Chapter III: Part 3

"Oh, Bessie," she said breathlessly, "get ready and come right away. My cousins have come to spend the day, and we're going boating up the river, and then home to supper. The rest are all waiting in the boat down there, and I ran up to get you. So be quick!"

Bessie hesitated. If she went with Nancy, a considerable portion of the work she had set herself to do would be left undone. Besides, her mother had gone to Ashleigh, leaving her in charge; and Bessie was not at all sure that, had she been at home, she would approve of her joining the party.

To be sure, she could not be absolutely certain of her mother's disapproval, and she could easily run down for Sam to come and stay with the children. At the worst, she did not think her mother would be much displeased; and the thought of the pleasant row, and the merry party, and all the "fun" they would have, offered no small temptation.

"Quick, Bessie!" Nancy urged, impatient of her delay.

"I don't think I can go, Nancy. Mother's out, and I've a lot of sewing to do."

"Bother the sewing! Your mother wouldn't mind, I'm sure. Mine lets me do exactly as I like. Come and get ready;" and she pulled Bessie from her seat, and drew her, half-resisting, towards the house.

They went up-stairs together, Bessie feeling far from satisfied with herself for yielding where conscience told her she ought not to yield.

"My!" said Nancy, whose quick eyes had been glancing round the room, "what a grand ticket you've got hanging up there! Where did you get it?"

Bessie's eye turned to her motto, and she stood for a minute looking at it in silence. Then, instead of replying to the question, she said, "Nancy, I cannot go; it wouldn't be right."

"Well, that's a nice way to treat me!" said Nancy angrily. "After my waiting so long, too. Why, don't you know your own mind? Come, you can't change now; I'm not going to be cheated, after all my trouble."

"I'm very sorry, Nancy; but I oughtn't to have said I would go at all. Don't wait any longer. But I'll go down to the boat with you."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself; I can do without your company." And off she ran, before Bessie could say any more.

Bessie felt sorry at having vexed Nancy, and thought a little wistfully of the afternoon's pleasure that she might have had. But she felt satisfied that she had done right, and felt thankful that she had had strength given to resist a temptation to which she now felt she would have done very wrong to yield. So she went back to her shady seat with a light heart, and stitched away diligently, not repining although she heard the merry voices of the party, borne to her from the river.

As her mother had not returned by the time her task was completed, she went in and got tea ready; and then calling up two of the gentlest cows, she had milked them by the time Mrs. Ford appeared, tired and dusty from her long walk. Her pleased surprise at Bessie's thoughtful industry in getting through so much of the work which she thought was still before her, was in itself sufficient reward for the self-denial; and Bessie felt what a shame it would have been if her mother, fatigued as she was, had had everything to do on her return, while _she_ was away on a pleasure-party.

Of course Mrs. Ford was soon informed of Nancy's visit and invitation. "Oh, my child!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you refused to go. Mrs. Thompson, in the village, was just telling me about these cousins of Nancy's, and says they are the wildest set in Burford, and that their society wouldn't do Nancy any good. So, if you had gone, I should have been very sorry. I'm so glad you didn't!"

How glad Bessie was that she had been enabled to resist the temptation! But she felt she could not take the credit to herself; so she said:

"I had the greatest mind to go, mother, but something told me I shouldn't, just as I was almost going."

"Well, it's all the same to me, as you didn't go. And you were a real good girl, Bessie, to stay!"

What a safeguard is a definite duty conscientiously pursued! If Bessie had not had her task of sewing to finish, with the feeling that it was her duty to do it, she might have been more easily led away against her better judgment.

Nelly Connor had had her temptation, too, the same evening. Her mother had sent her to take home some clothes she had been washing; and as Nelly was carrying the basket, she noticed a pretty pink printed frock lying on the top, which looked as if it would exactly fit her. How nice it would be, she thought, if she had such a frock to wear to the picnic! Then came one of the evil suggestions which the tempter is so ready to put into the heart: what if she should keep it till the picnic was over, and wear it just that once? She could hide it, and put it on somewhere out of her stepmother's sight; and then, perhaps, if she were dressed so nicely, some of the other little girls might be willing to play with her; for the poor child felt her isolated position.

Then conscience said, "Would it be right?" Had she not been learning, "Thou shalt not steal?" And had not Miss Lucy explained to her that that meant taking anything, even the least, that was not her own? A short time ago Nelly would have appropriated any trifle that came in her way, without thinking twice about it; but some light had visited her mind now, and she could distinguish what was darkness. But then this would not be stealing, it would only be borrowing the frock! At last she was so near the house, that she was obliged to make up her mind at once; so, scarcely giving herself time to think, she wrapped up the frock in the smallest possible compass, hid it behind a stone, and ran on to leave her basket, hurrying nervously back, lest some one should inquire for the missing article.

She found it quite safe, however, and managed to convey it unseen to her little attic-room. But Nelly felt far more unhappy than she had ever been when her harsh mother had beaten her most severely. She could not understand how it was that she should feel so miserable. She was glad that she could not go for her lesson to-night, for she should have been ashamed to face Miss Lucy. One of the children just then began to cry, and she ran down-stairs, glad of something to do, and took the utmost pains to do her evening work particularly well, by way of making up for the wrong of which she was inwardly conscious.

But when she went to bed, Nelly, for the first time in her life, tossed about, unable to sleep. All sorts of possibilities of detection and disgrace occurred to her, and, above all, the voice of conscience told her she was little better than a thief. She had knelt down to say the simple prayer she had been first taught by Miss Preston, "O Lord, take away my sin, and make me Thy child, for Jesus Christ's sake;" but indulged sin had come between her and the Father to whom she prayed, so that her prayer was only a formal one. She fell asleep at last, but only to dream uneasy dreams, in which the pink frock was always prominent; and when she awoke in the early morning, it was with an uneasy sense of something wrong, soon defined into a distinct recollection. As she lay watching the early sunbeams slanting golden into her dingy attic, her eye fell upon the card pinned up against the wall, "LOOKING UNTO JESUS," which she could now spell out herself. Had she not been told to "look to Jesus" when unhappy or naughty, and He would deliver her? She knew now that she could speak to Jesus anywhere; so, springing out of bed and kneeling down, she simply but heartily asked Him to help her to be good. Then, putting on her clothes with all the haste she could, for fear she might be tempted to change her mind, she ran off unobserved, carrying with her the coveted frock, which she handed, without a word, to the servant who was sweeping the steps, and who, recognising her, supposed her stepmother had forgotten to send it home with the rest of the washing.

Nelly ran off with a heart so much lighter, that she did not mind even the box on the ear which she received on her return for being out "idling about," instead of lighting the fire for the breakfast. She felt she had deserved much more than that, and she contentedly accepted it as a slight punishment for her wrongdoing.

That day, when Mrs. Connor was working at Mr. Raymond's, Mrs. Steele, showing her the frock which was now completed, told her it was to be given to Nelly on condition of her being allowed to go to the picnic. Mrs. Connor of course grumbled a good deal about the inconvenience of having to spare Nelly for a whole afternoon, but the frock tempted her; and reflecting that the opportune arrival of this frock would do away with any necessity for getting Nelly a new one for a long time to come, she ungraciously gave her consent that she should go.

When Nelly came that evening for her lesson, Lucy gladly informed her that she was to be allowed to go to the picnic, and presented her with the frock which had been provided for her. Lucy was prepared for her look of surprise, but not so for her covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. With some trouble she drew from her a confused account of the cause of her trouble--the sin she had been led into, and which touched her generous nature all the more now that the frock she had been wishing for was so opportunely provided.

Lucy was at first somewhat shocked that Kelly had been capable of taking such a liberty with what was not her own, not being able to realize the strength of such a temptation to a child whose possessions were so few; and she privately resolved not to tell Stella, who would scarcely have thought how nobly she overcame the temptation.

However, she commended and encouraged Nelly, and told her always to resort to the same sure Helper in time of temptation, and to do it in the first place. "And Jesus is always ready to hear and help you," she added.

"An' it was Him told you to give me the frock too, wasn't it? And I'm rightly thankful to Him, and you too, Miss Lucy."

And Nelly carried home her new acquisition, with very different feelings from those with which she had taken the frock she had coveted.

"How glad I am I thought of getting it ready for her!" thought Lucy as she watched her depart, her own heart full of the pleasure of doing a much-needed kindness,--the only drawback being her regret that Nelly had not a new hat likewise.

The much-watched-for day on which the picnic was to be held turned out as fine as the most eager young hearts could desire, notwithstanding one or two slight showers that fell in the early morning. But these only cleared the air and laid the dust, and made the foliage so fresh and glistening that its early summer beauty seemed for a time revived.

The fine old oak grove where the feast was to be held, was, even before the appointed hour, astir with bright little groups of happy children. The teachers and some of the elder girls were already busy at a roughly constructed table, unpacking and arranging cups and saucers, filling the latter with the ripe-red berries which had been brought in in great abundance, and cutting up the piles of buns and cakes. Bessie Ford was superintending the distribution of the cream which had come in large jars from the farmhouses, and of which Mill Bank Farm had contributed the richest and finest. Lucy of course was among the working party, her position as Mr. Raymond's daughter giving her a degree of importance far from disagreeable to her. Stella, seated with her friend Marian Wood in the centre of a mass of flowers, was daintily arranging them in tiny bouquets to be given to the children.

At last Bessie, who with Nelly's new hat beside her had been watching the various arrivals, descried the little solitary figure, with its dark, hanging locks, for which she had been looking. When she approached her, she was quite surprised at the change in her appearance produced by the fresh, pretty frock; and when her old hat was removed, and the new one placed upon her dark hair, which had been smoothly combed and brushed out and put back from her eyes, she really looked as nice as most of the children there. Her dark eyes danced with pleasure as Bessie, herself almost as happy, took her to a group of girls about her own age and introduced her to them as a stranger, to whom they must try to make the picnic as pleasant as possible. Bessie was a favourite with all the girls, and they willingly promised what she asked; so that Nelly, for the first time in many months, had a really good game of play with children of her own age,--an intense pleasure to her social, kindly Irish nature, which, with her ready wit, soon made her the life of the little group.

Two or three hours passed rapidly by. Lucy and Bessie went from one part of the ground to another, encouraging the little ones to run and romp, bringing forward shy or isolated children, and watching that the ruder and stronger did not oppress the weaker,--or sitting down to talk with some of the elder girls, who preferred a quiet chat. Stella, in her airy muslin flounces, a tiny hat with floating blue ribbons crowning her golden tresses, flitted about with a winning grace, which made her the admired of all observers. She felt herself a sort of princess on the occasion; and as she dearly loved popularity, even among rustics, she spared no pains to be affable and agreeable, and felt quite rewarded when she heard such speeches as, "What a sweet, pretty young lady Miss Lucy's cousin is!" "Isn't she, for all the world, just like a picture?"

Alick watched with some amusement the patronizing air which mingled with her affability, and perhaps added to her consequence with those who could not appreciate the higher beauty of simplicity of manner. Lucy could not repress a slight feeling of annoyance at seeing how easily her cousin won her way, and how far her more adventitious advantages threw into the shade her own real exertions for the pleasure of those around her. Not that the exertions had been prompted by a desire for praise; but she was not yet unselfish enough to be satisfied that they had gained the desired end, although not fully appreciated by those for whom they had been made. The difference between the cousins was, that Lucy liked approbation, when she did what was right for its own sake, while Stella's conduct was chiefly prompted by the desire of admiration.

"Lucy," said Stella, coming up to her during the afternoon, "do you see that ridiculous imitation of my dress that Nancy Parker has on? I suppose she wanted to be dressed just like me; but I'm glad I wore a different one to-day." Yet, though Stella professed some annoyance, she was secretly a little flattered at Nancy's thus recognising her as a leader of fashion.

Alick and Harry were invaluable aids in promoting the enjoyment of the boys, as was Fred also in his quieter way. Towards the close of the afternoon Mr. Raymond appeared, and, after a pleasant greeting interchanged with his older parishioners present, the children assembled in the centre of the ground to listen to a few kind and earnest words from their pastor. He took as his subject the "remembering their Creator in the days of their youth;" and after reminding them to whom they owed the innocent pleasures which had been provided for them, he spoke earnestly of the Creator and Redeemer they were to "remember," to whom they should now bring their young hearts, that He might take them and make them His. The sunshine of His gracious presence would, he said, hallow and sweeten their joyous hours, and be a stay and support even when the "evil days" should come, and all other sources of happiness should fail them. His address was not so long as to weary even the most impatient, and when it was concluded, the children stood up and sang a hymn, which, to Nelly's great delight, was her favourite--"I lay my sins on Jesus." Then, after Mr. Raymond had briefly asked a blessing on the food of which they were about to partake, and the intercourse they had had, and were still to have, the children quietly dispersed into little groups, and sat down on the grass to enjoy the good things that were liberally provided for them.

The distribution kept the assistants busy, and some care had to be exercised lest too large a share of the cakes should be appropriated by some of the more greedy,--alas that there should be such among Sunday-school children! Nelly Connor had seldom had a treat in her life, but she would not for the world have taken one cake more than her share, or have hidden one away in her pocket, as she saw some better-dressed children doing.

At last, when the dew was beginning to moisten the grass, and the fast-lengthening shadows told that the long summer day was drawing to a close, a bell sounded to collect the children, and after singing the evening hymn, and having been commended by Mr. Raymond to the care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps, all quietly dispersed to their homes. The "picnic" so eagerly looked forward to was over, as all earthly pleasures must sooner or later be. Not a single incident had marred its harmony, and, to Nelly Connor in particular, the day had been one of unmingled and unprecedented enjoyment. How different from what it would have been had she not, in a strength from above, overcome the temptation to which she had so nearly yielded!

VIII.

_Partings._

"Only, since our souls will shrink
At the touch of natural grief,
When our earthly loved ones sink,
Lend us, Lord, Thy sure relief,--
Patient hearts, their pain to see,
And Thy grace, to follow Thee."

Stella's visit was now drawing to a close. She had very much enjoyed its novelty, and had, during her stay, made some acquisitions, though not of a kind that she yet appreciated, or was even conscious of. It was impossible for her to be so long in a household where every day was begun and closed by invoking God's presence and guidance, where His blessing and approbation were steadily regarded as the best of all good, where the standard of action was that laid down in His word, and where His strengthening grace was looked upon as the most necessary equipment for daily life, without receiving a deeper impression of the importance of these things than she had ever before felt. And though the members of her uncle's family had their share of human imperfections, yet on the whole the example she had seen around her had been sufficiently consistent to show her, almost against her will, the beauty of a Christian life, as contrasted with one based wholly on worldly principles. Some seeds of good, at all events, she carried back with her, though she was far from having profited as she might have done, had her heart been more open to receive the influences around her.

It had been a new thing to Lucy to have a companion of her own age and sex; she had become really attached to her winsome cousin, and all the transient irritation which Stella had often caused her passed into oblivion now that they were really about to part. Alick was to escort Stella to the residence of a friend whom she was to visit on her way home; and the cousins parted with affectionate hopes of a visit from Stella next summer, and also of a winter visit which Mr. Raymond had half promised that Lucy should make to her cousin's city home.

The loss of Stella's restless and vivacious presence made no small blank in the house--a blank to be still further increased by the permanent departure of Alick soon after his return from escorting Stella. He had at last decided on the place in which he was to settle--a new and rising village in the far West--and had already been claiming his mother's promise, that so soon as he should be able to provide a home for her, she would come and preside in it. Mrs. Steele felt that it would be her duty to comply with her son's desire; and Mr. Raymond, while very sorry to lose his sister's kind, motherly supervision of his family, felt that he could not dissuade her from an arrangement so right and natural, and to which he had long looked forward as a probability. However, she was not to leave them for some months at least, and during that time Lucy was to learn all she could about housekeeping, in order to be able to fill her aunt's place as well as a young beginner could do.

To Lucy, indeed, there mingled with her regret for her aunt's expected departure, a certain latent satisfaction at the increased importance of her own place in the household; and her ambition was so much stimulated by the hope of fulfilling her new duties in the most exemplary manner, that it somewhat alleviated her sorrow at the thought of losing the kind aunt who had filled a mother's place.

Many were the regrets when the time came for Alick's final departure from Ashleigh to his distant sphere of duty; and Mr. Raymond, in bidding him a kind farewell, added in an earnest tone the not unneeded admonition: "Alick, my boy, don't forget who says, 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all other things shall be added unto you.'"

And so the happy party, who had enjoyed together at Ashleigh the pleasant summer days, were scattered, never again to meet there under the same circumstances; for the autumn, bringing the cold blasts and nipping frosts that scattered the rich summer foliage and made the earth bleak and bare, brought other changes, far sadder than these.

Nelly was the first to whose life came a sudden change. A rumour reached the village that a deck-hand on one of the river steamers had lost his life by a fatal accident, and that the man's name was Michael Connor. It seldom happens that such reports turn out groundless; and when Mrs. Connor, having heard of it, hastened to the wharf to discover what truth there might be in it, she met a comrade of her husband's who had come to announce to his family the sad fact.

Mrs. Connor did not profess any deep regret for a husband whom she had often asserted to be a good-for-nothing scamp. She looked at the matter chiefly in a pecuniary point of view, and, on making a rapid calculation, came to the conclusion that any deficiency caused by the loss of the small fraction of his earnings that came into her possession would be more than made up by her being relieved of the maintenance of Nelly, for whom she did not consider it her duty any longer to provide.

But in Nelly herself Michael Connor had at least one true mourner. She forgot all her father's carelessness and neglect, and remembered only that he was her father, who used in days long past, when her mother was alive, to take her on his knee and call her his "darlint." When it broke fully on her mind that she should never see him again--that he had left her for ever, as her mother had done--her grief for a while knew no control. Poor child, she had literally no one in the world "belonging to her," so far as she knew, and she felt utterly desolate and forlorn. Finding but little comfort at home, where her new mother's cold, unfeeling remarks only aggravated her sorrow, she betook herself to Lucy, who had just heard, with great concern, of Nelly's bereavement. She did her best to comfort her; and though at first the kind words only seemed to make the tears flow faster, by degrees the child was soothed and calmed, and able to listen to Mr. Raymond when he laid his hand kindly on her head and told her that she must look to God as her Father now, and must go and "tell Jesus" all her troubles. Then he made her repeat after him the verse, "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up."

"But, Miss Lucy," said Nelly, as she was going away, "where is it I'm going to live now?"

"Why, is your mother going away?"

"Niver a bit, miss; but she says she's kept me long enough now, and she won't keep me any longer."

Lucy could scarcely believe that this could be more than one of Mrs. Connor's meaningless threats, and tried to reassure Nelly that it would be all right. But Mrs. Steele, knowing Mrs. Connor's hard, selfish nature, was by no means so sure that there might not be something in it, and was not surprised when she appeared next day to say that she thought Nelly's grand friends might do something for her now her poor father was gone, and she had no one to look to her.

"But she has you, of course," Mrs. Steele replied. "We shall be very glad to help you as far as possible, but you have shown yourself well able to support your family."

"She ain't one of my family," replied Mrs. Connor, "and I've kept her long enough for all the good I've ever got out of her; so I don't see that it's any of my business to take the bit out of my children's mouths and put it into hers."

Mrs. Connor would probably not have come to this decision had she not been less dependent than formerly on Nelly's assistance. But as her youngest child was now able to run alone, and the eldest could, on an emergency, take care of the rest, and as she now took in most of her washing, she had less need for an additional worker, involving an additional mouth to be fed. Besides, Nelly was a "growing girl," she reflected, and would be always costing her more for food and clothing, so that to be rid of her maintenance would be so much clear gain. She was therefore inexorable in her determination that Nelly should not remain with her, unless, indeed, the ladies would pay for her board--a proposition which Mrs. Steele declined to entertain.

It was taken seriously into consideration by Lucy and her aunt what could be done to provide Nelly with a home. Lucy was eager that she should be at once taken into their own household, to be trained for domestic service; but this Mrs. Steele thought impracticable at present, as she knew that their own busy, capable handmaid would strongly object to have her time taken up in teaching a girl who would give her so much additional trouble.

"But there are other people," she said, "who would be very glad of a child like Nelly, who would cost nothing for wages, to train and make useful. I am going to Mill Bank Farm this afternoon to see about some butter, and I'll see if Mrs. Ford knows of any one who would take her."

Lucy assented rather reluctantly. It would have been so nice, she thought, to have her protegée immediately under her own charge, to teach and train into a model servant. She had not yet learned the distrust in her own powers which experience gives, and she saw only the bright side of the plan, not the difficulties in its execution.

Mrs. Ford's motherly heart was at once roused to pity for the little orphan's forlorn condition, and to indignation at Mrs. Connor's heartless conduct.

"After all the work she's got out of her, too!" she said; "making that poor child drudge away morning, noon, and night. I'm sure she's been worth a deal more to her than the little bit of meat and drink she's given her--with a grudge, as I hear from the neighbours. Well, well, it's a queer world."

Mrs. Ford promised to try to find out a good place for Nelly, and early next morning she made her appearance, having taken the long walk on one of her busiest days, in order to "talk over Nelly's business," as she said. She proposed to take the orphan into her own family, for a time at least, until some more permanent situation should turn up. "We'll never miss the little she'll want," she said; "and if we did, I've been often thinking of late that we've been too much taken up with doing the most we could for this world, and been caring too little for the poor that our Saviour says are to be always with us. So my mind would be easier if I were doing this much, at any rate, and the poor thing'll be more likely to get a good steady place if I take her in hand and teach her a bit myself."

So it was settled, and Nelly, to her surprise and delight, found herself an inmate, for a time at least, of Mill Bank Farm, though she was made to understand that the arrangement was not a permanent one. The present comfort and happiness were enough for her, however, for she was not given to spoiling the enjoyments of to-day by thoughts about the morrow; and she certainly had never, so far as her recollection went, been half so happy as she now was under Mrs. Ford's motherly care, with Bessie for a half-companion, half-teacher, and removed from the sound of the harsh words and tones which had so long been the constant accompaniments of her life.

One of Mrs. Ford's first cares was to provide her with some needed clothing from Bessie's outgrown garments, which otherwise would have been stowed thriftily away for little Jenny. Lucy added her contribution for the same object, and it was considered a good opportunity for teaching her what she so much needed to learn--plain sewing. Mrs. Ford, who was a capital seamstress as well as housewife, undertook to make Nelly a good needlewoman, if she would be diligent in trying to learn; and she was too grateful, and too anxious to please, not to try her best, though the long, tedious seams often tried her restless, active spirit. When she found herself getting so impatient that she felt as if she could not sit still any longer, or, at any rate, could not force herself to do the work with patience and care, she would remember the injunction to "tell Jesus" her troubles and difficulties, and the restless spirit would become quiet, and the strength to fulfil her good resolutions would come back. As it was too far for her to go to Lucy now for her daily lessons, Lucy resigned her to Bessie's tuition, though somewhat unwillingly, for her teaching had become a source of real pleasure to her, and she felt that in it she was doing some definite work for her Saviour. She had not yet got into the habit of looking upon everything she was called in duty to do as work done for Christ, just in proportion as it was done in a spirit of cheerful faith and dependence, "looking unto Jesus" both as the master and the friend.

But dark days were at hand for Lucy too,--days when she would need all the support her faith could give. Mr. Raymond's never robust constitution had been for some time gradually failing, though Lucy, seeing him daily, and accustomed to consider her father "not very strong," had not observed it. Late in November, a long, cold drive in sleet and rain to visit a dying parishioner brought on symptoms of fever, which rapidly increased, till the doctor, who had been summoned to attend him, looked very anxious, and pronounced his patient in a most critical condition. Lucy had been so long accustomed to his occasional illnesses, that she was slow to admit the idea of danger to her father, the possibility of losing whom had scarcely ever occurred to her mind. Therefore, though she could not help seeing her aunt's extreme anxiety, she resolutely turned her thoughts to the happier prospect of her father's recovery, when he would again occupy his wonted place, and the house would be like itself again.

Even when Mr. Raymond's extreme weakness forced the others to give up hope, Lucy still hoped and prayed, by the sick-bed and in her own chamber, as she had never prayed before. Surely, she thought, if she prayed humbly and earnestly, her prayer would not be denied by Him who has said, "Ask, and ye shall receive;" and her father would be restored to her. She did not consider that as regards earthly things the promise must be limited, or the conditions of human life would have to be altered. If our prayers that our dear ones should be spared to us were always to be granted, when would they ever attain that blessed rest in the Father's house--the haven they have been looking for through all the cares and troubles of their mortal pilgrimage?

Mr. Raymond had often longed for the time when his earthly work should be done, and he should be called to the presence of his Saviour--to reunion with his early-lost wife. And now, though in the unconsciousness of his exhausted powers he knew it not, that time had come. His "falling asleep" was as peaceful as the sinking of a child into its nightly slumber; and Lucy did not realize that it was death, till, in the dark December morning, she stood by the cold white couch on which lay the inanimate form to which, from her earliest days, she had always looked as her protector and guide. It was hard to persuade herself that that cold form was not her father, but that all that had made the living, sentient being had passed to another state of existence beyond her power to follow--beyond her power to conceive. In the strange awe that came upon her, she lost for a time the sense of the desolation of her bereavement--lost all thought for herself, in trying to pierce the darkness which hung between her and the "undiscovered lands" in which both her parents now were. With Fred it was much the same,--an awestruck solemnity at first repressing in both the natural feeling of personal loss. Harry was the only one whose bitter, childish grief broke forth uncontrolled.

But there was time in the blank, desolate days that followed to realize the full bitterness of the bereavement. Once out of the still, solemn chamber, which seemed to hush all violent emotion, there were associations at every step, in every room, of him whose place should know him no more, to call forth the uncontrollable agony of tears that had for a time been repressed. And when the still form had been carried to its last resting-place, and the heavy consciousness made itself felt that he was gone, never in any possible event to return to them, it seemed to Lucy as if it would have been too terrible to bear but for the Saviour, to whom she carried her grief, and found that, though He does not always at our asking restore our sick to this mortal life, yet that, when He takes them away, He can and will be a very present "help in time of trouble."

But there was already another grief looming darkly in the distance, which Lucy almost shrank from facing. The home that had been hers from her birth must be broken up. The external surroundings in which her life had been always set were to be torn from it; and any other phase of life seemed as if it must be a dreary blank. She could not then realize the possibility of ever forming new associations, or taking root in any other home. And indeed it is doubtful whether one ever does take root again in the same sense as in the home of childhood, which is linked with the earliest associations of opening thought, and with all the hallowed ties that cluster around a child's happy home. Other houses are but places of abode, made home by association: _that_ seemed absolutely and in itself _home_.

Alick had come to Ashleigh as soon as possible after his uncle's death, and was anxious to take his mother at once to the new home he had been preparing for her. As to Lucy, there seemed to be but one course advisable. As Mr. Raymond could leave only a very slender provision for his family, he had always been anxious that Lucy should have an education sufficiently thorough to put her in a position to gain her own livelihood by teaching, and a way seemed opened for her to carry out his wishes in this respect. Mr. Brooke, urged thereto by his daughter Stella, had written to Mrs. Steele, offering to receive Lucy into his own family for the next two or three years, in order to give her the advantage of a first-class education, which was, he remarked, "the best he could do for her, as it would give her the ability to do for herself."

Lucy shrank from the prospect of so long a residence in a home so unlike the one she was leaving, as from Stella's remarks she felt sure it must be. But to go with Harry to live with Mrs. Steele and Alick, as they kindly invited her to do, in case she could not make up her mind to go to Mr. Brooke's, would, she felt, be imposing far too great a burden on Alick's kindness, though it seemed just the right home for Harry. Fred, who had been summoned from college to his father's deathbed, must return to resume his theological studies, for they all insisted that he should not think of giving up the career which had been his father's desire for him as well as his own. The more Lucy thought about the matter, the more distinctly she saw that there was no other way rightly open to her, especially as, even could she think it right to accompany Mrs. Steele and Alick, she could not, in the new village in the West, expect any educational advantages. But it was with much reluctance, and after many prayers to be strengthened to meet the new experiences before her, that she gave her decision to go to live for the present in her Cousin Stella's home.

Fred, to whom she confided her extreme shrinking from venturing into an atmosphere which her fancy pictured as so cold and uncongenial, endeavoured to reassure her, by reminding her of what she knew, indeed, but found it difficult to realize, that her Saviour could be as near her in the crowded city as in her quiet country home, since His love is

"A flower that cannot die
For lack of leafy screen;"

and that it was a sickly Christianity which must necessarily fade and droop when removed from the atmosphere in which it had been originally nurtured.

"Well," she said at last disconsolately, "it doesn't matter so very much. I can never be very happy again, now papa is gone; and the best thing is to think most about the home he has gone to, and try to follow him there."

Something of this kind she wrote to her old friend and teacher, Mrs. Harris, who had sent her a letter of loving sympathy. She smiled half sadly when she read Lucy's disconsolate reply. Mrs. Harris had seen enough of life to know that a young heart is not permanently depressed by a first grief; and she feared for Lucy, if she should trust to the influence of sorrow alone to keep her "unspotted from the world."

"My dear Lucy," she wrote, "while it is well that you should always cherish your dear father's memory, and keep his counsels and his example always with you as a protecting influence, beware of trusting too much to this. He himself would have told you that it is not him you are to follow, but Him whom he followed, 'Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.' This alone can be our strength. Time is strong against our deepest sorrow, and no influence can permanently hold, except the constraining love of Christ. Never lose the habit of looking steadily to Him, and to Him alone, for daily and hourly strength."

It was wise counsel, and Lucy in time came to find out how true it was.

It is needless to dwell upon the pain of the breaking up,--the packing up and stowing away treasured possessions, so closely associated with the times now passed away; the sorrowful leave-takings of old friends, who felt as if they were losing the last link with their beloved minister in the departure of his family; the sad farewell looks at all the well-known home objects, the flower-beds, the gravel walks, the shrubs and trees, every twig of which had such a familiar look. Many a time it seemed as if it must be only a sad dream, that all these things were about to pass from her daily life into a vision of memory. Happily it was winter. Had it been in the fair flush of summer, when her home looked its loveliest, the parting would have been far harder. As it was, it was hard enough; but she tried to conceal her sorrow from those to whose pain it would have added, though many a tear was secretly shed over even the old grey cat and the gentle petted cow, which were almost home friends.

At last all the preparations were completed. The house, stripped of most of its familiar furnishings, wore already a strange, uncomfortable aspect, full of packing-cases and confusion. Fred had already been obliged to return to college, and Lucy was to be the next to go. Alick was to escort her to the next railway station, and see her on the train which was to take her to the city. It was the first time she had ever travelled alone, and she rather dreaded it; but she knew that it would be very inconvenient for Alick to accompany her the whole way, and she would not admit that she thought the solitary journey at all a formidable one.

Poor Nelly, who grieved as much for her friend's departure as she had done for her father's death, came on the last morning to say good-bye, although Lucy had already taken leave of her and Bessie at Mill Bank Farm, and had made the latter promise to write to her sometimes.

"And it's sorry I am, Miss Lucy, you're going, and you so good to me," sobbed Nelly, when she felt the parting moment was really come.

"Well, Nelly, we must both try to remember our Friend in heaven, who has been so good to us both. You love Him, I hope, Nelly, and pray to Him always?"

"Indeed I do, and I always pray God to bless you, Miss Lucy."

"Well, I won't forget to pray for you, Nelly, and we know He will hear our prayers," replied Lucy kindly.

Acts of Christian kindness often bring their reward even in this life: the "cup of cold water" we give sometimes returns to refresh our own parched lips. It was some comfort to Lucy, even in this time of sorrow, to feel that she had been enabled to help Nelly to know the Saviour, whom the poor, friendless child seemed to have received into her heart with a true and simple faith.

IX.

_Introductions._

"My God, my Father, while I stray
Far from my home in life's rough way,
Oh teach me from my heart to say,
'Thy will be done.'"

The short January afternoon was closing in when Lucy's train drew near its destination. Gradually thickening clusters of houses, a momentary glimpse of distant steeples, a general commotion and hunting-up of tickets, packages, and bandboxes, betokened, even to Lucy's inexperienced eyes, that the city was nearly reached.

She had made no acquaintances on the way; but a polite elderly gentleman, who had been sitting beside her, and had occasionally exchanged a kind word with her, seeing that she was alone, stopped to hand her out with great courtesy.

"Any one to meet you?" he asked, seeing that she seemed at a loss what to do next.

"Yes--that is--I expect"--faltered Lucy, looking round to see if Stella was not to be seen among the hurrying crowd. But no familiar face was to be seen; and the gentleman, who had caught only the first word of her answer, hurried off with a friend he met, forgetting all about Lucy.

It seemed to her a long time that she stood there, wistfully watching the people who were meeting their friends, or hurrying away alone; and her spirits, temporarily excited by the journey, began to sink fast. It seemed so strange that no one should be there to meet her, as her uncle had promised; and if no one should appear, what was she to do?

At last, after about five minutes had elapsed, a slight, delicate-looking young man, very fashionably dressed, with an eyeglass at one eye and a cigar in his mouth, sauntered along, lightly swinging his cane and looking leisurely around him. Presently he came up to Lucy, and, after a scrutinizing glance, he said, touching his hat:

"My cousin Lucy Raymond, I presume?" and seeing he was right, he added, with a nonchalant air, "Glad to see you; been waiting long?"

"About a quarter of an hour," Lucy replied, thinking she was speaking the exact truth.

"Hardly that," he replied. "I expected to have been here in time, but these trains are never to be depended on."

Then he motioned to a cabman, who advanced and asked for the checks for the luggage.

Lucy had forgotten all about them, and her cousin mentally set her down as "green," while she nervously searched for them.

"Take your time," he said good-humouredly.

They were found at last, and everything being collected, Lucy and her cousin were soon driving away from the station.

"You are cousin Edwin, I suppose?" Lucy ventured to say timidly.

"The same, at your service. I suppose Stella posted you up about us all? You've never been in a place as big as this, have you?" he said, observing her eager, watching look.

"No, never; Ashleigh is hardly more than a village. How is Stella?"

"Stella! Oh, she's quite well; she was out walking when I left."

Lucy's heart sank at the apparent coldness of her reception. Had Stella been coming to visit _her_, she would have been watching for the steamboat for an hour before its arrival!

"Left all well at home?" inquired Edwin. "Oh, I forgot; I suppose you're all broken up there now?" he added, glancing at her black dress and crape veil. "Fred's gone to college again, I suppose?"

"Yes," replied Lucy. She could not have added a word more. It was all she could do to keep back the tears that started to her eyes, as the sad realization that she had no longer a home came back to her. Edwin, however, had happily exhausted his stock of conversation for the present, and Lucy did not try to renew it.

After driving, as it seemed to her, an interminably long way, they stopped opposite a tall stone house, one of a row all just alike, and looking very monotonous and sombre to Lucy's eyes, accustomed to the variety of the Ashleigh houses.

Light gleamed already through the hall-door, which was speedily opened; and the next moment Stella, looking as pretty as ever, rushed down the wide staircase, and met her cousin with an affectionate embrace.

"Mamma, here's Lucy," she said as she led the way up the staircase. At its head stood a lady, who reminded Lucy strongly of the pictures of her dear mother, except that there was the difference of expression between a worldly and an unworldly character. Mrs. Brooke never had had--perhaps now never could have--the pure spiritual beauty which had been Mrs. Raymond's chief charm; but she was a graceful, stylish-looking woman, rather languid and unenergetic in appearance, as she was in character. Her kiss was affectionate, as she told Lucy that she was very glad to see her, and that she reminded her a little of her poor mother; "though you're much more like your papa," she added.

"And here are Ada and Sophy, just in time," exclaimed Stella, as two young ladies, very fashionably attired in walking dress, ascended the stairs and were duly introduced. Ada, who was the smaller of the two, resembled her mother and Stella, with all their softness and winning grace of manner. Sophy was a tall, handsome girl, with a somewhat haughty air, and her greeting was colder and more dignified. She suggested that Stella should take her cousin at once to her room, saying she should think Lucy would wish to rest for awhile before dinner,--a proposal to which she was only too glad to accede, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the heavy travelling attire, which was such a contrast to her cousins' elegant dresses.

Stella led the way to a room much larger and more handsomely furnished than Lucy's old one at home, though it all looked so strange and unfamiliar, that she wondered whether it would ever seem home to her. Stella showed her all its conveniences and arrangements for her comfort, and then observed, "But you're not to have it all to yourself;" which Lucy heard with some disappointment, for she had been always accustomed at home to have a room to herself, and hoped to have one still.

"Amy's to sleep with you, and I think you'll like her. She's a good little thing, though she's not a bit pretty; and she's named after your mamma, you know, who was my Aunt Amy. It sounds odd, doesn't it? Ada and I sleep together, because we get on best; and Sophy can't be troubled with a child sleeping with her, especially as Amy is delicate, and sometimes restless at night. Do you think you'll mind having her?"

"Oh no!" said Lucy, somewhat relieved. "I always used to think I should like to have a little sister of my own."

"Here she is, to speak for herself," said Stella, as the door opened, and a fragile-looking little girl of about seven timidly peeped in.

"Come in, Amy, and be introduced."

The child stole quietly in, encouraged by Lucy's smile, and held out to her a hand so thin and tiny, that she thought she had never felt anything like it before. Amy had fair hair and a colourless complexion; but when the soft grey eyes looked up wistfully at Lucy, and a sweet smile lighted up the pale face, her cousin thought Stella hardly justified in calling her "not a bit pretty."

"So you're my little cousin Amy?" said Lucy, kissing her. "And you're going to sleep with me and be my little sister, are you not?"

Amy nodded. She evidently had not Stella's flow of language.

"Shall I help you to unpack, Lucy?" interposed her loquacious cousin, "or would you rather lie down and rest awhile?"

Lucy preferred the latter. She wanted to be alone; and as she was very tired with the fatigue and excitement of the journey and arrival, it is scarcely to be wondered at that, when she was left alone, she found relief in a hearty fit of crying. However, she soon remembered she could do something better than that, so she knelt to thank her heavenly Father for His protecting care during her journey. She asked, too, that as she was far away from all dear home friends and familiar surroundings, she might be helped to love those around her now, and to do her duty in her new circumstances.