Chapter III

THE young people were careful to have their room in a state of very unusual order on the following afternoon when their mother entered to spend the twilight hour with them and to continue her story. The small cousins were too much occupied with the many treasures of the doll's house to be much in the way.

"Go on as quickly as you can, mother," said Jack. "It seemed horrid to leave poor Lizzie and her parcels at that station last night, and crying, too, for want of a penny. I wish I had been there; I would have carried all her biggest parcels, and given her my new penny that Flossie thought of so little consequence last night."

"If it had not been lost past recovery, through the hole in your pocket, Jack," remarked Madge, the housewife. "But there is this about dear old Jack: his sympathy means something, and he will help as well as talk if there is anything he can do."

"I am sure of that," said mamma.

We will go back twenty years, and to Lizzie Northcote. I think I only told you her Christian name last night. Probably if she had spoken to one of the porters, he would have helped her out of the trifling difficulty; but the girl naturally spoke first to a lady, as the least likely to refuse her request. She was wiping away the tears which the coarse refusal had brought into her eyes, when, on looking up, she noticed a stout, ruddy-faced country gentleman observing her attentively. He had been about the station almost as long as herself, and appeared to be waiting for someone. He was a man in the full vigour of life and health, though his crisp hair was tinged with gray, and in his face there was a fatherly expression that reminded Lizzie of her own dear parent in their Lincolnshire home.

She was about making up her mind to speak to him, when he addressed her. "What is your trouble, dear child?" said he. "Anything I can do for you? You need not be afraid to speak; I have had children of my own, and still have one dear lass about your age. I wish her cheeks were half as rosy as yours."

There was a tinge of sadness about the last words, but there was no mistaking the manly, sympathetic ring of that kindly voice. Lizzie felt that she had found the friend she wanted, and she told her story in a few words, but did not ask her listener for a penny. There was no need to do that. Almost before she had finished, his hand was in his pocket, as he asked the name of the station at which she wished to alight; and, as soon as he knew it, he went to the booking-window, obtained a ticket, and placed it in the girl's hand.

"I don't know how to thank you enough," she said, half-laughing, half-crying. "It seemed so absurd to be kept here for want of a penny—to become a beggar for it, and to be refused, when I had the worth of so much money about me."

"Do not thank me at all, my child," said the gentleman. "But may I ask whether you sought help from the lady to whom you spoke?"

Lizzie's face flushed as she told how rudely she had been repulsed.

"Poor thing!—I don't mean you, child; I mean the fossil in female attire whom you mistook for a woman with a heart in her bosom. Depend on it she never held a little prattling girl of her own in her arms, as I have done. Now, will you take another shilling or two, in case of further emergency?"

"No, thank you; indeed I want nothing more. I should like to send back what you have lent me in stamps, if you will kindly give me your address."

The gentleman laughed merrily at the idea of receiving the trifle back again, and said, "Tell that handsome sister of yours I saw you both long before you saw me; that she must never leave you again with such a narrow margin of cash, especially if there is a refreshment stall close at hand, and a ragged urchin to assist you in eating the buns."

"I was very hungry," said Lizzie, with a good hearty laugh, "and my second bun was the cause of all my trouble."

"Not the boy's share; eh?"

"Certainly not. If I had been contented with one bun, all would have been well."

"Here is your train coming in," said the friend in need. "Let me hand in your parcels."

He saw her comfortably placed, closed the door of the carriage, and lifted his hat by way of farewell.

The train went slowly forward, and Lizzie, as she waved her hand in reply, saw the kindly stranger extend his own to a tall young man who was stepping eagerly towards him just as he turned away from the carriage.

"No doubt," thought she, "he has been waiting all this time for that new-comer who stepped up in such a hurry. A happy thing for me that he did not come sooner, and carry off my kind gentleman before I had time to receive his help. I wish I knew his name; I am sure papa would like to thank him for his goodness to me."

At this moment Lizzie noticed what she at first thought was a letter amongst her parcels. She snatched it hastily, fearing that the unknown had left something of consequence behind him; but she found it was only an empty envelope addressed, "Percival Long, Esq., Elin Crag, Belford Regis." Naturally she did little else but wonder whether this could be the name she wished so much to know. At any rate she resolved to take care of the envelope, and deposited it at the very bottom of her pocket.

The brief railway journey was soon over, and a cab speedily landed Lizzie at her cousin's house, where she received a rapturous welcome from her smaller relatives, who were beginning to think their playmate had forgotten her promise. As a matter of course, she had to obtain money for her cab-fare before she could dismiss the man. Her cousin supplied this at once, saying, "Do not trouble to go into your room to fetch it, Lizzie. But, my dear girl, you should not run your purchases within a shilling or two of your cash."

"I have done worse than that," said Lizzie. "I have not only been within a penny, but without one this afternoon. It is lucky I escaped being taken up for begging at a railway-station."

Without implicating Edith or letting her cousin Ellen know how scanty was the margin over and above her railway-fare which her sister had given her, Lizzie gave a ludicrous account of her recent troubles and of the manner in which she had been relieved.

Helen was horrified, and began to concern herself about Edith's pecuniary resources.

"Edith is all right. She has enough, and, besides, she is with an old friend who would supply her wants. We are thorough country folk, Helen, and we had so enjoyed the shops and the buying all sorts of nice little things, without considering that unlimited expenditure was leading us straight to bankruptcy. I should have done well enough but for my greediness in eating two buns instead of making one do. However, I am quite ready for that delightful meal—a knife and fork tea—which you promised me. I ate the buns 'without prejudice,' as the lawyers say, and beg you will not remember those items when you see me feeding. You alluded to roast fowl, I think, and my nose suggests fried ham. I must not lose another moment."

Gathering up her gloves and other minor belongings, the girl ran up-stairs, and soon returned, bright, fresh, and smiling, in her pretty cool muslin dress. But if anyone had peeped into her room they would have seen that a portion of her time there had been spent on her knees. She had knelt to acknowledge an answered prayer; for, in her brief trouble, she had lifted up her heart to God to ask Him for help, and she now thanked Him as heartily for having sent her just the assistance and the friend she needed.

Lizzie's hostess had no occasion to complain that her young cousin failed to appreciate the tea-table dainties, or the little people that she was a less lively companion than usual. It was only when even they confessed themselves too tired to play any longer that Lizzie at length sat down to enjoy a much-needed rest.

The weary girl had forgotten self in her desire to keep her promise and minister to the pleasure of the children, who little knew what the effort cost her.

Edith returned sooner than was expected. Her cousin was not in the room when she entered, so did not hear the exclamation, "Oh, Lizzie I am most thankful to see you safe at home."

"Where did you expect to see me, Edie?"

"To say the truth I have been quite uncomfortable about you. I had scarcely left the station and you on the platform when I thought how little money I had just given you, and how selfish I had been all the day through, as we had gone about together. You thought of mamma, of me, of everybody but yourself; and I, Lizzie! I feel ashamed when I remember that I considered no person's convenience but my own, and that every purchase I made was a selfish one. I did not even care about getting that shawl for dear mamma!"

"Well, dear, it was got, and Helen was kind enough to make it up in a nice large pasteboard box, and send it off to the parcels office. I hope mamma will receive it to-morrow."

"No thanks to me!" said Edith.

"It went as from both," replied Lizzie. "You may be sure of that, Edie. Now, tell me, have you enjoyed your evening?"

"Nora—Mrs. Martin—was delighted to see me, and I found her husband exceedingly kind and agreeable."

"And his brother, the young groomsman?" asked Lizzie, with an arch smile.

Edith would not appear to understand the insinuation; but only replied that all the Martins were as nice as usual.

"But," she added, "I must tell you, Lizzie, what spoiled the evening for me. We had two other guests who came later than I did, and quite unexpectedly. The gentleman is a distant relative of Mr. Martin's, and is agreeable enough; but his wife is Nora's aversion. She is a dreadful person: so cold, hard, unsympathetic, and besides so fond of saying sharp things without the least regard to the feelings of others that she spoils everybody's comfort. She told a story, and she looked, I thought, only at me whilst she related it, about a well-dressed young lady who had asked her for the gift of a penny at a railway-station. 'And fancy,' she said, 'I had seen the creature gorging herself with sweets in the refreshment room only the moment before. I told her plainly that she was an impostor, though I have no doubt George would have opened his purse to her had he been alone.'"

"I could not get rid of the idea that you were the young lady, Lizzie; and when she named the place and described the girl I felt sure of it. All my selfishness flashed across my mind. I remembered how I had hurried you about your lunch—far less substantial than my own; loaded you with my parcels; and left you with not even money enough to obtain proper refreshment, when you must have been both hungry and weary. I thought, too, that I might grow to be like that hard, cold-hearted woman who seemed so devoid of common feeling, and I could not endure even the fancied picture. I was too unhappy to stay at Mrs. Martin's as long as I intended, and nothing ever rejoiced me more than to find you here safe and sound."

As Edith spoke she threw her arms round her sister's neck and kissed her affectionately.

Lizzie returned the caress with all the warm sisterly love that was part of her sweet feminine character. Further conversation was, however, prevented by the entrance of Cousin Helen, who announced that her lively little ones were at length sleeping peacefully, from the baby upwards. She jestingly alluded to Lizzie's adventure, and was surprised to observe the effect her joke had upon Edith, and to hear the latter frankly acknowledge how much she had been to blame.

Lizzie turned the conversation as quickly as possible, and no more was said about the matter. The cousins passed the last hour before bed-time in talk about mutual friends and relatives, and the expected return of Helen's husband on the morrow.

When the two sisters were in their own room, Edith had something more to say.

"Does it not seem strange that so little a thing should make me feel so differently, both about myself and you, Lizzie? I have always had an idea that you, as younger sister, ought to give up your will to mine, and as though things which mattered for me were of no consequence to you; as though the best was my due always, and that—"

"Don't say another word, Edith. I have always been glad for you to have the best. You set off pretty things far more than I do."

"Ah, Lizzie, darling! It was good in you to give up; but it was not good in me to take the best. I can see to-night, as I never did before, how much I may learn from you, little sister."

"I am certain your feeling in this way towards me is an answer to dear mamma's prayers, Edie. People have always petted and admired you, dear, and I'm sure I do, as much as anybody," said frank Lizzie, looking with genuine admiration into the face of her tall, handsome sister, who had probably never in her life looked so lovely and lovable as she did at that moment. "And so much praise is not quite a help towards keeping us humble. Luckily for me, I am never very much admired, except by old women and little children."

"And that is because your kind heart and willing hands are always devising and doing something for their happiness. You must help me to deserve love; and let us work together."

"As a beginning, let us pray together, Edie, to fit us for our work."

If the mother of those two kneeling girls could have looked into their room that summer night she would have been filled with joy and praise, and would have thanked God for an answered prayer.

From that time a new bond existed between the sisters. They were united by closer ties than that of kindred, being sisters in Christ.