Chapter VI: Part 6

"Oh, father and you are to bicycle, and mother and we four girls are going in a waggonette."

"Is Mrs. Beauchamp going to bicycle, also?" asked Marcus, gravely. He was terribly fond of teasing his young sister.

"Oh, you dreadful boy! Of course not! She isn't going at all; it's too much of a real picnic for her to enjoy."

"I'm sorry Roger has gone," mused Marcus, as he began putting his Kodak in order, with a view to some snap-shotting. "I wonder if Herschel would care to come."

He was soon striding up the quaint old street to the lodgings occupied by the Herschels. The town was very full, and rooms were at a premium, so that the Herschels had been glad to secure even such rooms as they had, in a very old-fashioned house, where the front door opened into the sitting-room, and when one sat in the low bay window, one seemed absolutely in the street.

Marcus, whistling a merry tune, paused a moment at the door, and then went by it, and tapped at the window. All the visitors acted in a very free-and-easy fashion at Sandyshore!

He was invited to "come in," and without more ado he walked into the sitting-room, where the remains of breakfast were still upon the table.

With apologies for intruding so early, Marcus shook hands with a sweet-looking widow lady, the depth of whose mourning betokened recent loss, and a tall slender girl, whose clear, grey eyes seemed too large for the fragile little face surrounded with an aureole of fair hair.

"I came to see if Herschel had any plans for to-day. If not, we are having a picnic at Gullane Head, about seven miles from here, and I wondered whether he would bicycle over with father and me."

"Do, Leslie; it will do you good," said his mother, as the young clergyman hesitated, and demurred about leaving them for a whole day, when his time with them was getting so short. "Robina and I have plenty to amuse ourselves with."

"Would you both join us?" asked Marcus. "Mother and the girls are going in a waggonette."

"Thank you very much, but I am afraid you must excuse us. Robina is not very strong, and it suits us best to have a lazy time by the sea." Mrs. Herschel smiled lovingly at her daughter, whose fair face flushed at the allusion to her health, for it was a sore trial to Robina Herschel that she had always to be taken care of, and shielded from every ill wind. But she bore her cross bravely, and no word of murmuring escaped her lips, although she was denied much that goes to make a girl's life happy.

"What time do you start, Drury?"

"Oh, 10.30, I believe; but come round to the vicarage directly you are ready, won't you?" and, excusing himself on the plea of having to pump up his tyres, Marcus hurried away.

It was a merry party that finally left the Vicarage, after various delays, that morning. For some time the three cyclists kept level with the waggonette, and Marcus teased Amethyst and the girls most unmercifully about ill-treating the poor horse by making him drag such heavy weights as they were, etc., etc.

"It isn't us, it's all the lunch we had to bring for you," cried Amethyst.

"Oh, indeed! You hear, mother? Be sure not to give my small sister so much as a crumb, because, upon her own confession, it's all been brought for me."

"Oh! isn't he tiresome, mumsie?" said his sister, with a little pout. She did not care to be made a laughing-stock of, and the others were all smiling.

"He's only teasing you, girlie; I wouldn't mind," said Mrs. Drury.

"Dick always goes on like that," put in Olive. "Brothers are an awful nuisance, but they 'keep a body alive,' as our old cook says."

"I wish I had one," said Monica wistfully, her glance following the merry young fellow who was now cycling along at a good rate, in order to pick up the two clerics, who were well ahead.

"I don't know what Mrs. Beauchamp would say to a troublesome grandson as well as a troublesome granddaughter," said Olive mischievously. But the words were scarcely out of her mouth before she wished she had not said them.

For Monica, drawing herself up, with one of her haughty airs, said sarcastically: "I am much obliged for your opinion of me, I am sure; especially as no one asked you for it."

"Oh, I only said it for fun," and Olive looked repentantly at her friend. But Monica chose to consider herself injured, and for some little time all the occupants of the waggonette felt a trifle uncomfortable.

But a halt was proclaimed soon after, and all the party dismounted, in order to go over a lighthouse which was situated about two-thirds of the way between Sandyshore and Gullane Head, and in the general interest resulting from an inspection of the wonderful mechanism, which the lighthouse keeper proudly explained to them, the little cloud blew over, and by the time their destination was reached, Olive and Monica were as good friends as ever.

Gullane Head, as the promontory which projected from the mainland was called, was an ideal place for picnics. There were several old caves, said to have been used as hiding-places for contraband goods years before; and the huge boulders which had evidently fallen at some time or other from the cavernous roofs made rough-and-ready chairs and tables, provided one was not too particular.

It was universally decided that it would be the best plan to have lunch first, as they were all hungry, and then devote a long afternoon to exploring the neighbourhood. So a particularly nice spot was chosen, and amid much laughter an impromptu lunch was quickly laid upon one of the flattest boulders, and the party seated themselves, as best they could, around it.

"I'm glad we've got it all to ourselves," said Amethyst, with a deep sigh of enjoyment, as she passed a plate containing half a pork-pie to Marcus; between whom and herself a truce had been declared.

"I can't understand it," added the vicar. "I should have thought half Sandyshore would come to such a charming spot." And he leaned over and looked down at the dark blue sea, dashing up against the base of the rocks, some sixty or seventy feet below.

"It is rather an expensive drive, for one thing," said his wife, who was engaged in pouring lemonade syrup into glasses, to which Elsa added water.

"By the way, where is our coachee?" enquired Marcus. "Isn't he to have something to eat?"

"He has driven on to the Coastguard station, to put up his horse," replied his father. "Some relations of his live there, he says. He will turn up again at four."

"Are you enjoying your holiday, Miss Beauchamp?"

Monica started at the sound of a voice near her elbow, and looked up to see that the young clergyman, of whom she was frightfully shy, and whom she had done her utmost to avoid so far, had found a seat near her own, which was rather a high lump of rock where she had perched herself in order to get a good view of the undercliff.

"Yes, thank you, very much," she faltered; and then she pulled herself together, for it was an unusual thing for Monica Beauchamp to be at a loss for words.

"Sandyshore, and indeed all the coast in this neighbourhood, is very lovely," said Leslie Herschel, his eyes sweeping the panorama that stretched out before them.

"I couldn't bear staying here last year," admitted Monica, "and when I knew my grandmother was coming again, I was vexed at first; but I should have been very sorry not to have come, now."

"How is that? May I ask what has made the difference?" And there was eager questioning in his voice, also in the dark eyes which met Monica's.

"Why, I have had my special friend, Olive Franklyn, with me, this year, and that has made all the difference," was Monica's reply.

Leslie heaved an involuntary sigh, for he had observed the young girl's startled attention on the previous Sunday morning, and he had hoped to have heard that it was the presence of a new-found Heavenly Friend that had made things different. He looked earnestly at Monica, who was occupied with balancing her plate, safely, upon one knee, and wondered whether the present was a good opportunity for speaking a word for his Master, or whether a better one might occur later on.

He had just decided that there is no better time than "now," when Monica looked up with a merry word about the difficulty she was experiencing with her plate, and in a moment more the article in question had slipped out of her grasp, and was lying in fragments on the ground, some six or seven feet below.

All hope of a further _tete-a-tete_ was prevented by the contretemps; and when peace reigned again, Monica was to be found seated amongst the others, in case, next time, she should let herself fall, instead of her plate!

"What were you talking about up there, Monica?" whispered Olive, who had been extremely curious to know what the young clergyman had been saying.

"You!" was the very unexpected reply; and that was all the information she could get, whereat she was all the more puzzled. She had noticed Mr. Herschel glance at her, while Monica was speaking; surely she had never told him of their conversation after the sermon! If so, perhaps he would be trying to get a talk with her; and Olive was filled with alarm at the idea, for her conscience had been accusing her very loudly. However, she determined not to give him an opportunity of speaking to her alone, by never leaving Monica for an instant, and, by that means, she congratulated herself she prevented any more conversation between him and her friend.

But Olive need not have been quite so scheming, for after the whole party had explored the caves, Mr. Drury and the two young men went off on a tour of inspection, leaving Mrs. Drury and the girls to amuse themselves close home.

Mrs. Drury's suggestion that they should all sit still for a little while and enjoy the beautiful view and delicious breeze after the darkness and dampness of the caves, was received with acclamation, Amethyst stipulating that she should tell them a story.

Her mother, who was accustomed to a request of that nature, demurred at first, but finally consented, and they were delighted with her racy account of a journey she had taken in her girlhood's days, when a terrific snowstorm had kept all the passengers imprisoned in the train, several miles from a station, for more than twenty-four hours.

Monica followed next, with some particulars of her early days in Burmah, culled rather from what she had been told than from what she actually remembered. And then Olive protested that she was tired of sitting still, and proposed a search for some way of reaching a piece of sand which could be seen at a little distance along the coast.

Amethyst and Monica were ready enough to go with her, but Elsa, who was no climber, decided to keep Mrs. Drury company; so the trio set off on their voyage of discovery.

"Do be careful, girls," pleaded Mrs. Drury, who was rather anxious, well knowing their zeal was apt to run away with their discretion; "and unless you succeed in finding either some steps, or a proper path leading down to the shore, you are on no account to go. I can trust you, Amethyst?"

"Oh, yes, mumsie! We'll promise to be awfully careful," the shrill treble voice called back, and a few minutes later the sight of a handkerchief waving in the breeze proclaimed the fact that a beaten track had been found; and the two who were left behind settled down to a cosy half-hour.

Elsa, who loved Mrs. Drury only next to her own mother, squeezed up close to her, and the vicar's wife put a protecting arm round the girlish figure, for she had a very warm corner in her heart for quiet, gentle Elsa. Then they had what was a delightful, helpful chat to the young girl, who confided all her hopes and fears about Monica and Olive to Mrs. Drury, and was encouraged to pray on, and look out for opportunity of service. The latter remark reminded Elsa of the young clergyman's text, and Roger's decision, and, from her own difficulties and anxious thoughts about her twin sister, she went on to speak of the future that now stretched out before her favourite brother.

"I think it is so splendid of him to want to be a missionary," and Elsa's face glowed with animation; "but I am afraid it will disappoint father a good deal, and poor mamma will be _very_ sad at the thought of his going so far away, but she will not let him know it, because she will be so glad for him to go, really. I suppose, if all is arranged, that he would not start for a year or two, would he, Mrs. Drury?"

"No, dear, I expect not."

"That will give mamma a nice long time to get used to it," replied Elsa contentedly. She was singularly childish in some things, and correspondingly sensible about others.

Mrs. Drury cast a shrewd glance at the bright young face, which was turned seawards, and sighed. She realised what even the elder Franklyns either could not, or would not, dream of, that the gentle, patient, invalid mother was fading slowly, but surely, away; and she knew that the happenings of even a year hence would have no power to bring either gladness or sorrow to Mrs. Franklyn, who by then would be in the presence of the King. But the twins had no idea of it, and as Mrs. Drury sat silently looking at Elsa, who was all unconscious of the terrible sorrow in store for them all, she wondered if she were wise in leaving the girl in ignorance, for she could imagine what the shock would be like, when the blow fell. She had talked the matter over with Mrs. Franklyn, who well knew upon what a slender thread her life hung, and had urged her to let her children be prepared for the inevitable; but their mother had pleaded their youth, and said it would be time enough later on to break the news to them, and Mrs. Drury had no choice but to be silent, although she did not agree with her friend.

Elsa, who had been indulging in the pleasantest daydreams, roused herself to find her companion beginning to look anxiously in the direction in which the girls had gone, for time was getting on, and they ought to have been returning by then.

"It is half-past three, Elsa," she said, and there was a ring of real concern in her voice; "it is careless of them to have been so long, for we must soon think about preparing for home. Can you see any signs of them? Your eyes are younger than mine."

But Elsa was obliged to confess that she could not, even though she mounted with some trepidation to the top of a huge boulder in order to get a more extended view.

"We would go and look for them," went on the vicar's wife, "only it is hardly safe to leave the bicycles, and all our things. I am vexed with them for staying away so long."

"Shall I run along the cliff and see if I can find them?" suggested Elsa, who was not without anxiety about the missing trio herself. "I could go very quickly, if you would not mind staying here with our belongings."

"Perhaps you would be able to see them, Elsa, and then call to them to return at once. But don't go far, dear," said Mrs. Drury, now really worried about the absentees.

"If you would go on packing up, we will all try to be back by the time you are ready," said Elsa, with a cheeriness she was far from feeling, as she hurried off.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*"DON'T PERSUADE ME NOT TO, ANY MORE."*

Meanwhile, how had the missing trio been spending their time?

With delight, after walking about a quarter of a mile along the cliff, they found some old, uneven steps leading down to its base. They were very unsafe-looking, as several were missing at intervals; but, neither of the three girls being troubled with nerves, they proceeded to descend cautiously. Amethyst was the last to climb down, and it was her white handkerchief, fluttering in the breeze, which Mrs. Drury and Elsa had seen.

"I say, girls, mind how you get down here," cried Monica, who was leader. "It's an awful stretch." And she dropped a distance of several feet, to gain a foothold on a lower step.

"It's a good thing we have a gymnasium at school," said Olive, who had lost a considerable amount of breath over her scrambling; "that kind of practice helps one in experiences of this sort."

"Oh, Olive, I can't possibly get down there, my legs won't reach!" And Amethyst looked hopelessly at the long distance between the step she was on and the next one below.

"Drop down, you'll be all right," said both the girls encouragingly.

"Oh, I couldn't, I should fall!" cried the smaller girl, a spice of fear in the shrill tones.

"Oh, come along! Don't be a coward, Thistle!" said Olive contemptuously. "Here, I'll give you a hand."

Either the hand or the sneer had the desired effect, for Amethyst was a plucky little girl really; and in another moment she was landed safely on the lower step.

That proved to be the worst difficulty, and eventually, the shore was reached without further trouble.

"I wish Jack was here; he would like a race along this sand, poor old chap," said Monica, whose one sorrow had been the leaving of her devoted dog behind.

"Yes, isn't it jolly down here, and not a soul to be seen," cried Olive. "I wonder if there are any shells about?"

A search was instituted, and a collection of various kinds quickly gathered together, and tied up in a handkerchief. Then paddling was proposed, and a merry time ensued of splashing about, off and on the large flat rocks with which the sand was thickly studded at that particular spot.

"What's the time, Monica?" Amethyst enquired at length.

"Why, past three already," was the horrified reply; "how quickly the time has flown! We must give this up, girls, and get our shoes and stockings on."

The drying process was accomplished as satisfactorily as was compatible with only two very minute handkerchiefs, and seizing the bundle of shells, the girls reluctantly bade farewell to the charming and secluded little cove.

"I vote we find some other way up the cliff," suggested Monica; and the idea was received with acclamation by Olive, on account of variety, also by Amethyst, who thought any other means would be preferable to the last.

"There's no other way nearer the caves," said Olive, as her glance swept the dangerous-looking rocky cliffs, which seemed to be almost perpendicular. "But perhaps if we go a little further on we shall find some better steps."

They walked along the sands some little distance, eagerly scanning the cliffs, but alas! no other steps were to be seen anywhere. However, the cliff seemed to be more sloping, and not quite so forbidding-looking, and Olive declared that she could see what looked like a pathway, running zig-zag upwards.

"Let's try it," she said, and leading the way, she began scrambling up the rocky cliff.

Monica followed suit, and Amethyst, determined not to be thought cowardly again, tried her very hardest to keep up with them. But, partly on account of her being smaller and a little more nervous than the others, and also because they had thoughtlessly rather than intentionally left her to carry the bundle of shells, she made very slow progress.

Thus it came to pass that she had got a very little way up the steep incline, when a cry of fear, and a quantity of loose sand, and small rocky stones, falling about her, made her look up in alarm. Monica and Olive had managed, by hook or by crook, to get within fifteen or twenty feet of the top of the cliff, but a false footing had caused Olive to slip; a projection which she had imagined to be firm hard rock, and to which she had trusted her whole weight, having crumbled away beneath her, and she had gone slipping down with it!

"Oh!" Amethyst's eyes grew round with terror, and she felt rooted to the spot; suppose Olive should go on falling all the way down. How dreadful it would be, and no one near to help do anything!

Monica, separated from her friend by several feet of crumbling cliff, tried her hardest not to lose her nerve, but an irresistible feeling came over her that, if once she looked back, she must fall, too.

"Are you hurt, Ollie?" she called out, while she clung to a tuft of grass which happened to be near, and tried to steady herself. But no answer came, and fearing she knew not what she looked down the cliff.

"Oh! Ollie, have you hurt yourself?" she cried again, in an agony of fear, for Olive looked so white and strange, half-standing, half-lying on a sloping bit of rock.

"I--don't--know." The answer came back, slowly, this time, in tones so unnatural that Monica shuddered and grew cold. What had happened to Olive that she should speak and look like that? Supposing she should faint, then all chance of getting her either up or down would be at an end. Monica did not know that her friend was simply paralysed with fear, and for the time being could neither speak nor move.

"Try to hold on, Ollie dear, and I'll come down to you," said the elder girl bravely, although she well knew that it was certain danger to attempt to descend that shifting, crumbling portion of cliff. "Amethyst," she called out to the shivering child below, "try to get down, and run as hard as ever you can to the bottom of the cliff, where the others are, and shout to them to come."

Slipping and sliding, Amethyst reached terra firma once more, and set off running as fast as her trembling legs would carry her; and Monica began her perilous task.

"O God," she whispered, aloud, in her dire extremity, "do help me now! Do keep Olive safely, and let me reach her, and oh, please send some one to help us quickly!"

She did not know what made her pray, but some unseen power impelled her to utter those few short words in her agony of helplessness and fear; and even as the words died on her lips she felt a peculiar sensation of calm stealing over her, and her hands and feet seemed to be guided to just the places which would hold.

A few moments, and she had reached Olive's side, and steadying herself upon a small, but firm piece of rock, she put her arm tenderly round her companion's waist, and begged her to tell her if anything serious was the matter.

"Oh, Monica!" Olive murmured, with a convulsive shudder which nearly caused them both to lose their foothold, "I am so frightened! I looked down as I fell, and it seemed as if I _must_ go rolling all the way down to the bottom, and if I had.... Oh, Monica, I should have been killed, I know I should!" And Olive burst into tears.

"Don't cry, dear," said Monica, soothingly; "if we can manage to hold on until help comes, we shall be all right. I--have asked--God to let us both be saved, Ollie," she added, in a lower tone, "and--I believe He will."

"Oh, Monica," wailed Olive, as she clung to her friend, "I tried so hard to pray when I felt myself falling, but I _couldn't_! And then I remembered all I said last Sunday morning, and it seemed as if God was punishing me for my wickedness, by giving me no more chance."

"I don't think He is like that," said Monica. "I think He loves us too much. I am sure I have heard something about Him not wanting anybody to perish. I am going to try to serve Him after this, Olive, so don't persuade me not to, any more."

"Oh, I won't! I am so miserable. I would rather be good, too, but I can't!" cried the unhappy girl, who had caught a glimpse of her real self during those moments of agonised suspense.

"I will try to help you, dear, but I shan't know quite what to do myself," said Monica; "but if God hears our prayers, and lets us get rescued, it would be mean not to try to please Him after that."

"He may hear your prayers," was Olive's desponding reply, "but I _can't_ pray."

"Try, dear," whispered Monica, closing her own eyes, and asking once again that help might be speedily forthcoming, for she did not feel as if she could hold on much longer. But, even as she prayed, a voice calling both their names came floating over the cliff, and Elsa's face, white and strained, but with hope written all over it, looked down at them.

"Hold tight, Monica and Olive, just for a minute more. Mr. Herschel is coming down to help you."

And in a moment more, the young clergyman, his body encircled by a stout rope, which was secured at the other end to the stump of a tree on the cliff path above, climbed carefully but quickly down to them.

"Thank God, we were near at hand!" he said, as he realised the spent condition both girls were in; "but you will soon be safe now."

"Please take Olive first," urged Monica, and Leslie, filled with admiration for the pluck and unselfishness the girl displayed, made his way cautiously to the summit, half-leading, half-carrying the almost helpless Olive, the rope which was slowly pulled up as he neared the top, affording him a sense of security.

It was the work of a very few moments to lay his burden down upon the short heather, to be tenderly cared for by Elsa, and to return for her companion. Marcus eagerly suggested that he should take a turn, but Leslie waved him back, saying: "No, no, Drury; you do the holding, that's the hardest, really," and was scrambling down again before he could be gainsaid.

"Your friend is safe," he said, as he reached Monica's side, and at his words a tinge of colour appeared in her face, which was white even to the lips, but quite calm. "You're not afraid to trust yourself to me?" he added, more as an assertion than a question, for he had observed, with satisfaction, that Monica had heaved a little sigh of content as she felt herself supported by his strong arm.

"No, oh! no," she whispered, and a smile, pathetic in its wanness, illumined the girlish features, causing the young clergyman's heart to beat strangely, in a fashion hitherto unknown to him. Then she nerved herself for the necessary climb, which was accomplished in silence, and neither of the couple was sorry when the brow of the cliff was eventually reached in safety, and Marcus cried: "Bravo!"

"I can never, never thank you enough, Mr. Herschel," Monica murmured, as Leslie gently pushed her to a heather-covered mound, and, bidding her rest a bit, threw himself on the grass beside her.

"Please say no more," he entreated earnestly, "it was a mere nothing; I have always been a climber. But I am afraid this afternoon's mishap will cause you to have unpleasant recollections of Gullane Head."

A happy little smile played about Monica's lips. "No, indeed, I shall always be glad----" she began, earnestly; but before she could finish her sentence, Elsa, whose whole attention had been taken up by Olive, came to express her delight at the happy ending to what had seemed an almost unavoidable accident.

"How is Olive? I must go to her," said Monica, rising, vexed with herself for having forgotten her friend, even for a moment.

"She is feeling more herself now," replied Elsa, "but I don't believe she can walk a step, her legs tremble so, she says. And I don't know how we shall get back to Mrs. Drury," and Elsa looked troubled.

"We'll manage that," said Marcus, cheerfully. "Come on, Herschel, let's make a bandy chair, as the youngsters call it, and carry her between us."

Olive demurred feebly, but it was very palpable when she tried to stand that she was far too exhausted to walk, so without more ado the two young men bore her off, Monica and Elsa bringing up the rear.

The former was glad to slip her arm in Elsa's, for she felt surprisingly shaky, and as they walked along the heather-grown cliff path, Monica learned how it was that Elsa had procured help; a question she had been longing to ask.

It was soon explained--Elsa, going in search of the belated trio, had met Marcus and his friend leisurely strolling along the cliff, but not near enough to the edge to see what was happening. Fearing she knew not what, but instinctively feeling that they were in danger of some kind, Elsa told her fears to the young fellows, who at once proceeded to help in the search.

With long strides they made for the cliff-side, in order to scan the shore, and were horrified to see the perilous position the two girls were in, less than twenty-five feet below them. A fisherman's little shanty, presumably used in connection with lobster catching, close at hand, was hastily ransacked, and a stout coil of rope produced with intense satisfaction; and while young Herschel fastened on the rope, Elsa had encouraged the girls with words of hope.

"What _will_ Mrs. Drury be thinking?" queried Monica, as they neared the Gullane Caves, following closely in the wake of the young men, who were still carrying their burden. "Oh, dear, what a lot of anxiety I do give people!"

"I don't think you must blame yourself specially, Monica dear," said Elsa gently; "you all seem to have agreed to attempt the climb together."

"It didn't really look difficult; not anything like so bad as the steps would have been to get up; and we should have reached the top all right if Olive hadn't slipped and lost all her nerve. Oh, there are Mr. and Mrs. Drury. They are looking _so_ worried," added Monica; "and Amethyst has actually got up to them. How _did_ she do it?"

It was some little time before everybody knew just what had happened to everybody else; but eventually all was explained, and expressions of thankfulness were heard that the results were no worse than they were.

"I was getting dreadfully frightened about you all," said Mrs. Drury, whose face still bore traces of the anxiety she had passed through, "especially when Elsa had been gone some time. I was thankful to find Mr. Drury close at hand; but I had no sooner told him what had been happening during his absence, than we heard shouts, and descried Amethyst down on the sands below, trying to tell us something, but what it was we could not hear, on account of the wind. However, in a very few moments Mr. Drury had gone down the steps and helped her up, and just as she had made us realise the danger you girls were in, we were immensely relieved to see the cavalcade approaching. It has been a merciful escape." And Mrs. Drury shuddered as she thought of what the result of their foolhardiness might have been, but for God's providential care.

"Now, what shall we do for this girlie?" she enquired tenderly, as she endeavoured to improve Olive's dishevelled appearance, without much success, for both she and Monica were covered with sand, which no amount of rubbing would remove from their clothes. "Shall we drive to the coastguard station and get some tea; or will you have some lemonade and cake that was left from lunch, and get off home as quickly as we can? The waggonette is here."

All were unanimously of opinion that the second proposal was most to their taste, and in a very short time the party set off homewards, the horse, well knowing he had his head turned towards his stable, going at a brisk trot.

Olive, whom they made as comfortable as they could with cloaks and a large rug, seemed powerless to talk or exert herself in any way; indeed, her lethargic attitude somewhat alarmed Mrs. Drury, who felt she would be glad when Sandyshore was reached. But the motion of driving seemed to have a soporific effect upon the exhausted girl, and with her head on Elsa's shoulder she fell asleep, and did not awaken until the waggonette pulled up at Rocklands.

"Are you very angry with me, Mrs. Drury?" Monica asked penitently, during the homeward drive, for that lady had been very silent, and Monica could not but feel that she was displeased with their rashness, as indeed she was.

"Not more with you than the others, my dear," was the somewhat grave reply.

"If you will forgive me this time, Mrs. Drury, I hope I shall not go on being quite so troublesome to every one after this." Monica spoke with a quiet decision and earnestness unusual to her.

Mrs. Drury, who, of course, knew nothing of the new and unwonted thoughts passing through the mind of the girl beside her, was touched by her remark, but thought it would be a good place to say a word of caution.

"I daresay you do feel, now, as if you would not willingly cause trouble and anxiety to your friends by your thoughtlessness, just as present. But it is not enough to _mean_ well, Monica; we always fail to keep our resolutions if we make them in our own strength."

Her eyes sought those of the girl who sat beside her, and something that she read in them told her what had happened, even before Monica diffidently whispered the good news.

The vicar's wife bent and kissed the earnest face, with glad tears in her eyes, as she murmured: "May God bless and keep you always, my child."

Amethyst, turning round from her seat on the box, where she had been amusing the old coachman with her chatter, was amazed at what she saw, and looked curiously at Monica. But her mother, merely saying quietly: "Monica has some news to tell you another time," turned the conversation into a fresh channel.

Elsa, who had caught a word or two now and then, as she sat silently supporting her sleeping sister, flashed a radiant look at Monica, which was acknowledged by a loving little smile; and the young girl's heart was almost overwhelmed with joy at this fresh answer to prayer.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*"I EXPECT IT WILL BE RATHER SLOW AND--POKEY!"*

Olive, whose nervous system had received a severe shock, did not regain her usual strength for some days, and in accordance with the doctor's advice (for Mrs. Beauchamp had hastily sent for a medical man) was compelled to take things very quietly during the remainder of their stay at Sandyshore.

It was quite a new experience for the high-spirited, romping girl to be cut off from the pursuits that they had all been accustomed to, and a not altogether pleasant one. But at first she felt totally unable to join Monica and Elsa at their bathing or tennis, and was only too glad to lie in a deck chair on the sands, and watch the others engaged in active exercise which she seemed to have lost the courage to enter into.

It was a very quiet Olive who was Mrs. Beauchamp's companion during those days, and but for the doctor's assurance that she would soon recover her usual robust health, both the old lady and Mrs. Drury would have been very anxious about her. As it was, they all strove to cheer and amuse her, as much as possible, and Monica and Elsa were untiring in their devotion. They never alluded to the episode on Gullane Cliffs in her hearing, as any reference to it seemed to revive the old, nervous fear which had seized her at the time; but they often found her looking with a sort of fascinated, and yet awestruck intentness, at the white cliffs in the distance, which closely resembled those beyond the lighthouse.

One day Olive broke through the reserve herself. Monica, who had been bathing, was sitting beside her, her hair hanging dank and loose about her shoulders, in order that the sun might dry it.

"Monica," she said, "you none of you ever say a word about _that day_, but I am always thinking of it.

"Then I should begin to forget it at once," was the brusque reply. "It is all over and done with, and there is no need for _you_ to remember 'that day,' as you call it, any more. As for me, I do not wish ever to forget it." And a happy smile overspread Monica's sunburnt face.

"Oh, I know," interposed Olive hastily, who was afraid her friend would open up the subject which she dreaded. "But even when I sleep, I always seem to feel myself slipping down, down, down; and I only stop when I wake. Oh, it is an awful feeling!" And the girl shuddered convulsively.

"I am sure you could forget it if you made an effort to," was Monica's apparently unfeeling reply. But she had overheard the doctor saying something similar, and, to her strong-minded nature, Olive's fancy seemed ridiculous. "You will never be well until you do."

Whether Monica's sensible advice had any effect upon Olive, or whether she really was on the mend already, it would be difficult to say, but, at any rate, it was noticeable that from about that time the improvement in her was very marked indeed, and by the time their return to Osmington drew near, she had become practically herself again. Mrs. Beauchamp was extremely glad, as she would have been very sorry for either of her charges to have gone home the worse, rather than the better, for the holiday.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Amethyst dolefully, as the quartette ensconced themselves for the last time in one of their favourite nooks, on a grassy slope overlooking the bay--"oh, dear! I _am_ sorry to be going home."

"So am I!" echoed the others, and Elsa added, "Except that it will be just lovely to see mamma again."

"If it weren't for all of them at home," put in Olive, "I should like to stay until school begins."

"We should find it rather dull," said Monica; "there would be no one left but us, for the Drurys would be gone. I miss the Herschels already, although they only went yesterday."

"You got so awfully friendly with them after the picnic," retorted Olive.

"We all liked them," interposed Elsa, for she saw a little flush upon Monica's cheek. "I think Miss Herschel was a dear; but, of course, she would naturally be most friendly with Monica, because she is the eldest of us!"

A grateful little squeeze told Elsa that Monica was pleased with her for championing her cause, as she said softly, with far-seeing eyes, "I shall always be thankful that I have known the Herschels, even if I never see them again. They have helped me a great deal."

Olive, fearful lest the conversation should drift in a direction she would fain shun, interrupted the silence that had fallen upon them, by saying hurriedly, and with apparent enthusiasm: "I say, girls, what about that missionary meeting we are invited to? When is it?"

"To-morrow afternoon."

"Shall we go? I expect it will be rather slow and--pokey."

"Why should it?" queried Monica, who was continually finding herself differing from her friend, now-a-days.

"Oh, I don't know why, I'm sure; but missionary meetings are always dull affairs. They read long reports, you know, and tell silly little tales about goody-goody children, who would a hundred times rather put the one, and only, penny they possess in a missionary box, than spend it on themselves." And the girl laughed satirically.

"Oh, Olive!" expostulated Elsa, while Amethyst opened her eyes to their widest proportions.

"Well, _I_ am going, anyhow," said Monica decisively, for whom, since she had been influenced by Leslie Herschel, every thing of a missionary nature had great attractions. "It will be my first experience of a missionary meeting, so I am going to find out what it's like."

"So am I," echoed Elsa and Amethyst, and Olive was obliged to fall in with the general opinion, as she did not care about being left out.

The meeting, to which the quartette, as well as many other girls among the visitors, had been invited a few days previously, had been kindly arranged by a lady living in Sandyshore, and was to be held on her beautiful lawn the next afternoon. Only girls, of all ages, had received invitations, and no grown-up people were expected to be present.

When the appointed time came, the hostess, a dear old lady of seventy or more, whose heart, home, and purse were devoted to the cause of spreading the gospel news, welcomed her young guests as they arrived, and three, at any rate, of our party felt their hearts go out to her as her kindly smile and gentle words greeted them. Olive, who felt belligerent, prided herself on not being so easily won.

They found quite a number of girls, most of whom they knew well by sight, from continual meetings on the sands or tennis-courts, already seated on the chairs which had been carefully placed in a shady portion of the lawn, and slipping into some empty places, they waited for further developments.

Two ladies, standing under a pretty rose-covered verandah, were engaged in conversation near a little table strewn with various books and pamphlets; another had just taken her seat before a small harmonium, while yet a fourth was handing round hymn-sheets.

"Which do you suppose is the speaker?" whispered Monica to Elsa, who was next to her, "the lady in the nurse's uniform, or the one in black?"

"I can't tell, they both look so nice. The tall, dark one in mourning looks clever; but I almost hope it will be the other, she looks so sweetly pretty." And both girls looked admiringly at the fair, healthy, girlish face framed in its dark blue bonnet.

Soon a hymn was given out, in which the twenty-five or thirty girls joined somewhat shyly at first; this sort of meeting was an unusual experience for the majority of them. But the easily caught-up tune, sung so heartily by the lady helpers, inspired them, and by the time the last verse was reached quite a volume of sound rose from the youthful audience.

After a short, informal prayer, by the elder of the two ladies, which was a revelation to Monica, who had never heard a woman's voice uplifted in extempore prayer before, the girls sang another hymn; and then, after a few explanatory words from the same lady, who they discovered was a daughter of their hostess, the nurse stepped forward, and began to speak in clear, ringing tones, which could be heard all over the lawn, and which secured the attention of all.

"I was so very pleased," she began, "when Mrs. Murray asked me if I would have a little 'talk' with some girl-friends of hers one afternoon while I was staying with her for a few days in this delightful place. And I will tell you why. First, because I love English girls; second, because I love Chinese girls; and third, because I long to get the former to become interested in their sisters with a pig-tail, in that far-off land, behind the Great Wall.

"So now, while we are all here together, I want you to listen while I tell you something of my work for the last five years in China, and then I will try to show you what you can do, _if you will_, to help make the lives of Chinese girls brighter and happier. First and foremost, I must start by saying that girls are thought little or nothing of in China; they are _not wanted_. And, although it is not really allowed, in one way or another nearly one-half of all the baby girls who are born in China are either drowned, or murdered, or what is even worse, buried alive directly they are born! And when I tell you that out of every three people in the whole world one is born in China, you can guess something of how many there are. It made my heart ache, often and often, to be in the midst of such dreadful cruelty; and yet we must not altogether blame the Chinese, for they do not know that our Heavenly Father values girls just as much as He does boys, and is grieved when they are ill-treated.

"But though it is sad to think of the little babies dying, they are really better off than many of the little girls who are left to grow up. For there is a cruel custom in China of squeezing the feet of little girls up tight, by means of a bandage--so"--and Hope Daverel picked up a strip of calico, and deftly bound up her left hand to illustrate her words--"until it hurts most dreadfully. Of course, the little girl cries with the pain, but no one pities her, and in a few days it is unbound, and done up tighter still. Sometimes a mother will take a big stick to bed with her, in order to beat the child if she screams with the awful pain. I wonder how _you_ would like that?"

The young missionary paused a moment, and looked down enquiringly into the young faces before her, which expressed horror at the recital of China's woes.

"Well, the poor feet have to go on being squeezed smaller and smaller, until after about two years they are considered small enough to be pretty! Oh! girls, you who love pretty things, think of it an ugly lump, without any shape, tiny enough to totter about in shoes like this," and Miss Daverel held up a wee Chinese shoe. "This is a full-sized shoe for a lady, and it only measures two inches and a half! This pair has been actually worn by a woman belonging to one of my classes, and she gave them to me on purpose to bring home and show to you. A girl's chances of getting married depend entirely upon the smallness of her feet: they do not trouble at all about whether she is clever, or handsome or good. And she is married, often, as young as six months old! and is taken away from her own mother, to go and live with the mother of the little boy, or lad, who is her husband. It is difficult for you English girls to imagine such a state of affairs; but unless you know _something_ about them, you cannot do much towards helping your Chinese sisters. Once they are married, the poor girls have a very, very dull life, if they are fortunate enough to escape ill-treatment from their husbands. One of the first questions asked by the Chinese ladies whom I go to visit, in their dim, cheerless rooms at the back of the house, is 'Does your husband beat you?' and when I shake my head and say I am not married, they look astounded, and say: '_So_ old, and no husband!'

"But sad as their lives are, their fear of what comes after death is far more sad. The women are taught that there is no heaven for them, and all that the very best of them can look forward to is that, after numbers of future lives spent in torment, they _may_ be born again into this world as a little boy! And they are so afraid of evil spirits, who they think are constantly on the look-out to do them untold harm: they even call the boys by girls' names, so that they may not be thought _worth_ harming! and when the poor creatures die, as the funeral procession goes along the road, imitation money made in paper like this" (and the speaker held up samples) "is scattered about, to propitiate any evil spirits that may be near; while clothes, money, and various other things, all made in paper, are burned at the grave side, in order that the dead person may have them to use in the other world. And that sort of thing is continually being done before what they call ancestral tablets, or at the graves of relations who have died, lest the spirits of the departed should come back to earth and trouble those that are living. Millions of pounds are spent every year, in that way alone.

"Is it not all terribly sad? I am sure that you agree with me that it is, and are wishing that you knew of some way to help. Well, I will tell you; there are many things you might do. I suppose that most of you elder girls go to school; when you meet your school-friends again, you can pass on to them what I have told you this afternoon; and perhaps you could gather some of them together to dress dolls, or make little presents such as we missionaries love to be able to give to the children and girls who attend our schools, or come to us for medicine. A little gift from England is _such_ a treasure; it would repay you for any self-denial it may cost, if you could only see the delight on the poor, little, dull faces, when they catch sight of the doll, or the pair of bright knitted cuffs, or the little cotton-box, that the _guniong_, as they call us, is going to give them. And besides that, you can give some of your pocket-money: those pence and shillings which it is _so_ easy to fritter away on mere nothings, and things which do not last. Oh! girls, which do you think you will value _most_ in the great day of reckoning which is coming, the sweets you have eaten, the grand collection of picture post-cards you were so eager to get, or the Master's 'Well done!' which will surely be spoken to those who have denied themselves for His sake?

"But working and giving are not everything--there is praying. And if, as I do hope, there are some here who have found a precious Friend in Jesus for themselves, will you not pray that your Chinese sisters may find Him too? There are millions of them who have never heard His name, even _once_, yet; and they are dying _so_ fast, without God, and without hope. So I am praying that He will touch some of the girls' hearts here this afternoon, and fill them with an intense longing to go and bear His message, in the years to come, to the women and girls in far-off China.

"Now shall we sing a hymn, so simple that even the smallest can understand it, and will you try to mean every word?" And soon, girlish voices were singing, with real earnestness,

The fields are all white,
And the reapers are few;
We children are willing,
But what can we do
To work for our Lord in His harvest?

Our hands are so small,
And our words are so weak,
We cannot teach others;
How then shall we seek
To work for our Lord in His harvest?

We'll work by our prayers,
By the gifts we can bring,
By small self-denials;
The least little thing
May work for our Lord in His harvest.

Until, by-and-by,
As the years pass, at length
We, too, may be reapers,
And go forth in strength
To work for our Lord in His harvest.

Just a few solemn words of prayer followed, in which Miss Daverel asked that her young hearers might realise the need of the heathen, and with God's help seek to do their part towards satisfying it; and then the meeting ended.

While tea was being handed round by Mrs. Murray's maids, Miss Daverel, who had noted Monica's rapt attention, drew her aside, and after a few whispered words, she and a little maiden of not much over six accompanied the missionary indoors, to reappear in a few minutes in Chinese costume.