolution to endeavour to get nearer to herfather; but, though she went on trying, she sometimes thought he wasrather annoyed than pleased. Her power of moving about had increased agood deal, and she could get all over the house, even going up and downstairs without much difficulty; but there the improvement stopped.

For some time after his departure, Guy wrote constantly. He was paidregularly, and, by his own request, weekly; and by the most rigideconomy, he succeeded in saving money, every shilling of which was senthome to be put in the "beloved bag." At about this time, however, hebegan to write less often, though always affectionately; yet Claricesomehow felt sure that he was neither so happy nor so hopeful as he hadbeen. Happy, perhaps, is not the right word, for Guy had made no secretof his sense of loneliness, and of longing for the dear home faces;but his letters had indicated a mind at rest, and hope for the future.He had often praised his landlady, Mrs. Browne, yet now he spoke ofleaving her house. Matters were in this state, when one morning Mr.Egerton received a letter from Mrs. Browne herself, which I shall copy,as it is rather a curiosity. The writer was a poor struggling widow,with a large family, and so her kind care for her young lodger is themore to be admired.

Mr. Egerton went to Clarice, and gave her the letter.

"Who is it from, papa?"

"The person with whom Guy lodges."

"Oh—is he ill?" cried Clarice, turning very white.

"No. Read it, and then you will know as much as I do."

Clarice read, and looked very anxious.

"What can be the matter?" she said.

"Surely it is plain enough! This young Price has led him intoextravagance—or, more likely, the boy has become weary of his miserableexistence, and is reckless."

"It is not that. I should know by his letters. Oh, if I could see himfor five minutes! What will you do, papa?"

"I?—Nothing. What can I do or say? I know it was a hopeless experiment;he has tried it, and failed. Tell him to give it up, and come home."

"But, papa, do you never think what it will end in? If we all stayat home doing nothing, what is to become of us? Yet we are yourchildren—do you not care, papa, if we beg or starve when you leave us?"

"Clarice, you forget yourself. I leave you the letter. Do as you thinkbest."

When Aymer and Helen came in, they had a long and anxious talk. It wasdecided that Clarice should write to Guy, saying that she felt surethere was something amiss, and begging him not to conceal any troublefrom those who loved him so tenderly. She even ventured to say thatperhaps he wanted a little money—further she dared not go, as she mighthave betrayed Mrs. Browne.

Guy answered at once.

When this letter reached Ballintra, the whole family were in theparlour, dinner being just over. Clarice read it, and silently gave itto Helen and Aymer.

Mr. Egerton looked up from his book and asked, "Have you heard fromGuy?"

"Yes, papa. Should you like to read it?"

"If you have no objection."

He read it, and gave it back to her, saying slowly, "Poor boy!"

"Father," said Aymer, "tell us what you think. You have lived amongmen—you must be better able to judge than we can be."

"You know Guy better than I do. Is it certain that this is the wholetruth?"

"Quite certain," they all declared, with one voice.

"And what then can I tell you more than the unhappy boy has told youhimself?"

They looked at one another, puzzled.

At last Clarice said,—

"You think this Tom Price is a bad companion for him—is that it?"

Mr. Egerton sat for a few moments turning over the leaves of his bookabsently; at last he said,—

"You are all of you wonderfully innocent and ignorant, no doubt. Idon't know that I am doing you a kindness in enlightening you. ThisPrice is a drinker, an idler, and a gambler. Finding Guy's handsomeface and well-sounding name of use to him, he is trying to make himsuch another as himself. He has begun with billiards, but he will notstop there. Guy does not seem to have learned the lesson as quickly asI should have expected; but I do not see what is to save him unless youcan persuade him to come home. I almost fear he will refuse to do so.In which case, his utter ruin is only a matter of time."

"If you knew that this was likely, why did you not warn him?" saidAymer.

"I did warn you all. You would not believe me; but you know now that Iwas right. Persuade him to come home if you can,—and—"

"And what?" said Aymer, hotly. "Work hard and live poorly, without ahope or chance of better days!"

"Aymer, I see no good, no object to be gained by any of you, uneducatedand unfriended, risking yourselves."

Again Aymer interrupted him. "How is it to end?" he asked,passionately. "If we all remain here, just living—what is to become ofus, father?"

"When I am gone, my family must do something for you," Mr. Egertonanswered, quickly. "For their own sakes, they must do it."

Then he got up and left the room.

Aymer was silent for a few moments, but then the bitterness of longyears broke forth.

"So!" said he. "To save his pride, we are all to live as best we may,until at his death we are turned out of this place; and then we are tobe indebted to his fine relatives for help to grub on in the same waysomewhere else. I would sooner beg my bread from house to house!"

"And so would I!" said Helen.

"And we are to bring Guy home, to eat his heart out in idleness, or togo to the bad for want of hope! To live the life that even I, dull,plodding Aymer, feel to be hard lines sometimes. And this is all hisknowledge can suggest, though he sneers at our ignorance—his own work!"

"Aymer," said Clarice, gently, "believe me, papa is more to be pitiedthan any one of us. Do not speak bitterly, for you will surely be sorryfor it by-and-by. Let us think of Guy—for I agree with you, he must notcome home."

"Well, Clarice, my opinion is this. Guy has done nothing wrong. He isour own Guy still, loving and trustworthy. If he had you with him, verylittle would Tom Price see of him after his work; he and you always hadcompany enough, if you were together over a book. You are well ableto get about now, and Frank is no longer a baby. We shall miss you,Clarice—you don't know how much—but you'll be the saving of Guy."

"That's exactly what I think," said Helen. "It seems as if things hadcome about on purpose to make it possible. What do you say, Clarice?"

"When I read this letter, I thought just as you do; then I put it away,because I fear I should be but a dull companion for him, when he has noother."

"You'll be just what he wants," said Aymer. "Some one to work for, andto care for, and to welcome him home, and read with him. You'll go,won't you, Clarice?"

"If you really think this—and if papa consents."

Both brother and sister exclaimed at this, but Clarice was steady toher determination. Against his will she would not go.

Mr. Egerton, being told by Clarice that evening, made no objection. Heonly said,—

"You cannot go alone; and where is the money to come from?"

"We have a little laid by, and Aymer will go with me."

"Clarice, I am not trying to dissuade you, but think this over beforeyou go. London will be very dreary to you, child. You will never getout, remember; and the musty little rooms over a provision shop will bea poor exchange for Ballintra, bad as this is."

"But, papa, do you think I should be of use to Guy?"

"You might be—yes, I think you might. He seemed very fond of you; andto have you there was his own idea, I remember."

"And I love him so much, papa, that even if London kills me, I shallthink I have lived long enough, if I have done him good. I shall neverbe anything but a feeble creature, not good for much—but if I saveGuy!" Her eyes filled with sudden tears.

Her father looked at her with a strange expression, and said,—

"Clarice, you are no fool. You know what you are going to. Aymer andHelen realise only what they see, or they would never let you go; butyou are different; you do realise it. Are you really content to give upall that makes your life tolerable, for that boy's sake?"

"More than content," she answered, earnestly.

"I see it is so, indeed, but I don't understand it," he muttered.

"Oh, dear papa! Forgive me this once. How can you understand it whenyou shut your heart against the Love that left heaven for you?"

She was crying bitterly; and by the time she had dried her eyes andcould see again, her father had left the room.

CHAPTER XII.

HOW THE BAG WAS EMPTIED.

WHEN Aymer returned from this, the first journey he had ever taken, hemade Helen laugh (though she was in no laughing mood, for she missedClarice unspeakably) by his description of Tom Price's face when hemarched into Guy's room and found them at tea.

HE FOUND THEM AT TEA.

Tom beat a hasty retreat, and reappeared no more. For a long time hewas unwearied in trying to borrow money; but Guy had had his lesson andwas hard-hearted now, having Clarice to care for; so by degrees Tomdropped his acquaintance.

Clarice's first care was to get needlework from a London shop; this waseasy, for she was really a beautiful worker.

Mrs. Browne was soon paid, and saving for the "beloved bag" begunagain. Through her kind-hearted little landlady, Clarice becameacquainted with Mrs. Ausley, the wife of the rector of the parish,and afterwards with Dr. Ausley, who soon took a great interest in thebrother and sister.

This friendship proved the greatest possible benefit to the youngEgertons; even to those at home, for everything was fully written tothem, and Dr. Ausley even allowed some of his books to be sent forHelen and Aymer to read, and he kept Guy and Clarice fully providedwith really good books. Moreover, Clarice contrived to get to church,and that was a most delightful event in her life. Her health did notsuffer in the least from the change, and she could not doubt that herpresence made Guy perfectly contented.

When nearly two years had passed, they went home for a holiday; and thehappiness of that meeting was very great. The only familiar object thatwas no longer to be seen at Ballintra was the "beloved bag," for thecontents had swelled so greatly that Aymer had placed the money in thebank at E— for greater safety.

Aymer said that the time would soon come for him and Guy to go to NewZealand, where they would work hard, get experience, and send homemoney enough to bring out the rest of the family. But soon after Guyand Clarice had returned to London, a most unlooked-for misfortuneoccurred—Mr. Egerton fell ill.

It was only a severe cold at first, but he would not allow Helen totake care of him. And before very long, he was so seriously ill thatAymer went to E— for old Dr. Garvey. For many weeks Mr. Egerton knewno one, and it seemed very doubtful that he would ever leave his bedalive. Then the fever left him, and there seemed to be no reason whyhe should not regain his usual health and strength. But he did not getbetter. There he lay, with great sad eyes looking out of a shadowyface, but he neither moved nor spoke of his own will.

Dr. Garvey said to Aymer, "Mr. Egerton, your father is an old man forhis years, and I greatly fear that this is a general breaking up.It will be slow—it may go on for months. Give him good wine, strongbeef-tea, and change of air, if he rallies a little. I will look insometimes, and you can always send for me; but I don't think there isany use in my coming constantly."

He went away, and Helen wrung her hands in dismay.

"Good wine!" she said. "Two and sixpence or three shillings for everybottle! Beef-tea, with beef at tenpence a pound! Oh, Aymer!"

"The 'beloved bag' must do it, Helen. Don't cry, my dear; you can'tturn your tears into beef-tea, afraid. Look you, Nell, it's a plainduty, so it must be done. We have the money; he is our father, and sowe must not hold back. Guy and Clarice will say just the same."

So you see Clarice's words and example had not been thrown away.Indeed, when the two go together they are seldom lost—though the wordswithout the example go astray sometimes.

Meantime, Mr. Egerton, silent always, watched and wondered. Had hebeen the most tender of fathers, he could not have been more carefullynursed. Helen never spared herself. The nourishing food and wine didhim good, and he gained a little strength.

Helen was often aware that her father was watching her; at last, oneday, he spoke.

"Helen, we cannot afford all this. I suppose we are in debt already?"

"Oh no! Aymer pays for everything."

"Aymer! What, out of that hoard that Clarice once spoke of?"

"Yes; and Guy and Clarice want you to go to them for a change, when youget better."

"I don't think I shall get better. Not your fault, Helen; you are doingall you can."

A day or two later, Aymer, finding the sad eyes fixed wistfully on him,said cheerily,—

"I think you are stronger to-day, sir."

"If I am not, I cannot blame you for it. Will you answer me onequestion truly."

"If I answer it at all, sir."

"Then tell me why you—all of you—spend your hard-earned money—whichyou will sorely want—on one to whom you owe nothing, and whom you havenever pretended to love?"

Aymer reddened and hesitated. At last he said, bluntly, "We could nothelp doing so plain a duty as this."

"So you all spend your money, and Helen her time and strength, becauseit is your duty. I want to know who taught you that?"

"My mother—she began it; and surely she did hers. And then Clarice gotus to read the Bible. It's all there, you know, sir."

"Boy," said Mr. Egerton, half angrily, "no one could do as you aredoing merely because it is written in a book!"

"I'm no good at explaining, sir. And if you put yourself out, you'll bebad again."

Next day, Mr. Egerton asked Helen to write and tell Clarice that hewanted to see her.

Clarice was very reluctant to go.

"He used to puzzle Aymer and Helen with questions," she said, "when hefound them reading the Bible or the books we send them; and Aymer toldme he used to get quite unhappy, for the doubts suggested would keepcoming back, until at last, he always went away at once, and would haveno talk. And when we went home, I took him a present of that book ofwhich Dr. Ausley thinks so highly, and he would not even open it. Hesaid he had known the author, who was an enthusiast. What could I sayto him? I should only do harm."

Still, when her father went on in the same way, not getting any better,and always begging of her to come home, she felt that she ought to go.Guy took her to Dublin, and Aymer met her in E— and accompanied herhome.

Her father seemed pleased to see her; but as days passed, and he saidnothing particular to her, she began to think that her fears had beenunfounded; and before long she almost wished he would speak. He lookedso sad; he seemed to be always thinking. At last one evening, when shewas sitting at work in the window of his room, he suddenly said,—

"Clarice, come here. I want to ask you a question—you need not lookso frightened, child. I suppose Aymer has been telling you how I oncepuzzled him with questions. Aymer is no genius; yet his simple answerspuzzled me more than my questions puzzled him. But, Clarice, allthat looks very small when one comes to lie where I lie now. Littlediscrepancies—little difficulties—what are they in the face of thegreat realities?"

"What great realities?" whispered Clarice, after waiting silently forsome time.

"Death—Conscience—Eternity!" he answered. "In my worst days I neverdoubted that there is a Hereafter. I simply never thought of it. It wasyou, Clarice, long ago, set me thinking."

"I, papa?"

"Yes, a few words you said; but, far more, the fact that there is inyour life a something—a motive-power, which cannot be a delusion. Iam weak now, and I believe I am talking like a fool; but it has cometo this, that I would give—oh, what would I not give?—to be able tobelieve. But I have cherished my vain doubts and questions, and Iplayed with my idle speculations so long that all is mist. I cannot layhold of anything."

"I am not sure that I understand you, papa."

"I am not sure that I understand myself," he answered, with a sadsmile. "Since your namesake, my sister Clarice, died, I have neverthought much about religion. I have gone on—dreaming—doing nothing,in fact. If conscience awoke for a moment, I silenced her. I laid theblame of my wasted life on—circumstances, on my father, on anything andany one but myself. From this state I have been awakened—how, I hardlyknow. I do see my sin—I do repent; but when I would take another stepand cry for mercy—then all is mist. I have amused myself by seeing howthe Christian religion can be explained away, until now when I turnto it in my bitter need, it eludes my grasp—I can see no certainty—nohope. It is all mist!"

"Papa, I once heard Dr. Ausley preach on the subject of doubts anddifficulties of this kind, and I will tell you something of whathe said. He began, if I remember rightly, by saying that until thehistory of our Lord and of His apostles was proved to be a fiction frombeginning to end, the credulous people were those who try to accountfor it on natural grounds. I am not making it plain, papa—I wish Icould."

"I understand; go on."

"Then there was St. Paul. He had everything to lose, and nothing togain. He was wise, well-educated, and had reasoning powers beyond thecommon. Why did he believe? He said he saw the Lord—he must have knownwhether that was true or false. Do men throw away everything they valuein life for the pleasure of being persecuted for telling a he?"

"Go on, child—go on."

"And those twelve men of a conquered and despised nation, unlearned andignorant men, too—yet their teaching upset the religion of great Rome,and has gone on spreading ever since. But the thing that struck memost in what Dr. Ausley said, and you said something like it just now,was—'that every Christian life, however weak and faulty, is a miraclegreater than any other. Because,' he said, 'here are sinful men, weakwomen, silly young people, tempted and tried, and yet going on somehow,living a life that is not only not easy, but actually against theirvery nature.'"

"I have felt that," Mr. Egerton said. "Clarice, I think my time isshort. What had I better do?"

"Papa, would you not let Aymer go to E— and ask Mr. Monroe to come tosee you?"

"No, no!" he answered. "Not that—not yet. I could not bear it."

The very thought of seeing a stranger agitated him so much that Claricefelt that she could not press it.

"Then let me read the Bible to you, papa."

"The miserable old doubts will come back."

"Oh no! For now you feel the want—you wish to believe it. Oh, dearpapa, turn the wish into prayer! You are not vexed with me, papa?"

"No, not at all vexed. Come to-night and read to me. I am clearer atthat time, I think, than any other. When Helen has left me, do youcome."

"I will—gladly."

"And leave me now, child."

She had nearly reached the door when he called her back.

"Clarice, you tell me to pray. How can I pray when I cannot believe? Itwould be a mockery."

Clarice came back with her slow and painful step, and looking downtenderly at him she said,—

"I have read in a book I like so much, that there is a lesson to belearned from one of our Lord's miracles, which one does not see justat first. It is the healing of the withered hand. The man's hand wasquite useless, perhaps he had not been able to move it for years. OurLord said, 'Stretch forth thine hand.' Suppose the man had answered, 'Icannot—there is no power in it?' But he just obeyed, and the power wasthere. Whether the intention to obey brought the power, or the powercame with the intention, no one can say."

She went away then, and this time he did not call her back.

After this Clarice read the Bible diligently to her father. At firstshe chose the portions she thought most likely to be useful, but aftera few days he began to ask for this or that part, which he wished tohear. But he only listened in silence—he spoke to her no more. Everyday he became more gentle and patient; more grateful to them all forthe kindness and tenderness which he felt was so undeserved. But hisnatural reserve and his long habit of silence were not to be overcomenow. Therefore it was a great happiness to Clarice, indeed to all ofthem, when he asked Aymer to invite the Rector of E— to visit him,which that gentleman did regularly from that time.

Time slipped by. Mr. Egerton made no rally. The hard-earned savingswere melting away, in spite of Helen's economy. The "beloved bag" wouldsoon be quite empty. Yet not even Aymer complained, though he oftenwondered sadly what he was to do when he should be left penniless withtwo young children to support, and Helen, homeless.

One day Mr. Egerton said to Clarice, "I want you to write a letter forme, my dear, and tell Aymer to come here, that he may hear what I say."

Clarice obeyed, and was soon ready to write.

Mr. Egerton's weak voice began:

"Have you written that, Clarice?"

"Yes, papa."

"And, Aymer, you are attending? Go on now, my dear.

"I will try to sign it, Clarice."

"You are very weak to-day," she said, startled to see how difficult hefound it to hold the pen.

"I am," he said; "I think I am much weaker. Aymer, is there anything inthat to which you object?"

"Nothing, father; I think you have done quite right."

"I have not said anything about your future," Mr. Egerton said, in alow voice.

"And I hope you won't, sir. From your father I would not acceptsixpence to keep us all out of the poorhouse!"

"You would not ask for it; and I cannot blame you, Aymer. Yet, Ibeseech you—little as I have deserved of you, don't deny me my onlyrequest—if they offer to help you, don't refuse it. I know what youwere saving for, and I know how your money is being spent. I cannothelp it—I cannot even wish you not to do what you feel to be right;but don't fancy that I don't feel it. All for me! And I never workednor cared for one of you. And once for all, children," (Helen had comein with some soup for him), "once for all, let me speak. You four—youpoor, neglected, overworked children—have been living proofs to me thatreligion is not all imagination, which have outweighed the belief, orunbelief, of a lifetime. Children, I cannot think that my blessing willavail much, yet I must bless you, and ask you all to forgive me. I haveno excuse to offer, Aymer," he added, turning a wistful look upon hiseldest son. "You must forgive me freely, if you can forgive at all."

"Father," said Aymer, with a sob, "I do—I do, indeed! And you'llforgive me. I was very disrespectful."

"I have nothing to forgive. Never man had such children. I dare tobelieve that these is forgiveness for me with God, as you can forgive.You and—your mother: she forgave me, too. My poor Elise—my poor Elise!"

He never spoke again; he passed away in quiet sleep, utterly wornout. Aymer posted the letter the next day, merely writing beneathhis father's trembling signature, "My father died a few hours afterdictating this letter."

No answer was received, but the letter was not sent bank torn in two.

Between the scanty remains of the "beloved bag" and what was realisedby the sale of furniture and stock, enough money was raised to takeAymer out, alone, to New Zealand.

Guy undertook the care of the others, assisted, of course, by whatHelen and Clarice could earn, until among them they could save enoughfor passage-money and outfit again.

Lizzie and Donald, however, begged to have Frank and Agnes left withthem until that time should come. And it was so plainly the best planfor the children, that the rest consented, though the parting was avery hard matter.

As soon as all their affairs at Ballintra were arranged, the fourEgertons went to London. Everything was soon ready for Aymer'sdeparture; another day, and he would leave them.

Mrs. Browne had contrived to spare another bedroom rather than loseher lodgers, so Clarice was sitting in her old place in the littleparlour sewing buttons on Aymer's shirts, and damaging their stiffnessby crying over them, when the door opened, and some one came gentlyin. She did not look round, because she was trying to dry her eyesunperceived, when the new-comer said, laying a hand on her shoulder,—

"What, crying, Cousin Clarice? And won't you even look at me, afterthis long time that we have never met?"

"Why, Villiers! Is this really you? Oh, how glad I am to see you! ButI'm afraid you ought not to be here."

"Why, Clarice?"

"Your grandfather!"

Villiers sat down beside her and took her hand in his own.

"Dear cousin," he said, "our poor grandfather is dead. You know aboutthe letter that poor Uncle Guy sent him—I think it was in your writing.Well, when it came, he read it quietly enough; quite calmly, in fact,and told us,—

"'My younger son, Guy, is dead.'

"And though we thought he looked pale and ill, he never gave in a bitor made any further remark about it. But two days afterwards, he diedquite suddenly—he was not ill for more than a few minutes, and we allbelieve that it was suppressed agitation—the unnatural strain it musthave been—that killed him. I was with him, of course. He hardly spoke;but once, with a great effort, he made a few words plain.

"'Villiers, you'll find a letter in my desk—see to it.'

"And that letter, Clarice, contains an order on his bankers for onethousand pounds, and it is directed to Aymer."

"Oh, Villiers! And Aymer was to leave us to-morrow and go alone to NowZealand. Now we can all go together, as we used to plan it."

Then she added, sorrowfully, "I think I am very hard-hearted, torejoice over it, and never care for poor Sir Aymer. He wished to bekind at last, you see."

The others came in presently, and were told the news—good news, as theycould not help feeling it to be.

Next day Lady Anne came to see them, and by her graceful tact, sheactually induced Aymer to allow his cousin to make them all a presentof their outfit and passage, so that their little capital might reachNow Zealand untouched. And then, taking Helen and Clarice with her inher carriage, she purchased such an outfit as they had never dreamedof. There was hardly room to move in Mrs. Browne's little rooms, asthere was such a large number of boxes.

Aymer went "home," as they still called Ballintra, for the children;and Guy gave Dr. Majoribanks notice that he could not remain with himany longer. Dr. Majoribanks was terribly angry, and as much surprisedat what he was pleased to term "young Egerton's ingratitude," as if hehad invariably been kind and considerate to him, instead of having beena hard taskmaster to a most painstaking secretary.

Lady Anne took such a fancy to Clarice that she wanted to keep her,promising that she should be as her own daughter; but Clarice was notto be tempted; and the others raised nearly as great a disturbance asthey had in old times, when Elise Anderson proposed to take Claricehome with her.

The rest may be imagined. A pretty, irregularly built house, allcovered with flowers, stands on thriving sheep farm in New Zealand, andbears the name of Ballintra. It is not very long since the Egertonswent out, but so far they have prospered greatly, and there is goodreason to hope that their prosperity will be lasting. Sir VilliersEgerton has visited them twice, coming out in his steam yacht, the"Clarice," bringing them books and pictures, and everything which hethinks will add to their comfort.

A very happy household theirs is, and not the least cheerful anduseful of the party is "young Egerton's lame sister," as the scatteredneighbours call her. Yet she is still, and will always be, a crippledsufferer; but she holds by her old resolution: she does what she can.And any one can do that.

Yes—but what a changed world it would be, if every one did it!

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74427 ***