Chapter XII: Reprieved (1)

"Now, May," began Miss Waller in her most portentous tone, on Monday morning, "I must have an explanation with you. I'm going home this week, for it's ruinously expensive being here; and to-day Mr. Lang is coming for his answer. Without any beating about the bush, I expect you to marry him."

"Oh, aunt, don't--_don't_!" entreated May, wringing her hands. "I cannot marry Mr. Lang."

"What childish nonsense! Fancy refusing a house in Palace Gardens, and all that money!"

"I can't and won't marry him."

"Very well, then, you and Doris must find another home. I have pinched myself to keep you in luxury; but if you will be so wickedly blind to your plain duty, I wash my hands of you."

"I don't care one bit for myself, aunt; I could earn a living, I'm sure, and I'd gladly do it. Let me try," pleaded May, "I will promise never to cost you another penny, if you will only be so kind as to give Doris a home until I am able to keep her myself."

"Which will not be till Doomsday. Talk of earning your living--what rubbish! Why, you haven't even one decent accomplishment. No, if you leave my house, Doris goes, too; I won't have the little spoilt monkey left on my hands."

"But, aunt----"

"Besides, think what advantages you could give Doris if you married Mr. Lang--the best possible education, horses, carriages, Continental trips, everything! If you really cared at all for your child, you couldn't hesitate for a minute."

It was a clever argument, and it made May waver as nothing else could; and Miss Waller did not know whether to be glad or sorry that just then Mr. Lang himself was announced.

"Don't go, Miss Waller," he began, as the spinster, after a few casual observations, was about to leave the room. "I've nothing to say to Mrs. Burnside you may not hear as well. Your niece knows by this time that I am anxious to have her for my wife. I want to marry and settle down now, and I can promise you," he added, turning to face May for the first time, "a most luxurious home--you've seen it--both for yourself and your little girl. Your aunt wishes it, I know; and I hope, Mrs. Burnside--May--you'll make me very happy by saying you'll be my wife before Christmas."

He came closer, and would have taken her hand; but she started back. Her aunt's basilisk eyes were fixed on her, to add to her discomfiture; but she said as firmly as she could, "I am very grateful for your kindness, Mr. Lang; nevertheless, I must refuse your offer, for I do not love you, and I could not marry any man unless I did."

"Now, really, Miss Waller," remonstrated the plutocrat, turning with an injured air to the wrathful spinster, "I call this too bad! It was understood between us that you would prepare Mrs. Burnside, so that it might all be plain sailing. I'm not accustomed to ask and be refused, I can tell you."

"May must have lost her senses to reject such an offer, Mr. Lang," returned Miss Waller, with an annihilating glance at her niece. "She is an ungrateful, undutiful girl; and if she refuses you, I will have nothing more to do with her."

"Well," rejoined Mr. Lang, with a gulp, as if swallowing something very nauseous to the taste, "I must confess I didn't expect to be sent to the right-about like this. However, young ladies often change their minds; and perhaps, when Mrs. Burnside thinks my offer quietly over, she may alter her opinion. I've great faith in your persuasions, Miss Waller. I've just had a telegram, saying a fall of rock has damaged the machinery at the Springkloof, and I'm wanted out there, so I must sail for the Cape at once. I expect to be away some months; by November I shall probably be back in England. I give Mrs. Burnside until then to consider my offer; I won't look upon this as a final rejection. I'm sure, when she thinks of all I'm in a position to offer, she can't be so foolish as to refuse."

"How kind--how generous!" exclaimed Miss Waller, as May stood in stony silence. "I promise in my niece's name that when you come back she will accept you. I hope we shall see you again before you leave?"

"Well, no, for I've a lot to do before I go. But I'll write to you; and as soon as I possibly can I shall return for Mrs. Burnside's answer."

As if in a sick dream, with this threat ringing in her ears, May mechanically tendered him her limp hand in farewell. When they were once more alone her aunt said in crisp, dry tones:

"I shall return to Beachbourne on Wednesday, and make arrangements for spending August and September in visiting amongst our friends in the country. We have plenty of invitations. I have said all I need say on the subject of Mr. Lang. Meanwhile, you can choose between Palace Gardens and every luxury, and a life of starvation and beggary for you and Doris."

Despite the apparent calm with which Mr. Lang had taken May's rejection of his flattering offer, he was nevertheless in a very bad temper when he left the house and jumped into his victoria. He was not accustomed to rebuffs--which made the fact that he had just been rejected by a penniless widow, only saved from actual want by her aunt's charity, doubly galling.

"I'm mad to care so much about a pale-faced girl with nothing to say for herself; and I really ought to do better. I could easily marry a lady of title, or anybody I choose; and it would serve her right if I went straight off and proposed to somebody else, just to show her that rich husbands don't grow on every bush!"

Revenge is always the first thought of a mean mind which is smarting from a sense of injury. Mr. Lang chuckled over this idea for some time, and the result was, that when Esther Inglis entered their one sitting-room about half-past five that day, she found Mr. Lang seated in the most comfortable chair, awaiting her.

She instantly assumed her thorny manner; but it had no more effect than it would have had upon a rhinoceros. "I've come to say good-bye for the present, Miss Inglis," he airily remarked, as if his visit were a matter of course. "I leave to-morrow for Johannesburg on business; and as I shall probably see your brother, it would give me great pleasure to take charge of anything you may wish to send him."

Esther's handsome face relaxed. Really it was very kind and thoughtful of Mr. Lang, who, with his influence, might prove a valuable friend to Jack.

"It is very good of you, and in his last letter Jack asked us to send him some collars and ties; they are such a fearful price at Johannesburg, and not good. But they are not bought yet, and you say you leave to-morrow?"

"Yes, but the shops will not be closed for some time, and my victoria is at the door, if you will honour me by using it to go where you wish."

Esther hesitated a moment; but the opportunity of saving expensive and troublesome postage, besides serving Jack, was too good to lose. Mr. Lang rose, and indicated a box lying on the table.

"I've brought you a little fruit, Miss Inglis, just sent to me from my country place near Dorking. My head-gardener prides himself on his peaches and nectarines; but I must leave you to judge."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Esther, with sparkling eyes; for she had not tasted a nectarine since leaving Mallowfleld. In a moment she had undone the satin ribbon which tied down the lid, and was feasting her eyes on such peaches as she had seldom seen.

"As you seem fond of fruit, I'll give orders to my gardener to send you a box periodically," observed Mr. Lang. "Oh, don't thank me; I shall be away, and somebody may as well enjoy it. And if you'll have the parcel and letters ready, my footman shall call for them to-morrow morning."

He accompanied Esther down to the street, where his beautifully appointed carriage was waiting; and it must be confessed she enjoyed finding herself seated behind a spruce coachman and footman once more. "You will take this lady's orders," pompously commanded Mr. Lang. "Keep the carriage as long as you like, Miss Inglis, and I'll not forget about the parcel."

So manifest was his desire to propitiate, that Esther could do no less than bid him a civil farewell, with the hope that he might have a pleasant journey. Then she rolled away, looking so much at home in the smart carriage that Mr. Lang gazed after her admiringly.

"By Jove, how well she sets the whole thing off! Looks like a lady used to carriages all her life. May Burnside really isn't a patch upon Esther Inglis; there is no mistake about that!"

Had Miss Waller only been there to hear him, she might well have trembled for the success of her darling scheme of marrying May to a rich man.

[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]

"Going to Mr. President's!"

That is what the hundreds of little boys and girls will tell you any Easter Monday morning, should you chance to stop them and ask their destination as they go toddling along the streets of Washington with baskets of eggs hanging on their arms and a glad delight shining in their eyes.

They make up a very "mixed" crowd, these children! There is the dainty little miss in richly embroidered frock and wide silk sash, with one tiny hand held tightly in the grasp of a big negro nurse and the other hand clasping lovingly a basket of pretty coloured eggs; there is another little girl in a very clean but much-faded gingham or print apron, trotting along at her mother's side--the mother dressed, perchance, in shabby black, belonging to the class known in the Southern part of the States as the "poor whites"; there is also the trio of little "darkey" girls, dancing merrily along the sidewalk, swinging their egg-baskets as though with intention of spilling the eggs over passers-by, yet never quite dropping them, and singing the while as they keep step--

"Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Easter Monday morning!"

There are nice, smart-looking little boys, strutting along proudly in their first pair of knickerbockers, with pockets bulging out with Easter eggs, their black nurses walking just a few steps behind them; there are the poor white boys whose clothes are patched and boots worn with toes protruding. On other days they sell newspapers, black boots, and do "odd jobbs" to earn a few cents, but on Easter Monday morning they somehow get together a collection of coloured eggs and go to see the President. Then there are the little black boys, some smartly dressed (for many of the coloured people of Washington are well-to-do), and others as shabby as shabby can be. But no matter. Are they not provided with Easter Monday eggs and going up to the White House to see "Mr. President," who every Easter Monday gives over his beautiful lawn to as many little boys and girls as like to go and see him, and roll their eggs over the grassy slopes that look out over the Potomac River?

THE INVASION OF THE PRESIDENT'S LAWN.]

On no other day during the year does Washington present so interesting and picturesque an appearance as on Easter Monday, and it is the happiest day of all the year with the children of the Capitol City. In England, of course, Easter Monday is always a Bank Holiday, but not so in the United States. In New York and other large American cities banks and shops and schools are open as usual; but in the district of Columbia, where Washington is situated, it is a legal holiday. That in itself makes it a happy time for the children. Then, add to the joy of having no lessons to learn the fact that they are allowed to take dozens of coloured eggs to the White House lawn and play the games of "egg-picking" and "egg-rolling" as the specially invited guests of the President of the United States, and it will be easily understood how festive an occasion is Easter Monday to the children of Washington.

Not even the oldest inhabitants of Washington can remember the time when the boys and girls of the city did not celebrate Easter Monday by "egg-rolling," although the children of fifty years ago rolled their eggs down Capitol Hill, under the shadow of the magnificent Capitol building, instead of on the White House lawn. Year after year the children of former generations trudged up the great hill with their egg-baskets over their arms and had the happiest times imaginable with their Easter games.

One Easter Monday, however, about twenty years ago, hundreds of boys and girls went to Capitol Hill with their eggs just as they had done in previous years, when they were astonished to be hustled off the grounds by special messengers and policemen from the Senate and House of Representatives, who declared that the distinguished Senators and Congressmen in convention assembled had made up their minds that their "door-yard" was no longer to be disfigured for days after Easter Monday with broken eggs and vari-coloured shells! They were weary of having their highly polished boots smeared with yolks of eggs, and Easter Monday "egg-rolling" in Washington was to be ended!

Then there went up all about the precincts of the nation's Capitol a loud wail of anguish and wrath from hundreds of childish throats, in which the numerous nurses and attendants joined. Many boys and girls gathered on the steps of the building, sobbing in disappointment, some of the larger boys throwing out direful hints of vengeance to be wreaked on the heads of the nation's law-makers; but the stately Senators remained stony-hearted, in spite of it all. In the midst of the tearful hubbub the President's carriage drove past, and President Hayes (the then head of the nation) drew up near the portico to inquire why the children wept instead of rolling their eggs on Easter Monday.

A chorus of voices informed him that the "nasty Senators wouldn't let them play any more because they messed up the grounds"; and then again from the throng of little ones confronting the President there arose fresh outbursts of grief and indignation.

"GOING TO MR. PRESIDENT'S."]

"Never you mind, children," said President Hayes soothingly. "You may come right up to my house and play in my back yard."

Then the mourning was turned to rejoicing. Every child knew that in all the city of Washington there was not so wonderful a "back yard" as that which belonged to the White House. Its beautifully kept slopes were ideal places for "egg-rolling," and then there was the great fountain in the middle of the lawn! So when the President's carriage started to return to the White House, it was followed by several hundred boys and girls swinging their egg-baskets, and singing and shouting out their gratitude to the President of the United States, who was going to let them play in his garden. I doubt if ever an American President had an escort of which he had such cause to feel proud as that which accompanied President Hayes to the White House gates on that memorable Easter Monday.

ON THE WAY TO THE WHITE HOUSE.]

Outside the gates they were kept waiting for about an hour, while the President gave his hurried instructions to the gardeners to put the place in readiness. At eleven o'clock the gates swung open, and from that time till six o'clock the children rolled their eggs.

Ever since then Washington children have gone regularly every Easter Monday to play in the President's "back yard," each of President Hayes's successors having kept up the custom of inserting in the Washington papers each year an invitation to all the children residents of the town to spend the day rolling eggs on the lawn.

In President Hayes's time his own children joined in the sport, and during the last term of President Cleveland the President's little girls, who were considered too young to roll eggs with the elder children, were kept on the back portico with their mother or their nurse, where they could watch the progress of the games.

Two years ago, on Easter Monday, I spent the day on the White House lawn, watching the big "Presidential children's party," as it is called. The gates were opened at a little after ten o'clock, and during the day there were several thousand children playing in the grounds. Many of the children, besides carrying their baskets of eggs, carried also their luncheon-baskets, and when tired of games they sat about on the grass, picnic-fashion, eating bread-and-butter and cakes and hard-boiled eggs. I should here mention that, although the President does not consider it necessary to make any rules for the preservation of order among his young guests--it being taken for granted that all children invited to the President's garden will behave in their very best style--he always requests that those who accept his invitation to roll their eggs on his lawn will be particular to bring with them only eggs that are thoroughly hard boiled, for in the game of "egg-picking" the use of raw or soft-boiled eggs would be, to say the least, most inconvenient!

The game of "egg-picking" is a very simple one, although it is entered into most enthusiastically by the boys and girls. The children separate themselves into groups of eight or ten, then seat themselves on the grass at the top of the slopes and roll their eggs down to the bottom. The eggs that make the descent without getting cracked or "picked" may be brought back and re-rolled, until they do get cracked or until the game is over, while those that get "picked" are placed back in the baskets. The boy who can hit his neighbour's egg and "pick" it without "picking" his own is looked upon as something of a hero. Of course, toward the end of the game many of the players drop out, all of their eggs having got "picked." Very often the players are reduced to two who show themselves particularly expert, and then there is great excitement watching for the winner.

Besides the game of "egg-picking" there are egg-ball games, egg croquet games; but plain "egg-rolling," which consists of rolling eggs down the slopes, going after them, and rolling them again and again, seems to be the favourite amusement. Then, too, the children engage in "jumping the rope" and other similar amusements.

Although many of the children spend the entire day on the lawn, numbers of them remain for a couple of hours only. By this means the grounds are not kept so crowded as they would otherwise be. The hours between three and five o'clock, however, are considered the most enjoyable, as during that time the President always arranges to have the Marine Baud to entertain the children with music, and it is at that time also that the President makes his appearance out on the back portico to greet the children. It is, of course, thoroughly understood that so busy a man as the President cannot spend his whole day with his young visitors. He entertains them by turning over his grounds to them, and they enjoy themselves in their own way without molestation.

On the afternoon of the Easter Monday which I spent in Washington President McKinley came out on the portico at about half-past three. He took off his hat and waved it to the children, who all gathered as near as possible about the portico and shouted out--

"Howdy do, Mr. President? Howdy do, howdy do?"--the boys taking off their caps and the little girls waving their handkerchiefs.

"How do you do, children? Glad to see you, and hope you are having a good time!" shouted back the President.

PRESIDENT McKINLEY GREETING HIS YOUNG VISITORS.]

"Splendid time, Mr. President, and thank you for your invitation," called back the delighted little guests.

"That's right!" returned the President, laughing. "I hope you'll all come again next Easter Monday."

"Thank you, Mr. President. Good-bye, good-bye!" shouted the children. Then President McKinley went back to his duties of State and the children returned to their egg-rolling. Mrs. McKinley sat on the portico most of the afternoon watching the merriment. Occasionally a little boy or girl would edge up to the portico, and push a blue or red egg through the railings, saying:

"Please, Mrs. President, I've brought you one of my eggs to keep!"

Mrs. McKinley accepted the little presents with the sweetest of smiles and a "Thank you."

At about two o'clock in the afternoon the White House lawn looked like a large picnic ground. Some of the children had brought napkins to lay upon the grass when they should be ready to eat their luncheon, and on the napkins they spread their boiled eggs and bread-and-butter. One little girl, when I complimented her on her daintiness, explained:

"I does it so I won't get eggshells on Mr. President's grass! My mamma told me I must be careful, cos it wouldn't be very nice if the President of the 'Nited States had to go round to-morrow picking up eggshells after me!"

During the afternoon there were several slight accidents at the fountain. Some of the children delighted in digging all the meat from their eggs through the smallest possible aperture and then floating the empty shells in the lower basin of the fountain where the water was undisturbed. In trying to keep their improvised ships from sailing away, two little girls fell into the water, but they were quickly rescued by their nurses and taken home to be dried.

At five o'clock the crowd began to disperse, and at a little past six the small guests of the President had all left the lawn and were on their way to their various homes. Such a variety of homes, indeed, they went to! Some to magnificent mansions on Connecticut Avenue. Their fathers were high Government officials, Senators, members of the Cabinet, and their mothers well-known society women. Other little boys and girls went to very humble homes and minded their little baby brothers and sisters while their mothers got supper; and then there were the homes in the localities given over almost entirely to the negro population. Before the War their parents and grandparents had been slaves, little dreaming that their descendants would ever be invited along with the children of the aristocratic whites to play in the President's "back yard"!

By the way, what a sight that "back yard" did present on the morning following Easter Monday! There were four gardeners busily at work with rakes and brooms and baskets. They were gathering up the litter of eggshells, breadcrumbs, bits of paper, lost playthings, and tiny bits of muslin and calico that had somehow got torn off the dresses of some of the children. At the fountain one of the gardeners was fishing out pieces of string and floating shells. It was four o'clock when the garden was finally "picked up" and shorn of its festive appearance. It was then absolutely "spick and span," and no one could ever have guessed that the day before it had been a playground for several thousand children!

ELIZABETH L. BANKS.

FORGIVENESS.

Within a spacious hall, before a fire
Whose flick'ring light danced weirdly on his brow,
Stood Peter mutely brooding o'er his vow
To die with Christ, though thousands should conspire
To wreak their vengeance, profitless and dire,
On Christ and all who faith in Him avow.
With sin the soul of Peter struggled now,
When, "Known, or not, to Jesus?" men inquire.

"I know Him not"--thus, falsely, thrice he swore;
And think you that because this weak man fell
The God-Man would deny him evermore?
Christ looked upon him, and that look did spell:
"For thee My soul shall on the Cross be riven,
And, therefore, Peter, is thy sin forgiven!"

LOUIS H. VICTORY.

The above picture records a brave attempted rescue on the part of Private Frederick Lakeman Banks, of the London Rifle Brigade. When on the way to the Rainham Rifle Range some time ago, Banks and several of his companions were attracted to this spot by the cries of some bystanders, who stated that a child had fallen into the thick muddy water of the tidal creek and had disappeared. Banks immediately threw off his coat, plunged into the filthy water, and after a three minutes' search succeeded in finding the boy. Unhappily, the child was past help; but, all the same, the gallantry displayed by the rescuer was rewarded by the bestowal of the Bronze Medal of THE QUIVER Heroes' Fund.]

H V Brock]

_A COMPLETE STORY._

By M. H. Cornwall Legh, Author of "The Steep Ascent," Etc.

I.

"So poor Annie is dead!" Miss Lucretia repeated as she laid down the black-edged letter which she had just read through for the third time and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief already damp and flabby. "Poor Annie! So soon after poor Edward's death too! And now I wonder what will become of poor little Amy?"

She repeated the adjective which seemed most appropriate as often as she liked, for she was only speaking to herself.

Miss Lucretia lived alone in a very small house, which was one of a row, all just alike, with a bow-window apiece for their glory, and a little bit of garden and a fence and a gate. They were called Primrose Cottages, despite the fact that there were no primroses about them.

Thirlambury was a very dull, behind-the-age little town, and people thought Miss Lucretia a very dull, behind-the-age little lady. She thought so herself; for she had always taken life meekly.

Lucretia was the only one of the three sisters--of whose happy girlhood together the old maid was thinking as she wiped away her tears--who had been at all meek. Constantia and Ann had both been strong-charactered, masterful girls, in accordance with the traditions of their family. With Constantia this decided turn had met with the happiest development. It had enabled her to manage to perfection a husband and family, and it was with pardonable pride that she now looked at her six successful sons and daughters, all brought up just as they should have been, physically, intellectually, and morally; of whom the last had just left the nursery for the school-room.

With Ann the family characteristics had gone in the wrong direction. Her strong will had led her to marry a very unsatisfactory little man, whom his family finally exported to New Zealand, with her and their four children, rejoicing over the happy riddance. Out there Constantia did not like to say, providentially, though that was the adverb which suggested itself--the four children took diphtheria, and every one of them died.

When the grass had grown green on those four graves, another child was born--little Amy--and Aunt Lucretia was asked to be its godmother. And now, there was this child of five years old left without either parent. They had not been first-class parents, but Miss Lucretia did not think of that; her heart being of too old-fashioned make for such philosophy.

"An orphan, poor little dear!" she said to herself, and her handkerchief became damp again at the thought.

"Constantia has arranged already about her being brought to England," Miss Lucretia soliloquised. (Being alone, she had got into the way of soliloquising.) "How prompt Constantia always is! And now what will become of the child?"

It was not an idle speculation. Miss Lucretia was revolving something in her mind--an idea so new, so absorbing, that over it her eyes dried, and she put back the letter into its envelope with untrembling fingers.

"I am sure I could do it!" she said at last, speaking aloud this time, and with a great deal of determination. "A child of five cannot cost much to keep, and there are many little ways in which I could reduce my expenditure." Then she relapsed into silent thought again. She was making deep calculations, wondering how an income which just sufficed for her and her faithful Fanny could be stretched at the four corners so as to cover the expenses of one more member of humanity. Such a little member that in a large household she could be received and fed and clothed for some years to come without any perceptible difference in the outgoings; but this was a very small household, and the matter had to be considered.

Miss Lucretia's income was of the kind described as modest; but she was a careful manager, and, as everybody knew how poor she was, nothing was expected of her in the way of entertaining beyond a quiet cup of afternoon tea, and the promoters of charity lists went away from her door contented if she only gave half-a-crown.

She always did give the half-crown, and a penny to the organ-grinder who came round weekly, and sixpence each to the butcher's boy, the baker's boy, and the grocer's boy at Christmas; the same every year, not allowing herself any wild excursions of charity till the regular subscriptions had been provided for.

But it was not in her philanthropies that Miss Lucretia proposed making her substantial reductions. There were a great many little luxuries which could be curtailed.

Regarding food, people would have said that no one was more economical than Miss Lucretia, but Miss Lucretia herself knew better. It was true that there never was any waste in this little establishment. A pound of meat was never ordered when three-quarters of a pound would do; and every scrap of food was eaten. But the meat and the milk and the butter ordered for 4, Primrose Cottages were always of the very best. The eggs must be newlaid, and not selected. The pot of jam--"preserves," Miss Lucretia called it, with old-fashioned elegance--in which she and Fanny indulged once a fortnight, must be of whole fruit in syrup; not the marvels of cheapness in two-pound jars.

"Why," thought Miss Lucretia now to herself, "should I buy butter at eighteenpence a pound, when they say the Normandy butter, or the Brittany, is really excellent? And it does seem a sinful waste to give two shillings for tea when one can get it quite good, the Vicar's wife tells me, at sixteen-pence. Indeed, I have seen phenomenal tea at a shilling." And so on.

The little lady proceeded with her reductions till she was quite convinced that Amy's coming need make no real difference in Fanny's comfort--the question which had pressed most upon her mind.

Then there were Amy's clothes to be thought of. Well, they would not cost much. There was a gown hanging up now in the cupboard which might be cut up for her.

Then there was a crimson merino dress which Miss Lucretia had bought last summer for the Vicarage garden-party--not without some misgivings as to the choice of so unwearing a colour, but with the solace to her conscience of knowing it could be dyed.

That would make a sweet little frock and cloak for Amy; for the dress had only been worn twice, and its wearer had held it up very carefully out of the dust.

Miss Lucretia went up to the little box-room opening out of her bedroom, and turned out a number of old treasures--things she had kept ever since her girlhood, carefully folded, wrong side out, and covered with tissue-paper. Here was her bridesmaid's dress for Constantia's wedding--that would cut up into a lovely Sunday frock; and here was a piece of china silk which had never been made up till Miss Lucretia grew too old for white dresses; and other things that would all come in. Yes, she would have no difficulty in dressing little Amy, and making her look just as smart as the children at Beaconsfield Mansion when occasion arose for it. She hoped the occasions would arise, that her child would be asked to parties, like other children, and with a new interest the old woman thought of the different families of her acquaintance.

And now about a room for Amy. The little box-room must be cleared out, and that would make a charming nest for her. The old chintz with the rosebuds on it Miss Lucretia had just taken from its paper would be the very thing for curtains. A little bed would just fit here behind the door, and a washstand there, and so on. Miss Lucretia planned it all out with absorbing interest. The question was, where was the money to come from for buying the furniture? There were certain things in the box-room which could be sold. Miss Lucretia's harp; she never played on it now, and harping was out of fashion, so it would not be wanted for Amy. And that portfolio of engravings--and---- She had soon marked out enough of her treasures to make the furnishing of the little room an easy matter.

Then she went downstairs and divulged her great project to Fanny. Her co-operation was very necessary, and her mistress approached her a little timidly.

"Fanny, I am thinking of having a child to live with me."

"Bless us! ma'am, a child?"

"Yes, my poor sister's little orphan."

Fanny's heart was warm. She listened to Miss Lucretia's plans and wishes without any crushing comment, but at the end she remarked, "Well, I should have thought as Mrs. Dalrymple would have taken her; she is so rich and with that big place and all; but if she don't feel disposed that way, and you do, ma'am, well, I suppose the poor little soul had best come to us." That was quite enough, and now Miss Lucretia hurried out of the house, and into the High Street, to inquire about the price of children's beds. It was early in the day, of course, to enter into such details, but then, the whole affair was so interesting that they could not be put off till to-morrow.

As Miss Lucretia walked down the High Street, she was attracted by a toyshop, and found herself straying into it to inquire the price of a doll in the window. It would be very silly to buy one so soon, and before any of the necessaries of life were provided for. But the temptation proved too strong for her. She went in and bought it--the first present she would give to _her child_.

Miss Lucretia spent an hour in the furniture shop. She had to arrange first with the proprietor about the sale of her own belongings, and then to choose the furniture for the room. She found she wanted only the prettiest, nicest things for Amy, though the cheapest for their solid value would have been her main object if for herself. Then there was a lovely paper, with nursery rhyme pictures all over it, which so fascinated her that she ordered half-a-dozen pieces of it to come on approval.

Altogether, it was a most exciting afternoon, and Miss Lucretia came home with a springing step, and radiant eyes, and a general bearing of youthfulness, such as she had not known for the last twenty years. A bright golden glow had suddenly overspread the grey landscape of her life, such as the sun sometimes throws at sunset, when it looks out from under a cloud at the end of a long grey day.

Before the post went out, she wrote a letter to Constantia, announcing her intention of taking Amy for her own, which gave a delightful seal of finality to her decision.

II.

"I could not have believed that Lucretia would be so foolish. Just fancy! she wants to adopt Amy!" was Mrs. Dalrymple's comment, as she read her sister's letter; and everyone at the breakfast table exclaimed.

"It is a very generous idea," remarked Mr. Dalrymple mildly. He had always been a mild sort of man, and marriage with Constantia had not made him less so.

"Generous! yes. Lucretia is always generous. You know the difficulty I had in stopping her giving expensive presents to the children; but it is so very foolish. I shall write her a letter, of course, and tell her that we intend to have Amy ourselves. Poor Lucretia! Fancy her with the charge of a child!"

So Constantia wrote her letter. It contained about a quarter of the words that Lucretia had used, and was very sensible, kind and decided. There was no answer required to it.

Great was Mrs. Dalrymple's surprise, therefore, when by return of post came a reply, not of acquiescence, but setting forth the other aunt's superior claim as godmother, an idea which, as Constantia remarked, was simply absurd.

"I shall have to go to Thirlambury myself," she said: "though it is not very convenient." It was often not very convenient to go to Thirlambury.

H V Brock]

In the meantime, Miss Lucretia had been indulging in her new day-dream, till every bit of her life had been remodelled in anticipation, and brought into harmony with her coming work and responsibility as an adopted mother. Already she attached to herself that beautiful title, the missing of which had been the sole sorrow of her life. As a young girl, Lucretia's day-dreams had not been of lovers, but of marriage; the joys of children clinging round her neck, the merry voices about the house, the little feet pattering up and down.

And now she counted the days to the one coming so near, when she should feel the real warm arms of little Amy clasped round "godmamma's" neck, and fold the child in her own with the new wonderful joy of possession. She felt that she could hold up her head again among women, and that the life which a week ago had seemed to hold nothing more except advancing infirmities was full of new possibilities and ever-increasing interest. Miss Lucretia lived again.

Miss Lucretia actually bought the bed, which the shopman had urged her to purchase at once, or it might be gone, as he had no other bedstead for a child.

As Miss Lucretia relinquished one after another of her own comforts and conveniences, the blessedness of giving grew more and more apparent to her. Nothing in life had ever given her a joy like the joy of this sacrifice.

Four days had passed so, and Miss Lucretia was just planning which plot of the small garden space allowed to a Primrose cottage might be spared from beans and cauliflowers to make a flowerbed for Amy, when a ring was heard at the door-bell. Miss Lucretia answered it herself, as Fanny was out, and there stood Constantia!

Miss Lucretia was always delighted to see her sister, and made the most of her rather infrequent visits. But to-day a kind of misgiving came over her at the unexpected sight of Constantia's smiling face; and a sensation of defeat as Constantia uttered, in her brisk, cheerful voice, the words, "And how are you, Lucretia? You didn't expect to see me?"

Lucretia welcomed her, as usual, and took her into the little parlour, which was drawing-room or dining-room according to the time of day. It was drawing-room now, and the dining-table stood folded, with a cloth and some ornaments on it, in a corner; everything was as neat and carefully arranged as it always was; each chair in that particular spot which experience had proved to be the best for it.

"How nice and tidy you always look, Lucretia," was Mrs. Dalrymple's first remark, as she sat down with a genial laugh in the visitor's arm-chair. "You must be struck with the difference when you come to The Towers. With six children, it is impossible to keep everything in its place!"

Miss Lucretia asked after the six children, categorically, staving off the subject which she knew very well had brought her sister to Thirlambury.

"The girls are as well as possible," answered their mother, massing them, for brevity; "and they are all looking forward so much to having Amy." Mrs. Dalrymple was a person who took bulls by their horns. She always knew exactly what she intended to do with the bull--the great secret of success in life--and was quite sure about its being the best thing that could be done.

"But I intended to have Amy," answered Miss Lucretia, in almost as firm a voice, but putting herself at a disadvantage at once by her slip of the past tense.

"Yes, I know you did. You wrote me all about it. It was exceedingly kind and good of you to think of such a thing, but, of course, it was quite out of the question. As I told you when I wrote, we intend to take her."

"Didn't you get my second letter?"

"Yes, and I saw by that you did not quite understand mine to you. I wrote in a hurry, and I suppose I did not make myself clear."

Constantia Dalrymple was under the impression that she was the most truthful of women.

"You made yourself perfectly clear," answered Lucretia, with a quiet dignity which was not usual with her. "But before you spoke of taking the child, I had made up my mind to do so. I have spoken to Fanny about it, and she is perfectly willing to accept the extra economies we shall have to practise, and any trouble Amy will give her. Of course, I shall take charge of her myself."

"How good of Fanny! I have always thought she must have enough to do with the whole work of your house, and she works a good deal in the garden, too, does she not?"

Miss Lucretia looked a trifle uncomfortable.

"I think Fanny will enjoy having a young life about the house," she replied, rather hurriedly; "just as I shall myself."

Constantia smiled. It was not exactly a nice smile, but perhaps she did not know that.

"I do not think either you or Fanny have had much to do with children," she said. "It is all very well to have them with you for a few hours at a time, when they are in their best frocks and on their best behaviour, and you have nothing to do with them except amuse them. But when you have the whole responsibility of a child, and are obliged to look after her from morning till night, it is a very different thing."

"Of course it is," said Miss Lucretia.

It was that very fact, comprising as it did the constant demand on time and thought and labour, with all the rich reward of corresponding affection from the child in its dependence, that made the sweetness of this dream of motherhood. But Lucretia could not put this into words. She was never very fluent with her deeper ideas, which were, perhaps, instincts rather than formulated notions, and she was least fluent of all with Constantia.

"And how could you ever afford it?" went on Mrs. Dalrymple.

Lucretia explained her scheme of retrenchment, and all her little plans.

"But you won't be able to go on dressing Amy with your old things for ever," said Constantia. "And, then, there will be hats and boots and shoes.

"She may be ill, too; children have to go through measles and whooping-cough, and that sort of thing: how will you afford to pay the doctor?"

Lucretia was silent for a moment; Constantia had such a very convincing way of saying things, and making all that was unpractical and visionary appear so; but she was not really vanquished.

"I think one must trust for that----" she began, at which Constantia smiled again.

"How about schooling, too? A girl's education is a very expensive thing nowadays. I am sure Edie and Gwendoline have cost us as much as the boys."

"Amy is only five now, and for some years to come I think of teaching her myself." The present tense this time, for she was on her mettle. "You know we were very thoroughly grounded by Miss Cox."

"That is a long time ago, Lucretia!"

"Yes, it is a long time, but I suppose the principles of grammar and arithmetic are the same, and I have not forgotten how to read!"

It surprised Mrs. Dalrymple to see her sister pluck up so much spirit, but this defiant attitude did not affect her. There was in her such a certainty of being in the right, and of causing the right to prevail, that she was able to take all Lucretia's opposition very quietly. It was obstinate of her sister to hold out like this--weak people always were obstinate--and it was extremely foolish, but her surrender was only a matter of time.

Lucretia went on talking, urging her suit in a way that would have struck some people as pathetic, but Constantia was not much given to seeing the pathos in life; her view of things in general was optimistic, and unless a sorrow was thrust before her she did not look at it.

Constantia let Lucretia talk on until she naturally ceased, after repeating herself a good many times, in the way that peculiarly weakens a cause. Then she brought up her reserve force.

"But do you think it would be good for the child to be by herself, just with you and old Fanny?"

Fanny was ten years younger than her mistress, and Lucretia realised how very old fifty-nine must be.

Constantia paused a moment. Then she went on to point out all the drawbacks of a bringing-up such as Amy must have with two old maids--not using the term, but dwelling on the characteristics implied in it.

"What would you do with the child if she were naughty?" Mrs. Dalrymple asked by way of a test question. "She is sure to have a strong will of her own; you know what poor Ann was."

Miss Lucretia could not answer the question, naughtiness seeming to her as multi-form a thing as illness, and the treatment for either depending upon its form and cause. She replied that her idea was to bring the child up on a system of love; a vague answer which did not satisfy her sister.

"Bringing up children is not such an easy and simple matter as people might think who have had no experience." Here Constantia herself stood on a firm foundation. "And it is much more difficult to bring up one child by itself than when there are others for it to consort with."

Then Mrs. Dalrymple proceeded to dilate on the smallness of Primrose Cottage, which was certainly a very poor little place compared with The Towers. There Amy would have the grounds to play about in; she would share the girls' governess, ride on Gwendoline's pony, and Nurse, who had been so splendid with Bertram and Edie, would only be too pleased to have a child again.

"It always makes her and me quite unhappy to look at the empty nursery," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "though the children have only flown into the schoolroom."

There was a weight of truth in every sentence Constantia uttered, which made it strike like a battering-ram against the walls of Miss Lucretia's airy castle. At last she gave a little cry--a cry in words:

"Oh, don't tell me that I mustn't have Amy!"

"I do not say that you must not have her," answered Constantia. "As you say, you are the child's godmother, and the elder of us two. I leave it for you to decide. Only, I want you to think which would really be best for Amy."

Released thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, from the paws of the cat, the little mouse of Miss Lucretia's soul ran trembling into a corner, while the cat smiled, sweetly enough this time, as those may who have won the game. It was a good cat, too, which had only been doing its duty.

At this moment, Fanny came in, bringing tea, and Mrs. Dalrymple greeted her with her usual warmth and kindness, rejoicing in the anticipation of eating some of that delicious home-made cake which was always so much better than they could get their cook at The Towers to make; asking with sympathy after Fanny's rheumatism, and giving her an abundance of those smiles which were so taking; while Lucretia sat, looking old and small and withered, with a face that seemed as if it would never smile again.

She had come to her hour of sacrifice; the great sacrifice of her life. Even with Lucretia the age was not past when sacrifices may be lit up by a golden halo of romance. There had been a halo round the sacrifice of all her little comforts which she had already made in will for Amy. The love that prompted it had turned the self-denial into a part of the joy of her prospective guardianship.

But round this sacrifice there hovered no such brightness. It was only like herself, a poor, common-place, drab-coloured thing. No sense of heroism could attend it; common-sense demanded it, so Constantia had proved, but, even with Constantia's provings, Lucretia could not have offered up her precious sacrifice upon the altar of common-sense. But the other altar, which stood hard by, the altar of love, was one that she could not thus disdain. The result of the pitiful struggle was certain, or Constantia would not have given the game into Lucretia's hands; but Lucretia was not sharp enough to see that. To her the whole brunt of choosing was as real, the action of her will as decided, as if a long habit of unselfishness had not made any other course impossible.

It was better for Amy that she should go to Constantia. Then to Constantia she must go.

"I suppose you are right," she said at last, in words as commonplace as befitted her unheroic sacrifice.

"I was sure you would agree with me when you came to think about it," Constantia answered, gently now, for it was part of her system, the one, perhaps, which had made it so successful with her children, never to use unnecessary force. "I am sure a month hence you will feel very glad that you have not a child turning your peaceful life and your pretty cottage upside down."

There was no use trying to make Constantia understand; and, if she could have understood, it would have made no difference.

Miss Lucretia said nothing. It was time now for Mrs. Dalrymple to go, and, finishing her second cup of tea, she wished her sister an affectionate good-bye, with the promise of a hamper of game from The Towers, where they were just going to have one of their "big shoots."

H V Brock]

"Perhaps I might have done it more kindly," Constantia thought, as she drove in her cab to the station. "But it was such a foolish idea. I am glad Lucretia saw it for herself in the end."

Miss Lucretia went upstairs with slow, old footsteps, after her sister had gone. The last red glow had faded from her landscape, and everything was grey again, a shade deeper grey now, as it must go on growing deeper, till the night. She went into the little room, and, as she looked at the little bed which was never to hold her child, a tear came up into each of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

The doll lay on the bed, wrapped up in the white muslin that was to have made its underclothes, looking like a tiny corpse. It seemed to Lucretia like her dream of motherhood as it was now, the dead body of something that had never really lived.

She went to the window and looked out on the grey, darkening landscape, and over it there twinkled one faint star. She stood watching, and the star grew brighter, then another came out, and then another. For a long time Lucretia looked up: then she knelt down, looking up still.

The far-off light from the stars seemed to be shining on her face as she turned it to Fanny, when that faithful woman came up at last to bring her mistress down to supper.

"Miss Amy is going to Mrs. Dalrymple," she said, quietly, and with a little smile. "My sister left it to me to decide whether she should go to The Towers or come here, and I gave her up to them, Fanny. I am glad she is going to my sister. She will be happier there."

There can be no two opinions as to the most famous Easter hymn. In almost every church throughout the land, and in most chapels too, there arises, every Easter morning, the well-known strains of "Jesus Christ is risen to-day, Alleluia!" There may be an occasional difference in the wording of a line here and there, as the hymn appears in various hymnals, but practically it is the one hymn which binds all Christian congregations together on Easter morning. It is our Easter greeting one to another, in the joy and hope of that blessed day, like the greeting of the pious Russian on the same morn, who salutes every passer-by with the words "Christ is risen!"

THE REV. S. BARING-GOULD.]