The Project Gutenberg eBook of The foster-sisters

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Title: The foster-sisters

A story in the days of Wesley and Whitfield

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: January 30, 2024 [eBook #72826]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co., 1882

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72826

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOSTER-SISTERS ***

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

Lady Throckmorton led us through a grand hall, up a fine

oak staircase, which reminded me of the great staircase at St. Jean.

[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]

[Year 1728]

The Foster-Sisters.

A STORY OF

THE DAYS OF WESLEY AND WHITFIELD.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK,"

"THE CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER," ETC.

"KINDRED TO SIX DEGREES, FOSTERSHIP TO A HUNDRED."

HIGHLAND PROVERB.

NEW EDITION.

LONDON:

JOHN F. SHAW & CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. THE OLD CONVENT

II. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS

III. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS

IV. TROUBLES

V. THE BISHOP'S VISIT

VI. THE MIDNIGHT RAID

VII. A SUMMONS

VIII. FLIGHT FROM THE NEST

IX. LADY THROCKMORTON

X. MRS. DEBORAH

XI. THE INNOCENT BLOOD

XII. THE FUNERAL

XIII. NEWS AND CHANGES

XIV. NEWS

XV. THE SISTERS

XVI. HIGHBECK HALL

XVII. LIFE AT THE HALL

XVIII. WINTER

XIX. SURPRISES

XX. VISITORS

XXI. CHANGES AT HIGHBECK

XXII. NEWS FROM THE NORTH

XXIII. A HASTY REMOVAL

XXIV. "AN EARLY SNOW SAVES MUCKLE WOE"

XXV. THE DOCTOR FROM NEWCASTLE

XXVI. THE END

THE FOSTER-SISTERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE OLD CONVENT.

IF one thought anything of omens (which I do not in general, though I confess I would rather not see the new moon through glass) I might think it a bad one that my first distinct recollection is of a fall. It happened in this wise: I was sitting on the edge of the great fountain basin, eating a bit of spice cake, and watching some vernons—so they call the little wild canaries in that part of the world—which were flying in and out of the great ivy on the north wall, where I suppose they had young ones. In my interest in the birds, I forgot that my perch was both narrow and slippery. I leaned backward, the better to obtain a view of the bird's nest, which I could but just see, and so doing I lost my balance, and down I went into the water.

Luckily for me, there was help at hand, for the basin was deep and I was small. Mother Prudentia was just coming for water, and pulled me out before I had time to scream more than once. If I had seen her so near, I should not have been sitting there, for the thing was strictly forbidden. But she pulled me out and carried me to the dormitory, where I was quickly undressed and well scolded at the same time, and popped into bed.

I spent the rest of the day dully enough, but a little consoled by the gift of a second piece of spice cake and the company of my doll, which the good mother's relenting heart allowed me, after I had sobbingly confessed that I was very sorry, and would never do so again. I think she would even have let me get up but for the fear of my taking cold and having consumption. Mother Prudentia was fully convinced that all English women died of consumption, sooner or later.

To this day, the smell of a bit of fresh spice cake will bring that whole scene before my eyes. I can see the arched cloisters surrounding the paved court, with the old fountain well in the centre. I can look through the great pointed doorway and see a second court, with a tall cross in the centre surrounded by low grassy mounds, where generation after generation of the sisters rested in peace. I can smell the odor of the roses which grew so luxuriantly in the corner by the little postern door which led into the church, and the wild lavender and the rosemary, which had sprung up in those places—alas, very many—where the marble pavement had gone to decay, or the cloister walls and arches were in ruins. I can feel the very brooding, yet not stifling heat of the summer day in June, and breathe the air smelling not only of the aromatic herbs which so abound in that country, but also of the fresh breath of the sea.

I may say this association was the beginning of these memoirs. For as I was speaking of it to my dear Lady the last time she came to visit me, she thought a little, and said she to me:

"Lucy, why don't you write out the recollections of those days? They would be interesting to the children, by and by. You are a Corbet on both sides, and you know the Corbets have always been famous for writing chronicles. Come, take pen in hand, and have something to read me when I come again."

"And what is to become of my children's lessons and clothes?" I asked.

"Let the children mend their own clothes. It will be all the better for them, and you have no need to be doing such work at all. Anne Penberthy ought to take all that off your hands."

"And so she does," I answered, seeing that, by making use of the first excuse that came to hand, I had given Amabel a false impression. "Anne is a good girl and a faithful, if one ever lived; but I must have something to do when I sit down, and I tire of knitting, after a while."

"Well, then, try writing, for a change," said my Lady, smiling; and then she began to talk of one of the girls who had fallen and hurt her knee (it was Bridget Polwarth, of course—trust her for that, poor child!), and no more was said at that time.

But when evening was come, and the children were all abed, except two or three of the elder ones, to whom Anne was diligently reading a new book which my Lady brought down to us, then I began to think of what my Lady had said that morning. I had plenty of time, and my eyes are very good, so that I really hardly need glasses at all, except to do fine darning and the like. I have had an uncommonly good education (though I say it that shouldn't, perhaps), and I have passed, with my dear Lady, through many strange chances and changes in this mortal life. Why should I not write all these things down for the benefit of my Lady's children? And so it has come to pass that I have really taken pen in hand and begun this memoir, if it deserves so grand a name.

My first clear recollections are of the convent in Provence, where I was bred with Mrs. Amabel Leighton till I was about sixteen years old. The convent had once been a very wealthy establishment; and I have heard that, in the early days of Louis Fourteenth, the abbess used to entertain company in princely style, with more of magnificence and luxury than any of the gentry round about, and, in fact, with more than at all befitted a religious house.

But there was nothing of that sort done in my day. The means were wanting, even if our good mother had cherished any such desires. I am sure she did not, though, doubtless, she would have liked to have new hangings for the church, to repair the cloisters, and make the refectory at least weather-proof, and perhaps to mend our cheer a little on feast days. But the resources were hardly large enough at that time to furnish us with food and clothes, and so all these things remained undone. However, the elders of the house consoled themselves with the thought that they suffered for righteousness' sake, and were laying up merit thereby, and the young ones were happy in their youth; so we were a very cheerful household, after all.

Our foundation was one of those numerous offshoots from one of the great orders, which, under different names, are found all over Europe, and, as I said, had at one time enjoyed a princely revenue, of which the best use had not always been made. The convent was, in some way which I do not understand, a kind of dependency of the neighboring noble family of Crequi, and was a very convenient place wherein to bestow unmarried and portionless sisters, plain daughters, or those to whom it was not convenient to give large dowries, and other inconvenient female relations.

The abbess—such was her rank—had her carriage and the ladies their servants, and they were by no means particular about keeping their enclosure, as it is called, but visited and were visited themselves as long and as often as they pleased. I heard all the story many a time from Mother Prudentia, who had learned it, in her turn, from a very old nun, who well remembered those days.

But presently there came a wonderful change. The famous Mother Angelique was made abbess of Port Royal when hardly twelve years old, and was converted afterward by the preaching of a wandering friar, himself a very bad man, which shows how good may sometimes be done even by wicked men. No sooner did the Mother Angelique become really religious herself than she set about reforming her house. The nuns, for the most part, seconded her with enthusiasm. No more gay visitors were admitted. No more feasts were given or fine clothes worn. No more worldly songs were heard. Instead one saw nothing but religious ceremonies, works of charity, instructing and clothing of poor children, and the like. Hours of silence were multiplied and strictly observed, as were also the church services.

This change of affairs was greatly admired in some quarters, and as severely condemned in others. Mother Angelique went about the country visiting the different houses of the order and ours among the number. Our own abbess was a young lady of that same noble family of Crequi, and at that time about four and twenty.

"She was as beautiful as an angel, so Mother Benedict used to say, and greatly admired," (I quote Mother Prudentia's own words), "but she never seemed happy in all her gaiety, and, even at its height, she would pass whole nights watching and weeping in the church, or in her own private chapel. Some said she had been in love with a poor young cousin, who disappeared, nobody knew exactly how, though every one might guess; and the lady being offered her choice of the cloister or a gay courtly bridegroom, chose the first." And then, if she were in a very confidential mood, Mother Prudentia's voice would sink to a whisper, as she told how the poor young man was believed to have been put to death by his own relations at a spot in the chase where no grass or flowers ever sprung afterward.

However that might be, the abbess hailed Mother Angelique as though she had been an angel from Heaven. They spent long hours closeted together or pacing up and down the cloistered walk which runs along the side of the cemetery. There was a change in the house as sudden as that at Port Royal. The carriages and horses were sold, all superfluous servants dismissed, and the fare reduced to the plainest sort. No more visits were made outside the walls and none received, except at the regular times when the sisters were allowed to talk with their friends through the grate in the parlors, in proper convent fashion.

Mother Prudentia said that most of the younger nuns fell into these new ways easily enough, and were as enthusiastic as the abbess herself, so that they had to be checked, rather than urged; but the elder women were not so pliant. They liked their amusements, their good dinners and suppers, and their gossip with visitors from outside; and the abbess ran some risk of being murdered in her own house. Indeed, it was believed that a severe illness which befell the lady about that time was the effect of poison administered by a certain Italian nun who was the most bitterly opposed to the new state of things.

For a while everything prospered. The Abbess was determined, and seemed to have a real genius for government. She lived to see all her measures carried out, and was succeeded by a spiritual daughter of Mother Angelique's, who had been sent, with two or three others, to assist in the work of reformation. The great revenues were used in maintaining schools, in assisting the poor, and in establishing and endowing a second house of our order in Toulon, to which daughters of trades-people and the like were admitted; for none but ladies of noble birth were allowed to renounce the world at our house. From all I can hear, the abbess and her successor were true Christian women according to their lights, and so, I am sure, were our own dear lady and most of the family in my day.

But troublous times were at hand. The Port Royalists, or Jansenists, as they came to be called, got into difficulty with the government and with the Jesuits, who carried things with a high hand in France, as, indeed, they do still, by all accounts. The whole family of the Mother Angelique, with all who adhered to them, were pronounced heretical, disobedient to the Pope, and altogether reprobate, and various bulls and proclamations were issued against them by Pope and archbishop, king and council.

Our house suffered with the rest, for the sake of the opinions which they refused to renounce. Their revenues were pillaged, their lands confiscated, their old priest and confessor was thrown into prison, where he died; and though the sisters were allowed to retain possession of their house and garden and enough land to raise a little corn and oil and to pasture a few cows and sheep, it was rather on sufferance and because they were under the protection of that same noble family of Crequi, which happened to be in high favor at court.

Such was the state of things in my day. The house was almost ruinous, and the vineyard, the olive orchard, and all together, furnished us with a scanty subsistence. True, we children and the young novices always had enough to eat, such as it was; but I fancy the Abbess and the elder nuns kept more fasts than were in the calendar, while their robes bore the marks of much careful mending and darning. Be this as it might, I never heard a complaint. The good ladies were as cheerful as possible, and in their hours of recreation would laugh and frolic like school girls. They had formerly taught a little school for the children of the neighboring village, and a few still came, almost by stealth, to receive instruction in religion and needlework, and such other things as were considered fit for them. We were not permitted to mix with these children; but we knew them all by sight, and we were allowed to make little presents for them, such as pincushions, caps, and aprons.

As I remember it now, I believe the ladies lived in perpetual expectation of being turned out on the world or shut up in convents of some other order; but they did not allow their fear to hinder them in the discharge of their duties, or what they believed to be such. How many times I have wished that these poor souls could have come under the influence of such preachers and teachers as we have had of late years in England. What a difference would the doctrines of free grace and salvation have made in their lives.

CHAPTER II.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

I WAS born in England about the year 1728 as nearly as I can find out. My mother was first cousin to Lady Leighton, and married a gentleman of her own name, who for love of her, forsook his native county and bought a small estate not far from the Scottish border in Northumberland.

My mother had twins about the time that Lady Leighton died, and as only one of the babes lived, she was easily persuaded to give the vacant place to the little motherless Amabel, the daughter of her nearest and dearest friend.

Sir Julius loved his beautiful young wife, and after she was taken away, he could at first hardly endure the sight of her child. He had been left with a large fortune and an unencumbered estate by his father, who had been a prudent gentleman and a great man of business. But Sir Julius was as I fancy very unlike the old gentlemen in every respect. He liked living in London better than in Northumberland, and spending money better than saving it. Moreover he was a hot Jacobite and soon got into trouble with the existing Government by engaging in some of the numerous plots of the time.

It was in the same year that my father was killed by a fall from his horse while helping to rescue some poor creatures from a sudden inundation. It became needful for Sir Julius to go abroad and leave his affairs in the hands of certain family connections less loyal or more prudent than himself. Nothing would serve but he must take his daughter with him, and as my mother had lost her only ties to life in England, she was easily persuaded to go along. Sir Julius lived for a year or two in the neighborhood of Toulon on a small estate owned by the Marquis de Crequi, who was some sort of a relation. Then my mother died, and Sir Julius placed us two little children in the Abbey of St. Jean de Crequi, which was at that time in a somewhat more prosperous condition than I remember it afterward.

Sir Julius entered some foreign service for a while, and then his peace was made at home and he returned to England, where he married a very rich wife and had two or three children. But he allowed his daughter and myself, her foster-sister, to remain at the convent till we were all but grown up, remitting with more or less regularity money to pay for our board and education. Why he did so I don't pretend to know unless as I think probable he was as much afraid of his second wife as he was afterward of his third. Of course, I remember nothing of all this nor did I learn much of it till after our return to England.

As I said, my first distinct recollection is of tumbling into the fountain well and being fished out by mother Prudentia. But I used to have dim and fleeting visions of a very different home—of an old timbered house and a great apple orchard loaded with fruit, and a tall, bluff man holding me up to gather a golden mellow apple with my own hands. As to our journey and the events of our short residence in France, my mind is all a blank. I seem to myself to have waked up in the old abbey at a time when I was old enough to climb up the great stairway on my hands and knees and sometimes to be carried in arms, though I think that privilege oftener belonged to Amabel who was rather a delicate child, while I was as strong as a little donkey.

We were very happy together, Amabel and I. No difference was made between us in any respect that I remember. We learned the same things, dressed in the same way, and slept in the same kind of little white covered beds in our own corner of the dormitory. There were three or four other pupils, but they were all but one, very much older than ourselves—quite young ladies in fact.

Dénice was our only playmate. I don't know what her other name was or whether she had any, but I have fancied since that she might have been a daughter of some unhappy Protestant family, torn from her parents by the cruel hand of persecutors and shut up at St. Jean to be made a good Catholic. Such things were common enough in those days. She was a thin dark child, shy and shrinking in her manners with her elders, but a capital playfellow and the best of story tellers. She was three or four years older than Amabel and myself, and had great influence over us, which she always used for good. A better child never breathed, and her early death was my first real grief.

Our household consisted, beside the pupils whom I have mentioned, of about eighteen members in all—

First of course came the Abbess. She was a middle-aged lady when I first knew her, and very handsome but worn with cares, fasts, and vigils, and so bent she looked much beyond her real age. I have nothing but good to say of her. I think it likely from what I now remember that she was not without a tinge of that spiritual pride which is nurtured by nothing more than by the voluntary humiliations required by the Roman church within all religious persons so-called. But as a ruler of her family, nobody could be more just, firm, and kind. She allowed herself no indulgences that were not shared by the rest of the community, and as I believe often denied herself absolutely necessary food and clothing to add to the comfort of the old and feeble members of the household. She was an excellent manager, overseeing everything, yet not like many notable women wasting her time in doing work which belonged to other people. While I believe she knew to a single olive and a single ounce of wool everything which her fields produced, she did not interfere vexatiously with the sisters who had charge of these things, but allowed them to manage in their own way. We little ones went to her for an hour every day to receive a special religious instruction, and she used to make these hours very pleasant, dismissing us usually with a bit of cake or fruit or some other little treat. We children at least adored her.

Next came the Mother Assistant, who was Mother Superior's right hand in all that pertained to the management of the house and farm, though I do not think there was much sympathy between them in other things. Mother Assistant was a narrow-minded woman, to whom the framework of religion was everything. She had a particular and fanatical devotion to the Saints, which was not, or so I think, the case with Mother Superior. I have an idea that she was annoyed at the state of ostracism, so to speak, in which we lived, and that she would not have been sorry to return to the old ways, and make, peace with the Church and the archbishop; but, of course, this is only an impression, such as young folks often pick up concerning their elders. She was not fond of children, and I don't think there was any love lost between us.

Then came several other officers.

The Mother Sacristine, who had the whole charge of the Church, the vestments, etc. And many a weary hour did the good mother spend in darning rent hangings and moth-eaten altar cloths (for these little pests have no more respect for the ante-pendium of an altar than for an old laborer's Sunday coat), and trying to furbish up the once rich vestments which would never look anything but faded and shabby after all her pains.

The Mother Bursar had charge of the purse and the money, when there was any. She had, as I think, only one serious worry in life, and that was, that fast as she might, she would always look fat and jolly, her cheeks and chin would always be rosy, and her face break into dimples whenever she smiled, which was very often. As to the perennial want of money, she regarded that, not as a worry, but as a cross, which is a very different matter.

Mother Prudentia was mistress of the novices, and of us young ones as well. She was a good woman, according to her lights, as the abbess herself, very fond of young people, and rather too much given to indulging them, if anything. Certainly, we children had very easy times with her. She was a born gossip, and loved nothing better than to gather us round her and tell us tales by the hour, of Mother Angelique, her work and her trials, of the Mother Perpetua, who instituted the reform, of endless saints and martyrs, of various mothers and sisters whom she had known, and sometimes, also, of giants, dwarfs, fairies, and the like. We had a certain feeling that these latter tales were a kind of contraband goods, and I fear we did not like them the less on that account.

Our sisters were, I suppose, much like any other collection of ladies of the same age and breeding, except that the sense of living under the ban of persecution and suffering for the truth's sake gave a kind of elevation to their characters not always found in convents. Mother Prudentia once told me that, at a visitation made by the Bishop or some other great functionary, the nuns then in the convent had been offered the choice of entering any other religious house they pleased; but not a single one had availed herself of the permission.

The good ladies kept their hours very strictly, revered the constitutions and rules of their order as much as the Scripture itself, or perhaps a little more, considering that they knew a good deal more about them, sang endless litanies and read all the books they had. In their hours of labor they worked in the garden and orchard, made beautiful cakes and sweetmeats (I only wish I had Sister Lazarus' receipt book), and were especially famous for their candied fruits, very few of which were ever tasted within the convent walls.

They did a great deal of embroidery and made lovely lace with the needle. Mother Angelique had disapproved of fancy-work, but the lace and embroidery were too important as sources of revenue to be disregarded. Now and then a sister disappeared for a few days, and then it was understood that she was in retreat,—that is, she shut herself up for a special season of fasting and prayer. The rules of convents are such that one may live in a religious house as a pupil for years and yet know very little of the interior workings of the family; but we were so few in number, and so poor withal, that we were thrown very much together.

The three elder pupils mostly kept by themselves, and we saw very little of any of them except Desireè. She would sometimes condescend to play with us, and usually ended by leading us into some scrape. She was the only one destined by her friends for the veil, and certainly she had the least vocation for a religious life. Marguerite and Athenais were grave, serious-minded girls, and would, I think, gladly have remained in the house; but their friends had different views for them, and they were taken away to be married.

I have said the house was a large one, and had once been very magnificent. There were two long rows of cells for the nuns, who formerly numbered fifty or sixty. There was a range of superb apartments formerly allotted to the abbess, but they were shut up and disused. The house was built around two courts, which were connected by a tall Gothic arch. The court, about which were the offices and the rooms in which we lived, was paved with fine slabs of marble, many of which, in my time, were cracked, broken, and displaced.

The fountain, in which I took my involuntary bath, stood in the centre, and was, as I remembered it, a very curious piece of workmanship. It was a great round basin, supported on a short stem, and was covered on the outside with sculpture. The figures were worn with time and weather; but one could easily trace cupids, dancing girls, and figures with goats' feet, all intermixed with garlands of leaves and flowers. The basin was always filled with clear cool water, which had its source somewhere in the hills back of the house, and which ran out of a conduit pipe into a paved channel, and so into the mountain stream which watered our garden.

On one side of the court was the church and a chapel, which last was mostly used nowadays, the sacristy and other apartments belonging thereto. Joining the church at right angles were the refectory and parlors and the rooms used by the present abbess, or Superior, as she preferred to be called, and other apartments, whose use, if they had any, I knew not, for I never saw them opened in my time. On the third side were the different offices and various storerooms for wood, charcoal, etc., as well as for the products of the farm. Above these were the ranges of cells, most of which stood empty, except for some small remains of furniture.

The outer court was, as I have said, the cemetery for the sisters, though I hardly think they could all have been buried there. It was marked by no stones except the marble cross in the centre, and the grass grew with rank luxuriance over the sunken mounds which marked the resting-places of the dead. Around this court, also, ran a range of cloisters, all paved with marble and adorned with carving of beautiful design. But here, also, the pavement was broken and the ornaments falling to decay. Here, as I have said, were situated the private apartments of the old abbesses, and others which were used for guest chambers under the old regime, but which were now always shut up and locked. How we used to wish we could see these rooms, which we thought must be very magnificent!

In one corner of this court was a very deep and disused well, into which we used to look with wonder and awe. When the sun was in the right direction it was possible, by gazing intently, to discern, about half way down, the remains of a very rude and narrow spiral stairway, which went winding down into the darkness. We used to drop little pebbles into this well, and listen, with breathless expectation, for the hollow resounding splash in the unseen waters below. Mother Prudentia used to say that this place was not really a well, but a disused entrance to certain very deep and extensive caverns below the house.

Only two sides of this court were surrounded with buildings. The others were formed by the walls which separated it from the inner court on one side and the gardens on the other. The cloisters, however, ran all around, and were famous places to play in on wet days.

The garden was beautiful. It lay on a sunny slope facing the south, and was well sheltered from the cruel winds which sometimes visit that part of the country. I never saw elsewhere such banks of violets and thickets of roses and jasmine. There were old, old orange trees, all gnarled and rough, but bearing the sweetest of thin-skinned fruit. There were tuberoses and great bushes of lavender and rosemary, and more flowers than I can remember, and caper plants growing in the old ruined brickwork, fragments of which peeped everywhere, and gay Lent lilies, and clumps of tall white ones, which we used to consider specially sacred to the Virgin. Oh, I cannot pretend to enumerate the charms of that garden.

There was a fish-pond, which we little ones were forbidden to approach, and a lovely little brook full of minnows and other interesting creatures, where we used to get into disgrace by dabbling and wetting our feet and our pinafores. Here were our own gardens, where we each had a currant bush, and where we raised flowers and salads, and now and then a melon. Happy she whose salad or melon was considered good enough for the Reverend Mother's table. I don't believe the dear lady was very fond of melons, but she used to accept them graciously, and ceremoniously ask our permission, which of course we always gave, to divide the treat with the other mothers and sisters.

I must not forget the potage, or herb garden, where grew salads and pulse of many sorts, endive and parsley, sweet herbs and garlic, beside such grand cucumbers, great gourds and melons, and such scarlet love apples as one never sees in England. I don't wonder that the children of Israel hankered after such things in the midst of the desert. I should like to see a roasted gourd myself once more. Here was a great range of bee-hives, which were the special care of Sister Baptista.

Beyond the garden were the olive orchard and the fields belonging to the house, where we were never allowed to go by ourselves. Here were pastured our three cows, whose produce made a good part of our living. Just outside the pasture lived an old laboring man, who, with his wife and his lame son, did all the work of the farm which was too hard for the sisters. We were, for some reason or other, dreadfully afraid of this old man, though he never did anything worse than make faces at us, which I don't think he could help, and laugh a queer shrill laugh when we ran away from him.

Beyond these fields was a valley, through which ran a stream, usually nearly dry in summer, though it was a hoarse roaring torrent in winter. Beyond this rose high rather barren hills.

On the other side of the house was a narrow court, also paved, where we never set foot, and a high wall spiked on the top. The house had no windows on the lower floor on this side, but there were several on the floor above.

One of these was accessible to us, being in a sort of disused oratory—or so I judge from what furniture remained to it—and was a great resort of Amabel's and mine. From it see could see the land, which fell off very rapidly, and, beyond, the blue sea dotted with sails. Amabel used to point southward, and say that we had come across the sea, and that our home was "over there." Of course, she was mistaken, for the land on the other side was Africa, as I now know, where the poor blackamoors come from; but we used to like to look at it and fancy sometimes that we saw a little bit of England.

CHAPTER III.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

THERE could hardly be two people more differently constituted than Amabel Leighton and myself, which is perhaps one reason why we have continued such fast friends all through life. I was always well and strong, able to bear fatigue, and caring nothing for any danger that I could see. At the same time, I was dreadfully afraid of all the creatures and powers of darkness, and still more afraid of being found fault with or laughed at, not only by people whom I loved and respected, but by those for whom I didn't care a rush.

Amabel, on the contrary, was delicate in body, shrinking from exertion or exposure. She was very timid. She was afraid, even, of our own petted cows, till she learned to milk that she might help Sister Lazarus; and she was terrified at our big watch dog, which adored her, and would wag his tail at the most distant glimpse of her.

"Why do you pat Arslan when you are so afraid of him?" asked Mother Prudentia one day, when she saw Amabel caressing the dog's great square head, while he licked her hand in an ecstasy.

"Because, dear Mother, he wagged his tail at me, and I don't like to hurt his feelings," answered the dear child, half sobbing. "You know you said we should never hurt people's feeling if we could help it."

Desireè, who was near, laughed her little sneering laugh.

"A dog is not people—he is only a brute beast!" said she.

"Arslan is a great deal more like people than some girls I know!" said I, hotly resentful both for Arslan and Amabel.

"Tut, tut, little pepper pot!" said the mother, smiling at my vehemence. "A dog is not people, but he has affections, and I am glad my little Aimeè regards them. If we thought always as tenderly as thou of the feelings of our friends, it would be all easy world to live in."

This little incident is a good specimen of Amabel. Timid as she was, if she once made up her mind that a certain course was right, she would pursue it through thick and thin. But while no amount of laughing or teasing would make her do what was wrong, she was sometimes led by her affection for me to join in projects which brought us both into trouble and disgrace. I remember one instance in particular, which came near being very serious in its consequences.

I have said that there was an extensive range of unused apartments on one side of the cemetery. They were commonly kept locked up, but one day as we three young ones were playing in the cloister, Mother Bursar came out with a bunch of keys and proceeded to unlock the grand entrance.

We clustered round her and watched with much interest the opening of the great two leaved portal.

"So! I suppose you are all dying of curiosity to see these wonderful rooms," said Mother Bursar, smiling at our eager faces. "Well you may follow me if you will keep close behind me and touch nothing. But mind you do not slip away, for the rooms and passages are many and you might be lost or have a fall. The floors are not as good as they might be."

We eagerly availed ourselves of the permission and with many exclamations of wonder followed Mother Bursar into the great hall and through the apartments opening from it. These rooms had once been splendidly decorated with carving and painting, and enough still remained to show that the subjects of the paintings were not always religious by any means. Some furniture was still standing about, here a great cushioned chair, there a cabinet once gay with inlaid ivory and gilding, or a Persian rug eaten with the moths.

"Why does not dear mother have some of these pretty things in her own room?" I ventured to ask as I paused before a beautiful table with cupids and birds inlaid all over it.

"Dear mother does not care for such things, my child!" answered Mother Bursar. "They are not fit for one who has renounced the world. But we are going to overlook all the hangings and curtains and see if we can make any of them over into bed coverings for some of the poor people, and for our own beds as well. Come now, troop out little ones. I have opened the windows to let in the air and shall leave them for a while, till the place is freshened up."

"Let us stay here and look at the pictures on the walls, dear mother!" begged Amabel, who loved everything beautiful. "We will not go into any other rooms."

"Very well!" said Mother Bursar, who was always indulgent and who knew that Amabel and Dénice at least could be trusted. "Mind you stay here in the hall and go no where else, above all do not venture up the stairs."

Mother Bursar went away and left us and we were busy studying the story of Joseph and his family on the painted wall, when Desireè came stealing in.

"So here are all the good little girls!" said she. "All busy breaking rules. I wonder what Mother Prudentia will say to that."

"We are not breaking rules as it happens," I answered warmly as usual. "Mother Bursar gave us leave to stay here and look at the pictures till she came back. There are much prettier pictures in the other rooms but we must not go there," I added rather regretfully, remembering the beautiful ladies dancing under the trees which I had seen within.

"How do you know about the pictures if you must not go there!" asked Desireè. "Aha, Miss Lucille, I have caught you this time!"

"You have done nothing of the sort," said I. "Mother Bursar let us accompany her through the rooms but she said we must go no where else without her."

Desireè went and looked through the open doors, and even ventured a few steps into the room, but soon returned. I fancy she was afraid.

"And where does this go?" she asked, turning to a little door opening under the great stairs.

"I don't know, I never noticed it!" I answered.

"It does not matter where it goes, since we are not to leave this hall!" said Amabel. "Don't touch it, Desireè."

"I shall not ask your leave, Misè!" returned Desireè, still working at the door.

I suppose the lock was rusted, for it yielded in her hand, and she opened it. Amabel and myself came behind her and looked. The door opened on a stone stair, which led downward. It was dark at first, but gazing steadfastly we could discern a dim light below. A damp, mouldy air blew in our faces. I shuddered, I knew not why, and turned away.

"Look at her. She pretends to fear nothing, and she is scared at the very sight of this old hole!" said Desireè. "Now I will wager anything that she would never dare go down these stairs and walk twenty paces away from them!" And Desireè laughed scornfully.

"Whether she is afraid or not, she must not do it!" said Dénice. "The Mother Bursar has forbidden it."

"She did not forbid it—she said nothing about it!" said I.

"She forbade us to leave the hall, and that is enough!" retorted Dénice.

But Desireè persisted in daring me to descend the stairs, and at last I was just foolish enough to undertake it. Amabel strove with tears in her eyes to dissuade me, but seeing that I was determined, she expressed her intention of going with me.

"Don't go, oh, don't go!" pleaded Dénice; but, seeing us both preparing to descend, she suddenly pulled herself free from Desireè, who was holding her fast, and ran out of the hall.

The stairs were sound enough, but slippery with damp and mould. They landed us in a very small square apartment, lighted by a grating close to the top. From this room, long, dark passages led away in two or three directions. I must confess, I was dreadfully scared, but Desireè's taunts had roused my pride, and I walked firmly on down one of the long alleys. I remember just how soft and velvety the ground felt under my feet, and how our footsteps yet seemed to wake a strange echo, as if some one were coming to meet us.

"There, you have walked twenty steps," said Amabel. "Now let us turn round."

"Just a few more, to be sure," said I.

I took a step or two more, but was checked by a sort of suppressed cry from Amabel.

"O Lucy, I cannot see the light at all!"

I turned round quickly enough at that. Sure enough, no light was to be seen. We were in total darkness.

"The passage must wind a little," said I. "Let us go back. We shall soon see the light from the passage-way."

I took her cold, damp hand in mine, and we turned back. But, alas! when we had taken more than twenty steps, twice told, no light was to be seen.

"Lucy," said Amabel in a whisper, "Lucy, we are lost!"

"Nonsense!" said I, angrily. "How could we be lost? We have taken the wrong turn, that is all! Let us try to go back."

And so we did; but the obscurity was still the same—thick, black darkness, that could be felt.

"We are lost!" repeated Amabel, with a curious kind of coolness. "There is no use in denying it, Lucy. No doubt there are many branching passages, and we took the wrong one."

"I am afraid we are, and it is all the fault of that hateful Desireè!" said I, beginning to cry. "Only for her, we should never have come."

"She could not have made us come," replied Amabel. "No, Lucy, let us blame nobody but ourselves. We have been very naughty, indeed, and we may as well own it."

"You were not naughty. You only came because I did," I sobbed, as we still hurried on, we knew not whither. "And I wouldn't care if it was only myself; though I know I should die, if I were here alone. But what shall we do?"

"We must not go a step more in this way, that is certain!" said Amabel, stopping short at last. "Lucy, don't you feel how wet and soft the ground is getting under our feet? Let us turn exactly round, so as to face the other way."

We did so, and none too soon, for the ground was, indeed, growing very soft; and, as it was, I got out with the loss of one shoe. We walked back till we came to firm ground, and then Amabel stopped again, holding me tightly by the hand, as I would have gone on.

"Do not let us take another step," said she. "We only go farther astray. Let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then keep still till some one comes."

"No one will ever come!" said I despairingly. "Desireè will not tell, for fear of being punished; and we shall perish here alone, unless we are torn in pieces by some of the dreadful creatures that live in such places."

For we children, one and all were firmly persuaded that the cellars were the haunts of all sorts of Bogeys.

"God and the Holy Virgin will take care of us," said Amabel. "Some one is sure to come. Dénice will tell, if no one else does; and, besides Mother Bursar will guess. Come, let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then call as loud as we can."

We said our prayers, and then began to call loudly for help; but none came for a long time, or so it seemed to us. We found afterwards that it was about two hours. The sisters, it seems, were at "obedience," which is the hour when they all meet in the superior's room to give an account of their employments and hear whatever she had to say to them. And Dénice could find no one to whom she could tell her story. It may be guessed that the hours seemed much longer to us poor young things.

"It is of no use," said I, despairingly, at last. "It must be midnight by this time. They are not coming, or they cannot find us."

"They will surely come," said Amabel, firmly. "They can track us by our steps, the ground is so soft." She paused a moment, and then began, in her pure, sweet voice to chant the Miserere.

"Have mercy upon me, O Lord!"

How the words rung and echoed through those dismal vaults, and came back to us multiplied and changed by the echoes, till it seemed as if something or somebody was mocking us. I stopped once or twice; but Amabel sang on, holding my hand fast all the while. She told me afterward her chief fear was that I should break away from her in my terror, and that we should lose one another.

We were just finishing the psalm, when Amabel's grasp on my hand tightened. I opened my eyes, which I had closed for a few moments, and saw a gleam of light. It flickered for a moment, glanced on the moist stones, and vanished.

"What is it?" I whispered. "A death-light!"

"Some one looking for us!" she replied.

And, sure enough, in another moment a well-known voice called, "Children, where are you?"

"Here, mother!" we both cried out at once; and I started to my feet and would have run forward, but Amabel checked me.

"Wait!" said she. "Wait till we see the light, or we may be lost again."

It could have been but a short time, but it seemed endless, till the voice called again, "Children!"

And, joy of joys! We saw the light once more, and two dark figures coming through the gloom.

"Here, dear mother, here we are!" cried Amabel, for I could not make a sound; and in a moment more we were in the arms of the Superior and Mother Prudentia.

"Thank God, they are safe!" said the dear lady. "I feared we should have much more trouble in finding them. Hold the light well up, dear sister, and we will follow you. It will not do to miss our way again."

Mother Prudentia went first with the light, and we followed, each clinging to a hand of Mother Superior. As we passed along, and I saw how many branching passages and alleys there were, I could not wonder that we had missed our way.

At the entrance of one of the broadest of these, Mother Prudentia stopped short and, with a look I shall never forget, pointed out something on the ground to Mother Superior. I looked, but saw only the impress of our own wet and muddy footsteps upon the mouldy floor.

"Holy Virgin!" said Mother Prudentia. "Surely you did not go down there!"

"I don't know. I suppose so," answered Amabel, wearily, for she was not strong, and was growing very tired. "We went somewhere where the ground was all soft, and we began to sink in, and Lucy lost her shoes. Then we turned round and ran, till we came to where you found us."

"Thank Heaven!" said the Superior again; and not another word was spoken till we reached the upper air, where Mother Bursar and the Mother Assistant, with two or three other elders, were waiting.

Never in my life shall I forget how marvellously beautiful everything looked as we came out into the court. And how sweet was the breath of the summer air! It was like a vision of the new Heaven and the new earth to the redeemed soul.

The sisters gathered round us with many exclamations, but we were allowed to speak to no one. We were hurried off to the infirmary and popped into bed, with plenty of blankets, and enjoined to lie still. We were no sooner deposited than Sister Lazarus appeared with a jug of steaming hot soup and two little basins.

"There, drink your soup directly," said she, pouring it out. "You will get your deaths of cold, and so will dear Mother, and how you will feel then, naughty children! There, don't cry, poor dears, but take your soup good and hot."

"But this is meat soup," said Amabel. "Isn't this Friday?"

"No, of course not, child! It is Thursday. Did not you have meat for your dinners?"

"Thursday?" said Amabel, wonderingly. "Why, surely, it is not the same day that we were looking at the pictures in the great hall. Have we been in that place only one day?"

"You have been gone only two or three hours," replied Mother Prudentia. "You followed Mother Bursar into the hall a little while after noon, and it is now just time for vespers. There, eat your soup, and do not talk."

We ate our soup, as we were bid, and then lay down. I soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which I waked many times crying and calling upon Amabel and Mother Prudentia. I took a severe cold, and Amabel was stiff and feverish; so that we were kept in bed for two or three days.

When we were quite well again, Mother Superior sent for us to her room and talked to us kindly, but very gravely, about our fault. Amabel, who was the least to blame of the two, said not a word in her own defence, but tried timidly to excuse me, on the ground that Desireè had dared me to do what I did.

"And do you consider that any excuse, my Aimeè, or does Lucille herself think so?" asked the lady, turning her penetrating eyes upon me. She had the most beautiful eyes I ever saw—clear gray, with very dilating pupils—and I used to believe she could read my very thoughts.

In my heart of hearts, I did think Desireè's conduct formed some excuse for me, but I dared not say so.

"Suppose, my child, that Desireè had dared you to steal something out of Mother Bursar's purse, or to murder her!"

"But that would be impossible, Reverend Mother," I faltered, thinking only of the murder, though I might well have included the other.

"Suppose it possible! Would the fact that you had been dared to do it excuse you?"

"No, Reverend Mother, but—"

"You pride yourself very much on your courage, my child," continued the lady; "but the fact is, that, in some respects, you are an arrant coward, and that cowardice is at the bottom of almost every serious fault you commit."

She had touched me now. I felt my cheek flame, while my lips framed the denial I dared not utter.

"Why did you feel obliged to commit an act of disobedience, to break a promise and run into danger?" asked the lady. "Tell me." Then, as I did not answer—"Speak at once, my Lucille. Was it not because you were afraid that Desireè would laugh at you?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother," I answered, feeling very small indeed in my own eyes.

"Ah, my child, that is the very worst kind of cowardice. 'The fear of man bringeth a snare,' the Scripture saith. How are you to go through life, or what account will you have to give in at the last great day if, even within the shelter of these sacred walls you can be drawn to sin and danger by dread of the laugh of a person whom you neither love nor respect. You will meet many people in this world who will laugh at you for desiring to do right and refusing to go with a multitude to do evil. Such people are the devil's own instruments for the ensnaring of timid souls, and, unless you are prepared to withstand them, there is no telling to what crime or folly you may not be driven. Aimeè erred through her affection to you, and she was very wrong, but I think your fault was the worse of the two."

She paused a little, I fancy to observe the effect of her words.

Amabel was dissolved in tears; but I stood with red cheeks, twisting the corner of my apron and looking, I dare say, as I felt, a very naughty, obstinate little girl indeed.

"I shall say no more at present," said the lady, after a few minutes' silence. "And as you have already suffered severely, I shall lay but one penance upon you, and that is, to go with Mother Prudentia and myself and see the danger you have escaped."

"Please, dear, Reverend Mother, don't make Amabel go!" I ventured to say, feeling how she trembled. In my own heart, I was rather pleased with the idea of seeing the place again.

"I want to go if Lucille does," sobbed Amabel.

"You shall both go," answered the lady. "Have no fear. There is no danger to one who knows the way and how far to go. Stay here till I return."

She left us alone for a few minutes. Amabel fell on her knees before the crucifix. I did the same, and repeated the prayers after her, but my heart was not in them. I was decidedly elated at the prospect of our adventure. It was not long before the lady returned accompanied by Mother Prudentia. Each of the ladies carried a lantern, and Mother Prudentia had our cloaks on her arm.

The Superior led the way, not that we had gone before, but through the upper corridor and several disused apartments, where the shutters were all closed and the air smelt strongly of the wool, the oil, and cheese which were stored in the rooms below. At last we came into the older part of the house, descended the great stairs which Mother Bursar had so strictly forbidden us to go up, and found ourselves in the painted hall, from which we descended the stone stairs to the little vestibule. I observed by the way that a strong new lock had already been put upon this door.

Here we stopped while Mother Prudentia put on our cloaks and gave us each a taper to carry. She then took Amabel by the hand, and Mother Superior did the same by me, and we moved forward without speaking.

I had my wits about me this time, and I saw in what a network of passages and alleys we had been involved. The marks of our footsteps were still to be seen in the thick black mould which covered the ground. The walls, which seemed of solid rock, streamed with moisture and were hung in places with strange unwholesome growths. I felt my courage slipping away from me, as the thought would come into my mind—What if Mother Superior should herself lose her way! How we were guided, I do not know—probably by some marks or signs on the walls.

At last, the Superior stopped and made a sign to Mother Prudentia. The lanterns were trimmed anew, Mother Superior once more took me by the hand, and bidding me hold up my taper and not take one step in advance of her, we moved cautiously on for some yards. Then we stopped again, and the lady held up her lantern, as did the other mother.

"Look, my children!" said she solemnly. "Look and see the danger from which you were preserved."

I looked, and saw a sight I shall never forget,—a black, sullen, horrible pool, stretching far away out of our sight. The border of the pool was edged with slime, which shone with rainbow colors in the light of the lanterns, and the same slime floated in great patches on the surface of the water. We were not very near—not so near as Amabel and I had gone, for I could see our footmarks beyond us—but the ground felt wet and cold, and when I raised my foot something seemed to hold it down. I shuddered. If we had gone but a little farther—

"Look well, my children, and never forget that sight," said the lady, solemnly. "Let that pit represent to you the pit of destruction to which every wilful unrepented sin is a step. See how treacherous are its very shores. A very little farther, and you would have been sucked down into its foul depths, from which nothing ever comes up again. And in this pit, my poor Lucille, you might have been lying at this moment, led thither by what? By the idle laughter of a wicked fool!"

I realized it all then.

"Oh, I have been very, very wicked!" I cried. "I don't care so much about myself, but if I had drowned Aimeè!"

And then I stopped, terrified, and clung to the lady's arm, for my words came back to me from over that dreadful water with a wild tone of mockery.

"Fear nothing. It is but the echo," said the lady.

She picked up a small pebble from the floor and threw it far into the water. Never shall I forget the awful hollow reverberations which followed. I never heard another such sound.

"The water is very high," said Mother Prudentia, sadly looking at the Superior. "I never saw it come so far or rise so high in the well as it does now."

"The will of Heaven be done!" answered the lady. "Come, we must not stay longer here. I think our little ones will never forget this lesson."

We hurried back carefully observing our way, at least the elders did, and were soon once more in the Superior's apartments.

I was humbled enough now. I saw my fault in its true colors, and confessed it. We were forgiven and dismissed and the matter was never alluded to again, for it was not our dear mother's way to return to old troubles.

I think now that the experiment was rather a dangerous one. Some children might have been scared by it into a fever if nothing worse. But I do believe that it was the beginning of all that is good in me. I never lost the vivid impression made on me by the sight of those dark waters, and the lady's solemn words, "That is the pit of destruction and every wilful and unrepented sin is a step toward it."

I saw that the mother's words were true and that while I flattered myself with the idea of my courage, I was in fact a real coward. I made up my mind that I would never again be laughed into doing what I knew was wrong and foolish, and if I have ever done so since, I have at least sinned with my eyes open.

I had of course very imperfect and even false ideas of religion at that time, but I knew enough to know that I must have help from outside of myself to do anything that was good, and I prayed for that help and doubtless received it.

One day when we two were alone with mother Prudentia, helping her with some herbs she was drying, I ventured to ask mother, "What was the use of those great vaults and how they came there?"

"That is more than any one knows, child!" answered the mother, who, as I said, dearly loved to tell a story. "Some say they are the quarries from whence were taken the stones to build the house. Some, our good old Father confessor among them, that they are much older than that, and that they are the remains of a Roman or heathen temple Which used to stand in this place, as are also the bits of old brick wall which cumber our garden. He was a great scholar, was Pere La Roche. As to their use, I don't know that they have any. No body knows how far they extend for no one has ever gone to the end of them. So you see even if you had not fallen into the water, you might have wandered away and never have been found again."

"I should think they would have the door built up!" said Amabel. "Is there any other entrance but by which we went down?"

"Yes, two or three from the vaults under the offices, but they are all securely fastened up. Nobody ever goes into them but the Superior and Mother Assistant or myself once a year."

"And why do you do that?" I asked.

"You ask too many questions, child, you will never do for a nun! I am sure I don't know why, only that it is one of our rules!" said Mother Prudentia, reproving my curiosity and satisfying it at the same time: "A good religious obeys and never asks why."

"I just want one question more!" said Amabel, who had hitherto left the conversation mostly to me. "What did you mean by saying that the water was very high? I know it is high in the well, for I looked this afternoon, and it is nearer the top of the steps than I ever saw it before."

"Is it?" asked Mother Prudentia with a startled look—then once more sinking her voice—

"It is said that the rise of those dark waters portends misfortune to our house. Once—how many years ago I don't know, but it was very many—that well overflowed so that a stream ran down into the brook in the garden and poisoned the water so that everything along its banks died—and that year a fever or plague broke out in the house and every member of the family died, except the abbess and two sisters. But I will not have you looking into the well. There is a very damp unwholesome air rising from it. Now wash your hands and bring your work, and I will tell you a true tale about St. Helena, and if the work is well done—who knows whether there may not be some comfits in a cupboard somewhere?"

I think after the lesson we had received, we should have obeyed Mother Prudentia at any rate, but we had no chance to do otherwise, for the very next day, a heavy wooden covering was placed over the old well, which was never removed while we remained at St. Jean.

I should say that Desireè was as severely punished as Amabel and myself. She flatly denied at first having anything to do with the matter—then she said it was I who had opened the door, and that she had tried to prevent me. But the united testimony of Amabel and Dénise prevailed, and she was put in penitence for two or three days and carefully watched afterward for a long time.

CHAPTER IV.

TROUBLES.

IT was I think, about a year after our adventures in the caverns, that Dénise died. She was the only pupil left except Amabel, Desireè and myself—Desireè affected great devotion about that time, and Mother Prudentia rejoiced over her as a brand plucked from the burning; but I think Mother Superior considered her a brand that would bear watching—as indeed she was, and one that was destined to kindle a great fire.

Dénise had always been a delicate girl, more so even than Amabel herself. She would never allow that she was ill, however, and used to join in all our sports and latterly made herself very useful in the house and garden. She was one of those people for whom everything will grow, and she loved flowers with an absolute passion. But by and by, she began to grow thin and to have a very little cough. She had a lovely complexion which seemed to grow more beautiful day by day, and her eyes were brighter than ever. We noticed that she became rather silent, though she was always cheerful—and we were sometimes inclined to murmur when Mother Prudentia excused her from one duty after another, and Sister Lazarus cooked all sorts of nice things for her, whereas our own table grew plainer all the time.

But at last we found out the truth. Dénise was taken suddenly ill in chapel. She fainted and was carried out by Mother Prudentia. She did not come to her own bed that night, and in the morning Mother told us with solemnity that Dénise would never sleep in that bed again—that she had been taken with bleeding at the lungs and might indeed be considered a dying person.

"If she lives to see the snowdrops come, it will be a wonder!" said the dear Mother, wiping her eyes. "I have long known that death had set his seal on her, but I did not think the end would come so soon. God's will be done."

"Will her friends come to see her, Mother?" I asked.

"She has no friends except those in these walls, child, not a relation alive that I know of!" answered the Mother. Adding in a lower tone—"So much the better for her. It will be all the easier for her to leave this world."

The Mother turned away and we finished dressing and began to make our beds by the light of the lamp Mother had left us, for it was mid-winter and the mornings were dark and cold.

"Lucy, do you suppose that Dénise's friends were Protestants?" asked Amabel in a low tone.

She always called me Lucy in English fashion—never Lucille, as the others did.

"I don't know!" I answered. "Why should you think so?"

"Partly from something Mother said once—that she was at least one brand plucked from the burning, and partly from some things Dénise herself told me. We were talking about what we could remember before we came here, and Dénise said, 'My father used to read the Holy Scriptures—I know that! I often repeat to myself little bits that I remember. He said prayers that are not in any of our books, and he and my mother used to sing sweet songs about holy things!' And then she repeated one about the Lord being a Shepherd."

"That is in the twenty-third Psalm!" said I.

"Yes, but this was in rhyme and had a sweet tune to it!" persisted Amabel. "I think I could sing it. It makes me think of the time before we came here. How much can you remember of that time, Lucy?"

"Very little indeed!" said I. "I don't remember my mother at all, though I often try to do so."

"I recollect exactly how she looked!" said Amabel musingly. "You are very much like her at times, only you are not so quiet. And I remember my father too—I am sure I should know him in a moment."

"I suppose if Dénise's friends were Protestants, it is just as well that they are out of the way," I remarked. And then, struck with a sudden thought—"But Amabel, I suppose your father and all your friends are Protestants, because all English people are so. What should we do if he were to send for us to come back to England?"

"We should go I suppose!" answered Amabel.

"And then should we have to become Protestants?"

"I don't know. They would not make us Protestants if we did not choose whatever they might do."

"Perhaps your father is a Catholic!" I suggested.

"I have sometimes thought he must be, or he would not have left us here to be educated!" replied Amabel. "But we need not borrow trouble, Lucy. Perhaps he may never send for us. I should like that best—to live here always and become a religious, would not you?"

"I should like to do so if you did!" I answered truly enough, for imagination was not strong enough to picture for myself a life apart from Amabel. "But sometimes I think I should like to see what the world is like, especially England. Perhaps the Protestants are not all so bad after all!" And here I stopped and looked about me rather alarmed, lest my audacious remark should have been overheard.

"I am sure our mother was not bad!" said Amabel. "She used to teach us to say our prayers at her knees."

"How I wish I could remember her as you do!" said I, enviously. "I wonder why I cannot!"

"I heard Mother Prudentia say once that you were very ill when you came here and for some time after—perhaps that is the reason!" answered Amabel, and then recurring to our sick play fellow. "How strange and sad it will seem not to have Dénise."

"I can't bear to think of it!" said I, beginning to cry. "She has played with us ever since I remember. It was she who told Mother Superior about our going into the cavern, and only for her we might have died there, for I am sure Desireè would never have told!"

"Not she!" said Amabel with decision. "She would not care if the whole family perished, so she were safe. Lucy, that girl is a hypocrite!"

"You should not say so—she is very devout," said I; for I rather believed in Desireè's conversion, though I am afraid I did not like her any the better for it.

"Devout or not, she is a hypocrite!" persisted Amabel in a tone which surprised me. I had never heard her speak so bitterly, and indeed she rarely spoke ill of any one. "She despises dear Mother Prudentia, whose shoes she is not fit to carry, and she hates Mother Superior. I have seen the looks she casts at them when she thinks herself unobserved. But come, we must not be here. The bell will ring in a moment."

Dénise lingered a few weeks, and then died full of peace and hope. Her death was followed, not very long after, by that of Mother Assistant and one of the sisters, which reduced the number of the professed members of the household to eight, beside the superiors.

"Our band grows smaller and smaller, and Sister Augustine is failing fast," I heard Mother Prudentia say after Sister Agnes was buried.

We had all gone to pray at the grave, next day, and I was helping Mother Bursar to smooth the turf and set some violet roots in it.

"There will soon be no one left, and what will become of the dear children?" continued Mother Prudentia.

"The Lord will provide, dear sister," answered the Mother. "Our numbers are indeed small, but we must make up for it by more earnestness. We have always, as yet, been able to keep up our constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament of the Altar."

I heard no more at that time, but what I did hear set me to wondering what would become of us if any more were taken away. This same constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament must have been great drain on the strength of our little community, as I remember it. It had been established by the Mother Angelique in Port Royal some years before Madame de Longueville and the Bishop of Langris had set up, with this same Mother's assistance, the short-lived sub-order of Daughters of the Holy Sacrament.

From morning till night and from night till morning, no matter what might be the weather, a sister was always on her knees in the church, before the altar on which was the consecrated wafer. She might seek relief by lying on her face or by leaning against a post which was placed for that purpose. Hence the sisters usually spoke of "being at the post." (I never heard, by the way, that when our Lord was in this world in bodily presence, he kept the women who ministered to him on their knees before him. Even Mary sat at his feet.) This duty, which was not so very hard divided among forty or fifty people, was certainly a severe burden when it came to be divided among ten or twelve. It makes me vexed whenever I remember how much strength, both of body and mind, our good sisters used to waste on just such performances as these.

Sister Augustine had been out of health for many years, and it was not thought she could survive Mother Assistant very long. Nevertheless, she lingered till the snows came again, sometimes confined to the bed, sometimes able to sit up a little. The second week in Advent, she too was laid away to rest in the cemetery. She had been very low and desponding through great part of her illness, indeed, almost in despair. The day that she died, I was sitting with her administering the sips of wine and water every few minutes which seemed all that kept her alive. She had been dozing for half an hour—an unusually long time—and looked so peaceful, I could not find it in my heart to waken her. At last she opened her eyes, and I hastened to give her the usual refreshment.

"Thank you, dear child. How kind you are to me!" said she, and then, pressing my hand, "I have had a lovely vision. I saw the dear Saviour stand there at the foot of my bed, and heard him say, 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven.' It is all clear to me now. He has saved me, and I shall be saved."

I saw a change had come over her face, and, in great alarm, I would have called some one, but she held me fast, while her eyes, turned toward the foot of the bed, seemed to behold some glorious vision. In a moment, the clasp of her hand relaxed, her eyes rolled upward—she was gone.

I called Mother Prudentia, but Sister Augustine never breathed again. I told the Mother what she had said.

"She was happy then in her death," said the good lady, half enviously, as it seemed. "Such assurance is granted to but very few. Doubtless it was a reward for the suffering she has borne so long and so patiently."

Had I known as much as I do now, I could have told her that such an assurance, or even a more certain one, was possible to every true believer; but I had never seen a whole Bible or heard a Bible sermon at that time. I say even more certain; for the assurance that our sins are forgiven rests on no doubtful vision or apparition, but on the rock of God's sure word and promise.

Our family was now small indeed. It was long since we had received any novices or postulants, and Desireè, who was to have been professed in the spring, seemed to have cooled considerably in her devotion. She used to excuse herself from the early services on the ground of an ague, and for a time the plea was admitted; but I think even Mother Prudentia saw through her at last. She concocted a horribly bitter dose of herb tea, with the addition of half a dozen wood-lice and a handful of earth worms, and administered the same to Desireè with her own hands every morning. I suppose Desireè thought the medicine worse than the early service, for she soon got better under this heroic treatment.

It became evident, however, that she was not the stuff of which a religious was made. At last matters came to a climax. Desireè was detected one night stealing out to the orchard, at an hour when all honest people should be in bed, and a glimpse was caught of a man's figure vanishing among the trees. If one of the elders of the house had made the discovery, the thing would doubtless have been managed without scandal, as the phrase is. But it was poor Sister Frances who saw her as she was going to relieve Sister Lazarus at the post, and the poor thing, who was not over-gifted with sense, took her for a ghost. She uttered such a succession of screams that Sister Lazarus rushed to the rescue. She caught Desireè in the act of hiding behind a thicket of evergreens, and plainly saw a man in the garden.

The whole family was aroused by that time, and came flocking to the scene of action; and so the disgraceful act became known to the whole sisterhood. Desireè was questioned in vain. She refused to utter a word. She was at last remanded to a cell, under guard; and as soon as it was light, a messenger was sent for the Count de Crequi, who was her stepfather and guardian.

Amabel and I saw him arrive from the window of the deserted oratory, where we often sat with our work. He was a little withered-looking man, richly dressed, and with a good deal of personal dignity. He was accompanied by his nephew and heir, a dissipated-looking young man, and a number of sufficiently insolent-looking lackeys. The young man staid outside talking with one of the servants. The count was received with great ceremony in the parlor, and was invited to visit the holy relics in the church, but declined, excusing himself on the ground of want of time. He was closeted for a long time with Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia, whom I ought to call Mother Assistant, since she had been elected to that place immediately after Mother Benedict's death. Meantime, wine and other refreshments were sent out to the young count and the servants, who made themselves very merry.

The old gentleman departed at last evidently in a very bad humor; for he swore furiously at the groom when he mounted his horse, and spurred the poor beast till it bolted and nearly threw him. I saw the servants laughing among themselves as they rode away. Later in the day, a covered litter, with two or three mounted servants and a female attendant, was brought to the gate, and Desireè was carried away. I was in the little chamber over the porch and saw her go. Her dress had been changed, and she wore neither veil nor rosary. She looked pale enough but not at all scared; just as she entered the litter, she turned and shook her hand at the house with such an expression of malice as I never saw before. She was then carried away and I have never seen her since.

I was dying with curiosity, but I knew better than to ask any questions, which was indeed counted a great misdemeanor among us. I was pretty sure I should have the tale from Mother Prudentia the first time we were alone together; opportunity was not likely to be wanting, for I was her regular assistant in the dairy and still-room, and it was not long before the whole came out.

"You see, child, the Count de Crequi put his step-daughter here, thinking to have made a nun of her, and so provide for her at less expense than it would have taken to marry her. I fancy, too, he did not care to have her in the way of his nephew. He is still set on his scheme, and even offered Mother Superior the choice of a double dowry with Desireè, or the withdrawal of his protection altogether. The worst is that this new Bishop is related to Desireè's mother."

"What harm should that do?" I asked in wonder! "Surely the Bishop would not wish Desireè to be received after such a scandal, and when she has no vocation!"

"Oh my child, as to that—the Bishop is the Bishop of course—but you can see that it happened very unluckily, because we are in disgrace already, having never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius and the five propositions."

"What were the five propositions about?" I asked.

"My child, I don't understand any more about them than that cat, which has no business here," said Mother Prudentia, "scatting" the cat out of the dairy, and throwing her a bit of cheese curd to console her. "Mother Superior knows and has explained it to me many a time, but I have no head for such matters, only one order held by Jansenius and Abbè St. Cyran, and the rest of the Port Royalists, and believed that they were cruelly treated and unjustly condemned. And we never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius as most of the Oratorians and Bernardines did. And you know we always look upon Mother Angelique as a sort of saint, because she reformed our house."

"But if the Pope is the one and infallible head of the Church—" said I rather surprised.

"Ah well—the Pope is the Pope, and of course he is infallible as to matters of faith. But we have always held that in matters of fact he is not infallible more than any one. And those who know, say that the propositions which the Pope condemned, are not in Jansenius' book at all. But however that may be, we are in disgrace and likely to be turned out at any time. And then what is to become of you children I don't know. Don't cut that curd any finer, child—you are working twice as much as is needful."

"I should think Sir Julius would send for us!" said I, a good deal startled.

"I believe Mother Superior has written to him—" answered Mother Prudentia—with a scared look, such as she always wore when she had been betrayed into some indiscretion greater than usual. "Oh! My unlucky tongue—when shall I ever learn to rule it? However, I know Mother Superior means to tell you all about it before long—only if she does you know—" and the good Mother looked rather wistfully at me.

"I understand, dear Mother—" said I, seeing that she wished to caution me against displaying any previous knowledge of what the Superior had to tell me.

In effect, it was only a few days before Mother Superior called Amabel and myself into her room and informed us that she had heard from Sir Julius Leighton concerning us, and that he would probably send for us in a short time. She gave us a great deal of excellent advice, and particularly enjoined it upon us to preserve our faith intact, in the land of heretics to which we were going.

"Your father, my Aimeè, is a good Catholic, or so I understand!" said she. "But your step-mother belongs to the so-called reformed religion, as do your father's sisters; you will therefore need to exercise great firmness and caution."

I cannot tell all the dear Mother said to us, only she specially warned us against reading heretical books. She gave us each a reliquary containing a precious relic. Mine was a bit of the veil of St. Agnes in a handsome gold and enameled setting. I have it still. She then addressed herself to me, telling me what it had never entered my head to think of before—namely, that I was inferior in rank to Amabel, and must probably be content to take a lower place. (French people cannot understand that commoners have any rank at all, more than French bourgeois.) While I was trying to take in and understand this new idea, Amabel spoke in her gentle decided voice.

"I shall never be separated from Lucy!" said she firmly. "Where she goes, I will go."

"That will be as your father says, my child!" answered dear Mother, rather reprovingly. "I hope indeed that you may continue united as you have been, but remember your father's will is your law, so long as he does not command anything contrary to our Holy Faith."

Amabel did not reply, but she shut her lips as she was used to do, when she had made up her mind. Mother Superior gave us some more words of advice and then dismissed us with her blessing.

We went away in silence, till we reached our old place of retirement in the Oratory, and then Amabel threw her arms round my neck, and burst into a passionate flood of tears—an unusual thing for her, for she seldom cried.

"You won't desert me, will you Lucy!" she sobbed. "It is bad enough to leave this dear home and all the Mothers and Sisters for a strange land, but if I must lose you—"

"Now you are borrowing trouble, as you tell me!" said I, holding her in my arms and trying to console her. "You don't know that any one will want to separate us."

"I feel as if they would try!" said Amabel, striving to recover her composure. "But oh! Lucy, promise me that you never will leave me, if you can help it."

"Of course I will. See, I promise on this holy relic!" said I, kissing the reliquary which I still held in my hand.

Amabel promised the same, and then to divert her and myself also, I suggested that we should go down to the chapel, and see if we could assist Mother Sacristine, who was busy cleaning the silver candlesticks, and other altar furniture.

CHAPTER V.

THE BISHOP'S VISIT.

WE found Sister Sacristine very busy with her silver, of which there was a great deal about the altar, and very glad of our offered help. We went zealously to work, dusting and rubbing up the altar furniture, not forgetting genuflections—curtsies—I should call them now every time we passed before the high altar.

The next day was some Saint's day; I forget whose at this distance of time, and Sister Sacristine, like a faithful woman that she was, was just as anxious to have everything in order as if we were expecting the presence of all the nobles in the country, instead of only a few poor peasants in the Church, and our little band of Mothers and sisters in the choir.

"There will not be many people here!" said the poor lady with a sigh as she settled her chairs. "Ah! Children, many a time have I seen this great church filled from end to end with ladies and gentlemen-I remember when poor Sister Augustine was professed, her father and mother came with a cavalcade, which almost filled the Church of itself; and they offered that pair of silver gilt vases on the Shrine of St. Anne. But times have changed since then, we shall have no one to-morrow."

"We shall have the great Guest of all, dear Sister!" said Amabel. "And where He is, we shall not miss any one else."

"That is true, my child, and yet—it is very hard to see the changes which have been wrought in this house by time and the malice of our enemies. But His will be done! There, children, I believe we have made the best of everything now."

"Sister, let me climb up the ladder, and brush up St. Francis and St. Bernard a little," said I, looking up to where St. Francis stood, with his hands upraised as if he were imploring some celestial power to come down and dust him.

"Well, if you are not afraid—I am too unsteady on my feet to venture upon the ladder any more; but there is a good place to stand, once you are up there."

I was as sure-footed as a goat, so I was not at all timid about ascending the ladder. St. Francis was placed on a little platform or balcony, where, as the Sister said, there was good standing room. Amabel steadied the long ladder, while I ascended, and then reached me up the duster and what else I wanted on the end of a long-handled brush, such as here we call a Pope's head—I would not like to be the one who called it so there. I was holding on to a kind of railing with one hand, and putting St. Francis hair to rights with the other, thinking to myself that the good saint looked as if he liked it, when the Church door opened, and who should come in, breathless as if from running, but Mother Prudentia.

"Sister, you are to come to Mother Superior's room at once, and you also, my children. Lose no time, but Lucille, be careful how you come down."

But I was already on the floor, and ready to follow Mother Prudentia, to the presence of the Superior. Here we found all the sisterhood assembled, and a scared bewildered looking set they were—our dear Mother was as calm as usual, though a pink spot shone on her usually pale cheeks, increasing the brilliancy of her always remarkable eyes. As soon as we were all assembled in order, she addressed us.

"My Mothers and Sisters and you, my children, I have just received by the hands of a special messenger, a letter from the Bishop of this Diocese, in which he tells me that he will arrive within an hour upon a special visitation, to enquire into certain alleged scandals and disorders prevailing in this community."

She paused a moment, and the sisters looked at her and at each other in utter amazement. Amabel gave my arm a little pinch and whispered very softly, "Desireè."

"I can safely say, that I know of nothing in my family which should bring such a charge upon us!" resumed the Superior. "But innocence is not always a protection from the hands of ungodly and cruel men; not that I would be understood, as applying such epithets to Mon seignor the Bishop. Doubtless he has been misinformed. What I would impress on you, my mothers and sisters, is that you should endeavor in this extremity, to preserve an equal and tranquil spirit, wholly resigned to the will of Heaven, whatever may happen. I will not disguise to you, my apprehensions that this visit may be the prelude to great changes—perhaps to grievous hardships and humiliations—possibly even to the breaking up of our little community, which has borne so many storms already. Be that as it may, our duty is plain. Let us set before us the example of the noble Mother Angelique, who, when calumniated and heaped with insults in the very house where she had ruled as Superior, bore all with patience, and never retorted on her persecutors by a look or a word, thus making her enemies ashamed of their cruel malignity. Above all, let us remember that our sufferings may be rendered an acceptable offering to God. My mothers and sisters, let us in the little time that remains, seek the protection of the Queen of Heaven!"

She dropped on her knees as she spoke, and all in the room followed her example. (Nuns have a peculiar sudden fashion of doing this, unattainable without practice. I don't believe I could do it myself now, without falling over on my nose.) It is very much to be hoped that the Blessed Mary does not know the way in which her name is treated in this world, and how to her are attributed the titles which belong only to her Son. But it was all right in my eyes at that time, and when I heard our Lord's mother addressed as the Morning Star, the Gate of Heaven, the Refuge of sinners, etc., I responded "Ora pro nobis" with undoubting faith.

We were still on our knees, when we heard the arrival of a numerous cavalcade before the house, and presently a loud knocking at the gate. Immediately the portress was sent to open it, and we all formed in procession as when we entered Church; the younger sisters at the head and the Superior last. On this occasion she led Amabel and myself by the hand.

Our parlor where the nuns received their guests was a large room sparely furnished with a few very hard chairs, and a most ghastly picture of the death of St. Francis. About one-third of this room was shut off by a grille or grate, as is usual in such places, and behind this was our station.

The outer room was occupied by the Bishop, and two or three attendant priests. Mon seignor was a short, stout man, with rather rebellious white hair, and an expression of a kind of pompous fussiness. He was speaking in a loud and somewhat angry tone to one of his attendants, and I caught the words—

"Intentional disrespect—make an example—perverse rebellious woman—" all of which seemed to come as it were from the depths of his stomach.

We entered slowly, the sisters taking their places with folded hands and down-cast eyes, with as little apparent trepidation as if about to assist at any ordinary ceremony. The Bishop turned sharply around, and spoke before the Abbess had time to advance to the grating.

"So madame! This is the way you receive your Bishop! Did I not send a messenger to acquaint you with my coming? Why then were you not here, prepared to receive me with due respect?"

"Mon seignor!" answered the Superior calmly. "It is not according to the rules of our house for us to await visitors in the parlor. I am bound by those rules, and if our Holy Father the Pope were to honor us with a visit, I would do no otherwise."

The Superior had the best of it, for a nun is bound to obey the "constitutions" of her house to the smallest article, as the Bishop knew very well. But of course, that did not make him feel any more amiable. He was evidently getting ready for a crushing reply, adjusting meantime his glasses on his nose, for he was very short-sighted; but he rather spoiled the effect by getting into difficulties with the string, which held them around his neck. At last however, the glasses were in their place, and he prepared to open his Episcopal batteries.

"Madame!" he began in the sternest tone—but there he stopped. He could now see Mother Superior's face, which I presume he was unable to do before. I never saw so sudden a change. His face seemed to soften and grow youthful in a moment; his lip quivered with a smile, which quite transformed him. He spoke in a very different tone from that in which he began.

"Madame! Is it possible, that I see before me Jacqueline de Rozier?"

It was now the turn of the Abbess to change color. She grew very white, but it was with a steady voice that she answered—"That was my name in the world, Mon seignor—and you?—"

"And I am Henri Garnier—" said the Bishop.

"They told me that you had died in the Indies, by the bite of a poisonous serpent," said the Superior, who had quite recovered her color. "I rejoice Mon seignor, to see you in life and health and filling such an exalted station."

Now at that time of my life I had so far as I know, never even seen the outside of a romance—or heard a love-story—yet I knew in a moment that the Superior and the Bishop had once been in love with each other. I ventured to glance at Mother Bursar, and saw those rebellious dimples of hers, dancing for a moment round the corners of her mouth, though she speedily reduced them to order.

"I was indeed bitten by a serpent in the Island of Martinique, and lay at the very point of death when my regiment sailed for France!" said the Bishop. "I recovered however at last, and by grace of Mary, was led to devote myself to a religious life as well as yourself. Madame, the Superior, and myself are cousins and were playmates in our childhood," he added, turning to his attendants—this time with real dignity of manner. "We have not met since we were both quite young. I rejoice to find her in such a useful and honorable position."

The priests made no answer, but I saw a sly glance of amusement pass between them.

"And now to business!" said the Bishop. "Madame, you have for some time had in your family a pupil and postulant named Desireè de La Mothe, daughter of the present Countess de Crequi by a former husband!"

"It is true, Mon seignor! The young lady in question was returned to her friends about two weeks since."

"And why was she so returned since you had received her as a postulant?"

"Because, Mon seignor, I did not perceive in her any true vocation for the religious life," answered the Superior.

"Then it was not for want of a satisfactory dowry, that she was refused!"

"Far from it, Mon seignor; we are a very poor community, but I can safely say that I would never refuse a postulant with a true vocation, though she came to me with nothing but the clothes she stood in. The Count de Crequi was so good as to offer me a double dowry, if I would consent to receive his step-daughter, but I need not say, I declined."

"And quite rightly!" answered the Bishop. "I wish all heads of religious houses were as disinterested as yourself. But the love of money, my brothers and sisters, is the root of all evil, as the Holy Apostle says. Let us be thankful that our state of life shelters us from its baleful influence. However, to return to the subject of this interview, which it is my painful duty to bring before you." Here he found his box, took a pinch of snuff, and thus fortified, made a fresh start.

"I will not, Reverend Mother, disguise from you the fact that this young lady, Desireè de La Mothe has plainly testified to the existence of certain very grave scandals under this roof; such as are not to be tolerated in any community, much less a religious one. These things having been brought to my ears by my relation by marriage to the Count de Crequi, it becomes my duty to thoroughly investigate them. I have no doubt that such an investigation will turn to your credit and that of your family—" here I saw the two priests again exchange looks—"but nevertheless it is, as you must see, my duty to make it."

"Assuredly, Mon seignor!" answered the Superior. "I have no other wish than to afford you every facility. How would your Greatness wish to proceed?"

"Oh! I suppose the proper way would be to examine each one of the family separately; which I will myself do with your permission. But these are not all!"

"All, Mon seignor! Save one!"

"And the lay sisters?"

"We have none, Mon seignor; our last lay sister died a year ago, at the age of eighty-nine. For a long time all the work of the house and garden has been performed by the choir sisters."

"This is indeed holy poverty!" said the Bishop, turning to his two attendants, who remarked in answer that it was very edifying, one of them adding it was to be hoped that the cares of this life had not distracted the sisters from their religious duties.

"I do not think such cares are apt to have that effect!" said the Bishop somewhat sharply. "How say you, Reverend Mother!"

"We have hitherto been enabled to keep up the practice of perpetual adoration of the holy sacrament," answered the Superior. "At no time since my entrance into the house, has it been suspended for a whole hour. The only sister now absent is at her post in the chapel; nor so far as I know have we failed in any of the other services of our holy religion. The heart of course is known only to God."

"And this is all that remains of the family once numbered by scores!" said the Bishop. "And who are these young ladies?" he asked turning to Amabel and myself, who were close to the grating at one end, as Mother Assistant was at the other.

"These are two young English girls!" was the reply. "Sir Julius Leighton, a Catholic gentleman of England, left them under my charge about thirteen years ago, and they have been with me ever since; but I am expecting to part with them very soon."

This explanation made, the sisterhood were directed to withdraw, while the Superior remained. The Sisters were then called in and examined one by one, returning with very pink faces, and very indignant.

"That wicked Desireè—that snake in the grass!" Such were some of the epithets bestowed upon her. "That she should dare to say that we received the visits of men! As if I ever spoke to a man save the Confessor and old Jacques the gardener, since I was first professed!" said Sister Filomena, bursting into a flood of tears as she rejoined us.

"Hush, my Sister! Compose yourself!" said the Mother Assistant kindly. N. B. * Sister Filomena was about the plainest woman I ever saw, with a moustache, and a perpetual red nose. If the Bishop had not been the Bishop, I should say he had been making game of the poor old soul. "Nobody who knows you can have any doubt of the propriety of your conduct. Come, let these children see you set an example of patience and calmness, and of forgiveness of injuries."

* N. B.—nota bene

"But that wicked girl—what could have induced her to slander us so!" said another sister. "To say that we used up our revenues in feasting."

"And that we—but there is no use in talking!" added Sister Benedict, catching the Mother's eye. "It is too abominable!"

At last it came to Amabel's turn and mine; and hand in hand, as usual, we entered the parlor.

The Bishop had evidently talked himself into high good humor by this time, for he was laughing and offering his snuff-box to his companions. "Ah! And here are the lambs of the flock!" said he, as we somewhat timidly drew near the grating. "Come near, my little daughters, and fear nothing."

He then asked us several questions in a fatherly sort of way, about our families, and we told him all we knew, which was not much.

"And how do you use your time? Come, now," addressing himself to me, "think, and tell me exactly what you were doing, when you were called to the Superior on this occasion."

"I was brushing St. Francis' hair, Mon seignor," I answered simply.

"Brushing St. Francis' hair? What does the child mean; one has heard of dressing St. Catherine's hair, but never of St. Francis', as I think." *

* "Dressing St. Catherine's hair" is a kind of proverbial expression for being an old maid.

I explained, that I was assisting Sister Sacristine to prepare the Church for to-morrow's feast day.

"Ah! Very well, very good—and you, my child?" turning to Amabel!

"I was arranging the flowers on the altar of our Lady, Mon seignor."

"Very good again—there, you may go, and here are some comfits for you, but I daresay you have enough of them since the good sisters make such beautiful sweetmeats, eh!"

"No! Mon seignor, the Mother Bursar sells all the sweetmeats, that she may help the poor women of the village," answered Amabel.

Whereas there was another interchange of looks, and we were permitted to retire, not at all sorry to get off so easily.

The Bishop and his attendant priests were then conducted by the Superior and Mother Assistant, through the whole building. It was even proposed that he should descend and examine the vaults; but this was hastily and decidedly declined, by his Grandeur.

"No! no! That is not needful—we have heard that they are very extensive and curious, however—perhaps Father Andre and his companions would like to inspect them."

"It would not be safe for them to do so without a guide!" said the Superior. "The passages are very intricate and there are dangerous pools of water, but should your Grandeur desire it, Mother Assistant and myself will lead the way."

But it was evident that this description was enough to satisfy any curiosity the Reverend Fathers might have felt on the subject, and as the Bishop did not insist on the matter, no more was said.

While this inspection had been going on, Sister Lazarus and her assistants had been getting up the best collation the resources of the house afforded. Fortunately it was a fast day, and our own ponds supplied us some good fish or the Bishop would have fared poorly. However, we had excellent bread and butter, and cakes and sweetmeats, and a bottle or two of good wine, and his lordship was pleased to express himself highly delighted with his entertainment.

After the collation, we were assembled in the Church, and the Bishop once more addressed us.

He did not disguise the fact that he had come hither with a strong prepossession against the house; having been led by certain persons to believe that the family were guilty of great irregularities, to say the least. He did not say who these persons were, but we knew very well. Contrary to what he expected, he had found great order, the severest poverty and self-denial, and evidence of abundant good works. He did not say those things to puff us up in our own esteem, but that we might be encouraged to persevere, and even to surpass what we had already accomplished. There existed indeed a degree of—he would not say error, much less heresy—but a certain confusion of ideas upon some points of doctrine, which he had no doubt would be dispelled by the perusal of some books which he would have sent to us. It was also said that there was a flaw in our title or charter; he would make it a point to have this matter examined into, and we might be assured that justice would be done.

He then gave us his blessing, exchanged a few words in private with Mother Superior, and rode away.

He was entertained by the Count that evening, and I should not wonder if madame and her daughter, did not find his visit very agreeable.

"Well, it has all turned out better than we had any reason to expect," remarked Mother Bursar.

"It has not turned out yet!" said Mother Prudentia, shaking her head. "We have made an enemy of the Count, and he will not love us the better, because the Bishop has come over to our side. The men of that family know neither pity nor forgiveness; we have not heard the last of it yet—but we are in better hands than his," she added cheerfully—"wicked men can go no farther than is permitted them."

Of course this visit of the Bishop's furnished matter for conversation and gossip for many days. Now that I look back at it, my own opinion is that we owed our escape to the circumstance, that the Bishop had discovered his old sweet-heart in our dear Mother Superior. Probably they had been separated by friends, and the lady had taken the veil on hearing her lover was dead; but that they had been lovers I am as sure, as I am that Simon Sablot is looking for Anne Penberthy. The lad is a good lad, and comes of good family, his parents having been exiles for the truth's sake, and he shall not want my good word when the time comes.

CHAPTER VI.

THE MIDNIGHT RAID.

FOR some days—I think about ten—after the bishop's visitation everything went on in the usual train.

On one of these days, the superior received a letter from the bishop, which was speedily communicated to the whole family. His greatness wrote that having had our title and charter investigated by the proper authorities, he had discovered that not only was our community fully entitled to all the land and property that it held, but that it had an undoubted right to some hundreds of acres of very fertile meadow land, lying half a mile away, and at present occupied by the Count de Crequi.

"So we shall get back all that beautiful pasture where the grass grows so early," said Sister Eustachie, the oldest person in the house. "I remember, children, when ye had twenty-five cows in that meadow. Such butter and cheese as we made—but we had a great family then. Well, I hope I may see those lands restored to our holy patrimony."

"I would like to hope so too, sister, but I doubt it!" said Mother Prudentia. "The wolf of Crequi does not let go his prey so easily. For myself, I shall be thankful if we are left to go quietly on our way, as we are doing at present."

I have never said anything about our priest and confessor. He was a middle-aged man, looking old from his white hair, but very hale and active. He lived by himself in a little house in the orchard, from which a sort of arbor, covered with vines, led to the church. He was a kind-hearted, easy-going man, very charitable and self-denying, save in the matter of snuff, of which he took a great deal. He was very fond of his garden, in which he worked early and late.

Amabel and I liked him because he spoke English very well, having once been confessor to a noble family in England. Only for him, I don't know but we should have forgotten our mother tongue entirely; but he used to exercise us in it, making us read to him sometimes, in an English Thomas-à-Kempis he had, sometimes in an English translation from the Vulgate. Oh! How I used to wish I could get that book into my own hands; but the good father guarded it jealously, not allowing us even to turn over a leaf for ourselves. We used to read Psalms and bits of the Gospels, and Old Testament stories, which he picked out for us.

I remember reading in this way about the widow's son of Nain. When I had finished, the priest paused a moment, and then said, reverently:

"My Lucy, do you think of what you read?"

"Yes, my father; I think of it a great deal," I answered, which was quite true.

"But do you make it real to you? Think, for instance, about this story which we have just finished. Think how that poor mother must have dreaded the return to her lonely house; the sitting down to her lonely table, and living on day after day without her son."

"And then how different it all was from what she expected!" said Amabel, musingly. "I should think she would hardly have known how to believe it. She must have felt as if his sickness and death were all a dream."

"And the holy Magdalene after her brother was restored!" said I. (Roman Catholics believe that Mary Magdalene, and the woman who was a sinner, who anointed our Lord's feet, were one and the same person, though there seems to us little or no ground in the scripture for such an idea.) "They were really people, were they not, and felt as we should do?"

"Exactly, my daughter. That is what I wish you to consider. People lose half the benefit of the examples of the holy saints and martyrs, because they do not consider them to have been of the same flesh and blood as themselves."

I have been obliged to the good father all my life for this idea, and especially since I have myself had the instructing of children in the truths of religion. But this is by the way.

Besides being a famous gardener, Father Brousseau had a competent knowledge of surgery and medicine, and made himself very useful in prescribing for the poor people round us. His medicines were generally such as our pharmacy at the convent could provide, especially a bitter cordial, made of orange peel, chamomile, and some of the aromatic herbs with which that country abounds. I have the recipe for this cordial, which I have helped to distil by the gallon. It is excellent for ague and consumption.

It was this medical knowledge of our confessor's which made him a welcome visitor at the Chateau de Crequi, even after the count had quarrelled with our superior. Madame de Crequi was a confirmed invalid, suffering terrible pain and distress at times, from some trouble in her breast. She had had endless doctors who had done her no good but rather harm, and in her despair, hearing of our confessor's gifts in that line, she sent for him. He was, happily, able greatly to alleviate her present suffering, though he told her frankly that there was no cure possible; and he had thus made the poor lady his friend. He had also cured the count's chaplain from a fever which threatened his life.

One day, it happened that the priest was sent for in great haste to see a favorite maid of the countess, who was taken suddenly and violently ill. (I learned all this long afterward, for of course I was not told it at the time.) He returned in the afternoon, and we saw him going in a great hurry to the superior's apartment.

In about half an hour, Mother Prudentia came out, looking a good deal excited, and summoned the whole family to a conference. It was in recreation time, I remember, and we were almost all busy in capturing a vagrant brood of half-grown chickens, which had escaped from their proper quarters, as it seemed, for the express purpose of scratching up a newly planted bed of salad. We were in a great frolic over the chase, for nuns are like children in their hours of recreation—a little thing serves to amuse them. It was therefore with considerable surprise that we obeyed the summons to the superior's presence.

We found the lady pale and evidently much disturbed, though she preserved her usual calmness of voice and demeanor. In a few words, she told us of the danger that was impending over us. She had received sure intelligence that the convent was to be attacked that very night by a band of robbers, pillaged and perhaps burned to the ground.

Even the strict habits of convent discipline could not repress a universal cry of dismay from the sisterhood; but I must say, that after the first alarm, they all behaved wonderfully well. The Reverend Mother raised her hand to impose silence, and was at once obeyed.

"We have no means of defending ourselves, and no time to send to the Bishop for assistance before our foes will be upon us!" said she. "I have taken council with our Reverend Father, and he agrees with me, that our only chance of safety is, to take refuge in the vaults under the old part of the house."

She paused a moment, and some of the sisters looked at each other as if the prospect of spending the night in the vaults was almost as dreadful as that of the robbers themselves.

"The buildings above these vaults are solid and there is little in them to burn," continued the Superior. "So that even should the house be set on fire, we may hope to escape—and the caverns themselves are such, that should the entrance to them be discovered, no one could find our hiding place without the clue; that clue is known at present only to Mother Assistant and myself. Let us then hasten to convey to this place of safety all our most precious treasures, all the sacred vessels and ornaments; and enough of food and lights to serve us if needful for several days; of water there is an abundant supply. Let us all be calm and collected, and let each one obey orders implicitly and without any questions."

She then allotted to each her part. Sister Lazarus with two assistants were to prepare and carry to a certain place a supply of such provisions as would keep the best, and afford the most nourishment in a small compass. I remember, in the midst of all our consternation, smiling at the lamentations of the good sister, over certain delicious creams which had been prepared for the supper-table—that being a feast day.

"But the robbers shall not have them at any rate!" said she with decision. "Here pussy!" And she set down the dish of cream which she held, and which the kitchen cat and her young family lapped up with great satisfaction and much purring.

"Poor little dears, they little know what is before them!" said Sister Lazarus, wiping the tears from her eyes, as she regarded the kittens, which having finished their feast, were licking the stray drops from each other's paws and noses. "I mean to shut them all out in the garden and that will give them a chance. Take care and not shake that basket, Sister! There are some bottles of wine in it and a jug of milk for the children; here, little ones, put these cakes in your pockets."

Grow as we might, we were still the children to dear Sister Lazarus.

The Church was not to be dismantled till after dark, that no suspicions need be awakened. I could not but wonder whether there were any spies among the few peasants who came to vespers. I could not but notice an old woman; she was very specially devout, and when the service was ended, she approached Mother Bursar and whiningly begged a night's lodging.

"I do not think we can keep you on account of the dangerous infectious fever that we have in the house!" said Mother Bursar, telling this outrageous fib doubtless with a clean conscience, as it was for the good of the Church. "But if you choose to risk it, I will ask Mother Superior."

But the old woman had no mind for a lodging under such circumstances and took herself off, closely watched by Mother Bursar from the church door.

"That is an odd-looking woman!" said I. "See how strongly she walks now, though she pretended to be so feeble."

"She is no more a woman than you are!" said Mother Bursar indignantly. "It is that very Jean Dôle to whom I gave a warm pair of hose only last winter. Did I not know him on the instant? I almost wish I had given him a lodging, and locked him up in the Knight's tower; but it is better as it is. Now my children we must work fast—there is no time to lose! Here, Lucille, help me fold these cloths."

"But Jean Dôle is in the employ of the Count!" said I, working while I talked and finding, despite the imminent danger, a certain enjoyment in the bustle. "Can he be, also, in the employ of the robbers?"

"Robbers!" said Mother Bursar contemptuously. "We know where the robbers come from. Take care, child, fold that straight. Perhaps they will find themselves outwitted after all."

By nine o'clock, the principal treasures of the Church—the great silver vases, the candlesticks, and images, and so forth, were all removed to the lower vestibule; and carried from thence to safe hiding places known to Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia.

Then the sisters were assembled in the community-room, for what we all felt might be the last time. Mother Superior addressed a few words to us, exhorting us to firmness, constancy, and trust, and we all kissed her hand and each other. The priest entered, bearing the host, in its magnificent receptacle, blazing with jewels, and we all prostrated ourselves before it. Then he passed out of the room, and we followed in order as in an ordinary procession; we went through the upper hall and descended the great stairs to the lower floor.

Then instead of seeking the door by which Amabel and myself had descended to the vaults, we went down to the basement by a staircase of which I had never, till then, known the existence. So true it is, as I have said before, that one may live in a convent a long time, yes, even for many years, and yet know very little about it. We passed through a long hall, with doors opening here and there, and then there was a pause, while Mother Prudentia unlocked and opened a massive door, the existence of which I should never have suspected, for it looked exactly like a piece of the wall. Through this we passed one by one, and it was then closed after us.

The lights were now trimmed anew and lanterns distributed among us. We were warned to follow exactly, and not to look either to right or left, but to keep our eyes fixed on our leader. Why, I don't know, unless that our minds might not be distracted by the sight of the labyrinth we were threading. At last we reached the end of our dismal journey. We found ourselves in a kind of suite of apartments, drier and more commodious than could have been expected in such a place. There must have been some communication with the outer world, for the air, though damp and chill, was not foul nor oppressive.

In the first vault were stored our provisions, clothes, and other such matters which we had saved. In the next were beds hastily made of straw mattresses and all the warm coverings that could be mustered. A little side-room was fitted up as a chapel, with an altar, on which was placed the usual furniture, while a small lamp hung before it. On this altar the priest deposited the host. It was time for our last evening service, and we went through it as usual, though it must be confessed that some of the sweet voices quivered a little as they chanted the responses. It was not till now that we observed one of our number to be missing.

"Where is Sister Filomena?" asked two or three voices.

"She is in a place of safety, or so I trust," answered the Superior calmly. "Pray for her, my sisters."

We took this for a hint that we were to ask no more questions, but we wondered all the more. Sister Filomena was the one of whom I have spoken before as being so very ugly. She was tall and boney, with particularly large hands and feet, and a masculine walk. She had a decided beard, and owing to some disease, I suppose, her face, and particularly her nose, were as red as an old toper's. She was a widow of some years standing when she took the vows, and before her conversion, she had lived much in the gay world of Toulon, where, despite her ugliness, she had been a great favorite, and had maintained a very popular salon.

Sister Lazarus had caused to be transported to the vault a little earthen-ware furnace for charcoal, such as are much used in France. This she lighted, and served us each with a famous cup of chocolate—a luxury never enjoyed by us except on very grand feast days. I think smells are more powerful in awakening old associations than anything else. The smell of a fresh cup of chocolate always brings that scene vividly before me—the dimly-burning shaded lights, which made our pale faces doubly ghastly in appearance—the damp walls of whitish grey rock—the little chapel with its ornaments glittering as the tapers flared a little—I can see all this, and hear the soft drop and splash of water, regular almost as the ticking of a clock, which fell on our ears, and now and then a curious moaning sound coming no one knew from whence.

"What is that?" said one of the sisters rather fearfully, as a louder moan than usual made itself felt rather than heard.

"It is a sound always heard in these vaults," replied the Superior.

"I used to hear in my day that it was the spirits of the poor souls that the old heathen imprisoned here and left to starve," said Sister Eustachie, who was very old and childish.

"You don't think it is that, do you, Reverend Mother?" asked one of the nuns rather timidly.

"No, my child, I think it is only the wind which finds entrance somewhere and cannot get out again, or some escape of imprisoned gas from the earth. Whatever it may be, it is but a sound," answered the Superior. "Let me beg of you, not to disturb your minds with idle fears. Let all lie down and rest while it is possible. Mother Assistant and myself will watch before the Holy Sacrament."

I had no wish to lie down, nor, as I think, had any of the others, but in a convent, one learns to obey without a word—not so bad a lesson either, where young persons are concerned. So we lay down on our straw beds and covered ourselves as warmly as we could, and, despite their fears, I heard some of the nuns snoring in five minutes' time.

I thought I should never go to sleep, but the sound of the falling water, the softly murmuring voices of the priest and the two mothers saying the litanies, and the gentle swaying of the suspended lamp lulled me at last into a slumber. I dreamed that I was trying to reach something from the upper shelf of a certain dark storeroom cupboard, when some one violently slammed the door on me. The noise awoke me with a start.

All the sisters were on their feet in an instant, but the gesture of the abbess imposed silence, and not a word was said.

We heard a shout of—"Open in the king's name—" And then a furious attack upon the great gate which led from the outer court into the garden. It sounded frightfully near. In a moment it fell, and we could hear the footsteps of our enemies, as it seemed, over our heads. They may have been so for ought I know.

We were all on our knees by this time before the little altar—some on their faces. Only the Superior stood erect and calm.

The noise partially died away—I suppose while the ruffians were searching for us. Then they gathered again in the court with every expression of anger and disappointment. We could hear every word that was said. They had evidently pushed off the cover of the old well, and one of them dropped a great stone into it. The noise which resounded through the vaults was awful beyond description.

"Our birds are flown!" said a voice. "And they have stripped their nest pretty completely."

"They are not flown—they have only gone to earth!" said another voice, which I thought I had heard before. "Follow me, and we will soon have them out."

In a few minutes we heard the noise of a door forced, and heavy, armed heels noisily descending. The sisters gathered closer around the superior.

"They have found the entrance under the great stairs," said the superior. "Keep perfectly still, and fear nothing, but pray for the souls of our enemies. They do but rush on their own destruction."

Mother Prudentia whispered a few words to the superior, and, receiving a nod in return, took up a lantern and glided away so suddenly that, though I was watching eagerly, I could not have told for my life which way she went.

There was evidently a good deal of hesitation among the enemy, for I heard the same voice proclaim loudly: "A purse of gold for the one who unearths the old cats. There! I see the gleam of a lantern even now."

It could have been but two or three minutes, before we heard a sudden splash, followed in a second by another and a horrible scream of mortal anguish, which echoed and re-echoed as if a hundred demons were mocking the drowning wretches. There was one half-strangled cry for help—a rush—and then all was still for a few minutes, till Mother Prudentia returned to us with her lantern, and her shoes covered with mud and slime.

"Two of them have fallen in—the only two who ventured to follow me!" said she. "I stepped aside, thinking that they would stop when they lost sight of me, but I suppose the gleam on the water deceived them. Poor wretches!"

There was an interval of silence, during which we all softly recited the prayer for souls in extremis.

"What are they doing now?" asked one of our number.

"They are setting fire to the buildings. Do you not smell the smoke?" said the priest. "But we have little to fear, even in that case. A storm has been gathering all day and is about to burst. Do you not hear the thunder? 'The Lord shall fight for us, and we will hold our peace.'"

I had heard what sounded like thunder two or three times, but there were so many noises that I had taken little heed to it. Now, however, came a tremendous crash, and a faint gleam of lightning showed what I had before suspected—that we were near some place which opened to the air—perhaps to the old well in the court, which would account for our hearing so plainly.

The rush of rain which followed must have at once extinguished the fires, and no doubt drove our enemies into the buildings for shelter. For a time, we heard nothing but the tremendous thunder and the rain. Then I began to be sensible of another sound, unlike anything, unless it be the rushing of a stream swollen by a torrent.

"What is that?" asked some one.

"Hush!" said the priest, imperatively.

We all listened. The sounds grew louder.

"They have digged a pit, and fallen into the midst of it themselves!" said the priest exultingly. "'In the snare that they laid privily is their foot taken.' Our friends have arrived, and we are saved."

In effect, we heard in a moment, a tremendous outcry, many shots fired, and other sounds which told us that a combat was going on. The tumult died away by degrees, but was renewed once or twice, as though the robbers were making a desperate defense. There was an interval of silence, and then a manly, cheerful voice called aloud, as it seemed, from the stairs:

"The reverend mothers and sisters may now come from their hiding places without fear. Their enemies are all prisoners in the hands of the king's troops. Laudate dominium."

I suppose this Latin phrase was a kind of watchword to let our superiors know that all was right. Anxious as we all were to escape from our prison, there was no haste. We arranged our dresses as decently as possible, for in a convent one learns to dress without the help of a mirror; the priest took up the Host, and, in procession as we descended, we emerged to the light of day—for it was now morning, and the sky was brightening toward sunrise. We found the court occupied by a company of soldiers, with a young officer in command, keeping guard over a number of prisoners. Several dead bodies were stretched out on the stones, and two or three wounded wretches were groaning among them.

Officers and men saluted reverently as the Host was borne past them, and all but those necessary to guard the prisoners, followed into the church. We took our places in the choir, and mass was said at the despoiled altar. Then, measures were taken for the care of the wounded. Two expired almost immediately, in the very act of confession; the other lingered a few days, and died, so Sister Baptista told me, very humble and penitent.

But what a sad sight was our poor house! Windows were dashed to pieces, furniture broken and destroyed in mere wantonness. Our beautiful garden was a trampled waste—even the great rose bush said to have been planted by the hands of Mother Angelique herself, and one of our greatest treasures, was hacked off at the roots.

"The wretches—the wicked sacrilegious villains!" exclaimed Sister Lazarus, bursting into tears as she came on the body of her favorite cat, and saw the poor kittens trying in vain to attract their mother's notice. "I can't help it, if it is wicked—I am glad they fell into the pool—I hope it was the very one that killed my cat—our cat I mean," added the sister, correcting herself, for in a convent it is a great sin to say that any thing is mine. "I made an act of forgiveness when I found my beautiful stew-pans all dashed to pieces, but such a sight as this is too much."

So saying she gathered the bereaved little kittens into her apron and carried them off to comfort them as she best could. One of our cows had been shot, as it seemed, in sheer wantonness; the other being shut in a cow-house at the bottom of the orchard had escaped.

It was only natural that a few tears should be shed over the destruction of pet plants and fowls and the general desolation, but there was no giving way to idle sorrow. All set to work with a will to put things in the best order possible, and so industrious were we, that by the next day when the bishop arrived, things had assumed something of their usual aspect.

But no pains of ours could restore vines and flowers, or set up the ruined fountain, or mend the beautiful and wonderful stained glass, whose fragments strewed the court, or bring our poor old dog and cow to life. The bishop brought with him a magistrate and other officers, and there was a great examination and perquisition about the affair, but I don't know how it was—the thing was hushed up after a while and nothing was done. Only the bishop paid two or three visits, and finally it was made known among us that before cold weather came, the community would be moved to a smaller but much more comfortable and secure house near Toulon.

I must not forget to say that Sister Filomena arrived in the train of the bishop, riding all by herself in a litter, and dressed in a brand new robe of quite another fashion from ours. We were surprised enough to see her, and still more to hear that it was she who had carried the news of our danger to Toulon.

"That is the advantage of being ugly you see, my sisters," said the good nun, laughing, as we pressed around to listen to her adventures. "In Marie's red petticoat and grey jacket, and mounted on the good father's mule, nobody thought me anything but a peasant carrying fowls to market. I had the good luck to meet, the very first thing, an Abbè whom I used to know when I was in the world. I could think of no better way than to make myself known to him, and he took me directly to the bishop's palace, where I told my story. His housekeeper found me some clothes, and I went at once to the Ursuline Convent, where they treated me like a princess, but you may guess I did not sleep for thinking of your danger, and wondering whether the soldiers would arrive in time."

"But why did not Father Brousseau go himself?" asked some one.

"What a wise question! Because they would have been on the watch for him, and would have known him at once; but no one suspected me."

"It was a dreadful thing to do!" said Sister Baptista. "Of course it was very good in you to sacrifice yourself, but I do think it was shocking."

"I suppose it was," said Sister Filomena; "and the worst of it is, I am afraid I enjoyed it after all."

That very day, we heard that the nephew and heir of the Count de Crequi with an attendant had fallen from the rocks while fishing, and that their bodies had been swept away by the waves and never found. A requiem was said for them in the church with all due solemnity, at which, however, none of the family were present. For my own part, remembering the voice I had heard and that fearful plunge into the water, I have little doubt that the bones of the young count and his follower lie at this moment under the black and slimy waters of that dreadful pool.

CHAPTER VII.

A SUMMONS.

IN the course of a week, all things had settled into their usual way with us. The ornaments were restored to the church, and the damage to the building was repaired as far as possible by workmen sent by the bishop from Toulon. The bishop praised our community to the skies, and caused a contribution to be taken for our benefit among the good folks of Toulon, who were very liberal on the occasion. The nuns took notice of it as a good omen, that the Mother Angelique's rosebush, which had been cut down, began directly to sprout from the root. I really think this little accident gave them more comfort and hope than all the bishop's assistance and promises.

Another consoling circumstance was the recession of the water in the subterranean pool. Mother Prudentia, who had had occasion to visit the vaults several times, to bring out from their concealment, things which had been hidden away on the night of the attack, told us that the water was falling rapidly, so that places heretofore impassable were now quite dry. It seemed as if the spirit which dwelt in those awful depths was content with the victims he had received, and wished for no more.

I have said that things fell into their usual train, and so it seemed at first; but presently it became apparent that the health of our dear mother superior was rapidly failing. Though over sixty at the time of the robbers' visit, she had hitherto shown her age very little, but now she seemed to grow old all at once. She had a cough, and a slight spitting of blood, and began to be subject to fainting fits. She herself attributed her illness to a cold taken in the cavern. I think now that the strain of that terrible night, with, perhaps, the added agitation of seeing again the lover she had so long believed dead, were too much for a frame already enfeebled with fasting.

I do verily believe that those people who are said to bear trouble the best are those who are usually most affected by it. Some, indeed, get the credit of enduring with patience and cheerfulness things which really trouble them very little, and such people are usually excessively impatient of the grief of others. But I must not stop to moralize, or I shall never get to the end of my story.

One day, the mother superior announced to the family as a settled thing that in the course of the following October, the community would be removed to a much smaller but more comfortable house in the neighborhood of Toulon, which was at that very time being fitted up for its reception. This house, she said, was a small chateau, formerly called Fleurs, which belonged to the Count de Crequi, and had been given by him to the community on condition that certain services should be performed in perpetuum for the soul of his unfortunate heir and nephew, who had been drowned while fishing.

We were surprised enough to hear this news, for the Count de Crequi was well-known to be an out and out infidel, if not an atheist. In France you may have no religion at all with impunity. It is even rather a genteel thing to believe in nothing and nobody but Monsieur Voltaire; but if you set up to have a religion at all, you must be content to take that which the king prescribes for you.

But the death of the young count was a terrible blow to his uncle, who had no son and was not like to have any. And it may be, that the poor old man thought it best, in case he might, after all, be mistaken, to have friends at court, as it were.

He was, indeed (so I have since understood), held up afterward as a shining instance of conversion by the Jesuits, under whose influence he fell—but I never heard that his conversion led him to give up that twenty-five acres of meadow, which had been exacted from our sisterhood as the price of his protection, or to pay for the ruin of our buildings, caused by his secret emissaries on night of the robbery.

However this might be, there was no doubt that he had given us a new dwelling, to which we were all to be removed before the coming on of cold weather.

The church was to be kept up, with a resident priest to say mass. The other parts of the building would be closed.

This news was received with varying feelings by the sisters. The elders wept, and regretted that they must leave the place which had been their home so long, and the graves of those who had been their companions in youth. The younger sisters were divided, as was natural, between sorrow at parting and the novelty of a new house and situation.

"I shall never live to see the day!" said poor old Mother Baptista. "And I don't wish to. I was brought to this house when I was too young to remember anything. I was professed at fourteen, * and in all these years, I have not been outside of these walls. Here I have lived, and here I will die and be buried."

* A nun would not be received at this age in any order I am acquainted with, but such things were common enough at that time in France.

"But we must, be obedient, you know, dear mother," said Sister Filomena, trying to soothe her.

"Of course we must be obedient. I hope I know that by this time!" answered the old mother, rather tartly. "All the same, I shall never leave these walls. I shall be buried here."

"I cannot help hoping that the change will benefit dear mother's health!" said another sister. "She has never been well since that dreadful night in the vaults."

"I fear our dear reverend mother will never be well again!" said Mother Prudentia, shaking her head. "She fails every day. I sometimes think she will not live to see us settled in our new home."

"It will never be home without her," said Sister Agnes, sadly. "How many times she has been elected superior. No; I am sure no other place will seem like home after we have lived here so long."

"So much the better for us, perhaps," returned Mother Prudentia. "You know, my child, that we are to have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come."

"Still I cannot help hoping the change may do good," said Sister Angela. "I sometimes fancy all that water under the house may make it unhealthy. I wonder if the new house stands in a high and airy situation."

"It does, I know," said Amabel.

"Why, how should you know anything about it, child?" said Mother Prudentia, surprised.

"Lucy and I lived there before we came here," answered Amabel. "The moment reverend mother spoke the name, I remembered the place quite well. It stands on a hill, and one can see a great way. There are a good many rooms, and a flower garden, with fountains and a terrace. I can recollect that. But it is very much smaller than this house."

"So much the better. I never do like to think of these great empty halls and buildings, especially at night!" said Sister Agnes, as Mother Prudentia left us. "One never can guess who or what may be lurking in them."

"You had better not let Mother hear you say so, or she will be sending you from one end of them to the other!" remarked Sister Angela. "If I dreaded it as much as you do, I would force myself to do it just for a mortification."

To do something you particularly dislike, is a great point with some devout nuns; I have seen a sister ordered to pick up a spider and let it run over her face, only because she showed a disgust at the creature. This however, was in the former Mother Assistant's time; I don't think Mother Prudentia was much given to such performances.

I was naturally very much interested in the prospect of seeing again the house where we had lived on our first coming abroad. The name of Fleurs had awakened in my mind certain dim recollections, but it was as when one strives to recall a dream. I plied Amabel with questions, to most of which I received rather unsatisfactory answers, for though her reminiscences were clearer than mine, they were still those of a mere child.

In the excitement through which we had lately passed, and the prospect of a change of residence—not to mention our anxiety about dear Mother's health—we had almost forgotten that we had or were likely to have any other home than the convent. So that when one day in August, we were summoned from our task of splitting apricots to dry, to attend to the Superior, we thought of almost anything, rather than a message from England. I know my own mind was running on a very different subject, namely, thinking that I had gone out of bounds that very morning, having run down to the end of the orchard after a rare butterfly, and wondering whether Mother had seen me.

We found the dear lady lying back in her great chair, an unusual indulgence for her who usually sat up straight as an arrow. She looked thin and worn, and her hands were white and transparent like alabaster; but her wonderful eyes were as bright as ever, and she had a lovely color in her cheeks, which I in my ignorance, took for a sign of returning health. She held an open letter in her hand, and I fancied that she had been weeping.

We knelt and kissed her hand, and she gave us her blessing as usual. She then bade us to be seated on two stools, one on each side of her, and laid a hand on each of our heads.

"My dear children!" said she. "I have heard from Sir Julius Leighton."

We both started, and I forgot all about that wicked butterfly.

"He tells me that being unable to come for you himself, he has sent for you by the hands of a ship's captain sailing from Newcastle, to bring you to that town. From thence, you will be sent to the house of Sir Julius Leighton's sisters, who reside not far from that place. It seems that this worthy man has brought his sister with him, in order that you may have a female companion and guardian—a measure which speaks well for him. This good woman will arrive to-night, and be our guest for two or three days while your wardrobes are being got in order. And it must be your business, my children, to make her stay as pleasant as possible."

We had neither of us spoken, of course, while this address was being made, but the moment it was finished, Amabel fell on her knees and burst into a flood of tears.

"Dear Mother, do not send us away among strangers!" said she between her sobs! "Let us live and die here with you, and the mothers and sisters we have known so long; you are our only mother on earth, do not send us away from you."

The lady was affected even to tears; and it was some moments before she could command her voice to speak.

"Dear child, it is not I who send you away!" said she at last. "I have no right to detain you when your father demands your presence. Be calm, my Aimeè! I am not able to bear this agitation;" and indeed her changing color alarmed me.

Amabel made a desperate effort to control herself, and succeeded so far as to become quiet, though she could not speak.

"I would indeed gladly see you both in the safe shelter of the cloister," continued dear Mother, stroking Amabel's head, as she still knelt beside her; "but even that shelter is not always a protection in these days. But your father has the right to dispose of you, and if he requires that you should return to him, you have no choice but to obey. It is hard for me to part with you, my little ones, but the parting must have come at any rate, since I must soon leave you, even if you did not leave me."

"Dear Mother do not say so!" I ventured to say.

"We all hope that the change will do you good; everyone says that the new house is in a more healthy situation than this."

"I shall remove to another house before that change is made, my child;—even to that house which is not made with hands. But do not let it grieve you over-much. To me it is a joyful prospect, especially as I shall leave the little flock I have ruled so long, in comparative ease and safety. But now listen, my little ones, to the last words I may be able to say to you—for my strength may fail at any time, and I believe my end to be nearer than Father Brousseau thinks."

She then proceeded to give us much advice regarding our future conduct—excellent, I am sure, from her own way of looking at things, though some of it was quite impossible to any one living in the world. But most of it was very good, and has always been of use to me.

And I may say here, that since I have myself had the ordering of a family of young people, I have found the advantage of many things I learned under our dear mother's rule—such as the habit of doing everything in the exact time of it, and not letting one duty, as it were, tread on the heels of another. At St. Jean, when the bell struck the hour of recreation, all work must be dropped on the instant; and the same was true of our play. One might think this would be often very inconvenient, but knowing that it must be so, one learned to make one's arrangements accordingly, and thus much time was saved.

Then we acquired habits of neatness and order, to do even the least thing in the best way, and turn everything to the best account. Many a child's garment have I seen got out of bits of linen or flannel, that an ordinary English housewife would throw away; many a warm and even pretty rug, for the feet of an invalid or an old person. And if the girls in our school can darn a rent, or put on a patch, or work a heel into a worn-out stocking, better than anybody in the duchy—though I say it that shouldn't—it is owing at second hand to the teaching of dear Mother Prudentia.

Of course, Amabel and I waited with no little impatience for the arrival of our traveling companion. She came about three o'clock, and was kindly received and lodged in the most comfortable place the sisters could prepare for her, while Amabel and myself waited on her. She was a very good specimen of a middle-class English woman—fat and fair, with a clear, rosy complexion, and undeniably red hair, which, nevertheless, was both pretty and becoming. She was about forty years old, and had a frank, motherly way with her which made me take to her at once. She looked a good deal surprised and rather awe-stricken at the strange place in which she found herself, but she responded with all due politeness to the apologies which Sister Agnes made concerning her lodgings, and which we translated to her as well as we could—for though Mrs. Thorpe could speak French after a fashion, she did not understand it well.

"My dears, do ask the good lady not to trouble herself," said she, at last. "What is good enough for her is certainly good enough for any one like me. I am a sailor's wife anyhow, and used to roughing it in all sorts of ways."

Sister Agnes was finally satisfied, and took her departure; and Mrs. Thorpe sat down on the side of the narrow bed and began to unpack the great bag she had brought in her hand.

"Your father has sent you each a purse of money," said she, producing them; "there ought to be five guineas in each; count them and see. Always count money as soon as you receive it. Is it all right?"

We satisfied her on this point. What a wonderful novelty it seemed to have some money of our own.

"I am to provide you new clothes, and all you want for your journey," continued Mrs. Thorpe. "But I think, if you will allow me to judge, that you had better not buy a great deal in Toulon, as fashions are so different here and in England, and I fancy my ladies, your aunts, will not much relish French ways."

We professed ourselves anxious of being guided by Mrs. Thorpe's judgment in all things, and Amabel asked:

"Do you know my aunts, madame?"

"Why, no, not to say know them. They are great ladies, you see, and I am but a seaman's widow, keeping a shop for laces and small wares in Newcastle. But they have been in my shop, so that I know them well by sight. My dears," she added, abruptly changing the subject, as she pulled out from her bag—which seemed to have no bottom—a couple of bulky parcels, "just see! I have ventured to bring the lady of the house—I don't know what to call her—"

"The mother superior," said I.

"Well, I have taken the liberty, not knowing exactly what she would like, to bring her a parcel of coffee and loaf sugar. Do you think she would be offended at the liberty?"

"No, indeed!" said I. "Dear mother is never offended when any one wishes to please her, and I am very glad you have brought the things. Sister Lazarus was saying only yesterday how much she wished she had some coffee to tempt Mother Superior, for she hardly eats anything at all."

"Then I am in the nick of time; but, excuse me, my dears, why did not Sister Lazarus—it seems a queer name for a woman—why did not she send and buy some coffee, if the lady wished for it. When a delicate person takes a fancy for some particular thing to eat, 'tis always best to supply it at once, before they change their minds."

"She would have been glad to do so, but she had no money, I believe," I answered. "We are a very poor community nowadays. I heard Mother Bursar say she should have no more money till she sold her oil."

"Lack-a-day, poor thing! But in that case methinks I would sell some of those grand vases and things I saw in the church," said Mrs. Thorpe with decision. "However, that is no business of mine. I am glad you think the things won't come amiss. And is the poor lady very ill?"

"Father Brousseau thinks she will never be well!" said Amabel sadly.

"Poor thing! But no doubt she is prepared to go, and the change will be a blessed one. From what you say, I should think she must be a good Christian according to her lights, and a man is accepted according to what he hath, and not according to what he hath not."

Amabel and I looked at each other surprised and half offended, while the good woman talked on, unconscious of offence, asking many questions and making many shrewd remarks.

We left her at last to rest a little before supper, and retired by ourselves to compare notes on our new acquaintance.

"Well, what do you think about her?" I asked.

"I like her," said Amabel with decision. "She is not like our sisters here, of course, but I think she is good and kind."

"Yes, it was nice in her to bring mother the coffee and sugar, and to give us these things," said I, examining the pretty and convenient "equipages" for the pocket which Mrs. Thorpe had presented to us. "But I did not like the way she spoke about dear mother."

"She is a Protestant, you know, and I suppose our ways are as strange to her, as hers are to us," replied Amabel. "Of course if they think they are right, they must believe we are wrong."

"But, Amabel, it seems that your aunts are Protestants," said I, for Mrs. Thorpe had told us as much. "How shall we get on with them?"

"It will be time enough to decide that when we are there," replied Amabel. "I don't think Protestants are all bad, Lucy. My mother was one, and so was yours, and I am sure she never taught us anything that was not good."

"Mother Superior says no Protestants will be saved except by reason of their invincible ignorance," I remarked, "or unless they are capable of acts of pure love to God, which are very difficult even to good Catholics. And besides, Amabel, our 'examination of conscience' says it is a betrayal of the Catholic Church to say that all religions are good, and that a man may be saved in one as well as another, and that it is a great sin even to read a heretical book or hear a heretical preacher. Now suppose that your aunts should insist on our going to the English Church with her—what shall we do?"

"We shall see when the time comes," said Amabel. "I never found much use in making up my mind beforehand. Either the thing you expect never comes, or else it comes in such a different way that all your preparations are of no use at all."

This was Amabel's way, and has been all her life, and certainly it has seemed to serve her very well. I have never seen any one pass through with so little of what we call fretting. She has had many serious troubles, but very few worries, while I must confess I have generally had my troubles three times over—before they came, while they lasted, and after they were gone.

After supper Mother Prudentia came to us with a very grave and sad face.

"The English lady is to go to Mother Superior, in her own room, at once," said she.

"In her own room?" I repeated, very much surprised.

The "Community Rooms" in a convent are sacred from any profane foot, so that one may be a pupil in such a house a dozen years and never enter them. The peculiar circumstances of our family placed Amabel and myself on a somewhat different footing from ordinary pupils, so that we were treated rather as postulants, but even we had never been in the rooms which opened from the Superior's parlor.

"Yes," answered the mother sadly. "Dear Mother Superior is not able to go any farther than the outer room. She tried going to the parlor but she was not able. I fear she will never descend those stairs again. You may call madame—I cannot say her name for my life—and lead her to madame's room."

Mrs. Thorpe was walking with Sister Agnes in the flower garden. It was this sister's office to attend upon guests, and I think she was well-pleased with having a chance to exercise it once more. She could not understand Mrs. Thorpe's French much better than her English, but happily they were both devoted to flowers, and the language of sympathy and admiration are much the same all over the world.

We explained to Mrs. Thorpe that she was to go with us to the Superior, and led her through the long hall and up the great stairs to the lady's room.

"What a great castle of a place!" said Mrs. Thorpe, looking round her and speaking in a half whisper. "Where do all these doors go to?"

"To different rooms and cells, I believe," replied Amabel. "I do not think any of them are used at present. A great deal more than half the house is shut up. See, this is Mother Superior's door."

Amabel scratched on the door with her nails as our convent fashion was, and it was opened to us by Mother Prudentia. The Superior received Mrs. Thorpe very graciously; it was not in her nature to be otherwise than kind even to a heretic. Mrs. Thorpe was evidently greatly impressed, and somewhat awe struck with the lady's dignity—nevertheless she conducted herself toward her with a kind of respectful frank independence, which made me like her all the more.

They had quite a long conversation, Amabel interpreting where it was needful. Among other things, the Superior asked Mrs. Thorpe to promise that she would in no way influence us in matters of religion.

"That I cannot promise, because it may not be in my power, my lady!" answered Mrs. Thorpe frankly. "I will promise so much as this, that I will enter into no arguments with the young ladies; for which indeed, I am no ways qualified, being but a plain woman with only wit enough to read my Bible, and do my duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me. But I strive as a Christian woman to rule my household in the fear of God, and according to the lights He has given me. If these young ladies should be my guests for a time, I can only promise to be as faithful to them as I would have been to my own girls, if the Lord had spared them to me."

This pledge which Amabel faithfully translated, seemed to give dear mother more satisfaction than I should have expected. I think she was so near the Eternal gates, that the light was already shining for her, which makes all things plain. Mother Prudentia was called out at this moment, and there was a little silence.

"She ought not to talk any more!" whispered Mrs. Thorpe. "She is tired out now."

The words were not out of her mouth, before dear Mother fainted entirely away.

"Don't be alarmed! It is but a fainting-fit," said Mrs. Thorpe, catching her in her arms, laying her back in her chair and applying to her nose a smelling-bottle, which she took from her pocket—all in the space of an instant. "Run one of you, and bring some wine or strong waters, and call one of the ladies—you, my dear, open the window and help me to loosen her dress."

As we unloosed her girdle and opened her dress, I saw that she wore a sharp cross on her bosom and that her undergarment was of the roughest woolen, which must have been very irritating and distressing in hot weather. I glanced at Mrs. Thorpe, and saw a look of anger and disgust on her honest face.

"Poor thing, poor thing!" she muttered. "As if she could not trust the Lord to send her all the trouble she needed, without making more for herself; they must needs be wise, above what is written—there, don't cry, my dear, she is coming to herself. See, her lips are getting quite a color, poor lady."

Mother Prudentia now appeared, and with her help, Mother Superior was so far revived as to be moved to her bed. Father Brousseau had come home by that time, and was at once called in to see her.

"It is the beginning of the end!" said he, as he came out of the room. "We shall hear the cry at midnight. Behold the Bridegroom cometh; let all be in readiness to receive Him."

We had our usual recreation after supper, but no one cared for the merriment which generally took place at that hour. The sisters walked up and down in threes and fours—it was against our rules for two to walk together—weeping and talking or entering the little Lady chapel, which stood in the grounds, to say a prayer before the altar, where was an image of the Virgin which had worked miracles in its time. This little chapel had been entirely forgotten at the time of the robbery, and had been also overlooked and left untouched by the robbers; a circumstance which was considered a miracle in itself, and brought the image into greater favor than ever. And by the way, if the worship is paid not to the image, but to the person whom it represents, I wonder why some images of the Virgin are so much more sought after than others.

We walked in the garden with Mrs. Thorpe, showed her different places about the house, and told her the story of the midnight assault.

"And what will be done with the robbers!" said she.

"None of them have been taken!" I answered. "They say the whole thing will be hushed up, because a noble family is mixed up in it. And we think—Amabel and I do," I added in a whisper; "that it was the young Count who was drowned in the vaults; we heard him talking when he was here before with his uncle, and he had such a curious hoarse voice. I am sure it was the same."

"Served him right!" said Mrs. Thorpe indignantly. "Pretty doings! A family of ladies are set upon in their own house, and made to hide like rats in a damp musty hole, where one at least has got her death; and it is to be hushed up, forsooth, because a noble family is mixed up in it? Well! There, I won't say a word—" as Amabel put her finger on her lip—"but only this to free my mind. I can tell you what, my maids; sometime or other, there will be a fearful uprising against the nobles and rulers of this land. It may not come in our day, but it will surely come. What is that for?" As the bell struck it accustomed signal.

We told her it was for the evening service, and asked her to attend. Father Brousseau came himself to invite her, but she declined.

"I am not sure that I should be able to join in the worship with a clear conscience, and I should not like to offend the good ladies by sitting a mere looker on!" said she. "With your leave I will remain here."

"All Protestants are not so scrupulous as yourself!" said Father Brousseau. "I have seen them not only spectators of our services, but very irreverent, and even noisy ones."

"They are not of my mind, then!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have seen the same thing in my travels, and been disgusted with it."

We went into the church, and left Mrs. Thorpe to amuse herself in the garden.

By half past eight, as our rule was, we were all in bed, except the sister at her post in the chapel, and Mother Prudentia and Sister Filomena (who was one of the tenderest and most skillful of nurses), who watched with Mother Superior. The priest was right; about midnight we were all called to our dear Mother's room. The door of her cell was open, and we all stood or knelt in the outer room, while the priest administered the last rites of the Church. The Superior was supported in Mother Prudentia's arms, breathing in soft sighs, but not seeming to suffer; we watched her, as it seemed, a long time after the rites were concluded; her face was peaceful, and we could not be sure whether she breathed or not.

At last she roused herself, turned her head toward us, smiled, and raised her hand as in blessing; it fell; the dear eyes closed, and the voice of the priest pronouncing the last solemn words, told us all was over. We joined in the last prayers, and then withdrew from the chamber of death; to spend the night in watching, or to cry ourselves to sleep.

The weather was too warm for the funeral to be delayed, and the Bishop himself came to celebrate it on the third day. I never saw a man so changed in so short a time; all his patronizing pompous fussiness was gone; his face was pale and sunken, and he looked in every way like a man who was not long for this world. I caught myself wondering whether he and dear Mother would not have served God just as well if they had married, and brought up a family, as Mrs. Thorpe had told us many English bishops did; but I put away the thought as blasphemous, and said several extra Hail Mary, by way of penance. It did not occur to me, to think that it was not very complimentary to her, to make an address to her an instrument for punishing myself.

The dear lady was laid in the cemetery, amidst the dust of those who had gone before her for hundreds of years. The next day, the sisters held an election and, as every one expected, Mother Prudentia was made Superior. I am sure a better choice could not have been made on the whole, though I do not believe she would ever rule the household as the late mother had done. She herself shrank from the responsibility, and earnestly wished that Sister Filomena might be chosen; but "ask nothing, refuse nothing," is the rule in convents (at least it was in ours) and she could not decline.

It was on the evening of this day, that Amabel and I were very busily at work. Mrs. Thorpe was in the still-room with Sister Agnes, learning and imparting wonderful secrets concerning the making of Hungary and Elder flower waters, and I know not what else. She was improving rapidly in the matter of French, for she would speak it right or wrong, laughing at her own blunders, when Sister Agnes was too polite to do so. With the other sisters she had little or no intercourse except by bows and smiles; I think they looked upon her as some half-tamed animal, allowed to run at large, but not exactly safe after all.

Father Brousseau had once or twice tried to draw her into an argument, but without success. At least, he asked her the favorite question, which is considered a knock down by Roman Catholics. "Where was the Protestant church two hundred years ago?"

"Will your Reverence allow me to ask you a question in my turn?" asked Mrs. Thorpe quietly, but with a smile lurking in her eyes.

"Certainly!" answered the father.

"Suppose then, that one of your flock—a simple unlearned woman like myself—should be thrown in with a very learned and eloquent Protestant clergyman, who should strive to draw her into an argument—what would you advise her to do?"

The good priest smiled in spite of himself.

"But suppose I had the best of the argument, would not that convince you?" he asked.

"It would convince me that your Reverence was much more skillful in argument than myself," was the answer; "and I am quite ready to admit that, now."

"But since you do admit that I am more learned than yourself, ought not that to make my arguments of weight to you?"

"Well! I do not know about that. I suppose, your Reverence, that the poor people who thronged to hear St. Peter and St. John, were not nearly so learned as Gamaliel, and the other Pharisees; but they were not greatly influenced by them after all."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such respectful frankness, that it was impossible to be offended with her. The priest glanced at us girls, who with eyes demurely cast down, were listening with all our ears, shrugged his shoulders, offered his snuff-box, and gave the matter up. I often thought of this little scene afterwards, when the relations came to be so changed between these two good people. But all this is by the way, and I have wandered far from the thread of my story, which I fear is but a tangle skein at the best.

Amabel and I were sitting, as I said, with a frame between us, finishing a wonderful bit of needle lace, an article for which our house was famous. It was Saturday, and on Monday we were to leave the old house which had been our home so long. We were very silent and sewed with great diligence, for we were desirous of finishing our work, which was destined for some church adornment—I forget what.

Presently Sister Angela appeared at the door and mysteriously beckoned to us.

"What does she want?" said I, pettishly enough. "We shall have no more than enough daylight to finish our work, and we never can do it by lamplight."

However, it was my business to obey, and I followed Amabel who had already risen. Sister Angela led us into a disused storeroom and closed the door.

"Are you really going away with that heretic woman, and to that dreadful England?" she asked of Amabel in a whisper.

"I suppose so," said Amabel. "My father has sent for us, and we have no choice."

"But is your father a Catholic?" asked the sister. "Are you sure?"

"I suppose so. Why?"

"Well, I do not believe he is—not a good one. Madame Thorpe herself told Sister Agnes that he sometimes went to the English Church."

"Perhaps he has a dispensation," said I.

"Well, at all events these ladies to whom you are going are heretics. There is no doubt of that."

"I suppose not," said Amabel, "but they may not interfere with our religion."

"They will. They cannot help it. They will try in every way to pervert you. Besides, you will be deprived of the sacraments—you will be perverted and lose your souls. Oh, my children, don't go."

"But we must," said Amabel.

"You need not, if you will listen. Suppose you declare to take the veil and remain here. This woman has no force wherewith to take you away, and she will have to go without you. Then if your father should send again, you could be hidden in some place about the building, or sent away to some other house where he would never find you."

I looked at Amabel in decided alarm, thinking that if she staid I must stay too, and not disposed to lose the prospect of change, which was growing more and more attractive every day.

"But would that be right?" asked Amabel. "I think I ought to obey my father."

"Not if he is a heretic," said Sister Angela.

"You don't know certainly that he is," said I.

"And, besides, how many nuns have taken the veil against the wishes of their nearest and dearest friends," added Sister Angela triumphantly. "Think how St. Agnes left her father's house and ran away to St. Francis in the middle of the night. Think of the blessed Mother de Chantal, the friend of St. Francis de Sales—how she left her children—and, though her eldest son threw himself prostrate on the door-sill, beseeching his mother with tears and cries, she stepped over his body and went her way as calmly as if nothing had happened."

There must have been some influence emanating from Mrs. Thorpe after all, for though I had been brought up to think the Mother de Chantal a model of all excellence, I began to conceive a disgust for her directly—I can't say that I have ever got over it.

Amabel did not say a word while Sister Angela went on urging the example of one saint after another, till she was stopped by sheer want of breath.

Then Amabel asked—

"Does Mother Superior know of this plan?"

"No, I have not mentioned it to her," answered Sister Angela, taken rather aback. "I thought I would see how you took it first."

"Then, if you please, we will say no more about it," said Amabel, "at least not till you have consulted her. I will consider the matter and then I shall know how to act. Come, Lucy, we must finish our task before dark."

We sat down to our frame and worked for an hour without saying a word. Then I looked up and, catching Amabel's eye, I saw in a moment that her mind was made up.

"Well!" said I.

"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Amabel, answering my unspoken question. "Did not Mother Superior say that it was our duty to obey Sir Julius?"

"Yes, I know she did."

"Sister Angela had no right either to propose such a thing unknown to Mother Prudentia—Mother Superior, I mean," pursued Amabel. "She and some of the others think they can take liberties now. They may find themselves mistaken."

"But would you wish to stay?" I asked. "For my part, I confess, I want to know what the world is like."

"Mother Superior would have said that was like wishing to eat of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil," returned Amabel, smiling gravely. "No, I don't think I want to stay now. I wish to see my father, and my little brother, and step-mother. Besides, the Bible itself says 'Children obey your parents.' Don't you know we read that in Father Brousseau's big book?"

"But if the Church teaches, and of course it must or Mother de Chantal and St. Agnes would not have done it," I began, but Amabel interrupted me.

"I don't like to look two ways at once, it only puzzles me. There, our work is finished—the last we shall do in this house. Does it not seem strange? Come, let us carry it to Mother Sacristine, and then I want to speak to Mrs. Thorpe."

Mother Sacristine praised our work to the skies, and lamented, as much as Sister Agnes had done, over our going away.

"If you were only of age—but when you are, you can come back, you know. I don't believe but it might be managed now. There are plenty of hiding places where no one would ever find you."

We glanced at each other, but said nothing, and betook ourselves to look for Mrs. Thorpe.

"They are all in it!" said Amabel.

"I see they are," returned I. "It frightens me. What if they should keep us here?"

"There is no use in being frightened," said Amabel, composed as usual. "Wait and see. I have a strong feeling that Mother Superior will not approve; and if she does not, I would not be in their shoes."

We found Mrs. Thorpe in her little cell, busily writing something in her pocketbook.

"Mrs. Thorpe, is my father a Catholic?" asked Amabel, going to the point, as usual.

"My dear, that is more than I can tell you," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "His father and mother were so, and he was brought up in that way. My own impression is that he is not much of anything."

"You do not mean that he has no religion at all!" said Amabel, startled.

"If he hasn't, he is not the only one,—more's the pity say I," answered the good woman. "But in England just now, as I understand is the case here, a great many fine gentlemen profess infidelity just as they carry clouded canes and tortoise-shell snuff-boxes. But your aunts, your mother's sisters, are very religious ladies, in their way, and keep their church regularly—so my sister-in-law tells me, who lives in the same parish."

"Shall we have to go to church with them?" I asked.

"My dear Mrs. Corbet, if I were you, I would leave that to settle itself," replied Mrs. Thorpe. "You cannot tell just how you may find things, and there is no use in borrowing trouble. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'"

"That is what I always tell Lucy," said Amabel, "but she picks out her knots a dozen times before she comes to them, or they are made at all. But what a nice proverb that is you repeated. Please say it again."

"Proverb, child! Why, 'tis in the Gospel. Our Lord himself said it. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Lay it to heart, my dears. It will save you a great deal of trouble."

I never knew how or when Sister Angela propounded her notable plan to Mother Superior, but I can make a good guess that it was that very afternoon. For she appeared at the table with very red cheeks and all the sisters were so very meek and silent, that I fancy they had got what Mrs. Thorpe would have called a wigging at "obedience." Mother Superior never mentioned the matter to us, and of course we never said anything to her. Not but she might have considered all fair in the cause of the church, and the saving of souls, but I think she naturally revolted at anything underhanded, and, besides, our community had too recently emerged from a heavy cloud of disgrace and danger to run any such risk as would have been incurred by the spiriting away of two English girls of good family at that time.

Sunday passed as rapidly as last days always do. On Monday the carriage bespoken by Mrs. Thorpe came to the door. We bade a tearful farewell to our old friends and home, and parted from them forever.

And in this place, I may as well say what I think about convent life. I am far from believing all the scandalous tales that are told, though one may learn from the writings of Roman Catholic authors, as well as from the history of Mother Angelique herself, what disorders have sometimes existed in them. But I do say the whole system is an unnatural and, therefore, an unhealthy one, and it is liable to great abuses.

Here is one of them: A young girl just leaving school, knowing nothing of the world—especially if she be a French girl—is invited to make a retreat. What does that mean? It means confinement—voluntary, no doubt, in most cases, but still confinement—in a darkened room, with just light enough to see to read. It means absence of all ordinary occupation, shortened hours of rest, and long fasts. Some book like the "Meditations of St. Ignatius" is put into her hands, full of the grossest and most terrible material images of death and hell. They talk about the ranting of the Methodists, and I won't deny that the local preachers and exhorters go too far in this direction at times, but I never met with one who would dare to say as much as this famous saint, or as some Catechisms do. The decay of the body after death, with all attendant horrors, real or imaginary, is a favorite theme. "You will become that for which there is no name in any language!" says St. Ignatius. * Then come pictures of purgatory and hell, wrought up to the highest pitch, and then—the poor, tired, hysterical young creature is invited to pause and seriously consider her vocation in life. Is it any wonder that she decides for that vocation which is set before her as the one of certain safety? Is it any wonder either that the excitement over, she should too often find that she has made a horrible mistake?

* Bossuet has the same phrase. I don't know who stole it.

I think the peculiar circumstances under which we were placed had their effect in elevating the characters of our sisters; and yet, looking back, I can see what a petty world we lived in—a world, too, which had its envies and jealousies even as the great one. Whoever goes into a convent carries his flesh with him. No walls have ever been contrived to shut out the devil, and where these two are, be sure the third partner—the world—is not far away.

The Lord surely knew what He was about when he set people in families, and created the dear ties of husband and wife, parent and child, brother and sister. Our Lord Himself lived not in a convent—as He might have done it seems, for Mr. Wesley has told me there were convents, or at least brotherhoods, in those days—but in a family, and a working family at that. One of the very few pictures of Him I ever saw that I liked, is a little print Mother Superior gave me long ago, and which I have still, representing the young Jesus holding a skein of yarn for His mother, just as Judith Postlethwate often does for me.

There are some good things to be said for convent schools, as I have remarked before. They take good care, so far as I have observed, of their pupils' health; they teach them to be neat, tidy, and punctual—all of which are very good things. I am sure of one thing: I would not send a child to a smallpox hospital unless I wished it to catch the smallpox, and I would not send a girl to a convent school if I had any objection to her taking the veil.

CHAPTER VIII.

FLIGHT FROM THE NEST.

I SHALL never forget my sensations when I felt myself fairly outside the convent walls. Though I had lived in France sixteen years and more, I had never seen more of it than was visible from the window of the little room over the porch—the only one to which we had access which opened on the outside world. How different the building looked from the outside. I had never even known of the existence of the two round towers at the outer corners, since only their pinnacles were visible from the court, and these I had always supposed to be on the roof itself.

"Why, Amabel, did you know those towers were there?" I exclaimed.

"No," answered Amabel; "and what is that little building that joins on the church?"

"Perhaps it is the cell in which Sister Marie des Anges lived so many years. Don't you remember mother assistant telling us the story?"

"Who was she?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, glad to see us a little diverted from our grief.

"She was a very holy lady who once belonged to our house a great while ago—a hundred years, I dare say," replied Amabel. "She lost her mother when she was about sixteen, and she had a great vocation. Her father, who had several younger children, would not consent to her entering a convent, thinking she ought to take care of her little brothers and sisters. So she shut herself up in a room at home, and would not eat with the family, or see any of them if she could help it, and she slept on the floor and wore sackcloth. At last her father died, and she could do as she pleased; so she built a little cell opening from the church, and caused herself to be bricked up in it with but one window, opening to the church, and there she lived—never coming out, or washing her face, or changing her clothes, till they were all worn-out."

"She must have been a pleasant neighbor!" interrupted Mrs. Thorpe. "I should have liked a seat on the other side of the church myself. In England, we think cleanliness is next to godliness. But how did this pious lady spend her time?"

"In prayer, mostly," answered Amabel; "but she used to work beautiful lace and sell it for the benefit of the house." *

* I beg pardon of the Canadians for transplanting to another time and place this paragon, who really belongs to them. Her biographer remarks that she was exercised with a perpetual aridity of spirit. No wonder!

"I should not like to be the one to wear it," responded Mrs. Thorpe, who did not seem to admire this saintly personage at all. "You have told the story very nicely, my dear. Shall I tell you a tale of one of my saints?"

"Oh! Do, if you please!" said both together, and Amabel added: "I did not know Protestants had saints."

"Oh, yes, we have them, but they are rather different. Well, this young maid, like yours, was bereft of her mother when she was seventeen, and she had four little brothers and sisters. Her father was a clergyman—you know Protestant clergy marry—and very poor.

"This young lady had been taught by her mother, who was a well-educated lady. She had most of the care of the family, for her father had a large parish, and very little means, so that he was obliged to till a piece of land to help out the living.

"So my young maid—her name was Mary, too—heard her brother's Latin accidence, and so on till he was ready to go to a foundation school, where he got an Oxford scholarship, and was made a professor or master, I don't know just what they call it. Another brother got a berth on a good ship, and now commands a fine vessel of his own.

"Of her two sisters, one keeps a girls' school at Gateshead, where she has brought up many fine girls to be blessings to their families. The other married a sailor, who, after many prosperous voyages was cast away in sight of his own home; and now she keeps a shop, where all the fine ladies about come to buy laces, gloves, and sweet waters, and oftentimes to learn embroidery stitches and the like.

"My saint herself lived to lay her honored father's head in the grave, and to see every one of his children doing well in all ways, and then she went home to her well-earned rest. Yes, indeed, my Mary, my more than mother!—Thou dost rest from thy labors, and thy works do follow thee!"

"That is my saint, girls," said Mrs. Thorpe, after a little pause. "How do you like her?"

"I think she was lovely!" said Amabel, with enthusiasm. "And all the better because she did not choose her own work. It was just as if God himself set her a task, was it not?"

"Yes, my dear Mrs. Amabel, God sets us all tasks, if we would but see them."

"And was this lady your sister?" I asked.

"Yes, my dear, my oldest sister; and if I ever have done any good in this world, it is owing to her. I will show you her picture at home. A traveling artist drew it for us. But it was odd you should never have known of this cell," said Mrs. Thorpe, returning to Amabel's tale. "Does it not open to the church now?"

"No; I believe she was built up in it after she died. But there are a great many places about our house that we never saw."

"That is what I don't like—I mean all that mystery!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I like things to be open and above board. Not that I mean to say one word about the ladies in the house we have left, who have been most kind, I am sure. I am only thinking what chances all this concealment gives to wicked or tyrannical persons. Suppose a nun misbehaves, or is thought to do so. She disappears, and word goes that she is sick. By and by it is said that she is dead. But who knows what has become of her?"

"But such things would never happen in a religious house," said I, half offended.

"My dear, human nature is a poor creature, as my dear father used to say, when he could find no other excuse for somebody. It is not fit to be trusted with arbitrary power."

"The Jesuits and the archbishop of Paris were religious persons when they persecuted Mother Angelique and the other people at Port Royal," said Amabel, who had heard that great lady's story many a time from Mother Perpetua; "but I am sure, Mrs. Thorpe, no one was ever persecuted in our house."

"I dare say not, my dear; I was only speaking of what might be."

This discussion had thoroughly diverted us, and made us forget to turn back for that last look we had promised ourselves. It was just as well, for such last looks are of no particular use.

We now began to see so many wonders, and these wonders increased upon us so fast as we drew near the city that we were silent from very amazement, and could only use our eyes. The crowded ways and marketplaces, the shops, the soldiers marching through the streets, the universal bustle of a seaport town—were enough to surprise and bewilder any country-bred person, much more two little cage-birds like ourselves, who had never in all our lives seen a dozen strange faces.

By the time we reached the lodging which the care of Captain Lowther had provided for us, we were thoroughly tired out, and ready to eat our supper and go to bed earlier even than we were used to do. We had both one chamber, with two little white and pink beds furnished with canopies. There was also a full-length mirror in our room, and various other luxuries. I dare say the place would look dingy enough to us now, but at that time it was quite a fairy palace.

"What a soft bed!" said I, as I lay down. "I don't know what Mother Prudentia would say to it."

"She would say we must not talk in bed, I suppose," replied Amabel. "What are they all doing at our old home?"

"They are at service in the church," said I, as a clock on the mantel-piece struck seven. "Does it not seem strange that we may sit up till nine o'clock if we choose."

"I could not I am sure, I am too sleepy," answered Amabel. "It seems as though I had lived a hundred years since morning. Good-night, Lucy."

The novelty of my position and the strange and to me alarming sounds in the street kept me awake for two hours—a very long time to lie awake at seventeen. I thought over all my past life, and wondered what the future would be like. I wasted a good deal of conjecture upon my probably position at Highbeck Hall—such was the name of the place where Amabel's aunt lived. I thought of the story of Mary Lowther which we had heard in the morning, and wondered—rather scared at myself for doing so—whether Protestants were after all such bad people, and whether bringing up motherless children, or even children of one's own, was not as high a vocation as building oneself up in a hole in the wall, and living in rags and dirt for twenty years.

Finally I wondered myself to sleep, and did not wake till Mrs. Thorpe called me in the morning. What a wonderful thing it was to have a mirror to dress by. I was positively bewildered by it at first, and found I could manage better in the old way.

We saw very little of Toulon. There was some disturbance in the town, owing, I believe, to the escape of some galley slaves, which made it unpleasant to be in the streets. I know there was a great marching to and fro of soldiers, and once or twice the firing of guns.

We went out once, however, under the escort of Captain Lowther, to buy some new clothes, and see some sights. We had new frocks alike of dark silk, which were quite superb in our eyes, and thick grey woolen frocks, and warm cloaks, which Mrs. Thorpe said we should need on the voyage, since it was always cold at sea.

On our return from this expedition, a great surprise befell us. We found Father Brousseau waiting for us, and learned that he was to go to England in the same ship with us. He informed us that a relative in the north of England had left him a small property, and beside that, he wished to visit the noble family where he had once been confessor, and perhaps he might remain with them.

He has since told me that his superiors that it as well for him to leave France for a time, since he had drawn upon himself the enmity of a noble and powerful family, who would have no scruple in revenging themselves even on a priest. It was known or guessed that he had been the means of discovering that plot for sacking the convent which had so nearly succeeded, and his life, it was said, had already been threatened by some of the Count de Crequi's family.

Those were terribly lawless times in France. The country was full of soldiers disbanded or deserted after the peace, ready to beg, rob, or murder, as might suit their purpose best, and prepared for any desperate undertaking which promised plunder. The great nobles oppressed their tenants and their weaker neighbors with impunity, and revelled in all sorts of luxury, while the same tenants ate boiled grass and nettles, or died of starvation at their gates. They say people are making an effort now to set things straight, but from all I hear, not much good is likely to come of it. Folks who have been crushed down to the level of brute beasts are pretty likely to act like wild beasts when once they get loose.

We sailed from Toulon in the first days of August, and arrived in Newcastle in about ten or twelve days. We had a stormy passage, and Amabel and I were very sick a great deal of the time, so that Mrs. Thorpe had her hands full with waiting on us. Father Brousseau was not much better than we, but he made a heroic effort to crawl upon deck every day that the captain would allow him to be there, and, so Mrs. Thorpe averred, gave wonderfully little trouble for a man.

How thankful we were to be once more upon dry land; even though that land was none of the most attractive. Everyone knows that Newcastle is the very centre of the great coal trade of the North. It seemed to us, as we landed on the wharf, and toiled up the narrow steep street to that part of the town where Mrs. Thorpe lived, that everything was begrimed with coal-dust. The very faces of the babies were darkened with it, and we seemed to breathe it in the air. The streets were narrow and the dingy houses were old and tumble-down—and seemed to hum with people, like a hive. I suppose Mrs. Thorpe read some dismay in our looks, for she said kindly—

"This is but a poor part of the town, young ladies; you will come to a better presently."

And in effect, we did come out on a wider and more quiet street, where there were a few handsome old houses, and several shops of the better sort, at the doors of which handsome equipages—carriages, or Sedan chairs, were standing. It was to one of the neatest of these houses, that Mrs. Thorpe directed our steps. I noticed at once, that the good-sized windows were clear and bright, the pavement in front well cleaned, and the two stone steps which led down into the shop were as white as hands could make them.

"Welcome to my poor house, young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, turning to us as we entered. "I hope I shall be able to make you comfortable, though I am not much used to entertaining ladies of quality. Well, Rebecca, and how do you do?"

"Right well, Clarissa, and glad to see thee back!" said a prim little old lady, who rose from her seat behind the counter, and welcomed Mrs. Thorpe with a joy which was more forcibly expressed in her beautiful grey eyes, than in her words.

We looked at her in some surprise; taking her in her grey dress, white kerchief and close cap, for a sister of some religious order.

"These are the two young ladies whom my brother has brought over from France," said Mrs. Thorpe, after she had shaken hands with her friend. "This is Mrs. Amabel Leighton, and this is Mrs. Lucy Corbet, her companion and kinswoman."

The good woman made some kind of salutation, and then began asking questions of Mrs. Thorpe, about her voyage, and answering others in her turn; while we stood patiently, almost forgetting our fatigue in observing the strange new place in which we found ourselves.

The shop was a large one for the place and time. It was exquisitely neat, and crammed full of goods—laces, ribbons, fans, china jars, and monsters of all kinds, and the air was quite heavy with the perfume of scented soaps, hair powder, and essences.

"But there, my dears, I won't keep you here, when I know you are tired to death. Come up stairs directly. Where is Betsy? How do you do, my lass?" As a stout neat looking servant-maid came in, wiping her hands and greeting her mistress in some language, which no doubt was intended for English, but which her Northumbrian burr, made absolutely unintelligible to me. "I suppose the young ladies' rooms are ready, Betsy!"

Betsy signified as much, and Mrs. Thorpe led the way up stairs, and herself introduced us to a little parlor very neatly and prettily furnished, decorated with some beautiful china, and with a great bow pot of flowers standing in the window. There were snow-white curtains to the deep windows, and a Turkey rug, old and faded, but still beautiful, on the centre of the floor. The furniture was heavy and black with age, but bright as rubbing could make it; and what most attracted my attention at the moment, a tall press full of books occupied a recess on one side of the fireplace.

From this pretty parlor opened two light closets, each of which held a little bed, a chair, and a dressing-table, with a small round mirror hung over it. The sitting-room window looked out on a small, but neatly kept garden, and through an opening between two great trees at the bottom, we could see the tower of a grand old church.

"This will be your room, my dears—young ladies, I should say—as long as you remain with me," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I bade Betsy get it ready, thinking you would like the view into the garden."

"It is a beautiful room!" said Amabel. "Dear Mrs. Thorpe, how kind you are to us. But you must not let us take up the best part of your house."

"Oh! I have plenty of room, never fear," answered Mrs. Thorpe smiling. "The house is a large one. I used to take lodgers, but I don't do it any more. My shop gives me enough to look to, and I have been wonderfully prospered and cared for. These books and most of the furniture of this room, belonged to my honored father; and were placed here for my sister Mary—the one I told you of—when she came to make her home with me. See! Here are your mails—and I dare say you will like to wash, and change your clothes. It is always the first thing I want to do when I come off the ship."

A stout serving-man, who looked as if he had never been hungry in his life, brought up our little trunks. Betsy, who had left the room for a minute, followed him with a great can of hot water, and a heap of clean towels; and Mrs. Thorpe left us to our toilets.

Mine was soon made, and as the window was open, I ventured to satisfy my curiosity, by leaning out. I made the discovery that our next door neighbors were very quiet ones. The house stood near a small grey-stone church, standing in a church-yard thickly sown with stones, and unmarked graves. On the other side, our garden was bounded by a high wall on which was trained a vine of some sort; over this, I could just see a bit of what looked like a grand mansion of brick and stone. I announced my discovery to Amabel, who came to look in her turn.

"Yes, it all seems quiet and nice," said she, "and the room is very pretty. I did not think there could be such a pretty place in this ugly town."

"It is dreadfully ugly, at least all we have seen of it," I admitted. "Perhaps it is not all so. You know Mrs. Thorpe said we came through a poor part of it. See what a pretty house that is beyond the church-yard, where the gentleman is just coming out. There, he is coming to the church. I wonder if he can be the priest."

"He does not look like one, though I am sure I don't know what an English priest does look like. But, Lucy, what would Mother Prudentia say to our staring out of window at a strange man?"

I drew back quickly enough, feeling, I don't know why, rather vexed at Amabel's words.

The gentleman in question was a tall, stout young man of thirty, or thereabouts, not at all handsome, but with something very attractive in his face. He was twirling a thick stick, and whistling to a rough little dog, which ran to and fro among the monuments.

Somehow I took a liking to that gentleman the moment I saw him. There was a kind of real manliness about him which made one feel that he was a person to be relied upon in case of danger or distress. I took another peep and saw that he was pulling up some weeds from a baby's grave.

"Well, my dears—I must learn to say young ladies, I suppose, now you are at home in England," said Mrs. Thorpe, knocking and entering at the same moment. "But, laws me, it does come so easy to me to mother all young girls for the sake of my own two—I suppose you are quite ready for your suppers. Will you join us at the table, or shall I send you something up here?"

"Oh, we will go to the table," answered Amabel; "and, dear Mrs. Thorpe, I am sure we shall be only too glad to be mothered, as you say. We are all ready, if you please."

"Please, Mrs. Thorpe, who is that lady below in the shop?" I ventured to ask as we descended the stairs. "Is she a sister?"

"No, she is not a sister, but a Friend," answered Mrs. Thorpe, smiling. "She is what people call a Quaker. Have you none in France?"

"I do not know," replied Amabel; "we know not much more about France than England."

"Ah! Yes, that is true. Well, the Friends are a people by themselves, and have their own ways and notions—very odd ones, too, some of them are. They never go to church, and have no sacraments, and no settled order of clergy, but they hold by the Bible, and are very good, honest kind of people. Some of their women, even, are ministers, like Rebecca Carter's sister. Rebecca is a good creature, and very faithful to me, but she has her ways, as who has not? You must not mind if she calls you by your plain, Christian names. That is a part of her religion."

At another time, I suppose all this would have surprised me very much, but the last two or three weeks had been so full of wonders that I was beginning to lose the power of being surprised at anything.

We followed Mrs. Thorpe into a kind of back-parlor, or better-most kitchen, I don't know just which to call it, where the table was set for several persons. Mrs. Thorpe placed Amabel and myself on either side of her, at the head of the table. She then rang a little hand bell, and two or three neat looking young women came in from another room, and took their places near the foot of the board. Mrs. Thorpe said grace, and Amabel and I crossed ourselves, as we had always been used to do. I saw one of the girls glance at another and smile contemptuously. Unluckily, Mrs. Thorpe saw it too.

"Betty Humble will leave the table," said she.

Betty colored furiously, and began to stammer some excuse, but Mrs. Thorpe made an imperative gesture, which sent Betty out of the room, bursting into tears as she shut the door behind her with more force than was quite needful. I felt sorry for the girl, though I had felt my cheeks burn the moment before, and I glanced at Amabel, rather hoping she would intercede for the banished Betty; but she said not a word, nor did anything in her face show that she was at all disturbed.

The supper was brought in by Betsy, the stout servant-maid, who waited at table more skillfully than I would have expected from her appearance. The meal was abundant, and nicely cooked, and, as it was the first meal I ever ate in England, I remember it well. We had a fine pair of roasted fowls, boiled potatoes, light as meal (the very first, by the way, that I had ever seen, for they have never been very commonly used in France, and at that time were not known in our parts). Also, we had a great bowl of frumenty, or wheat boiled with milk, and a mountain of a brown loaf.

I thought of our dear mothers and sisters in France, sitting down to their meal of coarse bread and milk, and not too much of that, and it gave me almost a guilty feeling. It seemed as if I had no right to the savory wing of fowl that Mrs. Thorpe put upon my plate, and the tears rose to my eyes in spite of me. Mrs. Thorpe noticed the change in my countenance, as, indeed, she always saw everything.

"What is it, my dear? Anything wrong?"

"No, madame," I answered, making a great effort to compose myself. And then, feeling that I owed her an explanation, I added in French, and in a low tone:

"I was thinking of the mothers and sisters at St. Jean, and wishing they had my supper."

"Bless your kind heart, Mrs. Lucy, I wish they had!" answered the good woman. "I am sure they should be heartily welcome to the best my house could afford, if they were only here, or I could send it to them. But do not let the thought spoil your supper, my dear. If those who give to the poor lend to the Lord, the good ladies have a fine estate out at interest into which they will come some day. Anne Thwaites, don't let me see you bend over to your meat in that way—you will be growing as crooked as a rams-horn before you are forty."

Anne, a delicate looking girl, pulled herself up, blushing and smiling at the same time. So the meal proceeded with a little conversation, and now and then a remark addressed to the apprentice lasses, for so I found them to be.

After all was cleared away, the servants—Betsy, the man who had brought up our trunks, and an elderly woman, whom Mrs. Thorpe addressed as Mrs. Crump, came in and took their seats. A large Bible and prayer-book were laid before Mrs. Thorpe; she read a chapter, and then a prayer in a reverent devout manner, all joining in the Lord's prayer at the end. If she had asked us to be present, I suppose we should have refused; but either because she thought it the more discreet way, or from sheer forgetfulness, she never said a word about it, but took our attendance for granted.

The chapter was the beautiful story of the Shunamite, and that was the first word I ever heard out of the Old Testament, except indeed the Psalms, most of which I knew by heart. I observed that Rebecca Carter did not come in to family prayers, but remained in the shop, where also she had her supper. I concluded that this was one of the "ways" that Mrs. Thorpe had told us of.

It was August, and the days were growing shorter, but the evening was warm and dry, and Mrs. Thorpe invited us to go out into her garden.

"It is but a small place compared to that you have been used to!" said she. "But yet it is not so bad for a town garden, and the church-yard being next, gives us plenty of fresh air."

"I think it is a lovely garden!" said Amabel with great enthusiasm, and indeed it was.

Every nook and corner was improved to some good purpose, either filled with such hardy flowers as flourished so far north, or with sweet herbs or berry bushes. The sunny wall had an apricot trained upon it, and there were two grand standard pear trees, and a low bushy apple tree, all three laden with fruit. There was also a pretty arbor, covered with a great Virginia vine, just beginning to turn red.

"My husband brought that vine from over-seas in America, himself," observed Mrs. Thorpe, "as well as that tree you see yonder, in the church-yard; the tree has beautiful flowers upon it. My sister's grave, and that of our two daughters are just under it."

"Were your daughters grown up, madame?" I ventured to ask.

"They were just about your age. They were both taken in one week's time of a fever, which was in the town."

"That was very sad!" said I.

"Yes, my dear, very sad. I hardly knew how to bear it at first, and I do not know but I should have sunk under the blow, only that many of our neighbors were ill, and needed my help. Would you believe it, my dears? In that very house next door, the mother was taken down, and her own sons and daughters would not go near her, but left her wholly to the care of a wretch, who drank the wine given for her patient, and then ran away and left her. I went in to see her, and by good hap, was in time to save her from sinking at the crisis of the fever."

"'My good Mrs. Thorpe, it is very kind of you to look after Mama!' said one of the daughters, in her fine lady lisp and drawl; 'but I suppose it is natural to you to like to take care of the sick.'"

"'Madam!' says I. 'I hope it will never be natural to me to desert those who need my help, whether they be strangers, or my own flesh and blood,' says I."

"Oh! I gave them a bit of my mind, I promise you; they were greatly offended and would not come into my shop for a long time; but I let them alone and they got over it."

"Do they live there now?" I asked, much interested.

"Oh, no! They are all gone. One daughter married, and died of the smallpox. The other wedded a fine London gentleman, who soon gambled away all her property, and left her in great poverty and distress, poor thing. She lives in a little cottage over in Gateshead, on what she can make from the rent of this house; which is not much, for it is in bad repair, yet a fine old mansion too, and I will show you over it some day. See! Here are some monthly roses—a bud for each of you."

"Have you not a bud for me also?" asked a cheery voice, from over the stone wall next the church-yard.

We all turned round, and there stood the tall gentleman we had seen before. He was leaning on the wall, and lifted his hat politely.

"Ah! Mr. Cheriton, I did not know your Reverence was in town!" answered Mrs. Thorpe, curtsying low. "I fear there are no more rose-buds, but here is a clove pink if you will have it."

"And when did you come home from foreign parts?" asked Mr. Cheriton, accepting the pink with a bow, and putting it in his button-hole.

"Only to-day, your Reverence. This is Mrs. Amabel Leighton, and her kinswoman, Mrs. Lucy Corbet, who have come home, and are staying with me, till they can go to their aunts at Highbeck house."

"That is not likely to be very soon, I fear, unless both of these young ladies have had smallpox!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I have just come home from my father's, and went over to pay my respects to the old ladies, who made me the bearer of dispatches to yourself."

Mr. Cheriton bowed to us severally as he spoke, and then produced a letter bound with a bit of floss silk, which he gave to Mrs. Thorpe. Then bowing again, and whistling to his dog, he departed. Mrs. Thorpe led us into her own parlor behind the shop, where we waited in some anxiety, while she read the note the gentleman had handed her.

"Here is a change of affairs with a witness!" said she, when she had succeeded in making out its contents. "My dear young ladies, can you content yourselves to live with me for a few weeks? Your aunt writes that they have two cases of smallpox in the house, and that they are every day expecting Mrs. Chloe, the youngest lady, to come down with the same, and that she would prefer to have you remain with me till the danger is over. I think you told me you had never had the smallpox."

"Not unless we were very young at the time," we told her.

"Ah, then we will run no risks. But can you content yourselves with living quietly in my plain way for a little, or would you rather go to my sister's school, where you can have companions of your own age?"

We assured her that we would rather stay with her than go anywhere else, and, indeed, I think we both felt it to be a reprieve. We had grown to love Mrs. Thorpe, and to feel confidence in her, and the notion of strange companions of our own age was rather alarming than attractive. So the matter was settled. We would make it our home for the present, with good Mrs. Thorpe, who would on the morrow send word to that effect to our aunts at Highbeck Hall.

"Amabel," said I, when we were once more alone in our own pretty room, "do you think we did wrong to be present at Protestant worship? Ought we to have come away?"

"No, I don't think so," answered Amabel, after a little consideration. "We could not help it, and there was nothing contrary to religion in the prayers."

"But there was no Hail Mary! Or any other devotion to the mother of God."

"That is true. I believe Protestants do not honor her as we do. But, Lucy, you know how we used to read the 'Imitation of Christ' over and over. Mother Superior always had it by her when she was ill, and there is not a word in that about the mother of God, any more than in Mrs. Thorpe's prayer."

"That is true enough; I never thought of it before," I answered. Then—changing the subject—"Are you glad, or sorry, that we are not to go to Highbeck Hall directly?"

"Glad, on the whole," answered Amabel. "It will give us a little time to rest, and get used to English ways. Come, let us say our prayers, and get ready for night. Those little white beds look so nice after the berths on board ship."

They did, indeed, but I had one question more.

"Amabel, what do you think of Mr. Cheriton?"

"I don't think of him at all;—why should I?" answered Amabel, a little shortly. "Come, let us go to bed."

And so ended our first day in England; but I think Amabel did think a little bit about the tall young rector after all.

CHAPTER IX.

LADY THROCKMORTON.

THE next day Father Brousseau came to see us. We had been so hurried and flurried at the time of our landing the day before, that we had hardly exchanged a dozen words, and now he came to bid us farewell before going to his friends in the country.

They had sent some one to meet him—a gentleman-in-waiting of some kind, and a very solemn and dignified person indeed, who accompanied him to our house. He had furnished the good priest with a suit of raiment, such as is worn by ordinary English clergymen, not wishing, I suppose, to have him attract notice as a foreigner.

There were at the time considerable disturbances in the country. A French war was impending, and an apprehended rising of the Jacobites, or adherents to the house of Stuart, which really took place the next year, had awakened the "no popery" feeling, always prevailing more or less in the lower and middle classes. I must say he had not succeeded very well in disguising him, for Father Brousseau looked, if possible, more priestly than ever.

He was to leave town that very day, and it was easy to see that the serving-man was anxious to get him away. Indeed, he made his impatience so manifest, that our leave-taking was rather a hurried one. The father gave us some advice as to our conduct, enjoined it upon us to read no heretical books, and attend no heretical services, to say our prayers and keep at home, and to be guided by Mrs. Thorpe in all things not belonging to our religion. He gave us each a little picture, and his blessing, and bade us farewell. I did not see him for many a year afterward, when times were greatly changed for both of us.

It must be confessed that for a few days, we lived rather an idle and unprofitable life at Mrs. Thorpe's. The good woman herself was naturally very busy after her long absence, and she left us much to ourselves. We had never been used to the ordering of our own time any more since we were grown up, than when we were three years old.

In the convent every hour brought its own occupation, in the same regular routine, day after day, and year after year, and we never thought of anything else. We had never been trained to think or decide for ourselves in the smallest matter. "A good religious has no will of her own, and no more thinks of guiding herself than does the needle she sews with," was a favorite saying of Mother Superior's, and we had been brought up on the same principle. A man who has never learned to walk alone, will, if left to himself, stumble just as much at fifty as at three, and will probably hurt himself a good deal more. It is therefore no wonder that being, as it were, thus suddenly put on our own feet, and bade to go, we did not know very well how to set about it.

Mrs. Thorpe, as I have said, had provided us with a parlor of our own, but we liked better to sit in her room which opened from the shop, and watch the many customers—the fine ladies who came for essences, laces, and fans, and the hundred and one nothings in which Mrs. Thorpe dealt—to cheapen china jars and dragons, and go into ecstasies over tiny tea-cups and French painted fans—and the still finer gentlemen who came to see the fine ladies, look over the last novel—for Mrs. Thorpe added that of a circulating library to her other business—and discuss the latest bit of news and scandal.

Mrs. Thorpe usually found or made time to take a walk with us every day, and when she could not go herself, she sent Mrs. Crump, her housekeeper, a most respectable woman, whom we particularly liked, because she had come from Cornwall, and could tell about the place where our mothers had grown up.

In the house I am afraid, we dawdled sadly. We found ourselves for the first time among books. Mrs. Thorpe, as I have said, kept a circulating library, but she by no means made us free of its contents. However, she picked out for us Mr. Thomson's Poems and Dr. Young's, and the then new romance of "Sir Charles Grandison" in its seven closely-printed little volumes, (the good Richardson had made fourteen in the first place) and allowed us to amuse ourselves with these. *

* This is an anachronism. "Sir Charles Grandison" was published in 1751.

To say that we read these books was nothing. We devoured them, read them aloud to each other, and talked about them from morning till night. Books of any sort other than "Lives of the Saints" and "Meditations" were such a wonder to us that it is not strange our heads were a little turned with them. I think Amabel and I had our first difference of opinion over the amiable Clementine, whom she admired for her wonderful spirit of self-sacrifice and piety, and whom I thought a sentimental little fool—(I have never changed my mind)—and she was downright vexed with me, when I laughed outright at the pathetic image of Sir Charles and Clementine on their knees to each other, and the faithful Camilla presenting a smelling-bottle alternately to each of their noses. We were actually rather cool to each other for a whole day, but made up our quarrel at night over Mr. Thomson's description of a thunder shower.

I have said that Mrs. Thorpe's shop was a resort for all the fine folks in town. It was not long before we began to be observed as we sat in the back-parlor, which was divided from the shop by a screen. In this parlor were kept some special boxes of lace too precious to be trusted to the outer shop, and hither also came the fine ladies to try on the "heads," ruffs, and so on, which they were minded to purchase.

At this distance of time, I may say without vanity, that I was an unusually pretty girl, though not so handsome as Amabel. She was and is one of the most beautiful women I ever saw in my life. I had a dark clear skin, with a fresh color, and the crisped or waved black hair so common in Cornwall. Amabel, on the contrary, was fair and delicate as a lily, with dark clear grey eyes, and a wonderful profusion of straight golden hair, a little inclining to redness. Her features were regular, and she had always a calm placid look, a little wondering, as it were, as though her spirit had not got over its surprise at the strange sphere wherein it found itself.

Ladies began to notice us, and gentlemen to pass and re-pass the door of the parlor, and put up their eye-glasses to stare at us. All this made Mrs. Thorpe a little uneasy, and she used now and then to make a pretext to send us out of the room.

One day, a grand equipage stopped at the door, with a great clatter of horse-hoofs. A lackey in a fine livery jumped down and opened the door, and a gentleman who was in the shop rushed forward to give his hand to a very fine lady indeed, who descended from the vehicle. She wore an immense hoop, at least eight yards in circumference, a sacque and petticoat of contrasting colors. Her hair was cut and curled close round her well-rouged and patched face, and she wore a very small chip hat cocked up at one side, and trimmed with very rich, white and silver ribbons. These same white ribbons had a significance which, at the time, I did not understand. The lady was followed by her gentlewoman in waiting, an impudent looking piece, nearly as fine as her mistress, who carried a horrid little lap-dog in her arms.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the gentleman, laying his hand on his heart with a theatrical air. "Do my eyes deceive me, or does the adorable Lady Throckmorton deign once more to bestow on our barbarous town the light of her presence? I had thought nothing would bring you from the Baths at this time of the year."

"And nothing would but dire necessity, I assure you, Captain Lovelace," answered the lady. "But Sir John's mother, who is much in years and very frail, desired to see her son, and Sir John would not travel without me—indeed he is not very fit to do so—so as I could not deprive the poor lady of what might be the last sight of her son, I was obliged to quit all the dear delights of the Baths."

"Angelic goodness!" said Captain Lovelace.

"Nay, 'twas no such great matter. We shall all come to age and infirmity some day. My lady has been a good mother to her son, and would have been to me if I had but let her."

The lady spoke these last words with a tone expressive of some emotion. I even thought there were tears in her beautiful eyes. If so, she soon dispersed them, and, as if she were ashamed of her late seriousness, she began to chatter the most arrant nonsense to Captain Lovelace and her dog, alternately,—treating the one with about as much respect as the other, I thought, while she turned over the caps and aprons Mrs. Thorpe showed her, calling one horrible—absolutely hideous and revolting—and another ravishing, angelic! Perfectly divine!

"I must positively try this on, my good Thorpe; it is just my style. Has any one else seen it?"

"Nobody, my lady. I have but this morning unpacked it, and I brought it from France only a few days ago. If your ladyship will step into the parlor."

Amabel and I were sitting in the parlor—Amabel reading and I busy with some pretence of needlework. We usually retired on such occasions, but I had a mind to see a little more of this very fine lady, and I am ashamed to say I purposely upset my work-basket, and set the spools rolling all about the floor. The two grey kittens instantly pounced upon them, and, while I was rescuing my materials, Lady Throckmorton entered the room. She stood as if transfixed for a moment.

"Whom have we here? A ghost from the other world!" she exclaimed. "Mrs. Thorpe, where have you found this living image of poor little Lady Leighton?"

"This is the daughter of Sir Julius Leighton, my lady," answered Mrs. Thorpe, presenting us; "and this is her cousin and foster-sister. I brought the young gentlewomen from France but a few days since, and they are staying here under my care till the smallpox shall be over at Highbeck Hall."

"Yes, I heard Mrs. Chloe was in a way to have her youthful beauty spoiled," said Captain Lovelace.

"For shame! You spiteful creature!" said the lady, giving him a blow with her closed fan. "Mrs. Chloe is my particular friend. And so are Lady Leighton's daughter, as well as her living image," she added, turning to Amabel, and speaking in quite a different tone. "I knew your mother well, my child. You and my Alice were born on the same day, but she was but a frail creature, fading in her earliest bloom."

Again a softer look came into her eyes. I never saw such eyes as hers. They were of a sapphire-blue, very bright and clear, with a sort of hardness and sharpness in them, and flashing with a fierce and baleful luster when she was offended. She was indeed a most curious mixture of good and evil, as I came to know afterward, but the evil predominated, being let to have its way unchecked, and she perished miserably at last, poor thing!

"Mrs. Thorpe never made a more beautiful or valuable importation, I am sure," said Captain Lovelace, bowing to us both, though he had not been included in—indeed, had been rather pointedly left out of—the presentation.

Lady Throckmorton's eyes flashed for a moment.

"Your presence in this room is not required, Captain Lovelace," said she in a stately fashion; then, as the gentleman retired, with an extravagant gesture of humility and despair, "You must not listen to such gallants, my loves," she added, in a lighter tone.

"I do not, madam," answered Amabel quietly.

"A dignified young lady, upon my word. And who is this?" Turning to me. "She reminds me of some one, I cannot tell who."

Mrs. Thorpe explained who I was, and her ladyship was pleased to say she remembered my mother quite well.

"She came from Cornwall with Lady Leighton, and they were quite inseparable, I remember," said she. "Your mother afterward married a gentleman who had a small estate in the neighborhood, and was killed by a fall from his horse. Yes, yes; I remember. My good Thorpe, you must take care of these visitors of yours."

"I hope to do so, my lady," answered Mrs. Thorpe, not without emphasis, as I thought.

"And have you seen anything of the town yet, my rose-buds?" asked the lady, turning to us. "I suppose not. Come, get your hoods, and I will take you for an airing. No, on second thought, I cannot either, for I promised my old lady to return in time for her afternoon drive. I shall have my own horses another day, and then I will call for you. Meantime, Mrs. Thorpe must let me present you each with one of these fine aprons."

So saying, she selected from the stock before her two lawn aprons with more puffs, ruffles, and lace than there was of the original stuff, and bestowing one upon each of us, she sailed out to her carriage, attended by Captain Lovelace, and followed by her maid and dog. This was our first sight of that famous beauty and wit, Lady Throckmorton of Newcastle. It would have saved us a good deal had it been the last.

"There goes a fine woman spoiled," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I was glad she was obliged to go, I did not like to have you go out with her, and I did not exactly know how to refuse."

"But why do you call her spoiled?" I asked. "I am sure she is very generous in giving us these beautiful aprons."

"'Tis not hard to be generous when some one else pays the bills," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "However, we will not judge the poor thing. Her notice was at least kindly meant. Perhaps if her children had lived she would have been different. But, my young ladies, though I do not like to deprive you of a pleasure, I fear I must banish you forth of this parlor during business hours. 'Tis too public a place for ladies of quality, and I have no mind to have you brought under the notice of Captain Lovelace and others of his stamp, of whom we have at present only too many in the town. So, my dears, you will amuse yourselves as well as you can in your own room."

We had now no choice but to withdraw, and were soon seated in our own pretty parlor.

"So it seems we are to be imprisoned in this dull room for the future!" said I, pettishly enough. "One might as well be in the convent again, as shut up in this poky place."

"You did not think it poky at first!" said Amabel. "And I think, Lucy, Mrs. Thorpe is right about our sitting in the shop. I am sure Mother Prudentia would say the same, if she were here."

"Mother Prudentia is not our governor now," I replied.

"No! But Mrs. Thorpe is, now that our relations have put us under her care. I must say, I don't care to see that Captain Lovelace again; I thought him very rude," answered Amabel with a flash of her eye, such as I had hardly ever seen before.

"You did not think Mr. Cheriton rude, when he gave you those flowers over the wall this morning!" said I.

"That was very different!" answered Amabel. "I am sure, Lucy, you can't compare Mr. Cheriton's manners with those of Captain Lovelace. Mrs. Thorpe herself was by and saw no harm. But I don't think it is very nice to be talking about young men in this way."

"One may as well talk of them as think of them, I suppose!" I answered, rather flippantly.

Amabel made me no answer, but withdrawing into a corner, she laid aside Mr. Thomson's poems, and, betook herself to her book of "Hours," which had been rather neglected of late. I took up my work, and we sat in silence, till called to dinner.

A few days afterwards, we were walking with Mrs. Crump. We had been to carry a basket of food some pensioner of Mrs. Thorpe's, and were pacing along rather soberly, thinking of the sad scene we had just witnessed, when we heard our names called.

We looked and saw Lady Throckmorton, leaning out of her carriage. She was more dressed than ever, with splendid jewels in her ears, and on her neck. Of course we stopped to curtsy, and were passing on, when she beckoned us again; the coachman at the same time drawing up to the side of the street.

"So I have caught you, my doves!" said she. "I must positively take you for an airing, and carry you home to have some tea with me. Nay, I will take no refusal. This good woman will make your excuses to Mrs. Thorpe, if any are needed."

Mrs. Crump was a very quiet woman, who dressed in the plainest way, and rarely said a needless word. She did not, however, seem at all dashed at the presence of the great lady, but answered her, even with dignity.

"So, please you madam, I think the young ladies had better see Mrs. Thorpe themselves, before going any where else."

"Woman, you forget yourself!" said Lady Throckmorton, with that angry flash of the eye, that I had observed before. "I would have your mistress know, that Lady Throckmorton's notice is an honor to any young lady. Come girls—my black haired beauty, I am sure, is not afraid of the old shopkeeper. Come, I cannot keep the horses standing."

I think Amabel would have refused, but that she saw me determined to accept Lady Throckmorton's invitation, and she would not let me go by myself. So we got into the carriage and drove away, leaving Mrs. Crump standing on the pavement.

"Insolent old creature!" said Lady Throckmorton. "But there, never mind her. Tell me about yourselves, and your life—where were you educated?"

"In France," we told her.

"Ah! That is how you come to carry yourselves so well; and what have you learned?"

I gave her as good an account as I could of our acquirements.

"Why! You are real paragons—I must have you with me, while I am here—I positively must, indeed—nothing takes like a new face, and your conventual simplicity is truly charming. It will never do for you to be buried at Highbeck Hall, with those old frights, each more absurd than the other. I must write to your father, Miss Amabel Leighton."

This was the first time I ever heard the title of Miss, which was just then coming into fashion.

"The ladies you speak of are my aunts, madame," said Amabel, with some dignity.

"That does not hinder their being old frights, child. Oh! You must not mind me, I say I think of every one. Well, here we are at home. I must introduce you to my poor old Sir John; he is not so old either, but a sad invalid, poor man."

We had driven into a paved court, and now alighted at the door of the handsomest mansion I had yet seen.

Lady Throckmorton led us through a grand hall, up a fine oak staircase, which reminded me of the great staircase at St. Jean, and into her own dressing-room; which was a rather small apartment, so crowded with all kinds of nick-nacks, that it was hard to move without knocking down a china mandarin, or a shepherdess, or upsetting a potpourri. The air was heavily laden with scents, as that of Mrs. Thorpe's shop. The windows were hung with rich draperies, and another curtain was looped over a door, which opened into a richly furnished bed-chamber. One of the most noticeable things in the room, was a finely painted portrait of a gentleman, surrounded by a wreath of white roses, so beautifully made, that at first I thought them real, and wondered where they came from.

"This is my den," said Lady Throckmorton. "I told Sir John I positively could not stay in this horrible old pile of bricks unless he would allow me to fit up two or three rooms to suit my own taste. He is a good-natured creature, and so, though he worships his hideous old chairs and tables as if they were veritable household gods, he gave me leave to do what I liked with these rooms, and a withdrawing-room down stairs. What do you think of the general effect, eh?"

She evidently expected us to be quite dazzled with all her splendor, and I indeed was so, though all the time I was conscious of a certain something which pained the eye. Amabel answered that we had seen so little of such things, that we were hardly good judges. My lady was evidently a little nettled by her coolness, and began to display one fine bit of china and gilding after another, till the entrance of her waiting-woman interrupted the lecture.

"Tea is ready, my lady," said the Abigail, as it was then the fashion to call these personages, "and Captain Lovelace and some other gentlemen are in the drawing-room."

"Dear me, I had no notion it was so late. You have been so entertaining, girls, that you have lent new wings to time."

N. B.—We had hardly said ten words between us, but I have observed that people are usually better entertained with their own conversation than that of any one else.

"See, Wilson, can you make these girls presentable at short notice? I wish to take them out with me this evening."

Mrs. Wilson looked critically at us, and began to suggest various additions to our simple toilets.

"No, on second thoughts, you may let them alone, only select one of my lace aprons and a necklace apiece for them. Those black velvet bands with the pearls sewed on will do. No, let the hair alone, 'tis well enough as it is. Those gipsy hats are very becoming, only they should be trimmed with white. Don't wear red ribbons, girls, whatever you do, but blue may pass well enough. There, that will answer, Wilson."

All this time, Mrs. Wilson had been pinning on the aprons, tying on the necklaces, and otherwise decorating us, till I felt as if I was a doll being dressed for Mrs. Thorpe's show window. I glanced at Amabel. She looked more uncomfortable than I had often seen her. There was not much time to notice looks, for my lady beckoned us to follow her, and we did so, passing down stairs into a small drawing-room, where was a table set out with a tea equipage in silver, and any number of odd little china cups.

There were two or three gentlemen in the room, and a thin middle-aged lady very plainly dressed, and with a good serene face, which attracted me at once. In one corner, with a table to himself, sat a thin elderly man, evidently an invalid, to whom we were presented as Sir John Throckmorton. The poor man's face brightened as he heard Amabel's name.

"And so you are Sir Julius Leighton's daughter," said he kindly. "Your father was an honest, worthy gentleman, and we have had many a day's sport together when we were young. I suppose he is still in London. Will he be coming north before long?"

"I do not know, Sir John," answered Amabel. "We have not heard from him since we landed in England."

"He will come north at the right time, I dare say," said Lady Throckmorton. "Come, Sir John, I cannot have you monopolizing our young ladies. We shall have cutting of throats presently."

She then gave us seats on each side of herself, and presented the gentlemen as they came up. I remember none of them except Captain Lovelace, who had the impudence to claim a previous acquaintance, and Mr. Cheriton, who came in just as the ceremony was concluded. He looked surprised, and, as it seemed to me, not very well-pleased, at finding us in such company.

I noticed in a moment that, while all the other gentlemen wore white rose-buds in their button-holes, he wore a red clove pink which Amabel had given him that very morning. I think Amabel saw it too, for she blushed and looked confused.

Lady Throckmorton's keen eyes flashed from one face to the other as if she suspected something.

"So you know my young visitors already, Mr. Cheriton," said she. "How is that?"

"We are neighbors, you know," answered Mr. Cheriton easily, "and as their parish priest and spiritual guide, it was my duty to make acquaintance with them."

I must say I was not pleased with the tone in which he spoke—as if his sacred profession were a thing to be joked about.

"And you ventured to come hither with a red flower in your button-hole!" continued the lady in the same bantering tone, which yet seemed to have a meaning in it.

"Red is my favorite color," answered Mr. Cheriton.

"I have heard it was a thrifty color—no doubt that recommends it," said one of the company with an undisguised sneer.

"You are right my lord, it is a thrifty color, and does not change, easily," answered Mr. Cheriton, dryly enough. "I have known many white roses turn red, but I don't know that I have ever seen a red one turn white."

"Let the white ones become the fashionable color and the red will turn fast enough," retorted the other angrily.

"Possibly, but that fashion has not yet been set."

"Come, come, I will have no sparring," said Lady Throckmorton imperatively. "Captain Lovelace, do you not see that Miss Bunnell has her tea all ready to dispense? What are you thinking of? Give them plenty of sugar, my good Bunnell, and sweeten their tempers."

On this hint the gentlemen bestirred themselves, and handed us little cups of tea with sponge cakes and other things of that kind. I had not yet learned to like tea, which I had never seen till I came to England, and Lady Throckmorton seeing that I did not drink mine, bade Mr. Cheriton exchange it for a cup of chocolate. My lady herself waited upon her husband, carrying him his chocolate and other refreshments, and spending some minutes in arranging them to his liking.

"How devoted Lady Throckmorton is to her husband! Is it not a pretty exhibition?" said Captain Lovelace in my ear, as he stood just behind me. "She is always so—at least when there is any one to see her. He has all his personal property in his own power, and she has no settlements to speak of; but of course that has nothing to do with the matter."

I knew nothing of settlements or personal property at that time, but I understood the implied detraction, and felt indignant at it. I had begun to feel very uncomfortable by that time, as if I had of my own accord walked into a net out of which I did not see my way. Presently Lady Throckmorton came back to her seat, and began asking the news of the day.

"They say the Methodists are coming hither again," said Captain Lovelace. "If so, we shall have some sport. You ought to have seen how we served them at Leeds when I was there. There was a bull-baiting in the town, and we drove the bull right in among them, as they stood with open mouths and ears, around their prophet. There was a fine scattering at first, I promise you. But if you will believe it, when the beast got into the crowd, he stood stock still by the side of Mr. Wesley himself, as quiet as he had been a tame dog." *

* This incident, or one nearly similar, happened at Pensford, March, 1742.

I saw Mrs. Bunnell smile at this, as with a kind of triumph, at which I wondered, for it seemed to me a mean and dastardly action.

"I have taken a shorter way than that," said Lord Bulmer. "I took up a local preacher, and another fellow of that sort who had the impudence to come praying and exhorting among my tenants, and sent them for soldiers on the spot. I told them I would soon stop their prayers, and one of them, if you will believe me, had the impudence to answer me: 'You cannot do that, my lord, unless you can stop the path to heaven.' Why, one of those rascals had the impudence to tell Dr. Borlase himself that he knew his sins were forgiven."

Again I saw the smile pass over Mrs. Bunnell's face.

"These Methodists seem to me to be a harmless sort of folks enough—mere visionary enthusiasts," said Mr. Cheriton, helping himself to a piece of plum cake as he spoke.

"They are traitors—rascals who turn the world upside down—Jesuits in disguise, if the truth was known," said Captain Lovelace.

"That, of course, would be enough to condemn them in your eyes," said Mr. Cheriton, carelessly, "your aversion to Jesuits, and those who are governed by them, being so well-known."

Again I saw by the expression of the faces around me, that the words had some hidden meaning.

"Well, well, we shall know how to serve them if they come here," said Lord Bulmer.

"They have been here already—do you not know it?" said Lady Throckmorton. "I myself heard a part of one of Mr. Wesley's sermons, and thought him very eloquent. And my good friend Bunnell here, was altogether won over by him, so that she thinks it a sin to wear so much as a feather or a necklace."

"Is that true, Mrs. Bunnell? Nay, I cannot have that," said Mr. Cheriton, turning to the lady, who had sat quietly behind her mistress. "I look upon you as one of the pillars of my church."

"Mr. Wesley withdraws no one from church," answered Mrs. Bunnell, in her clear, even tones. "On the contrary, it has been objected to him that he makes trouble for the clergy and sextons by bringing so many to the sacrament." *

* See Charles Wesley's "Journal."

"I could bear a little trouble of that kind, methinks," said the rector; "but surely, Mrs. Bunnell, you do not justify such presumption as a common man saying that he knows his sins are forgiven?"

"The paralytic was but a common man to whom One said, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee!'" answered Mrs. Bunnell. "And why should you read the absolution in church if no one is to believe himself absolved?"

"Come, come, Bunnell, we want no conventicles here. You and Mr. Cheriton must settle your disputes elsewhere than at my tea-table."

"Nay, madam, she did but answer my question," said Mr. Cheriton, good-naturedly.

"Then you need not have asked such a question," returned the lady sharply. "I hate people who are always dragging religion in by the head and shoulders, reminding one of everything dismal that one wishes to forget. Commend me to a preacher like yourself, Mr. Cheriton, who gives us good moral discourses that don't make one uncomfortable. I hate the Methodists, with their rant and pretence of spirituality, and what not, and I hope if the preachers come here again, they will get a warm reception. Gentlemen, if you have finished your tea, we ask to be excused, as I propose to take my young friends to the theatre this evening."

The gentlemen took their leave on this hint, and Mrs. Bunnell also withdrew. Sir John's man came and carried him off, and we were left alone with my lady.

"Bunnell is a good creature, and devoted to me," said her ladyship, when we were by ourselves, "but I think I shall have to let her go if she keeps on with her high-flown notions. I told her the other day that she might be content to let Mr. Cheriton think for her in such matters; and what do you suppose she answered me? Why, that as Mr. Cheriton could not be saved or lost for her, she must needs think for herself. But come, it is time we were going. See, here is a fan apiece for you," pulling out a handful from a box; "take your choice."

"But, madam, I think we should be going home," said Amabel. "It is growing dark."

"Nonsense, child! You are going to the play with me, and then I will set you down at home, or bring you back here, if it is too late. Nay, not a word," with an imperative gesture, as Amabel would have spoken. "You are in my hands, and must do as you are bid."

She left the room for a few moments, and Amabel turned to me.

"What shall we do?" said she. "Oh, how I wish we had never come."

"It was all my fault," I answered: "but I don't see how to help it now; we cannot find our way home alone, through this great town, especially as it is growing dark. If Mrs. Thorpe wanted us, she would send for us."

"True!" said Amabel. "She knows where we are, and could send Timothy for us."

She had done so, we found afterwards, but we were not told of it.

"We must do as my lady bids us, till we can get away; but Lucy! I do not like her, nor this place."

"Nor I!" I answered. "I feel as if we had got into the hands of the fairy Melusene, that Mother Prudentia told us of. I have not seen one person who seemed real to me, except that nice Mrs. Bunnell—and Mr. Cheriton."

My lady returned at this moment, so we had no chance for any further conversation. We went with her to the play; I don't remember what it was, and indeed, there was such a buzz of conversation, and the lights and music so bewildered me, and gave me such a headache, that I had much ado not to burst out crying. I was thankful enough when the evening concluded.

Captain Lovelace had been in the box all the evening, and had full possession of her ladyship's ear and attention. I fancy from words that I caught, that there was some political intelligence going among them. I saw that many of the ladies wore white ribbons, and other red; while a few seemed to have tried to make a compromise between the two.

"What ails you, child?" said my lady somewhat sharply, as the play being at last concluded, she had time to notice me. "You are as white as a ghost."

"Lucy has a bad headache, madame!" said Amabel, seeing that I was trying in vain to speak.

"A headache! Oh that is nothing—and yet it might be the beginning of an illness too!" added her ladyship. "Where had you been when I met you this afternoon?"

"To visit a poor sick woman, madame."

"A poor sick woman—very likely she had smallpox or something, and here you have been sitting with me all this time!" exclaimed her ladyship: "Who knows what I may have caught."

"The poor woman had nothing infectious," Amabel began, but Lady Throckmorton cut her short—

"There! Don't talk to me child—Williams, take these young ladies to Mrs. Thorpe's, and come back for me as quickly as you can; and mind you open all the glasses of the carriage. There! Good-night."

I hardly know how Williams made a passage for us through the crowd, but he did somehow, and we were quickly carried to Mrs. Thorpe's door, which indeed, was not far off. The good woman was up, and opened to us before the lackey had time to knock. She received us in absolute silence, and led the way to our room, where she lighted our candles, and turning round she addressed us with emphasis.

"Young ladies, I excuse you this time, seeing that you were, so to speak, taken at unawares; but this a thing that must never happen again; your aunts, who have known me for many years, have seen fit to place you under my care, and to me, you must be accountable, as much so, as the youngest apprentice I have. I would not have a young maiden in my house on any other terms—no! Not if she were the Queen's own daughter. You know my conditions now, and I expect you to abide by them."

She bade us a short good-night, and was turning away, when Amabel made bold to ask her for some drops for my head. She was all sympathy directly, helped me to undress, and brought me I knew not what of smelling-salts and Hungary water.

The kindness set me off into the fit of hysterical crying, which had been impending all the evening. Mrs. Thorpe dosed me with sal volatile, and sat by me till I fell asleep, to be tormented half the night with horrible dreams, in which I was alternately a fly, a mouse, and a persecuted Methodist; and Lady Throckmorton a spider, a fly, and a mad bull, intent on sending me for a soldier.

CHAPTER X.

MRS. DEBORAH.

THE next morning, I waked feeling weary and weak enough. Amabel was already up, and I saw her seated near the window with her work. I lay a little while thinking over what had happened, feeling both ashamed of myself, and vexed at Mrs. Thorpe. What right had she, a tradeswoman, to set up to dictate to, and order a gentleman's daughter? And yet, at the bottom of my heart, I felt that she was right, and I was wrong.

I made a move presently, and Amabel came to me.

"Is it very late?" I asked. "Have you been up long?"

"It is not late, but I have been up more than an hour!" answered Amabel. "I have been thinking about a great many things, Lucy. When you are dressed, I will tell you what they are."

"Well! Now tell me your thoughts!" said I, as I finished my rosary, (which I still said every morning), and sat down on the other side of the window. "I hope they are not very deep, or I shall not understand them, for I feel dreadfully stupid and heavy. What would Mother Prudentia say to our being out till eleven o'clock, and that at a play?"

"She would say we were very wrong, and so we were," answered Amabel with decision. "Lucy, we must never do such a thing again."

"I don't think it was anything to make such an ado about!" I answered. "We could not help going with my lady at last."

"But we could have helped it at first!" returned Amabel. "We might have listened to Mrs. Crump, when she told us what was right."

"Mrs. Thorpe has no right to order us so!" I said, speaking out what I had been thinking.

"She has a perfect right, seeing that my aunt has placed us under her care!" said Amabel, "Think too, how kind she has been to us. How good she was last night; she did not wish to turn you out of her house, because you had a headache, like that other woman."

I remembered this, and began to feel ashamed of myself, for thinking of our kind hostess as I had done, and at last I agreed with Amabel that we had done wrong, and must ask pardon, as much as if it had been Mother Superior that we had offended.

My heart began to feel a little lightened, when arrived at this point, for the time when conscience stings us worst, is while we are refusing to allow that it stings at all. We knew that Mrs. Thorpe spent a little time in her closet every morning before she came to breakfast, and we determined to seek her there.

"There is another thing I have been considering!" said Amabel, when this matter was finally settled. "We have lived a very idle life, lately. Just think! We have been here nearly three weeks, and what have we to show for it? Not one thing."

"We have read a good deal!" I answered.

"Yes! But not in a way to do us any good. We have not done any lessons, or worked, either for ourselves or the poor; we have not kept to any rule, such as we have always been used to."

"I know it!" I answered! "I have thought of it a good many times. But then you know, Amabel, we have never been used to making rules, or deciding anything for ourselves, and somehow one does not know how to set about it."

"But people must learn to make rules for themselves!" said Amabel, with that gentle decision which has always characterized her, when her mind is made up. "Only a very small part of the people in the world can live in convents: otherwise everything would be at a stand still. And those who live in the world, must often decide for themselves, and regulate their own conduct, and I don't see why we should not do so."

"But, Amabel, we cannot observe all our own convent rules here!" I objected. "It would turn the house upside down, if we were to insist on having our meals at just such times as we used to at St. Jean."

"Those things are not of much consequence!" answered Amabel. "For aught I know, one may as well eat at one time as another. But we can take certain hours for working for the poor, and others for profitable reading and so on. That would disturb nobody; and I am sure we should accomplish a great deal more, and feel better ourselves. Suppose we make a set of clothes for that poor little lame girl we went to see yesterday. It will soon be cold weather, and she will need a warm gown and woolen hose. Did you not see how thin her things were, and how carefully mended?"

I agreed that it would be a very good plan, and then we sat a few minutes in silence.

"There is one thing that puzzles me!" said I presently. "Every one says, that the religious life is the highest, and yet it is plain that only a few people out of all the world can enter it; because, as you say, the work of the world would come to a stand still, if nobody married and brought up children, and were shop-keepers and lawyers, and so on. But yet, it seems as if every one ought to serve God in the best possible way; and if the religious life is the best way, then every one ought to be religious. I do not understand it."

"Every one has not a vocation!" said Amabel.

"But if a vocation pleases God most, then every one ought to have it!" I persisted.

"I have heard Mother Prudentia say, that the religious were like the cream that rises to the top of the milk!" said Amabel. "The skimmed milk may have its uses too."

"The skimmed milk may have its uses, but I don't believe it is the best for the children!" I returned. "And that is what they get, poor things, if all the best women are to become nuns, and leave only the second-rate ones to become mothers and bring up the little ones."

"Now you are reasoning, and using your own private judgment!" said Amabel, a little severely—"And you know the church forbids that."

I did not answer but I thought all the more. How was I to help using my private judgment, so long as I was in a world full of things to be judged? And even if I gave up in everything to the church, was it not because my private judgment told me that was the right way? It was a very puzzling business, and the worst was, that having begun to think, I could not stop.

"There!" said Amabel, rising as the clock struck eight. "Now we can go to Mrs. Thorpe. Come, Lucy!"

We found the good woman in her closet; a small room opening from her parlor, where she had a table, and chair, a shelf or two of books, a clock, and her large Bible and prayer-book, both of which lay open.

"Good morning, my dear young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, as heartily as if nothing had happened. "I did not think you would be awake so early, and told Betsy not to disturb you."

"We have been up a long time, but we did not wish to interrupt you!" answered Amabel. "Mrs. Thorpe we have come to say, that we are very sorry for what happened yesterday, and we will never go anywhere again without your permission."

"And I am sorry I cried so last night!" I added on my own account.

Crying when reproved was a great offence in our convent days.

"Bless you, my dear, you could not help it; it was only a fit of the mother—hysterics, folks call it nowadays—from being tired, and over-wrought. But I don't want to be arbitrary with you, my dears. You are not children any more, and though I do hold to absolute obedience on the part of young folks to their elders who have the charge, and must answer for them, yet I would have it a reasonable, and not a blind obedience. The world, my dears, is full of snares for the young, and especially for young maids—snares of which they know and can know nothing, neither what they are nor how to guard against them; neither should they wish to know, seeing that the very knowledge of evil tends in some measure to corrupt the mind.

"'Can a man touch pitch, and not be defiled?' asks the good book? And so young people, and particularly young maids, whether gentle or simple, must be contented to do what they are bid, and come and go as they are told by those to whom the Lord has given the ordering of them. Many a girl who is now on the streets of Newcastle ruined in body and soul, and made as the offscourings of all men, might be safe at home, if she would but have trusted in, and been guided by her mother, whose heart she has broken, bringing her down in shame and sorrow to her grave."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such feeling and tenderness, that it brought the tears to both our eyes.

"There, now I have preached my little sermon, and we will say no more about this matter!" resumed Mrs. Thorpe, in a more cheerful tone. "We will have our breakfast, and then I have something else to say to you."

We usually breakfasted alone with Mrs. Thorpe, who liked to sit chatting over her cup of tea, having regulated her domestic affairs at an early hour. We had not then learned to drink tea, and Mrs. Thorpe had had a pot of chocolate prepared for us. We sat sipping it, while she opened her great subject.

"My dears, do you think you are making the most of your time?"

We looked at each other, and smiled.

"No, madam! We have been very lazy since we came hither!" answered Amabel. "Lucy and I were talking that matter over this very morning, and agreeing that we must set ourselves at work."

"Why, that is well!" said Mrs. Thorpe, evidently much pleased. "I don't much believe in praise to the face, which is open disgrace, the old rhyme says. But I must needs say, that two more candid young people I never met with." Then reverting to her subject—"I think you told me you had learned music."

"We learned to sing, and a little of the organ," Amabel answered.

"How would you like to learn the harpsichord?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.

Amabel's eyes sparkled. We had seen one of these wonderful instruments at Mrs. Lowther's school, whither we had gone one day with Mrs. Thorpe; and we had heard one of her young ladies play a lesson of Mr. Handel's.

"Because!" continued Mrs. Thorpe without waiting for an answer, or perhaps seeing one in our faces. "I have taken a fine instrument from a lady in this town who owed me money, and had no other means of paying me; and I would rather you used it than not. I daresay now, you are thinking it was hard-hearted in me, to take the poor lady's harpsichord," added Mrs. Thorpe abruptly, changing the subject.

"No, madam! I do not believe you would ever do anything hard!" I answered.

"If the lady had been poor, and had gone in debt for necessaries, I should never have done it!" continued Mrs. Thorpe; "but such was not the case. She is a widow lady, with a handsome jointure enough, to maintain her as nicely as need be, in a somewhat quiet way, but that does not satisfy her. No! She must needs flaunt it with the finest in the county; and she has run in debt on every side, till there is hardly a tradesman within a mile who has her not on his books. Not one thing does she ever deny herself that she wants. Poor Gileson the confectioner, who has a sickly wife and six little ones, told me that she owed him more than fifty pounds.

"Ah! My dears, we hear much about hard-hearted creditors, but I have seen a deal more of hard-hearted debtors in my time. But I had no mind to wait on my fine lady or to lose by her either; so I told her I must have either money or money's worth before night; so she turned me over this harpsichord and some laces. Now I know an excellent elderly gentleman in this part of the town, who plays very finely. He is the organist in Mr. Cheriton's church, and is glad to eke out a living for himself and his wife, by giving lessons in music, arithmetic, and other things, for he is a fine scholar they tell me. What would you say to taking some lessons of this gentleman? It would occupy you pleasantly, and you would be improving yourselves at the same time.

"I was never for driving young folks from morning till night, but I don't like to see their days running to waste, either. Time, my dear young ladies, is a thing which once lost, can never return. If you lose your health, you may recover it; if your money, you may earn or inherit more; but days wasted can never be found again, either in time or eternity, that I know of."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke impressively, as was her wont when on serious subjects.

"But not to talk of that now," she added in her usual business-like tone. "Your honored father, Mrs. Amabel, bade me use my own judgment with regard to your expenses, so I am not afraid to undertake this matter. The harpsichord will be here this morning, and I will send to Mr. Lilburne to wait upon you at once."

"There is another thing we were talking of this morning," said Amabel when this matter was settled. "Lucy and I were always accustomed to spend some of our time in working for the poor while we lived at St. Jean, and we thought if you approved, we would make some warm garments and hose for that poor lame girl we went to see yesterday. We both have most of the money left that you brought us and if you would kindly buy us the stuffs and the worsted, we might set ourselves at work directly."

She put her hand in her pocket as she spoke, and withdrew it with a very startled look.

"My purse is gone!" said she. "And just look—my pocket is cut open from the top to the bottom."

"It must have been done at the theatre last night," said Mrs. Thorpe, looking at the pocket which had clearly been slit from top to bottom with some sharp instrument. "Were you much mixed up in the crowd?"

"Yes. Don't you remember, Amabel, how we were squeezed just outside the door? The man could hardly make way through the press. And mine is gone too," I added, pulling out my pocket as I spoke, and having much ado not to burst into tears. It was the very first money I had ever owned, and it seemed such a cruelty to deprive me of it, and where were poor Annie's warm clothes to come from?

"I dare say the pickpockets made a fine harvest," said Mrs. Thorpe. "It is a very favorite scheme of theirs, and the theatre is a favorite place for their operations. But there, don't cry, my dears, perhaps I can help you about the clothes. You had better look at your camlet dresses and see whether they do not need mending, and if so do it at once. Camlet ravels so badly. I will match the color for you in fine sewing-silk."

A customer at this moment called Mrs. Thorpe into the shop.

We betook ourselves to our own room, and there we did have a little cry together over our lost guineas. But there was no use in wasting time in regrets, and there were our new gowns of plum-colored silk camlet, each with a long slit down the side to be mended.

Mrs. Thorpe matched the silk nicely, and after the repairs were finished, we set to collecting all our working materials. We had begun several pieces at St. Jean, and purchased quite a little store of embroidery silks and lace thread, in Toulon. Amabel proposed that we should take up these pieces and finish them in rotation. We still had our table covered with them when Mrs. Thorpe came up and began admiring them.

"I'll tell you what, my dear Mrs. Amabel and Mrs. Lucy, (I shall never learn to use this new-fangled title, and I don't know that I care to either. In my young days, to call a lady a Miss was to give her about the worst name one could devise), but I'll tell you what, young ladies, I was going to offer to provide you with the stuff for your work, but if you choose to finish these two cravats which I see you have begun, I can sell them for you for money enough to clothe the poor girl and send her to school into the bargain, and then the gift will be all your own. But they must be done soon, for fashions, you know, change like the moon, only one can't calculate on their changes."

Here was an unexpected way out of our trouble. I confess the thought did cross my mind that it was somewhat beneath the dignity of young ladies of quality to work for money, and I said as much to Amabel when Mrs. Thorpe had left the room to superintend the moving of the harpsichord.

"But we are working for the poor in making the lace as much as if we were knitting hose or making shifts," replied Amabel. "The mothers and sisters used to work for money, and they were of noble family."

"But they were religious, and vowed to humility and poverty," I objected. "Does not that make a difference?"

"The more I think about it, the more it seems to me, that no one person is bound to be religious more than another," said Amabel. "You know we should both have become nuns if we had had our way, and why are we to be less devoted because we live here instead of at St. Jean?"

Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the man with the harpsichord, a handsome new instrument, which they placed in our parlor. Mrs. Thorpe followed with her arms full of music-books, and bringing with her a tall white-haired old gentleman, whom she introduced as Mr. Lilburne. I took a great liking to him at once. He examined the harpsichord, pronounced it a fine one and in perfect tune, and, at Mrs. Thorpe's request, played some airs, which he said were from Mr. Handel's oratorio of the Messiah. Finding that we could read music and had some knowledge of the theory, he gave us a lesson, promising to call the next day but one and hear us play it.

This was destined to be a day of surprises. Amabel was carefully playing over her lesson, and I was busily working at my lace piece, when we heard some one coming up stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe herself throwing open the door announced, with some trepidation—

"Mrs. Deborah Leighton—your aunt, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, Mrs. Amabel."

We both rose to our feet with a start and curtsied to the tall lady in a riding habit who stood in the door.

Mrs. Deborah was the oldest of the ladies at Highbeck Hall, and was at that time turned of fifty. She wore her own gray hair without powder, turned up under a man's beaver with a handsome feather and gold clasp. I had never seen a riding habit near at hand at that time, and the coat and waistcoat, almost exactly like a man's, with the deep-laced pockets and cravat, struck me with surprise. Mrs. Deborah wore large gold ear-rings, and the seals of a watch dangled below her waistcoat. In her hand she carried a riding whip with a silver handle.

"There, don't come too near me, girls! I don't suppose there is any infection about me, but it is best to be safe," she said, speaking in a strong deep voice, which yet had a certain music in it. "I need not ask which is which. This, I am sure, is Amabel, from her looks, and this Cornish girl is Lucy Corbet. You are your father's girl, child, as Amabel is her mother's," looking at me with a curious contraction of her mouth, as of one in momentary pain. "Your father was a goodly and gallant man, child. I knew him well. And your mother was one of whom the world was not worthy. There, be a good girl and you shall never want a friend while I live. And you are Amabel, eh!" turning to her. "You are a beauty like your mother, but beauty is a fading flower—you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, madam," answered Amabel.

"Well, and how do you find yourselves? I will sit with you a little, seeing I am here, and my good friend, Mrs. Thorpe, will send me a glass of ale."

Mrs. Thorpe withdrew on this hint, and Mrs. Deborah seated herself near the door and continued her catechism.

"There, there, sit down—" For, of course, we had remained standing. "And how do you find yourselves? Are you comfortable here?"

"Yes, madam, we are very happy here," Amabel answered.

"But what do you do with yourselves? Do you go out? You must not dawdle away your lives, you know. When we have you at Highbeck, we will teach you to ride; but that will not be very soon, I fear."

We told her how Mrs. Thorpe had arranged for our lessons from Mr. Lilburne.

"A most respectable person. I know him well, but methinks you should have a governess, or something of that sort. Have you not even a maid?"

"No, madam, we have always been used to wait upon ourselves," answered Amabel.

"Perhaps that is a good thing; however, I will see about it. Now, girls, I—we, I should say—hoped to have you at home before this time, but poor Chloe has had the smallpox as well as two of the maids, and Burdon, our butler—a pretty thing to be sure to be taking smallpox at his time of life. Poor Sister Chloe is not getting up well. She has a cough and pains in her chest, and the doctor says she should have a change. So we are going to take her to Cullercoats for the sea air and to drink the waters, and leave the house to be thoroughly aired and cleaned. We may be gone till near Christmas, and what to do with you in the meantime? You are rather old for school except as parlor boarders, and I do not like that way of living. What do you say, niece? You look like a sensible, steady young woman—tell me what you think of the matter."

"Why should we not remain as we are, madam—"

"Don't say madam, say Aunt Deborah," interrupted the lady.

"Why should we not stay as we are, Aunt Deborah? Mrs. Thorpe is very kind and looks after us well, and she has put us in the way of improving ourselves, as you see. Why should we not stay here?"

"I have no objection, I am sure, so you are properly looked after, as you say," replied Mrs. Deborah. "But you must not run about alone, or with any one but such as Mrs. Thorpe recommends. I will talk to her about this matter of a governess or companion. She is a good woman and well brought up, and a safe adviser for you. But what is this, and whom have we here?"

The new-comer whom Betsy brought up stairs was no less a person than Mrs. Wilson, Lady Throckmorton's maid. She came with inquiries from her mistress as to our health, and an announcement that her ladyship would call at two o'clock in her carriage to carry us abroad for an airing. The woman had taken no notice of Mrs. Deborah, who sat listening. Her black eye-brows gathered closer together till they met above her nose. I came afterward to watch the drawing together of those eye-brows as one watches a thunder-cloud. When Mrs. Wilson had done, Mrs. Deborah answered deliberately, as though weighing every word.

"Then you may tell my Lady Throckmorton from me, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, the aunt of these young ladies and their guardian, that neither now nor at any other time will they go abroad with her. I absolutely forbid their having any thing to do with her. Do you hear me, woman?"

It was evident from Mrs. Wilson's face that she did both hear and understand, but she took no notice of Mrs. Deborah, except to turn her back upon her while she repeated her message to us.

"You have your answer," said Amabel with dignity. "Do you not hear? We are obliged to Lady Throckmorton for her goodness, but my aunt has forbidden us to go out with her."

"Now, or at any time!" added Mrs. Deborah.

"Please to return these things to your mistress!" said Amabel, putting into Wilson's hand a parcel containing the finery she had lent us, and which we had packed up to send by Timothy.

Mrs. Deborah Watched her down the stairs, as a dog watches the retreat of some intruder, whom he has half a mind to fly at and rend. She then shut the door, and returned to her seat.

"What does this mean?" she asked. "Have you set up gadding already? How came you to know this fine lady?"

Amabel told her the story of our adventures, and her knitted brows gradually relaxed, especially when I took the blame on myself, saying that I thought Amabel would not have gone but for me.

"Well, well! You are but young, and as new to the world as callow goslings!" said she.

"Lady Throckmorton was your mother's friend once, Amabel, and for her sake, I am sorry now, that I sent her so rude a message. But she was very different in those days. She has been talked about—compromised, though I say not, that she was aught but imprudent. She lives for the world, and calls about her all the gay dissipated young sparks in the country, such as I would not have you meet. She plays high too, and has, I hear, lost a great deal of money. There, we will say no more, only mind, I will have no more visiting or going out with her. Well! And where have you been to church? Next door, I suppose. Mr. Cheriton's father lives in our parts, and though poor, is a gentleman of good family. He is like enough to become heir to Lord Carew in Devonshire, I hear. How do you like the son? He is called a good preacher."

Amabel replied that we had not heard him preach, though we had made his acquaintance, and explained that being Catholics, we had not been to church, the only chapel in Newcastle being closed at present.

"Catholics, eh! I never thought of that," said Mrs. Deborah, looking rather annoyed. "It has always been the rule in our family that the girls should follow their mother's religion; but my nephew, it seems, has found means to evade it. I don't know what my sisters will say. But never mind, now, your consciences shan't be interfered with, if I can help it. Well, then we will consider matters settled, and that you are to stay here. I will talk to Mrs. Thorpe about a proper companion for you. Meantime, here is a token for each of you!" and she laid down two guineas upon the table. "Oh, by the way, niece, have you heard from your father?"

"No, aunt!" answered Amabel. "I had hoped for a letter, or perhaps a sight of him before long."

"I do not believe he will come north at present—and perhaps it is just as well on the whole, that he should not!" answered Mrs. Deborah. "His wife has great influence with him, and from all I hear, she is not likely to let him burn his fingers; not that I believe these tales of the Prince's landing. Well, there! Good-bye. Be good girls, and God bless you."

We looked at each other, as the door closed on Mrs. Deborah.

"Well, how do you like her?" said I.

"Very much!" answered Amabel, with decision, as usual. "I think she is rather rough, but I am sure she is good. How very kindly she spoke to you. Do you not like her?"

"Yes! Very much," I answered.

And indeed, Mrs. Deborah's way of putting me on an equality with Amabel, had extracted from my mind a root of bitterness which had vegetated there for a long time. Ever since our last talk with Mother Superior about returning to England, I had fully made up my mind never to leave Amabel, whatever happened. But I had shed some proud tears in secret, at the thought of being degraded from an equal and companion, to a mere waiting-woman. That trial was not to come upon me, at least for the present.

That same afternoon, a messenger came from Lady Throckmorton, bringing back the aprons that we had worn at the theatre, with the following note.

"Girls:

"You may tell your aunt, that I might easily enough repay the affront she has seen fit to put upon me, but I scorn such paltry revenge. As to you, I meant to do you a kindness which you might have taken for such; but of course, such chits as you have to do as you are bid. I am not in the habit of taking back my gifts, for such I meant 'em. You can either keep the things, or put 'em in the fire.

"CLARISSA THROCKMORTON."

"What shall we do with the things?" said I, taking up the packet, which Amabel had laid on the table.

"We can do nothing but keep them, under the circumstances!" answered Amabel.

"I am sure I don't want to have them," said I.

"Nor I. Perhaps we can find a way of bestowing them in charity some time; meantime let us put them away. I am glad my aunt laid her commands on us so plainly, it saves us a great deal of trouble."

"What shall we do if Lady Throckmorton writes to your father, as she said she meant to do?" I asked, remembering all at once, all her ladyship had said on that matter.

"We shall see when the time comes."

"But you must allow, Amabel, it was kind in her to ask us!" said I. "She could have had no motive in it, but to give us pleasure, that I see."

"I am not so sure!" answered Amabel. "I don't like to look out for mean motives. At the same time, I can't help remembering a word she let drop—'I must positively have you with me. Nothing draws like a new face.' Don't you recollect?"

I did recollect, and my ever ready pride brought the blood to my cheeks, as I thought of being used as a decoy to capture the kind of game which Lady Throckmorton affected. "Well, I know one thing, I wish we had never seen her!" said I.

"We never should have seen her probably, if we had obeyed Mrs. Thorpe's hints, and stayed up stairs," answered Amabel. "But come, never mind her. Hear me play over my lesson."

Amabel took to the harpsichord at once. I cannot say I ever liked it. I was fond of singing and of the lute, and I believe I might with proper instruction have become something of a proficient upon the latter. But I liked best of all to do fine needle work, for which I always drew my own patterns, mostly from nature.

That very afternoon, taking a longer walk than usual, we found ourselves outside the walls, where was quite a little coppice of wood and brambles. Here, I discovered some fern leaves of a kind quite new to me, and very graceful. Such things always gave me a degree of exquisite delight, such as I could never find words to express; and which I believe Amabel thought rather childish. I carried home a handful of the leaves and arranged them into a pattern.

Mrs. Thorpe had in her shop some beautifully fine and sheer linen, which she said came from China. I bought a square of this linen with a part of the guinea Mrs. Deborah had given me, and began a handkerchief, which so interested me, that I found myself in danger of forgetting my lessons altogether; till I made a positive rule to myself, that I would work at it only just so long every day.

If there was some trouble in being thus forced to decide for ourselves, there was also a good deal of pleasure, and it had this advantage; that our minds and wills were made stronger, instead of weaker by the process.

After a day or two, Mrs. Thorpe announced to us that she had found a lady who would come to us every day from nine till six; walk out with us and give us such instruction, especially in English, as was in her power. I confess I was not pleased with the prospect, and I suppose Mrs. Thorpe saw as much in my face, for she added—

"You know, ladies, I am only acting in accordance with Mrs. Deborah's orders. I dare say, you find it pleasanter to be by your two selves; but you know, my dears, that the pleasantest things are not always the best. Mrs. Cropsey is a very well-educated lady, who has seen good society in her day; but she has lately been left a widow, having lost her husband and two children, as it were, at one blow; and she is only too glad to do something to support herself—poor thing."

"Who was her husband?" asked Amabel.

"He was a clergyman of the church of England, Mrs. Amabel—a poor curate, to a gentleman who holds two livings, and a stall at Durham besides. Poor Mr. Cropsey caught a fever from a poor man he attended, and carried it home to his children. They just managed to make both ends meet in his lifetime, and you may guess there was not much left for his widow. I don't wish to speak evil of dignities, or to criticise my spiritual pastors, which is against the catechism, and bad manners besides; but I must say it does vex me to see Doctor Turnbull riding in his fine coach, with his lady and daughters, dressed out as never was, spending money like water; while the poor creatures that do all the real work, have hardly bread to eat, nor clothes to cover their backs and those of their children, not to mention money to lay up against a rainy day."

"Our priests do not marry!" observed Amabel, with a little tone of superiority. "So they have no cares of this world to distract them from their sacred duties."

Mrs. Thorpe smiled—a shrewd, slightly sarcastic smile, of which I had learned to be a little afraid.

"My dear!" she asked abruptly. "How many priests did you ever know anything about?"

We looked at each other.

"There was Father Brousseau!" said I.

"And the Bishop—but we could not say we knew him, of course; we only saw him two or three times," added Amabel.

"And Father Dubois!" I added.

Amabel frowned at me.

The truth was, that Father Dubois had come for two or three weeks in place of Father Brousseau, when that gentleman was called away; and had created a sad scandal by drinking too much wine, and singing songs which were not sacred by any manner of means.

"You see you are hardly competent to decide on that matter," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have seen a good many priests in my travels, both French and German."

"I am sure Father Brousseau is a good man!" said I, rather indignantly, as Mrs. Thorpe apparently pulled herself up, in what she was about to say.

"That he is, my child!" agreed Mrs. Thorpe, emphatically. "I wish all clergymen, both priests and ministers, were like him. But to return to the matter in hand. I hope, my dears, you will like this lady, and be kind to her. Young persons can do very much to make the lives of their governesses pleasant and easy, or the reverse. I am not much acquainted with Mrs. Cropsey, but Mr. Cheriton knows her well, and indeed it was he who recommended her to me."

"I dare say we shall like her very much!" replied Amabel promptly. "And as you say, it will no doubt, be better for us to have some one with us, to overlook our employments, as we have always been used to do. When is she coming?"

"She has asked to wait till next week, as she has to settle up her affairs, and dispose of what furniture she has. Mr. Cheriton has bought the poor gentleman's books, of which he had a good many, considering. Mrs. Cropsey has insisted on giving me two china jugs, which were her mother's, on account of a debt she owes me, for thread, hose, and so on. I don't wish to sell them, so with your leave, I will put them on the top of your cabinet, here. Perhaps she may buy them back some day."

"What do you think?" I asked of Amabel, as Mrs. Thorpe left the room.

"About Mrs. Cropsey? I think we must make the best of her, and learn all we can of her. Anyhow, Lucy, we won't be set against her beforehand; that would not be fair. I dare say she is a nice person."

"She must be, of course, since Mr. Cheriton recommended her!" said I demurely, and bestowing extra pains on the stem of my fern.

"I suppose he would not recommend her, of course, unless he considered her suitable," returned Amabel, and she immediately began practising with such energy that there was no more chance for conversation.

CHAPTER XI.

THE INNOCENT BLOOD.

THE next day was Sunday, a day which usually hung rather heavily on our hands.

There was a Roman Catholic Chapel in Newcastle, but it had been closed ever since our arrival, and the priest had left town. The rumors of a second attempt of the Chevalier de St. George, or the Pretender, (that unlucky gentleman being one or the other, according as the speaker were Whig or Jacobite,) though as it turned out totally unfounded at that time, had made it expedient for such of the Catholic clergy as knew the value of peace, to keep out of sight. But these rumors had now begun to die away.

It was reported that King Louis had forbidden the chevalier to fight with his army in Flanders, or even to visit it; that his highness was living quietly in the neighborhood of Paris, amusing himself with shooting and playing, and other more questionable diversions, and that there was not the least likelihood of his getting together another fleet at present to re-place that which had been scattered by the storms of the preceding winter.

The Jacobites still held up their heads, and used their passwords, and wore their white ribbons. But I could not but observe that a large number of the fine bonnets which sailed into the side entrance of St. Anne's were trimmed with red plumes and flowers.

Amabel had one of her rare headaches that day. She got up, but was obliged to go to bed again. I applied the usual remedies, and she by and by began to amend, and at last fell into the deep sleep which usually ended these attacks.

As I knew that she was not likely to wake for some hours I ventured to leave her, and, taking my book of "Hours," I stole down into the garden, and seated myself in a shady corner, a favorite place of mine, where one of the buttresses of the old gray stone church projected into our garden. There was a window directly over my head, out of which several lights were broken, and as I sat, I could hear the voice of Mr. Cheriton reading the service, and the droning responses of the old clerk.

Mr. Cheriton had a good voice and read remarkably well. He had too much taste to mumble the service, as many clergymen do, or to repeat it like a child going through the pence table. Not that I should have seen any thing wrong in it if he had, for I was used to say my own rosary much in the same way. Mr. Cheriton had also a musical ear, and his efforts, joined to those of Mr. Lilburne, the organist, had made the singing the best in town, so that many fine people came purposely to hear it. These people were sometimes to be seen coming away before the sermon, which I should think could hardly have been very pleasing to Mr. Cheriton.

I had not said to myself that my object in seeking the corner under the church wall was to hear the service, and yet such was really my purpose. I had begun to be very curious about the ways and worship of Protestants, and would have liked very well to go to church with Mrs. Thorpe for once, but I had not yet ventured to propose such a thing to Amabel. However, I said to myself that there could be no harm in listening, so long as I did not join in the heretical worship. So I did listen with all my ears, and made the discovery that the service—prayers, hymns, and all—was in English, so that I understood every word.

"How strange that they should have the Church prayers in the common vulgar language that they use every day," said I to myself. And then the thought occurred to me, that as most of the worshippers were common vulgar people, perhaps it was as well that the prayers should be in a language which they understood.

Presently I made another discovery, which was, that the priest did not have all the service between himself and the choir, but that the people actually joined in it. Any one who looks into the matter will see that in the Romish Church there is no such thing as common prayer as we understand it. The priest and his assistants perform the mass, and the choir sings the responses, while the books of those who are able to read contain various devotions, such as are considered appropriate to different portions of the service. There may be as many different prayer-books as there are worshippers.

But here I heard the voices of all the school children, and many of the congregation beside, join in the "Good Lord deliver us," and other responses of the litany. I had now given up all pretence of reading and listened with all my ears. I found myself strangely affected by these English prayers. The short petitions seemed calculated to meet almost every case of need or sorrow common to man. I felt the tears very near my eyes, and when the choir sung the twenty-third psalm—

"The Lord is only my support,

And He that doth me feed,

How can I then lack anything

Whereof I stand in need.

"In pastures green He feedeth me

Where I do safely lie,

And after leads me to the streams

Which run most pleasantly—"

The drops ran over. I believe this was the first time I had ever thought of God, Himself, as my Father, or as a possible friend. The Father was to me up to that time, as an awful stern power far away in the heavens, yet watching all I did with a jealous eye; from whose wrathful justice I was to be saved, if at all, by the intercession of Mary, and by her commands laid upon her Divine Son, in my favor.

I listened eagerly for the sermon, but it disappointed me; I could hardly tell why. It was well written and faultlessly delivered, no doubt, but I must confess, the whole might have been summed up, as Jenny Trevathy summed up one of poor old Doctor Brown's one day last summer—

"It is nice to be good, and naughty to be wicked, and if you are good, you will have a nice time, and if you are not, you won't."

But of how to be good—how to get rid of that traitor within, which was always corresponding with the tempter without, and opening the doors to him—of that I heard nothing.

"To resolve was everything," Mr. Cheriton said. But I had not yet found to resolve was anything.

I got up as the congregation began to disperse, and went into the house. I found Amabel up, and bathing her face with cold water.

"How is your headache?" I asked.

"Quite gone," she answered. "Have you been sitting here all the morning?"

"No! I have been in the garden, listening to the music in the church. Do you know, Amabel, they have all their service—prayers and chants and all—in plain English, and the people join in them?"

"Yes, I knew as much as that!" answered Amabel. "But I am not sure it was right to listen to them."

"There was no harm in them, that I could see," I answered. "They seemed to me very good prayers."

"They are heretical, and so they cannot be good," answered Amabel, in her mildly positive way. "They have no mass at all, and even what they call the communion, only once in a month, and you know Lucy, the perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament was instituted partly to atone for the affronts offered to it, by Protestants."

"How far away all that seems!" said I. "Does it to you?"

"Almost always. It is Sister Lazarus' turn at the post now!" said Amabel, with a far off dreamy look in her eyes. "It always came at this time on Sunday. I heard her tell Mother Prudentia once, that Satan always assaulted her at that time, by making her wonder whether or not Sister Anne was scorching the fowls, and letting the soup boil over."

"The dear mothers and sisters—how often I have wished I could send them some of the nice things we are always having to eat," said I.

"Sister Lazarus is a much better cook than Betsy," returned Amabel, jealous for the honor of her old friend. "Mrs. Thorpe herself said she never saw such cooking."

"Yes, but think how little she has to do with. I wish our own dinner was ready, but I think Mrs. Thorpe is later than common."

"There she comes now. Please fasten my kerchief behind, Lucy!"

"Well, my dears, did you think I was never coming?" said Mrs. Thorpe. "It is a Sacrament Sunday, and there was such a number of communicants as I never saw before. Almost all poor-looking people, too. The free seats were quite filled, and some of the men were rough-looking fellows enough. However, they all behaved wonderful well—a deal better than some of their betters, I must say. I don't want to set up to judge the quality, but I don't like to see all this curtsying, and bowing, and passing of snuff-boxes, and sugar plums. That sort of thing may do well enough at the theatre, but to my mind, 'tis very unsuitable to the church of God."

"We don't have such things in our churches!" I said, rather boastfully.

Mrs. Thorpe gave an odd little smile. She had been many times in Paris, and the low countries; and Protestant as she was, she had seen a deal more of Romish churches than we had.

"So much the better, my dear!" said she. "As I said, church is no place for them. I saw my Lady Throckmorton make up a face of disgust at Mr. Cheriton himself, as some poor women came in, and sat down in the free seats near her."

"What did Mr. Cheriton do?" asked Amabel.

"I could not see that he gave her so much as a glance," said Mrs. Thorpe. "Folks say—some of the straiter-laced kind at least—that Mr. Cheriton is too fond of the theatre and card table for a clergyman. But at least, he knows what belongs to good behavior in church, and he gave the sacrament to the poor women with as much care and gravity as he would have done to a princess."

"I heard say, that the Methodists were coming to town, and were to have preaching this morning, at five o'clock at the Sandgate," observed Mary Lee modestly. "Perhaps that was what sent so many to the communion."

"The Methodists would be more likely to keep them away, from what I hear!" replied Mrs. Thorpe. "It is said, they teach that there is no use at all in ordinances, and they set up the commonest sort of people to preach, and to administer the sacraments."

"I do not think that is quite true, mistress!" said Mary, who very seldom ventured to speak a word. "My Aunt Kesiah, who is with us now, used to hear Mr. Wesley preach in Bristol, and thereabouts, when she lived in those parts last year; and she said great complaint was made by some of the clergy, that Mr. Wesley and his brother sent so many to the sacrament. * The sexton at Kingswood, where all the colliers live, was downright vexed about it, aunt said. They do have preachers of the common people I believe, but they are only preachers."

* See Charles Wesley's "Memoirs," concerning the colliers of Kingswood.

"They are all Papists, and in league with the Pretender. My father says so," said Betty Humble.

"Anyhow, they preach to the poor colliers and miners, that nobody had thought of before, any more than if they were brutes," said Mary, with spirit. "My aunt says, that there at Kingswood, where all sorts of wickedness, drinking, swearing, fighting, and what not used to go on, you hardly hear a bad word, or see a drunken person nowadays. The very women mend their own and their children's clothes, and strive to keep their houses neat, and the men sing psalms, and hymns, when they go to and from their work, instead of wicked vile songs, as they used to."

"The Methodists bewitch them," said Martha. "There was John Bristate's wife—she used to be the greatest scold in the Sandgate—and made naught of heaving the cat at John's head, and now she is like a lamb. John says it makes him just feared at times when he comes in late, to find his supper waiting by the fire, and to see Sally knitting, and the poor beast of a cat that used to dread her very step sitting in her lap or on her gown."

"If he would rather have a cat thrown at his head than to see it sitting on his wife's gown, he is not of my mind," said Mrs. Thorpe dryly. "I like a cat well enough, but not in that way, and I should say it would be altogether more healthful to the cat."

"I heard a gentleman—it was Lord Bulmer—say that some preacher declared that he knew his sins were forgiven," said I. "And Mrs. Bunnell had some talk with Mr. Cheriton about the matter, and she said it was in the prayer-book."

"I don't think that can be, and it does seem great presumption in a common man to pretend to know that his sins are forgiven," observed Mrs. Thorpe. "I have no spite against the Methodists, but the good old Church of England is good enough for me, as it was for my father before me, and so it ought to be for you, Mary Lee. Don't you be led away by any new-fangled notions, but do your duty toward God and your neighbor according to the catechism and you will be all right, never fear."

Mary's pale cheek flushed, and she looked as if she would like to say more, but as we all rose from the table at that moment to return thanks she had no opportunity. My own curiosity was greatly roused by what I had heard of these strange people, and I made up my mind that I would question Mary, and find out more of what her aunt had told her.

We always went out for a walk on Sunday afternoon, and not uncommonly a friend or two of Mrs. Thorpe's would drop in for a cup of tea, a chat, and a game or two at cards or backgammon, followed by a little supper. Mrs. Thorpe, I am sure, saw no harm in these things, or she would never have done them, for she was not one to go against her conscience in anything.

At the same time, she was greatly shocked and distressed at finding Amabel and me working at our embroidery frames one Sunday afternoon. She exacted from us a promise that we would never do so again, and told us a tragical tale, of a maid of honor of Queen Elizabeth's who had died from pricking her finger with a needle while sewing on Sunday, adding that she knew the story was true, for she had seen a wax-work image of this wicked young lady when she was in London, with the blood running down her finger as natural as life.

I don't think we were as much impressed with this tale as Mrs. Thorpe intended. Being a maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, we thought the judgment might have come upon her for that reason, and not because she sewed on Sunday, for we had been taught to regard good Queen Bess as the personation of all that was evil in women.

But I am getting a long way from that memorable Sunday.

We had been out for a walk, as I have said. St. Anne's Church stood on the corner of the street down which we returned, and we had just drawn near to it when we heard the noise of many hoarse voices, which at once reminded me of the noises which had so terrified me in Toulon, and of the voices of the robbers as we heard them while concealed in the great cavern at St. Jean.

"What can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe. "Let us hurry home, young ladies."

At that moment, Mr. Cheriton came out of his house and joined us, saying that he would see us to the door, as there seemed some disturbance in the street. We turned round the corner of the church and at once found ourselves face to face with the danger.

A riotous mob of persons—wharfmen, soldiers, and women of the lowest sort—were pouring up the street in which we lived. Just before them two men—one a plain man in decent black, the other apparently an officer of some sort—were supporting between them the form of a fainting woman, and trying to shield her from the blows that were aimed and the missiles that were thrown by the rioters.

Three or four gentlemen on horseback mingled with the crowd, and were evidently setting them on. In one of them, I recognized Lord Bulmer, whom I had seen at Lady Throckmorton's.

At the moment we reached our own door, a better aimed missile than the others struck the man in black on the head and knocked him down. It seemed as if the whole group would be trampled into dust by the multitude that came pouring on like a drove of wild cattle; but help was at hand. Mr. Cheriton sprang forward and, placing himself between the woman and the mob, with one flourish of his big stick, as it seemed, he laid low two of his opponents, and cleared a ring round him. At the same moment, a mutual recognition took place between Mrs. Thorpe and the young officer.

"Dick Thorpe, is this you?"

"Aunt Thorpe, for Heaven's sake, open the door and take this poor distressed woman into your house. These beggarly long-shore cowards have all but killed her." And he added a string of hard words which I will not set down here.

Swearing, which is now going out of fashion among gentlefolks, was as common as breathing at that time. Mrs. Thorpe was not the woman to disregard such an appeal. She flung open the private door of the shop. The poor man had picked himself up by this time, and, with the help of young Mr. Thorpe, carried the woman into Mrs. Thorpe's private parlor.

Meantime, Mr. Cheriton was addressing the mob. He Informed them in energetic language, level to the lowest understanding among them, that they were a set of cowards and sneaks, unworthy of the name of Englishmen; that they deserved kicking—not to say hanging—and it was a wonder if they did not get their deserts. He would like to see the first man who would dare attack the house whose mistress had taken in the poor creature. As he spoke, he twirled his stick, and looked round him as though he would enjoy breaking two or three more heads.

The viler part of the mob began to slink away by that time, and the better sort to look rather shamefaced.

"But these be the Methodees, parson," one ventured to say.

"They be in league with the Papists and the Pretender," said another.

"Rubbish!" returned the rector. "They are harmless people. Who has been telling you such a pack of lies?"

"His lordship says so," returned the first speaker, looking at Lord Bulmer, who kept his ground, though the other gentleman had drawn off.

"Then his lordship might be in better business," retorted Mr. Cheriton. "You are well set to work, my lord, hounding on these men to such a villainous, cowardly persecution of a few harmless enthusiasts."

"Mr. Cheriton, your cloth protects you," said Lord Bulmer, turning very red. "If it did not—"

"If it did not, I should be safe enough, I dare say," returned Mr. Cheriton, in a tone of the most stinging contempt. "The valor which exerts itself against poor Methodist preachers and helpless women is not likely to be very dangerous to any thing of its own size. Go home, my men, go home, and thank Heaven that you have been saved from the doing of a horrible cowardly crime."

The crowd had much thinned by this time, and the few men who remained looked sheepish enough.

"Then you don't think they be Papistees?" one man ventured to say.

"No, I don't, and if they were it would be no way to convert them. Pray, how did this disgraceful row begin?"

"'Twas the gentry as put us up to it," the man begun, but I heard no more.

Amabel and I had been peeping through the blinds of the room over the shop, when Mrs. Thorpe, who had sent us away from her room down stairs, came and called us.

"The poor woman has come to herself, but she must be got to bed without delay, and all the girls are out save Betty Humble, who has hid in the coal-hole and won't come out. My dear young ladies, will you do this distressed creature a good turn by getting a bed ready for her?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Amabel and I both together.

"Then just make up the bed in the front bedroom as quickly as you can. The blankets are all there, and you will find linen on the second shelf of the press in my room. There is the key. I will come up and do the rest."

We set to work with all zeal, admiring the thick softness of the feather beds and the beautiful smoothly-laundered linen. We ran hither and thither, bringing what was wanted, and making ourselves useful in all sorts of ways.

"See what it is to have the use of one's hands," said Mrs. Thorpe, as she came down stairs and found the table set and every thing ready for supper. "My dears, I never thought of your doing so much. Betty Humble, if you do not stop that noise this instant, I will empty this bucket of water over you."

This to Betty, who, having come out of her coaly refuge, was trying to attract a little interest to herself by going into hysterics in the corner.

"Don't let me hear another sound from you, if you want any supper to-night. Come, young ladies. Kesiah Lee is sitting with the poor woman above."

Mary ran and fetched her the moment she came home, like a good brave girl as she is, instead of bawling and screeching in the coal-house.

"Well, I can't help myself," began Betsy. "I always did have nerves when any thing was the matter."

"Then let me hear thee say nerves again and thow'lt get thy ears cuffed," returned Mrs. Thorpe. "Nerves, indeed! A pretty thing for every 'prentice lass to be setting up with nerves like a fine lady. Nerves are for the quality, not for those who have their living to earn."

"How is the poor woman?" I asked, when we had taken our seats at the table.

"Very bad!" answered Mrs. Thorpe, shaking her head. "I doubt she will hardly get through it. My nephew has gone for the doctor, and Kesiah Lee, who knows all about such matters, has promised to stay all night. We will do our best for the poor thing."

"And her husband?" asked Amabel.

"Like one distracted poor man at first, but he is quite calm now, though one may see by his face how much it costs him. 'Tis enough to wring one's heart to see him smile and speak cheerfully to his poor wife, and then turn to the window and stifle his grief. What could ever have possessed him to bring a woman in her condition into a crowd passes my guessing. If the poor thing dies, some folks will have murder on their souls."

Mrs. Crump and Betsy had come home by that time, so there was no more need for our services. And Mrs. Thorpe sent us to our own room with the recommendation that we should go to bed early, as we had had such a fatiguing day.

"You need have no fear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "My nephew will stay in the house all night, and he has brought with him two or three sturdy sailors from his own ship, to garrison the fort, as he says."

This news produced a wonderfully reviving effect on Betsy's sinking spirits. She at once made known her willingness to sit up too, that she might be on hand if help were wanted.

"Yes, I dare say!" returned Mrs. Thorpe. "You go to bed, and don't let me hear your voice again this night. Do you go to bed too, my dear young ladies, and don't forget the poor woman in your prayers, for she needs them, if ever distressed creature did."

"Let us say the Litany of the Holy Virgin for her!" said I, when we were alone together.

Amabel was not quite sure, whether or no it would be right to do so for a heretic; but at last she agreed, and we went through it devoutly enough, addressing the Lord's mother in a way that seems to me now to be sheer idolatry.

I was a long time falling asleep, for when the necessity for action was over, I found out for the first time that I had been scared; and though I did not have a fit of the nerves like Betty, I started at every sound, and strained my ears to hear every movement in the other part of the house. It was not till cock-crowing that I fairly fell asleep.

Nevertheless, I waked rather early. The house was very still, and a late robin was singing sweetly in the garden. I could hear some one stepping about softly now and then, but that was all.

I dressed and opened our parlor door. That of the room opposite was open, as was also the window, which I rather wondered to see. The room way very neat, and Mrs. Thorpe worn from her vigil, and with traces of tears on her bright face, was just drawing the snowy curtains together.

As she caught my eye, she beckoned me, and as I came to her side, she softly parted them again, and turned down a fine white sheet which covered the bed. There lay the poor woman; her marble face beautiful with the peacefully joyful smile of death, and oh me—on her arm lay like a little waxen image—a dead baby.

"Is it not a pitiful sight?" said the good woman. "The babe was born about daybreak, and for a little, we hoped it might live, but it just breathed long enough to be christened, poor little dear, and its last sigh passed away with its mother's. She had her senses to the last, and I warrant you, it was a pitiful thing to hear how she strove to comfort her husband, and prayed for those who had brought her to this pass. I will never say a word about the Methodists again."

I have seen many a sorrowful sight in my day, but never I think one which touched me like that.

As I thought of Lord Bulmer with his languid fine gentleman airs, and remembered how he had set on the mob to murder these innocent creatures, my heart was like to burst with grief and indignation. I was to hate him worse before I had done with him.

"There, don't make yourself ill with crying, that's a dear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "The poor thing's troubles are over, and she will never suffer again; and as to the dear baby, we know the Lord took such in his arms and blessed them, even when the disciples would have hindered him. Go down into the garden if you will, and gather some rosemary and lavender, to strew over the winding-sheet, and a white rose or two, to lay in the babe's bosom. We must make things look as pretty as we can."

I observed already, how neatly the bodies were dressed, and disposed.

As Mrs. Thorpe had suggested, I hurried down to the garden and gathered my hands full of sweet herbs, with which the place abounded. I was busily searching for some of the late violets which bloomed in a sunny border, when I was accosted by young Mr. Thorpe.

"The poor woman above is dead, I hear!" said he, after a morning salutation. "And her babe also. 'Tis a cowardly murder, if ever there was one."

"You did your best to save them!" I said.

"Yes! And should have succeeded, for the mob were inclined to hear the preacher at first when he turned to speak with them. But that cowardly fellow—Lord Bulmer as they call him, and one or two more of his sort, set them on, crying out that he was a spy for the Pretender. A spy indeed! We know who would have favored him, if he had been. But I shall mayhap meet this fine Lordling again, and we shall see whether he wears the white feather, as well as the white cockade. I crave your pardon, madam, I should not use such language before you: but I am a plain sailor, and not much used to ladies' society. Can I give you any help?"

"I would like a cluster of those white rose-buds!" said I, looking up to where a beautiful Noisette rose was trained against the wall. "But I fear they are out of reach."

"Not a bit of it!" was the answer.

Mr. Thorpe clambered up the rough wall at the peril of his neck, as it seemed to me. But before I had time to be scared, he was on the ground again, and put the roses into my hand.

"Thank you. They are beautiful," said I. "But you should not have run such a risk for them."

"Oh, it was no risk for a sailor!" he answered carelessly. "One does harder things than that every day on shipboard."

I began to be a little shy, so I thanked him again, and returned to the chamber of death. The poor husband was there, sitting by his dead wife and child, his face bowed in his hands; not weeping, but as it were crushed with the great weight of his grief. He did not raise his head as I came in; we arranged the flowers and herbs I had brought, and then Mrs. Thorpe paused, as if uncertain what to do next. At that moment, Mr. Cheriton entered the room.

"How is he?" he asked in a whisper.

"Just the same!" answered Mrs. Thorpe in the same tone. "He will neither eat nor speak. If he could weep, it would be something; I fear for his reason."

Mr. Cheriton stood for a moment, as if hesitating what to do. He has since said, that he never in all life longed so much to comfort any one, but he did not know what to say.

At last he drew a Prayer-book from his pocket, and saying in his deep voice, "Let us pray!" He kneeled down and began the last collects in the burial service. Amabel who had now risen, knelt beside me. We heard some one come in softly, and take his place with the rest.

When we arose, we saw that it was a strange clergyman—a neat little man in very precise black, with a face full of power and benignity. He went straight up to the preacher, laid his hand on his head, and said in that voice whose melody once heard, was never forgotten—

"My poor brother, may the God of all comfort, sustain thee."

John Edwards looked up at the words, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.

"It was our first child!" said he brokenly. "Our very first; and we had lived together so lovingly for fourteen years."

Mrs. Thorpe beckoned us all out of the room, and left the friends together. Kesiah Lee was standing on the landing-place.

"He will comfort him if any one can," she whispered. "It is Mr. Wesley, himself."

CHAPTER XII.

THE FUNERAL.

MRS. Thorpe sent us young ones down stairs to our breakfast, and presently came down herself, and carried away a cup of tea, and some biscuits.

"Mr. Wesley has persuaded the poor man to lie down and take some food!" said she. "'Tis wonderful to see the power he has over him."

"You ought to take something yourself, Mrs. Thorpe!" said Mrs. Crump, who was presiding at the table. "You will be ill, and have a turn of spasms again, if you keep on your feet so, without eating anything."

"I am coming down directly to give Mr. Wesley his breakfast, and then if Rebecca thinks she can manage with Mary Lee's help in the shop, I will lie down a bit. I am weary, that is the truth. Betty Humble will finish sewing the trimming on those short coats for Mrs. Thistlewood's baby, and mind it is done neatly, my girl."

She went away as she spoke, carrying the tray she had prepared. Betty looked anything but satisfied.

"Yes, that is always the way!" she grumbled. "Mary can go to the shop where she can see every one, and I must sit poked up stairs, sewing my eyes out. It is too bad."

"I am sure I would willingly change places with you, if mistress were willing!" said Mary. "I do not love to serve in the shop at all."

"Then ask her—do ask her!" returned Betty eagerly. "So many folks will be sure to come in this morning to hear the news."

"You will do no such thing, Mary!" said Mrs. Crump decidedly. "Your mistress knows what she is about, and I will not have her fashed with such follies. You know very well, Betty, the last time you served in the shop, you broke a china jar, worth a half year's work, all because you were gaping and staring instead of minding your business. I think the remembrance of what is up over our heads, might give you some serious thoughts for once."

"That is just it!" whispered Betty. "I am afraid to stay up there, with a corpse in the house."

"And what do you think the dead woman is going to do to you? However, you can bring your work down to my room, if you like."

Amabel and I arranged our room, and then began to wonder what we should do next; we could not practise our music, neither did we feel like diverting ourselves with "Sir Charles Grandison." At last, Amabel proposed that we should take our work and Mr. Thomson's poems into the garden, and work or read as we fancied.

It was a lovely day; a breeze was blowing, just enough to cool the air and bring in the freshness of the sea, to mingle with the smell of the late haying, and the stocks and gill-flowers in the borders, and make music in the great cedar that grew in the church-yard. Amabel had just finished reading "The Autumn," when we became aware that she had another auditor than myself. Mr. Wesley had come out of the house, approaching with so gentle a step that we had not heard him, and stood listening to the reading. We both rose in some little confusion, and curtsied an answer to his polished greeting.

"Pray do not let me disturb you!" said he, as he seated himself on the other bench of the little arbor. "It is a pleasure to find young ladies so well employed. Will you permit me to rest here for a short time? I have been riding since dawn."

Amabel made some polite answer, and Mr. Wesley took up the book she had laid down.

"'Tis a fine poem, is it not?" said he. "Have you read the hymn with which the book concludes?"

"We have not got as far as that!" said Amabel.

Mr. Wesley turned over the leaves, and began that sublime hymn, beginning—

"These as they change, Almighty Father, these

Are but the varied God."

I shall never dissociate these lines with the melodious voice and expressive manner of Mr. Wesley. When he had finished, we sat silent for a few minutes.

"That is beautiful!" said Amabel at last, with a kind of sigh.

"It is indeed!" answered Mr. Wesley. "I hardly know of more than one finer."

"And what is that, Sir?" I ventured to ask.

"One that I dare say you have often read without thinking of it in that way!" answered Mr. Wesley, smiling.

"We have read very few books," remarked Amabel. "We were brought up in a French convent, and never saw any but 'Meditations' and 'Lives of the Saints,' till we came to live here."

"Nevertheless, I think you know the poem I mean!" said Mr. Wesley. "Shall I read it for you?"

"If you will be so good!" said Amabel.

He took a small Bible from his pocket, and to our surprise began to read the hundred and fourth psalm. I had read it, and repeated it often enough, but somehow his voice gave it a new interpretation. I could see the bounds which had been set, that the sea might not pass—the springs and brooks, feeding the rivers running among the hills, and nourishing the trees, wherein the birds build their nests, the rich meadows, and wide harvest fields.

"Is not that a picture gallery?" said Mr. Wesley, when he had finished. "A clever artist might paint a landscape from every verse of that psalm."

"Thank you very much," said Amabel, with that light shining in her placid eyes which showed that her feelings were strongly moved. "I never knew that there was so much in that Psalm before."

"Ah, my maiden, we go through the Bible as we do through the world—with our eyes shut!" said Mr. Wesley, rather sadly. "'Open THOU mine eyes, that I may behold the wondrous things of THY law,' should be the daily prayer of every one of us."

"We have never read the Bible, only here and there," said I, rather scared at my own boldness. "I have often wished that I might."

"And why, then, do you not read it, my daughter? Who is to hinder you?"

"We promised that we would not read any heretical books," said Amabel, with rather a severe glance at me.

"But, my child, you do not call the Word of God a heretical book, do you?"

"N—no!" answered Amabel, rather puzzled by this view of the case. "It cannot be, of course. Bert the church teaches that it is not fit to put into the hands of every one of the common people."

"The Church must consider our Lord and His apostles greatly in the wrong, then," said Mr. Wesley, smiling.

"How so?" asked Amabel, startled and shocked, but interested in spite of herself.

"Why because it is expressly told us that He preached His discourses to great multitudes, and that the common people heard Him gladly. Also the epistles were all written to the whole of the churches to which they are addressed. And if the common people heard Him gladly then, why should they not do so now? And again, you know that the Latin Bible used by the Romish Church is called the Vulgate, do you not?"

"I know that it is, but not the reason," replied Amabel.

"Because, my daughter, it was translated, by St. Jerome, into the common Latin, which was the vulgar tongue in those days of half the known world—the very tongue in which the ladies talked of household matters and the fashions of the day, and prattled with their little ones, and scolded their maidservants even as they do now. He translated the Scriptures that every one might drink freely of divine knowledge, and though his version is somewhat deficient, Hebrew being not as thoroughly studied as in later days, yet has it been a well-spring of life to thousands of thousands of devout souls now passed to their eternal rest."

"We are not to use our own judgment, but to be guided by the Church," said Amabel.

"That is what I cannot understand—I mean how we are to help using our own judgment," I ventured to remark. "As long as we heard only one side it might be easy enough, but when one is in the hearing all sorts of opinions, how are we to help judging?"

"We are to believe as the Church commands," answered Amabel.

"But why? Is it not because we judge the Church to be the only safe guide? And is not that our own judgment as much as if we came to any other conclusion? It seems to me so."

"And you are right, my child. You can no more use another man's judgment in such matters, than you can breathe with his lungs. A man asserts his ownership of an estate just as much by giving it away all in a lump, as if he bestowed it by ten shillings at a time."

"I should like to read the Bible, if it is not wrong," said Amabel. "The bits we used to read with Father Brousseau in his great English Bible were so interesting. But I used to wonder why he never showed us those places where the Lord's disciples worshipped the Holy Virgin, and where he taught them about the worship and traditions of the Church."

"Perhaps you may find out the reason when you read the book," said Mr. Wesley, with a smile, in which a little sarcasm mingled with the sweetness. "Well, my children, we have had a pleasant, and, I trust, a profitable hour together. Now will you tell me where the rector of this Church, Mr. Cheriton, lives? I must speak with him concerning the funeral of this poor woman and her babe."

"Mr. Cheriton will save you that trouble," said the gentleman himself. "By your leave, fair ladies."

As he spoke, he made a flying leap over the low stone wall which separated our garden from the church-yard, and lifted his hat politely.

"Your servant, sir! I conclude I have the honor of addressing Mr. Wesley. I trust our poor friend up stairs has been comforted by your coming."

"I left him sleeping, and hope he may awake refreshed. I usually find that grief is somewhat mitigated, when it can be brought to the point of expression. 'Tis the silent and dry sorrow that kills. I have to thank you for the service you rendered him in the hour of danger."

"It was nothing," answered Mr. Cheriton, carelessly. "'Twas not in human nature to see an innocent man and a helpless woman trampled by a set of brutes."

"I have seen such things in human nature a good many times of late years," said Mr. Wesley. "From whence do such things come except from human nature? But not to discuss that matter at present. My poor brother has expressed a wish that I should perform the funeral services for his wife and child. I told him that I must first consult you, and if you saw no objection, and thought there was no danger of a disgraceful disturbance—"

"Of course there can be no objection," said Mr. Cheriton. "I shall be only too glad to have you do so, and as to any disturbance, the man who dares molest you, will have to deal with me."

And he shut his mouth in a way that gave his handsome face rather a grim expression for the moment.

"Oh, as to that, I have faced mobs too often to fear them greatly," said Mr. Wesley; "but I would not involve you in an unpleasant affair. I believe, however, that the people will be peaceable enough if left to themselves."

"I dare say. If you will do me the honor of walking with me, I will show you the place where I think the grave may be made. Good morning, ladies."

The gentlemen bowed and walked away together. Amabel and I gathered up our affairs and returned to the house. She went straight up stairs, and I went into the shop parlor to seek some thread for my work. I was selecting my skeins from the drawer when I saw Captain Lovelace come in and inquire for gloves. He was followed by Lady Throckmorton. I stepped out of sight behind a screen, being somewhat anxious to observe them.

"Where is Mrs. Thorpe?" asked Lady Throckmorton as Rebecca Carter rose to wait upon her.

Rebecca usually attended to the department of baby-linen and the like, feeling, as she said, more freedom in selling useful things than in dealing with laces and other unprofitable articles, but she never hesitated to attend to the other matters when needful.

"She is lying down, having been up all night," answered Rebecca. "I can probably serve thee."

"Oh, that reminds me!" said Captain Lovelace. "I hope the poor woman was no worse for her fright yesterday—I mean the Methodist ranter's wife."

"She is no worse," was the brief reply.

I saw Captain Lovelace's face clear up with an expression of relief.

"I am glad to hear it," said he, heartily.

"You need not have troubled yourself," said Lady Throckmorton, languidly. "That kind of people are not like us. The blow which shatters the porcelain does not hurt the common clay."

"And you say she was not hurt?" said Captain Lovelace, forgetting the compliment which her ladyship evidently expected.

"Nay, I said not so," answered Rebecca. "I said she was none the worse, which is true, seeing that she has but changed a painful life here for the rest of the faithful hereafter. She is dead, and also her babe."

"Dead!" said Captain Lovelace, in a kind of whisper. "Dead!" The color all went out of his face, and he had his hand on the counter as if to sustain himself.

"Even so," said Rebecca, calmly. "She passed away at day dawn, praying for forgiveness to her murderers with her latest breath, if that be any comfort to them."

Captain Lovelace did not look as though it were any comfort to him. I never saw a more horrified face. He stood looking at Rebecca as though she held the gorgon's head in her hand instead of a bottle of lavender water.

"Well, well, my good woman, we do not wish to hear her funeral sermon. You may tell Mrs. Thorpe from me that if she expects the patronage of ladies of fashion, she must not make her house an asylum for ranters. She will not find her account in it, as I for one shall withdraw my custom."

Now Rebecca was a little deaf, and, like some others in the same case, she could make her deafness serve her turn when she did not wish to hear or to understand. She did so in this instance.

"Account—didst thou wish for thy account? Oh yes, I can give it thee at once," said she, and, opening a drawer, she drew forth a formidable looking paper of several pages. "Friend Thorpe has had it ready for several days. Perhaps thou wouldst like to take it home and look it over, or if thou dost prefer, I can send it to thy husband."

"Pshaw!" said Lady Throckmorton. "The woman is deaf and stupid as a post. Captain Lovelace, will you come home and dine with us, or shall I set you down any where?"

"Your ladyship must excuse me," said Captain Lovelace. "I—I am too disordered to be fit company for your ladyship. I feel myself very unwell."

And, not even waiting to hand her ladyship to her carriage, as she evidently expected, he pulled his hat over his brows and walked away.

That very afternoon, Mr. Cheriton received a twenty-pound note, with an anonymous request that he would apply it to the funeral expenses of Mrs. Edwards, and give the remainder, if any, to her husband.

The next day, the town was ringing with the news that Captain Lovelace and some other gentleman, after a deep carouse, had fallen out over the gaming table, had fought a duel at daybreak, and were both lying dangerously wounded—Captain Lovelace probably fatally so. Truly the sorrow of the world worketh death. He did not die, however. After a very long and tedious illness, he was able to be abroad once more, and for the rest of his life, was as remarkable for sobriety and earnestness as he had formerly been for the reverse.

Mrs. Edwards' funeral was a little hurried, as Mr. Wesley was obliged to leave town. I never saw such a concourse of people as were gathered together. The church-yard was literally packed, but there was not the least disturbance. When Mr. Wesley and Mr. Cheriton came out of the church to meet the coffin at the gate, every one made way for them, and many a rough head was uncovered as the little procession passed by. The spot selected for the grave was close by our garden wall, so that Amabel and I in our bow window could see and hear all that went on. I was deeply affected, as all thoughtful persons must be, by the wonderful solemn beauty of the English service.

"Is it not beautiful?" said I.

"Yes, indeed; I should like to read it over by myself. But hush, Mr. Wesley is going to speak."

"'He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and he that liveth and believeth on me shall never die.'"

These were the words Mr. Wesley took as the text of his address. In all that vast multitude, you might have heard a pin drop, as in carefully measured sentences, in that full melodious voice, restrained in the midst of his utmost earnestness, he spoke of the promises of everlasting life to the believer, of the certainty of death and judgment, of the awful nearness of the eternal world, and besought all to make their calling and election sure while yet the choice was in their power. I saw Mr. Cheriton standing, in fixed and absorbed attention, by Mr. Wesley's side.

When all was over, the multitude dispersed very gravely and silently, with hardly a word spoken. I saw but two faces which expressed decided disapproval. These belonged to the old clerk and the still older sexton. We had learned to know these worthies well, and had quite won the heart of the latter by carrying some custards of our own concocting to his poor, toothless, bed-ridden wife.

Mr. Cheriton, as I said, stood in fixed attention till the discourse was ended, and the people had for the most part withdrawn. Then he put his arm within Mr. Wesley's.

"Come into my house and dine with me!" said he earnestly. "Come, I must have more talk with you; you have put many new thoughts and feelings into my head, and heart. Come and tell me what to make of them."

The two gentlemen walked away together, and entered the sashed door, which opened from the church-yard, and led—so Mrs. Thorpe had told us—into the Rector's study.

"What dost thou think of that, John Sexton?" asked the clerk of the other old man, who was diligently fitting the sods over the grave of poor Mrs. Edwards and her babe.

"I like it not—I like it not, Master Tubbs!" replied the sexton. "There were never no such goings on in my young days. I haven't lived to be eighty-six and as able to do my work as ever I was—yes, and one as has kept his church regular ever since he can remember—yes, and helped my father in this very church-yard, as he did his father and grandfather afore him; to be called a miserable sinner at my time of life, except it be by yourself and parson, in the regular way of business, Master Tubbs. I don't say as they did right as brought the poor woman and her babe to this pass—nor neither do I say it is right to have Methodists and Ranters a preaching in this here church-yard of St. Anne's, either."

"Mr. Wesley is a regular clergyman of the Church of England; so Mr. Cheriton tells me, and he ought to know," remarked Master Tubbs dubiously. "But who ever heard of a regular-bred parson going out into the fields and preaching to colliers and such trash, at five o'clock in the morning? And that Mr. Wesley did this very morning on Chowdene Fell."

"So I hear!" returned the clerk. "More than that, Master Smith, the butcher in our street, was coming home from buying fat sheep, and he stopped to listen. 'More shame for you, Master Smith, and you with a family pew of your own in church,' says I.

"'You wouldn't say so, Master Tubbs, if you'd heard 'im,' says he. 'Why, those foul-mouthed men and women—as never used a good word in their lives unless it was to swear by it, stood with the tears running down their black grimy faces, when Mr. Wesley preached to them about their sins being washed whiter than snow. And when he had ended, they all crowded round him to get a word; and one after another was crying and saying—

"'"What shall I do to be saved?" and "Oh Master Wesley, can such a sinner as I be saved?"'

"'That just shows the truth of what I say, Master Smith,' says I. 'When did you ever see any one with the tears running down under Mr. Cheriton's preaching or Doctor Thurston's,' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'it seems to me like what it says in the Scripture about going to seek the sheep that was lost.'

"That was a little too much for me, and says I, very dignified like—

"'Master Smith, I bid you good morning. I've been clerk of this here parish thirty year, and I don't think it becomes me, to stand and hear the Scripture applied to colliers and ballast men,' says I, and I walked off."

"Parson's taken up with Mr. Wesley, anyhow!" said the sexton doubtfully. "He carried him home with him."

"I wish it may end well, that's all!" returned Master Tubbs. "I don't want our church crowded with poor folks, as it was last Sunday. Ours has been the most select congregation in town and I don't want to see it otherwise in my day."

For myself, I can hardly tell how the discourse affected me. It was so utterly different from anything I had ever heard before, that I knew not what to make of it. I wanted time to analyze my feelings and thoughts. We sat silent awhile, and then Amabel spoke suddenly.

"Lucy, I am going to read the Bible."

"After promising not to read any heretical books!" said I.

"I have been thinking of all Mr. Wesley said to us!" she replied. "I don't see how the Bible can be called a heretical book. As far as I understand, there are several different kinds of Protestants, and all of them seem to have scholars of their own. If one made a great error in the translation, the others would be sure to find it out, and show it up—yet it seems they all use the same translation."

"Mother Assistant used to say, that all the sectaries in Christendom became so by reading the Bible!" said I. "She said if every body came to read it and judge it for themselves, there would be an end of the church. I never could understand how that could be. But what did you think of Mr. Wesley's sermon? It was not much like one of Father Brousseau's, was it?"

"Not at all like it! But if you ask what I think, I don't know; only I think it is beautiful in him, to go and preach to the poor colliers that no one has cared for. It is like what we used to hear of St. Vincent de Paul, among the poor. I wish I could hear him once more."

We saw no more of Mr. Wesley that night, only I looked out before I went to bed, (it was as bright moonlight as we ever have in England,) and saw two dark figures pacing arm in arm, up and down the paved walk which led from the rectory door to the church porch, and from their relative size, I concluded that they were Mr. Wesley and Mr. Cheriton.

The next morning, Mr. Wesley came to bid us good-bye. He thanked Mrs. Thorpe in warm terms for her kindness to his poor brother and sister as he called them, and delicately offered to repay any charges she had been at, concerning them. But this Mrs. Thorpe positively declined.

"I did but do as I would be done by!" said she. "Any woman would have a heart harder than the nether mill-stone, who should refuse help to another woman in her case. How a man of sense such as poor Mr. Edwards seems to be, should expose his wife to such peril, passes my comprehension. 'Twas sheer madness."

"He was taking his wife to Berwick to pass the time of her trouble with her own mother, whom she had not seen for many years!" replied Mr. Wesley. "He had preached at the Sandgate before, and had never met with any disturbance; nor do I think there would have been any had the people not been set on."

He then turned to Amabel and myself, who were standing behind Mrs. Thorpe, as we had just risen from breakfast.

"And to you, my dear young ladies, what can I say but to thank you, and leave you the blessing of a unworthy sinner. Be sure you will be in my prayers, and my thoughts, and perhaps we may meet again. Meantime, will you accept and read these books?"

He opened a parcel which he carried, and presented us each with a pretty copy of the New Testament. Then once more bidding us farewell, he went his way, passing through the shop, where stood Mrs. Wilson, Lady Throckmorton's woman, selecting some ribbons for her mistress. As Mr. Wesley passed her, she gave vent to a modish oath, asking perdition to take her, if she could find anything fit to be seen.

"Madam!" said Mr. Wesley. "I advise you to consider your words. It may be that perdition will overtake you, whether you find what you seek or not."

Mrs. Wilson started with a kind of suppressed shriek, and then trying to put a bold face on it, she lifted her impudent black eyes to Mr. Wesley's face. But they fell again instantly before his, nor did she speak another word till he left the shop.

CHAPTER XIII.

NEWS AND CHANGES.

I DO not believe any book was ever devoured with more earnest curiosity and attention, than those Mr. Wesley gave us.

All our books of amusement were laid aside for the time, and though we still practised our music lessons, it was as a matter of duty.

We were equally amazed at what we found, and what we did not find. Above all were we surprised, that so little was said about the Holy Virgin, and the invocation of the Saints and we began to think the Book must, after all, be a Protestant forgery, till a lucky discovery set us right. Mrs. Thorpe observed—as what did she not observe?—how closely we were occupied in our new studies, and one day she came up with a key in her hand.

"I am thinking, young ladies, that since you are so taken up with the books Mr. Wesley gave you, you may like to compare them with the Bible used in your own church. I know my father had one among his books—ah yes! Here it is," and she took down a good-sized volume, and laid it on the table.

"The books ought all to be taken down, and dusted oftener than they are!" she added. "But I do not like to trust Betsy, and Mrs. Crump and I have been too busy lately, to see to them."

I at once offered to undertake the care of the books, and Mrs. Thorpe left me the key, saying she was sure there was nothing among them to do me any harm. They were not indeed likely to do me either harm or good, consisting as they did, mostly of books of divinity, volumes of sermons, and other heavy reading not likely to be attractive to a young person. I found among them, however, Mr. Evelyn's life of Mrs. Godolphin, and some other memoirs, which I read with pleasure and profit.

We studied the Bible Mrs. Thorpe had handed us—the Douay Bible as it is called, from the place where it was published—and were surprised to find, that though the notes contained a great deal about the Virgin, the Saints, etc., there was no more in the text, than in that of the books Mr. Wesley had given us.

"How I wish we had some one to teach us!" said Amabel, rather impatiently.

"Perhaps Mrs. Cropsey will be able to do so when she comes!" I answered. "But, Amabel, I wonder what becomes of Mr. Cheriton."

We had got into the way of exchanging a few words with this gentleman almost every day, either in the garden, or as we met him in our walks, which we did rather frequently. But we had never seen him to speak to him, since Mr. Wesley's visit, and we had heard from Mrs. Thorpe—it being Sunday—that he did not preach that day, his place being supplied by one of the curates from St. Nicholas.

"I heard the old clerk say, that Mr. Cheriton was gone away for a few days, but would be back before next Sunday," answered Amabel. "I wish Mr. Wesley would come back and preach again."

"Perhaps he will; I heard he was going northward, and would return this way. If he preached in the church, I should like to go and hear him. Do you know, Amabel, I think I shall go to church with Mrs. Thorpe next time; you know she always goes on Friday morning. I do want to see what a Protestant church is like, and I am sure there is no harm in the prayers, for I have read them all through."

So I had in a prayer-book I had found in the book-case.

"Some things in them are the same as ours," remarked Amabel, thoughtfully. "The 'Te Deum' and the Magnificat and the Psalms are the same. And I like the Collects very much, they say so much in such few words."

"Kesiah Lee says the Methodists and Mr. Wesley too, pray to God in their own words, and ask Him for what they need," said I. I said that seemed like great presumption, and she said that so long as He was really our Father, it seemed as if we ought to be as free to go to Him as to our earthly Father.

"St. Theresa used to make prayers, I know," said Amabel; "it is in her life. But then she was a saint."

"Well, St. Paul says all God's people are called to be saints. We will ask Mrs. Cropsey about it; she is coming to-morrow, you know."

But Mrs. Cropsey was not destined to be any great help to us when she came. She was a pretty little woman in widow's weeds, who was so obviously scared at the charge she had undertaken that our awe of her was speedily changed into compassion. It was well for her that we had previously been taught obedience and docility, for I am sure we should never have learned them from her. She was an admirable musician, and sung charmingly, but as to any thing else, we were as able to instruct her as she us.

One thing she did teach us, however, and that was to read English properly. She had a very ladylike way of speaking, free from provincialisms and accent, and under her tuition, we speedily got rid both of our French ways—Gallicisms, Mr. Lilburne termed them—and the Northumbrian tones and forms of expression which we had engrafted upon them. We read aloud to her in the poets and in some history of England—I forget whose—only know it was dreadfully dry and stupid, but by good luck we found the great folio of Stowe's "Annales" among the books in our book-cases, and that most entertaining writer got us over our dislike to the study of history.

Mr. Lilburne, finding that we had a thirst for knowledge, proposed to give us lessons himself in geography and arithmetic twice or thrice a week. We soon settled into ways almost as regular as those we were used to at St. Jean. We studied and practised in the morning under Mrs. Cropsey's superintendence, (I was more interested in my music after I found out that I had a voice,) devoted two or three hours to needlework after dinner, walked out with Mrs. Cropsey, who, by the way, was not nearly so entertaining a companion as good Mrs. Crump, and spent our evening as before—studying our Bibles.

We did not find in Mrs. Cropsey the help we had hoped for in this latter pursuit. It is true we read a chapter with her every morning according to the calendar, but she did not encourage us to ask questions about what we read, and, indeed, evidently disliked to have us do so. She was one of those numerous persons who make use of the Scriptures and certain religious forms as if they were a kind of spell or incantation to bring good luck upon them, rather than a real intercourse with a real person. She had never been taught to think for herself in any thing, and had taken all her opinions, if such they could be called, from her father and her husband. She was terrified at the very name of Mr. Wesley, and besought us, even with tears, not to become Methodists, of which there was at present no great danger, seeing that we did not even know what a Methodist was.

"They are subverters of the Church and State, my dears," said she. "What can happen when the commonest people are taught to think that they may know their sins forgiven, and they themselves children of God, but that they should think themselves equal to the best in the land?"

"It does seem as if that might be true," remarked Amabel, thoughtfully, "because if one was really the child of God, one could not very well hold any higher rank. Perhaps that is the reason the king of France objected so much to the Protestants."

"But I think the Catholic Church teaches much the same thing," said I. "You know that even in France, a man who is a priest may command the king himself to do him reverence, though the priest may be a bourgeois or even a peasant by birth."

"And yet there are many convents where none, but the daughters of noble families are admitted," said Amabel. "It was so in our house in former times. Don't you know how, when it was reformed under the Mother Angelique, a house of the same order was founded at Toulon for the daughters of bourgeois? But I don't believe Mr. Wesley wishes to subvert the government, Mrs. Cropsey. Kesiah Lee says he prays for the king, and so do the preachers."

"My dear, don't speak of him," said Mrs. Cropsey, nervously. "I am sure such doings as his are not proper, or they would have been found out before. Besides, my late lamented husband knew him at Oxford, and he has told me often and often that he and his brother, Charles, belonged to a knot of young men who used to do all kinds of odd things—visiting the people in the jails and almshouses, and praying with them, and receiving the sacrament every Sunday. Why, Mr. Cropsey said there was a man in prison who was hung for forgery—he wrote a man's name for the sake of getting ten pounds—and Mr. Wesley went to see him, and talked and read to him, till he actually made him believe that his sins were pardoned, and he was going straight to paradise."

"Well, there was the thief on the cross!" said Amabel. "I dare say he had done worse than write a man's name for ten pounds, and the Lord promised Paradise to him."

But Mrs. Cropsey evidently thought that an entirely different matter. She was made so evidently uneasy with our questions, that we ceased to ask them, and should have gone on working out our puzzles by ourselves, I dare say, had it not been for Mr. Lilburne.

This gentleman had once been in deacon's orders, but his voice failing him entirely, and having an uncommon genius for instrumental music, he had taken to that entirely for a living. But he was well instructed in the Scriptures in their original tongues, and was besides a man of earnest and sincere piety. He happened upon us one evening when we were in the midst of our Bible reading, and heard us discussing some matter on which he was able to help us. From that time, a Bible lesson formed part of his regular instructions to us. He was in some sort a clergyman, so Mrs. Cropsey thought he must needs be all right as to his orthodoxy. She used to sit by and listen to his instructions with a very puzzled face, but I think she did acquire some new ideas after all. However, I am running ahead of my story.

The next Friday we went to morning prayers at St. Anne's—the first time I ever saw the inside of a Protestant church. It was a very old building, and made me think at once of the choir at St. Jean's. But the chancel was half taken up with two great square packing-boxes of family pews, and there were others on each side. The pulpit, a great carved pile, over-topped the reading-desk and communion table, and had a little door at the back for the minister, which reminded me at once of the door in Mrs. Crump's cuckoo clock. This pulpit, I learned afterwards, was a comparatively new erection, and was considered by every one a great improvement.

There were very few people in church, not more than a dozen, and they were for the most part poor people who sat on the narrow hard benches in the middle aisle. I observed Mrs. Bunnell in Lady Throckmorton's pew, and a few elderly ladies were scattered up and down the church.

Mr. Cheriton read the service. I thought him much changed since I last saw him; he looked somewhat thinner, and a little more haggard, but his face had a calm, resolved, and peaceful expression. His voice was as melodious and well-managed as ever, but had a new ring of earnestness in it. When he read that wonderful confession, he seemed to put new life and meaning into the words. One perceived that he felt himself a miserable sinner—one of those lost sheep whom the Lord came to seek and to save. It was all the difference between the outbreathings of a truly penitent sinner, and the elocution of a fine actor.

When the prayers were over, Mr. Cheriton spoke a few words on the Gospel, which was that for St. Matthew's day. He pictured the surprise and disgust of the proud self-righteous Scribes and Pharisees, at the approach of the despised publicans and sinners—their utter amazement as Jesus sat down to meat with them—the rebuke with which the Lord met them and the tenderness with which he turned to the poor people who were hanging on his words as he said, "'I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'"

"Is there—" said Mr. Cheriton in conclusion—"is there a heart here, which feels itself bowed down under the load of sin, which it would fain cast off, but cannot? Is there one of you knowing himself to be a lost sinner, and seeing no way of escape? Then the Son of Man is come to seek and save you. Come and cast your burdens on him—come and confess all your sin—the plague, it may be secret or open, of your own heart—come and say like the poor leper, 'If thou wilt, thou canst make me clean!' And be assured, His gracious hand will be stretched out with the words, 'I will! Be thou clean.'"

I saw a poor faded creature, who had come in late and shrunk into a corner, burst into tears and bow her head on the bench before her. Others looked at each other as though they could not tell what to make of it; and I saw one or two smiles of contempt mingled with wonder.

"But to those who are satisfied with themselves!" continued Mr. Cheriton. "The Pharisees who think themselves good enough already, and look down on their fellow sinners as if they were worms of the dust—to you, if such there be here—the Holy One hath another message. 'Thou sayest I am rich, and increased with goods and have need of nothing; and knowest not, that thou art wretched, and miserable, and pour, and blind, and naked.'"

I can give no notion of Mr. Cheriton's manner as he said these words, and the verse following them. They concluded the discourse, which did not take up ten minutes in all. He then finished with a collect and the benediction.

I saw Mrs. Bunnell's good plain face, bright with satisfaction. Poor Master Tubbs in his desk, looked utterly dazed and confounded. Two or three maiden ladies—or so I judged them to be, conferred together, with somewhat sour and indignant faces. Most of the poor women in the free seats seemed pleased, and I saw two of them shake hands, as those who congratulate each other on some delightful event. After a moment's whispered colloquy, they approached the poor creature I have mentioned who sat sobbing in her corner, and after a little talk, they assisted her to rise, arranged her somewhat disordered dress, and led her away still weeping between them.

"Do you see that?" said Mrs. Thorpe, pointing out the group to Mrs. Crump.

"I see—poor thing!" said Mrs. Crump, compassionately. "I am glad to see any one befriend her. To think how I remember that girl—a perfect rose-bud in her poor mother's house—and to see her now trampled, as it were, in the very mire of the streets."

"Who is she?" I ventured to ask.

"One whose name even I would not have you know," said Mrs. Thorpe; "and yet I might make her the text of a sermon. She was one who would needs judge and decide for herself where she would go, and what she would do, and whom she would consort with. She fell into wicked hands, as was to be expected, broke her mother's heart, and brought her gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, was the plaything of an hour to be cast out and trodden under foot of man."

"She must have felt as though the sermon was meant for her," said Mrs. Crump. "I am glad Joan Bristall has taken her up. But what did you think of the sermon?"

"That is more than I can tell you just now," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "I must think it over. I know it came home to me as no sermon ever did before, except Mr. Wesley's the other day at Mrs. Edwards' funeral."

"I thought it savored a good deal of enthusiasm," said Mrs. Cropsey, nervously. "I hope Mr. Cheriton is not going to turn out an enthusiast like Mr. Wesley. What a dreadful thing it would be!"

"What is an enthusiast?" I asked.

"An enthusiast? Why, a person who is enthusiastic—a person who—really, my dear, I don't quite know how to explain it—but it is very dangerous to be an enthusiast in religion. Mr. Cheriton has always been such a comfortable preacher, and such a favorite with everybody. It would be a great pity, if he should run away after enthusiasm like poor Mr. Wesley and his brother."

Saturday was a holiday, and Mrs. Thorpe, leaving the shop in charge of Rebecca, carried us off for a long walk into the country, bringing up at a farmhouse belonging to a cousin of hers, who had a famous dairy. The good woman, who was a widow with several tall sons and daughters, made us very welcome, and regaled us with all sorts of country dainties. Here, too, the conversation turned on the Methodists.

"Eppie, my dairy-woman, is wholly taken up with them," said she, "and so is her husband. Mrs. Thirlwall, our rector's wife, was here yesterday dealing with me to turn them away, because they went to the Methodist preaching at five o'clock on Sunday morning up on the Fell, and again to what they call—what is it, Meg?"

"A class meeting," said Meg.

"Yes—a class meeting at Mary Chewrel's cottage in the evening."

"'But,' says I, 'Mrs. Thirlwall, don't Hodge and Eppie go to church? I thought I saw them stay to the sacrament.'"

"'Yes, they did,' answers the lady."

"'Well,' says I, 'so long as they goes regular to church and sacrament, and does their work regular, and as well or better than they ever did before, I don't see as I has any call to discharge two old servants,' says I."

"And then she says, 'Mrs. Thirlwall does,'" added Meg, taking up the tale as her mother paused for lack of breath. "'But, Mrs. Davis, I tell you they are not content with that, but they have meetings in their own cottage, where they sing hymns.'"

"'Would you rather hear Hodge singing songs on the ale-bench?' mother says she."

"And I like Mr. Wesley's hymns," added Meg, with decision. "I think the words and tunes are beautiful."

"Why, how do you know them?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.

Mrs. Davis looked a little embarrassed.

"Well, you know my poor Annie has been in a very low-spirited and dwining way ever since her misfortune. One could hardly get a word out of her by times for days together, and she took no interest in any thing. I was much afraid she would go out of her mind. But somehow, I don't know how, Eppie get talking with her, and one evening she says to me—

"'Mother, if you don't say no, I want to go and hear the Methodist preacher on the Fell to-morrow morning.'

"I was that surprised that I did not know what to think, for she had hardly spoken for a month, and you know she has felt that hard toward me that she would not look at me if she could help it. Now what would you have done, Cousin Thorpe?"

"I should have let her go."

"Well, and so I did. Says I, 'Nan, my dear, you may go, and welcome, if you will let Meg go with you, for you know you are not very strong,' says I, 'and I should feel easier in my mind if I knew she was along.'

"So they were up and away before it was fairly light. I waited with some anxious thoughts for her to come home, and the minute she got in, I saw that some change had come over her. It was like as if a hard set mask had fallen, and showed my own Nan's face underneath as it used to be before she saw that—well, I won't call him by name.

"'Well, Nan, did you have a good preaching?' says I.

"Up she comes to me and casts herself right on my neck. 'Mother,' says she, 'I've been a wicked, undutiful, self-willed girl to you. I was bound to have my own way, take me where it would, and when I couldn't, I was determined to die. But the Lord has showed me my sin, and I've given it all up to Him,' says she, raising of her eyes. 'It's all over now. Mother, forgive me, and I will try to be your own Nan again.'

"And then I kissed and hugged her," concluded the good mother, wiping her eyes, and she put on her apron and fell to serving breakfast just as she used to do. "I am afraid she isn't long for this world, but it is a joy to see her happy once more. Now do you wonder that I haven't a word to say against the Methodists?"

"I am sure, I do not," answered Mrs. Thorpe.

"Where is Nan?" I dreaded to ask for her after all I had heard.

"She is gone down to Judy Lechmire's to make her bed, and carry her some broth, and read the Bible to her a bit. Judy is bed-rid, and she does not get too much kindness, for she has been a bad 'un in her day, surely and the folk hereabout do take her for a witch. Here comes Nan now."

I glanced out of the window and saw approaching, a tall pale girl with the red-gold hair and clear skin so common in these parts. She looked ill, and moved languidly; but her face was the very abode of peace. She greeted us kindly, and seemed particularly glad to see Mrs. Thorpe.

"After dinner Nan and Meg shall sing you one of their hymns!" said Mrs. Davis. "For Meg is as wholly taken up with them as her sister. And though the church is good enough for me, I won't deny that the Methodists have worked such a change as I could never have believed, if I had not seen it, among the wild folks hereabouts, specially the colliers."

Accordingly Anne and Meg sung for us with much feeling, that hymn of Mr. Wesley's, beginning—

"Jesus, lover of my soul."

They both had sweet well-regulated voices, and I am sure I never enjoyed any music more.

While we were driving home, Mrs. Thorpe told us something of poor Nan's history. She had fallen in with a young man in the neighborhood, a suitable match enough for all that at first appeared; but by what seemed an accident, Mrs. Davis discovered beyond all doubt that the man in question was a drunkard, a gambler, and an utterly worthless wretch. All this decided Mrs. Davis that the match must be broken at once.

But Nan, on the news being opened to her, absolutely refused to believe the accusations against her lover, till he proved the truth of them beyond question, by going off with the pretty giddy wife of a laborer on his father's farm. The news threw poor Anne into a fit of something like frenzy, which passed into the sullen melancholy that Mrs. Davis had described. She often refused food for days together, nor would she speak to her mother, whom she blamed with the wilfulness of partial insanity for all that had happened.

"And I am sure 'tis no wonder my poor cousin Davis should like the Methodists, since they have given her back her daughter!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have heard that the preachers made people crazy, but this does not seem like it." *

* Mr. Wesley seems to have had a strange power over the insane. See several accounts in his wonderful journal.

The next morning we were in church betimes, for from what she had heard, Mrs. Thorpe said she had no doubt there would be a great crowd, since the fame of the Friday lecture had gone abroad, and the matter was much talked about.

So it proved. People kept coming and coming, till every seat of the church was occupied and many persons stood in the aisles, and passage-ways. Lady Throckmorton was in her pew in the chancel, with a bevy of smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen, nodding, passing snuff-boxes, whispering and curtsying to friends all over the church, as freely as in a theatre. The free seats were filled with poor folks and some gentry as well. I thought Lady Throckmorton was trying to make Mr. Cheriton look at her, but if so, she did not succeed, for he never turned his eyes towards her, more than if she were not present.

As the service went on, a hush gradually fell upon the congregation. Voice after voice chimed in with the responses, and there was a truce to the whispering and nodding among the fine folks; only Lady Throckmorton and two or three of those about her, kept it up after the sermon began, but even with them, there was a hush as the text was announced.

"God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life."

I cannot pretend to analyze the sermon. I only know that it seemed to bring me just what I wanted.

Ever since I could think at all, I had felt a certain void in my heart which nothing seemed to supply. I had learned to fear the Father, as I said, as some far off Ruler, in whose hands I was a helpless, useless atom, and the Son, as my stern inexorable Judge; but I had never thought of loving them. All my love was for the Holy Virgin and the Saints. But no creature however exalted can satisfy the cravings of an awakened nature. I felt myself blindly groping in the dark, as it were, for some hand to lead me; some help to support me. I was haunted by the dread of death, and what should come after it—of that tremendous spectre of purgatory which the Roman church hath set up, to haunt the death-beds—not so much of impenitent as of penitent sinners. I longed to be good; but I found that when I would do good, evil was present with me.

Even while in the convent, I had wearied desperately of the round of "good works" so-called, the endlessly repeated prayers, the fasts and vigils, and hour long "meditations," when I never could tell at the end of the hour what I had been thinking about. Since I had come to Newcastle, I had left off all these exercises to a great degree, but my conscience had never been easy under the omission.

And there was another thing that haunted me. There was now no priest in Newcastle or very near; suppose I should die suddenly and without the sacraments. Suppose it should be a mortal sin after all, to read the Bible and listen to the English prayers, and I should die without the opportunity of confession. All these considerations made me very unhappy at times.

But now I learned that the Father was indeed my Father—that he had loved me, even me, with a love such as no human creature could so much as understand—that he desired my salvation far more than I did, and that instead of making the way hard, he had made it easy—so easy indeed, that it was hard to take in, by one who had always been taught that salvation was a thing to be earned.

But as Mr. Cheriton went on with his calm discourse, bringing text after text, passage after passage, to the support of his argument, I seemed to be assured that all was true. Yes, here was one I could—I did love and believe in—one to whom I could and did trust myself, for time and for eternity; and such a sweet peace descended upon my soul, as I have no words to describe. I glanced at Amabel. To my surprise I saw her color raised, and her lips compressed, while her eyes had that peculiar dilation, and raising of the eye-brow, which showed she was excited and displeased.

The sermon being closed, Mr. Cheriton gave notice that he should preach again in the afternoon, and then after a slight pause, he said—

"If there are any in the congregation, who wish for personal religious conversation or instruction, I shall be glad to meet them in the vestry after afternoon service. I will also give notice that the children of the parish will be catechised by me, next Sunday afternoon, after evening prayers."

People exchanged looks of surprise, and Master Tubbs looked as if he thought the rector had taken leave of his senses.

Mrs. Thorpe's seat was quite near the chancel, and as we waited a little for the crowd to disperse, saw Lady Throckmorton waylay Mr. Cheriton as he descended from the pulpit to the vestry.

"Well, Mr. Cheriton, you have given us a fine discourse this morning!" said she, in her light mocking tone. "Pray, do you intend to take a leaf out of Mr. Wesley's book, that you are preaching up faith and love at such a rate? But come, since you have enchanted us all with your eloquence, come home and dine with me?"

"Your ladyship must excuse me!" said Mr. Cheriton bowing.

"Oh! We are too good to dine out on Sunday any more, I suppose. We shall soon see you mounted on a table and preaching to the ballasters and sailor's women in the Sandgate, or to the Chowdene colliers, like your great apostle of ranters himself."

"Madam!" returned Mr. Cheriton. "I wish with all my heart you had never seen me in any worse place!"

And bowing again, he passed to the vestry and shut the door.

We walked home very silently, and went up to our room almost without speaking a word. When we had laid aside our hoods, I got out my Testament to read the chapter from which the text had been taken.

"What did you think of all that?" said Amabel abruptly.

"I liked it!" I answered. "It made me happy—happier than ever I was before—to think that the Lord should be my friend, that he should love me and desire my salvation so much as to—" And here I broke down and wept, as though my very soul would dissolve in tears.

"Well, why do you cry then?" said Amabel rather tartly.

"I don't know, unless it be for joy!" I answered, striving to compose myself. "It seems such a burden lifted off from one's shoulders, to think that one has not to earn one's salvation; that all that which we could not do for ourselves has been done for us, and we have only to take it."

"That is what I do not like, and cannot believe!" said Amabel with energy. "It just does away with all merit—don't you see that it does? And makes us all alike miserable beggars. According to what Mr. Cheriton said this morning, the greatest saint that ever spent his life in prayers and penances, is just as much dependent on undeserved mercy, as that poor wretch we saw on Friday."

"Exactly, and that just suits me, because I never had any merit!" said I. "As far as I understand Ur. Cheriton, all we have to do, is to accept of this undeserved mercy—to give up our hearts to Him, and then we are His. Then instead of our good works being payments of so much for so much—trafficking with Heaven, as St. Francis says—they are labors of love—work set by a loving Father to a dutiful child, instead of tasks imposed on a servant or slave by a hard master. Don't you know how Mother Prudentia used to say that love makes easy service?"

But Amabel would not see, or could not. Her pride—one of the strongest traits in her character—was alarmed. She had always been very particular is all religious observances. Her natural gentleness and her pure taste had kept her from open transgression; and she could not bring herself to own that she was as much a lost sinner as any poor fellow-creature on whom all men looked down.

All that week she was clearly very unhappy; but she would not say a word on the subject, either to me or to Mr. Cheriton, who called to see us more than once. I was glad to observe however, that she diligently studied her Bible and prayer-book.

One evening, I observed that when I was ready for bed, she had made no preparation for the same, but was reading on.

"Don't you mean to go to bed, Amabel?" I asked.

"Not just yet!" said she. "Please don't mind me, Lucy, I must sit up awhile."

She kissed me, and I saw she longed to be alone, so I went to bed. Waking up after awhile I saw her kneeling by the table, her head bowed almost to the ground. I did not speak, or show by any movement that I was watching her. She continued in this attitude a long time; indeed, till I went to sleep again. When I rose in the morning, she was sitting by the window still reading in the Testament.

"Lucy, I have given it all up!" said she, the old still light in her beautiful eyes, which showed she was happy once more.

"Given up what, dear!" I asked.

"All the struggle!" said she. "I have seen myself just as I am, and if I had not seen some one else at the same time, I should have given up in utter despair. Oh! What a fool, what a fool I have been. Lucy, I have thought myself a saint, and now when I look back on my life, I can see not one thing to boast of. It has been all self—self—throughout—self-righteousness, self-pleasing, self-exaltation. But I have given all up. I am only too thankful to be received as the poor creature I am. I am contented to leave myself here and hereafter in God's hands; and such a sweet peace has come over me as I cannot describe. Do you think it can be a delusion? Or does it really come from above."

"It comes from above like everything good, I ant sure!" I answered, overjoyed. "Why should you doubt it? Have we not the promise that such peace shall keep our hearts and minds, if we will only let it. But Amabel, Mr. Wesley is coming again on Sunday. You can consult him if you like."

Mr. Wesley preached to a crowded congregation on Sunday, and afterward we had a long conversation in the garden. I cannot repeat all the good advice he gave us, though I am sure I have profited by it all my life. I have never been one of his blind worshipers—to think every thing was right because he did it. On the contrary, I think he made some mistakes. But I do say that a nobler, purer minded, more unselfish person never lived, or one better fitted to be a spiritual guide. To him, the unseen and eternal things were the real things, and all others were but shadows, or at best but means to one great end.

He was far from being the morose, severe man that some people have pictured him. On the contrary, I have never seen any one who enjoyed life more, or carried on his face more clearly the imprint of cheerfulness, and even gaiety.

Mr. Wesley rejoiced greatly over the change which had taken place in St. Anne's Church and its pastor, but he warned Mr. Cheriton that he must make ready to take up the cross, since it surely awaited him, if he persevered in the course he had begun.

"He that would live godly in Jesus Christ must suffer persecution," said Mr. Wesley. "Unhappily, religion is just now at a very low ebb in this our beloved country and Church. Those who should be sentinels are sleeping on their posts, if not going over to the enemy outright, and he who strives to awaken them must expect their enmity, aye, though he prove every word he says to be in agreement with the standards of that very Church he is accused of striving to pull down."

"True," said Mr. Cheriton, "I am taken to task severely for teaching that a man may know his sins forgiven, and that by those who read the Absolution every day. But I dare not condemn my brethren, seeing what mine own life has been," said Mr. Cheriton, sadly. "I am sometimes all but ready to despair when I think of the company I have kept and the scenes I have frequented. But I trust I shall have strength given me to face whatever comes to me in the way of my duty."

CHAPTER XIV.

NEWS.

MR. WESLEY was right in saying that Mr. Cheriton might make up his mind to suffer persecution. He was also right in saying that religion was at a low ebb in the Church of England at that time.

With some most honorable exceptions, pastors seemed to content themselves with a perfunctory performance of such duties as they could not get rid of. They read prayers on a Sunday, when they could not afford a curate at less than a man-cook's wages to do it for them, preached now and then a moral essay, of which the substance was pretty much poor little Betty's—that it was pretty to be good and naughty to be bad—and too often spent the rest of the Lord's day in idle amusements, especially in card playing and light reading.

It was considered to show a want of taste, and even a want of good manners, to mention religion out of church, and any man who showed the least earnestness on the subject was at once dubbed an enthusiast, or suspected of being a dissenter.

Of course, there were honorable exceptions, as I said, among clergy and laity, and there were many humble souls who fed on the sincere milk of the word, and were comforted by those wonderful and glorious prayers which no indifference on the part of the reader could quite spoil.

Into the midst of this state of things descended the Wesleys, preaching the plain unvarnished truths of the Gospel, declaring all men lost sinners, with no way of escape but by personal repentance, and a personal acceptance of the salvation offered to all alike.

Preaching to the poor colliers and miners and others, who had been suffered to live like the brutes and perish like them, teaching them that they, even they, might and ought to sustain personal relations to the God who made them, and setting before them a wonderful ideal of personal purity and holiness, attainable to every one who would seek it in the right way. They did indeed preach deliverance to the captive, and opening the eyes to them that were blind. Doubtless there were among the converts many cases of delusion, many of mere animal excitement, and some of sheer hypocrisy, but no one who knows what was the state of such places as Kingswood and the mining villages in Cornwall, before and after the preaching of the Methodists, can doubt that the good done was greatly in excess of the evil.

Mr. Wesley had already been preaching for several years, and people had become in some degree used to his erratic course. But when Mr. Cheriton, the rector of St. Anne's, son of one of the best families in the country, and probable heir to a title—when he took to preaching faith and repentance, and "all that sort of thing," as Mrs. Cropsey said—his course caused a great sensation.

Still more, when he took to holding week-day services, giving lectures and teaching classes in the poorer parts of the parish, when he talked to the very children in the parish school about loving their Saviour. At first, the novelty of the thing brought many of the genteel people of the town to hear him, but they soon fell off. As the sexton said, they were willing to call them miserable sinners in the way of business, but it was another thing to hear themselves proved so, and to have plainly held up before them, in the clearest Scripture language, the consequences of continuing in such a course. So by degrees, the fine people fell off, and their pews stood empty Sunday after Sunday, while the free seats and those of the trades-people were always crowded.

Then the most outrageous stories were circulated about Mr. Cheriton. He was a drunkard and a gambler. He had half a dozen low intrigues on his hands with girls who came to his classes. He used his influence for the worst purposes, and had been thrashed by the father of one of his victims. We heard plenty of this sort of stuff, for Mrs. Thorpe's shop continued to be a rendezvous for all the fine people, notwithstanding her audacious conduct in taking in the poor preacher's wife.

Mrs. Cropsey, who disapproved vehemently of Mr. Cheriton's course for no particular reason except that Mr. Cropsey had never done so, tried her best to induce us to go with her to St. Nicholas' Church, where the congregation were certainly not disturbed by any extra earnestness on the part of the preacher. But we liked Mr. Cheriton too well to leave him.

We had taken to spending an hour, two or three days in the week, in the school. The old dame, who had been half blind and more than half deaf for a dozen years, had been persuaded to retire on a pension, paid out of Mr. Cheriton's own pocket, and a new mistress had been found in the person of a widowed sister of Mrs. Bunnell, Lady Throckmorton's humble companion. She was a woman of good education, and certainly made a great change in the parish school. The little maids really learned to read, to sew, and to spin, to keep themselves neat, and behave nicely in the church and in the street. It was even proposed to teach them to write, but such an outcry was made at this daring innovation * that the matter was dropped for the present.

* See Mrs. Hannah More's Letters.

I had a knitting class, and Amabel undertook to instruct some of the elder and more promising girls in fine work of various sorts, that they might be prepared to take places as nursery and dressing-maids.

Mr. Cheriton never came to the school while we were there, and, indeed, we saw much less of him than formerly. He was kept very busy and so were we, and I suppose a feeling of delicacy on his part might have had something to do with it. I had seen from the first how greatly he was taken with Amabel, and I presume he thought it would not be honorable for him to try to engage her affections in the absence of any of her relatives.

It was about the first of October, when a letter came from London with sad news. Amabel's step-mother was dead of a fever, taken it was supposed in court whither she had gone with several other fine ladies, to hear sentence pronounced upon a famous highwayman, who had been a terror to all travelers on the North Road for years. It seemed that several of the prisoners brought to the bar at the same time, were suffering from jail fever, and the infection spread to a number of the court officials and spectators, notwithstanding the sweet herbs placed, before them, to ward off such dangers. * Poor Lady Leighton carried the dreadful disease home to her little son, and the two died on the same day.

* See Howard's "Journal" and other memoirs of the time.

It Was not to be expected that Amabel should feel much sorrow for the death of her step-mother whom she had never seen, and who had held very little communication with her, but she grieved sadly over the little brother, about whom she had built many air-castles.

It seems that Mrs. Deborah had written to her brother concerning us, for Mrs. Thorpe received a letter at the same time, thanking her for her care of us, approving the measures taken for our education, and requesting her to continue her guardianship, till such time as the Mrs. Leightons should be able to receive us, or he should make arrangements for our coming to London.

"You will please see that Miss Corbet has her fair share of all my daughter's teachers and other advantages;" the letter concluded. "I consider her a sacred trust committed to my care by her father, who was my dear friend, and her mother, who rendered to my own daughter services which I can never repay. I wish my daughter to form no acquaintances at present." The no was emphasized. "And I wholly approve of your course in that matter, as related to me by my sister Deborah."

Sir Julius sent a sufficient sum to put us both into handsome deep mourning, and requested Mrs. Thorpe to supply us with a certain moderate monthly allowance of pocket money.

This letter put me entirely at my ease, with regard to my future position in life; more so than it would have done, had I known my man better. I have no doubt at all, that Sir Julius meant it at the time; but he was a man easily swayed by those about him, whether for good or ill. His late wife, from all I could learn, was a worthy lady on the whole. I certainly had reason to think well of her, for she left me a pretty remembrance of a necklace and some other trinkets and a small sum of money.

"So you are now your father's heiress!" was Mrs. Cropsey's comment when she heard the news. "I dare say, he will send for you to London, and provide a grand match for you."

"I hope not, I am sure!" said Amabel, looking a little alarmed.

"Oh! But you would like to marry a title, would you not, and have a coach and four of your own, and be presented at court, and all that?"

"I do not want any of these things. They are not at all to my taste."

"Oh! But you do not know because you have not tried them. Look at Lady Throckmorton, how she goes about to the Bath, and Cheltenham, and everywhere she pleases."

"I would rather be the poorest lay sister in a convent—I would rather teach a village school all my days, than to be Lady Throckmorton!" returned Amabel, with more vehemence than was at all common with her. "I think such people as she are the greatest fools in the world. They are like the little silly sparrows Lucy and I saw yesterday, building in the house that was at that moment being torn down. She has her portion in this world, and thinks no more of the other, than as though there was no such thing. Suppose she is killed by an accident, like that poor lady who was thrown from her horse the other day—whose then shall those things be, in which she delights, or what of them all will she carry with her?"

"Oh, my dear!" said Mrs. Cropsey, taken rather aback. "Of course it is right to think of death, and judgment and such solemn matters at proper times, as in Lent and Advent and before the sacrament. But one cannot always be dwelling on them; one owes a duty to the world; as you will find out when you come to go into society."

"Where in the Scriptures is one's duty to the world set forth, Mrs. Cropsey?" asked Amabel, in a tone of simplicity. "I do not remember seeing the place in my reading."

"Oh, my dear, you have taken up such a set of notions from Mr. Cheriton! I am sure it was a bad day for him, when he fell under Mr. Wesley's influence, poor man. Just look at the difference it has made in his church, that used to be so fashionable. Why, he has actually put John Winne out from the organ gallery, because he says it is not fit that a blasphemer and an infidel should lead the people in praising God; the very best voice he had. But talking of Lady Throckmorton, her gaiety is like to come to an end for the present. Have you not heard? Poor Sir John who has been in a declining way so long, has had two strokes. And they say this morning, he can hardly live the day out. So sad for his poor mother; and he has no son either, so all the entailed property will go to Lord Bulmer, who has enough already, one would think. However, they say her ladyship will be left very rich as it is."

We heard the next day that Sir John was dead. He had a grand funeral, being carried all the way to his own mausoleum, at his ancestral home up in the hills. All the black crape and cloth in Newcastle were in requisition to do him honor, and the hearse was one great pile of nodding plumes, while the four grand black horses which drew it stepped off haughtily as if proud, poor things, of their burden of senseless clay.

We heard afterwards through Mrs. Bunnell, that the poor gentleman had earnestly desired to see Mr. Cheriton, but his wife would not permit it; saying that the canting Methodist who had slighted her invitations, should never darken her doors. However, Mrs. Bunnell, who nursed him during his last illness, was able to lead him in the right way, and he died at last in hope and peace.

We stayed on two months longer at Mrs. Thorpe's, for after the Mrs. Leightons left Cullercoats, they went on a round of visits among their acquaintances, and it was not till the first of December that we received letters from Mrs. Deborah, bidding us be in readiness to join herself and sisters, when they should be in Newcastle in a week's time.

This was important, and I must say, anything but welcome news. We had fallen into a very pleasant way of living with Mrs. Thorpe, to whom we were much attached. We were getting on finely in our lessons with good Mr. Lilburne, who had wonderfully enlarged our knowledge of the world we lived in, and we were much devoted to the church and to our work in the schools.

It was no wonder we dreaded the idea of leaving it all and going once more among strangers. Mrs. Cropsey, who (as my readers—if I have any, may already have discovered) was not the most discreet person in the world, did not make matters any better, by lamenting over our banishment to the wilds of Highbeck Hall.

"A wilderness, an absolute wilderness, my dears. No neighbors within a mile or two, and the ladies seeing very little company, and so very peculiar. Why, they say one of them has kept her bed for twenty years, just because of a love disappointment when she was young."

"I never heard of that!" said Amabel.

"Oh! But my dears, I assure you I had it from excellent authority. I do wonder your respected father should send you into such banishment, instead of establishing you in London, with a suitable lady to matronize you, and masters to carry on your accomplishments."

And Mrs. Cropsey, who I fancy, saw in this determination the downfall of certain airy castles of her own, actually shed tears.

"I dare say Sir Julius knows best!" said I, feeling myself a good deal disturbed by the near prospect of the change, but determined to make the best of it. "I am sure Mrs. Deborah was very kind to us when she was here."

"But she is very peculiar—everybody allows that!" said Mrs. Cropsey. "I dare say Sir Julius has not seen much of his sisters of late years, and an heiress like yourself, Miss Leighton, it does seem a pity."

"Mrs. Cropsey!" said Amabel seriously. "My father doubtless has his reasons for disposing of us in this manner. For my own part, I would quite as soon go to Highbeck Hall as to London. At all events, you must see that it is our duty to consent cheerfully to my father's will, whatever it is. Moreover we have the word of One far higher and wiser than Sir Julius himself, 'that all things work together for good to them that love God.' If he sends us to this place, 'tis doubtless because he has something for us to do or to learn there."

"Oh! Miss Leighton, there is no talking to you since you have taken up with such a set of Methodistical ideas," said Mrs. Cropsey, somewhat angrily. "For my part I have not so high an idea of myself and my own consequence, as to think that the Almighty concerns himself with all my notions."

"I suppose I am of as much consequence as a sparrow, and we have His word that every one of them is cared for," answered Amabel composedly. "I see no presumption in taking the Lord at His word and believing what He himself says."

"No presumption in applying the words of Scripture to ourselves? They are meant for the whole human race, and not for individuals."

"If they are meant for the whole human race, then are they meant for every one of the human race," argued Amabel: "and if for every one, then for me."

"Well and logically argued, Mrs. Leighton!" said old Mr. Lilburne, who had come in just in time to hear the last sentence.

"Of course you are against me, Mr. Lilburne!" said Mrs. Cropsey, with wounded dignity. "But you will never persuade me, that this way of using Scripture is right. I know not what my honored father would have said or done, had any of his family presumed to answer him with a text of Scripture, as Miss Leighton does me. But you are bewitched as well as all the rest. I hope you enjoy playing to the trades-people and sailor's wives, with whom Mr. Cheriton has filled his church, as well as to Lady Throckmorton, and Lord Bulmer, and Mrs. Perry—that's all."

"Madam!" said the old man with dignity, "I never in all my life played one note to Lady Throckmorton, or any other fine lady or gentleman. My playing, such as it is, has been addressed to One far more exalted than either—even as the Heaven is higher than the earth—and if He has left the church, I have not yet discovered His absence. Come young ladies, let us make the most of our time, while we have it. I have brought you the score of Mr. Handel's grand oratorio, 'The Messiah,' and I want to hear Mrs. Corbet's voice in that most beautiful song—'I know that my Redeemer liveth'—the most wonderful song ever written, to my mind."

Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Crump undertook our packing for us, so that we might have as much as possible of the time that yet remained for our lessons. Sir Julius had desired Mrs. Thorpe to provide us with a maid—a luxury to which we had never aspired, and which, to say truth, we had not desired. To our great joy, Mrs. Thorpe proposed that we should take her own apprentice, Mary Lee.

"It will be better for the girl than sitting closely at her sewing," said she. "And she is rather too pretty for me to like to take her into the shop at present—I have too many fine gentlemen customers. Mary is a good girl, and well brought up; she understands all sorts of work. I will have her take a few lessons in hair-dressing from Neighbor Frizzle, who will do me so much of a good turn, I am sure."

Mary herself was very well-pleased with the change from an apprentice to a lady's maid, and we had become very fond of her, so we were well suited all round.

The time sped on as fast as time does speed under such circumstances. We made little presents to our scholars at the school, to the old women in the almshouse that we visited, and to the clerk's wife, who lamented greatly over our departure. Master Tubbs had not become any more reconciled to the new state of things at St. Anne's, but he was obliged to allow that his wife was much easier to live with since she had come round to Mr. Cheriton's way of thinking.

"And I can't find it in my heart to blame Mr. Cheriton when I hear the poor thing as used to fret and groan from morning till night and back again, a singing of Mr. Wesley's hymns softly to herself now and again. And when them dreadful pains come on, and she can't help crying out, she says between whiles—"

"'Never mind, David, I'll soon be where there's no more crying.'"

"And Mr. Cheriton comes to see her every week—and such prayers as he makes. No, I can't find no fault young ladies, so long as I sees the poor old woman so happy. But what she will do when you are gone, I don't know, for she says you bring the sunshine whenever you come."

Two more important events were destined to be crowded into this eventful week. One day, when Amabel and I came home from walking, we were met by Mrs. Thorpe with the news that a gentleman had called to see me, and would call again.

"To see me!" said I, surprised. "Are you sure, Mrs. Thorpe?"

"Quite sure, Miss Lucy. He is an elderly man, and gave the name of Corbet, so I fancy he may be some connection to your family. He said he would not wait, but would come again in an hour."

I did not know that I had a relation in the world, though Mrs. Crump had told us that there were still persons of the name living in Cornwall. It may be guessed that I waited with no little impatience and curiosity to see the stranger. He came punctually to his time—an old gentleman, but hale and well preserved, with black eyes and eye-brows like my own. His manner was just that mixture of fatherliness and gallantry which is apt to take young girls, and I was very well-pleased when he gave me what he called his credentials, namely, a letter from Sir Julius Leighton, introducing him as Mr. Andrew Corbet, my father's uncle, and a gentleman of some property in Cornwall.

"Yes, I am your uncle," said he, as I curtsied and gave him my hand, while he kissed my forehead. "Your father was a great favorite of mine, before he vexed me by moving up here into Northumberland. But never mind that now. He was a good man, and I hope his daughter is as worthy of him as she is like him. And this lady, I suppose, is my kinswoman also? On my word, niece, I don't think I was such an old fool after all, in coming all the way up here to find such a pair of relations."

"I am sure it was very good of you, sir," said I, and, indeed, I felt it so, for the journey was a very serious one in those days. "It is a long way to come."

"Oh, I am an old sailor, child, and the distance from Cornwall to Northumberland does not look so great to one who has been two or three times round the world."

"Have you really been round the world?" I asked.

"Yes, niece, more than once, and would like to do it again to-morrow. What say you, girls, shall we charter a fast-sailing vessel and set off on a voyage of discovery?"

"I should like it, but I don't believe Amabel would," said I, feeling myself greatly drawn toward this lively old gentleman. "She was dreadfully seasick coming from France this summer."

"Ah, then I fear we must give up our cruise round the world, and be content with one around Newcastle instead. It is too late this afternoon, but to-morrow, we will go about and see the town a little."

Captain Corbet—such was his title, he having been for many years commander of a great ship trading to India—spent the evening with us, and made himself very agreeable. He told us stories of his travels in all sorts of outlandish places, and gave us a very interesting account of the English colonies in the North America. We were surprised to learn that the people there were quite as civilized as ourselves—that they had churches, schools, and colleges—and were much given to reading.

"They will be an important addition to the British Empire in time," remarked Mr. Cheriton, who had come to pay his respects to my uncle—very kind in him, I am sure.

"It is my opinion that they will not always belong to the British Empire," replied Captain Corbet. "They are growing a great people, and are like enough to set up a nation for themselves some day, though none of us may live to see it."

Nevertheless almost all of us have lived to see it. The British colonies have really set up for themselves after fighting seven years for the privilege, and seem likely enough to do well.

"There is a great difference, sir, between the English and Spanish colonies in the New World," remarked young Mr. Thorpe, who was also present. He was staying with his aunt over at Gateshead, and we saw him now and then, but not often. He had known Captain Corbet in foreign parts, and hearing of him from Mrs. Thorpe, had asked permission to pay his respects to him.

"You are right, Mr. Thorpe, and you will see the same difference every where," answered the captain. "Look at the Swiss cantons, for instance. You can tell the moment, you pass from a Protestant to a Roman Catholic canton, by the look of the farms and the people."

I had seen young Mr. Thorpe several times, though his aunt did not greatly encourage his visits. But he had taken us all to see his ship, and we had gone in company once to visit good Mrs. Davis in the country. He was moreover a constant attendant at St. Anne's, and dutifully gave Mrs. Thorpe his arm home to her own door every Sunday. He was second Lieutenant on board His Majesty's ship the Spitfire, and in a fair way of rising in his profession.

"You are likely to see service, from what I hear in the town!" observed Captain Corbet.

"I believe you are right, Sir. We have heard, though it is not yet fully made known, that we are to join the fleet very soon; and I am glad of it with all my heart, for this recruiting business is not all to my mind. I would far rather be fighting the French, than helping to drag poor fellows from their wives and families, perhaps never to see them again?"

"War is a sad necessity," observed Mr. Cheriton, "and this business of pressing men into the navy is not the least cruel part of it. I heard the other day in Berwick, that a company of poor persons were assembled in a cottage for the purpose of prayer and reading the Scriptures, when a press-gang fell upon them, and carried off the men to the number of ten, including the local preacher."

"Like enough, Sir. Few gangs would miss such a chance, and some of our officers would think it an excellent joke to break up a Methodist meeting in that way."

"But what, sort of sailors will your Methodists make?" asked Captain Corbet.

"Capital, Sir! To judge from the two or three specimens we had last year. One of them was a preacher, and I never saw a man more devoid of fear. He had hard measure from his mates at first, but he bore all so patiently and cheerfully, returning good for evil whenever he had a chance, that the most of them were won to his side. And when he finally died of wounds received in an action, I believe he was lamented by all."

"I dare say you are right!" remarked Captain Corbet. "These Methodists are doing a wonderful work in our parts. I never saw a grander sight, than the great open air amphitheatre of Gwennap, filled from end to end, a sea of upturned faces, intent upon Mr. Wesley's preaching. It was truly wonderful to see how he held all these wild folks, half of whom had never heard a sermon in their lives, or entered a church, except to be christened or married; how they hung upon his words and would hardly let him go."

"They say, or at least some people do, that the effect produced is mere animal excitement, and that half of the converts go back to be as bad as they were before."

"That some of them should do so, is to be expected!" replied Mr. Cheriton. "But I do not believe from what I have myself seen, that nearly so many as half fall away."

"And suppose they did, would that be any argument against Mr. Wesley's preaching?" asked the elder sailor with some warmth. "Would you refuse to go to the rescue of a shipwrecked vessel, because you could probably save only half the passengers?"

"Oh! I have nothing against Mr. Wesley, I assure you!" Mr. Thorpe hastened to say. "I would go to hear him to-morrow, if he came this way; and I like him all the better for talking as though he himself believed what he said. I can understand a man's refusing to consider or believe in the Christian religion at all, but how a man can profess to believe in it, and even make a business of preaching it, and yet be perfectly indifferent and careless about the matter—that passes my comprehension. It seems to me that religion must be all or nothing."

This was the last time but one that I saw Mr. Thorpe before his ship sailed. We met indeed, next day, and exchanged a few words while my uncle was examining a new kind of weather-glass or something of that sort, in an instrument-maker's shop. He bade me good-bye, and gave me a little keepsake—an ivory whistle made of the tooth of a great monster like a crocodile, curiously wrought on the outside, and set in gold, with a little gold chain attached. He told me he had made it himself on shipboard. I don't know; I suppose it was not quite right, but I gave him in return a little prayer-book which I had bought to carry in my pocket. We parted then and there, and I have never seen him since. Ah well!

Amabel had excused herself from going out with us. My uncle took me into a great many fine shops and would have bought innumerable fairings for me, if I had let him. I compounded for a watch, which I really did want, and some books of poetry and history; but he would not be withheld from giving me a fine cloth cloak, or mantle lined with fur, saying that winter was coming on, and I would find Northumberland far colder than I was used to. We had some very serious talk together, and the more I saw of him, the better I liked him.

"I should love dearly to have you with me, my maid, if I were settled any where!" said he, as we walked slowly homeward. "I have neither chick nor child of my own. You are my nearest relation, and almost my only one; save the Stantons in Devonshire, who are too great folks to care for an old fellow like me, though the Corbets were settled there long before the Stanton were ever heard of.

"'Corby of Corby sat at home,

When Stanton of Stanton hither did come.'

So the rhyme runs. However, that does not matter. You are my nearest of kin as I said, and it is but right and natural that I should make you mine heir, though I desired to see you, before the matter was finally settled. But I am more than satisfied with you."

He then told me that his will was already made in my favor, and deposited in the hands of a legal gentleman in Exeter, whose address he gave me, bidding me to keep it carefully.

"He is an honest and worthy gentleman, and will stand your friend if you need one. Meantime do you keep this matter to yourself for the present. I should like, as I said, to have you with me, but I must make one more voyage before I give up the old ship I have sailed in so long, and besides it would not be fair to Sir Julius Leighton to deprive his daughter of her companion."

"Do you know Sir Julius, sir?" I ventured to ask.

"Oh yes, I know him," answered Captain Corbet, with a peculiar accent, which did not escape me. "He is a kind-hearted man in the main, but easily swayed—easily swayed. He was wholly in the hands of his late wife, and it was well for him that she was in the main a good woman. You owe him all duty. But should you need a friend, you can safely apply to Mr. Carey, in whose hands are placed all my small means."

This conversation brought us home to Mrs. Thorpe's door, where we parted for the time. Amabel was not in our room, and I was not sorry to have a few minutes to myself wherein to compose my spirits, which had been considerably shaken by all the events of the morning.

It was a wonderful thing to me that I should be an heiress in ever so small a way, and, of course the prospect was a pleasant one. It set me to thinking what had become of my father's little property in Northumberland, a question which had never occurred to me before, and I determined to find out on the first opportunity.

Mr. Thorpe had said he should call in the evening to say good-bye to his aunt, so I did not look upon our parting as final, though it proved to be so in the end. I was not quite sure I had been right in exchanging keepsakes with him, but I instinctively put off the consideration of that subject for the present.

After a time, looking out of the window, I saw Amabel and Mr. Cheriton in deep conversation over the church-yard wall, just where a neat plain stone had been put up to Mrs. Edwards and her babe. Mr. Cheriton was bare-headed, and seemed very earnest about something. Amabel was looking straight before her, and, though her color was deeper than usual, she did not seem displeased. They parted at last, and Amabel came into the house.

She started at seeing me as though I had been a ghost.

"I did not know you had come in," said she.

"I have been here some time," I answered. "See what I have for you!"

And I displayed the pretty watch like my own which my uncle had purchased for me.

"What were you and Mr. Cheriton talking about so earnestly?" I asked, after Amabel had admired her present sufficiently. "You seemed very deeply absorbed, I thought."

Amabel blushed and looked down a moment. Then she raised her clear shining eyes to me.

"I suppose I had better tell you, though it may never come to any thing," said she. Then after another little pause in which I guessed well enough what was coming—"Mr. Cheriton asked me whether it would be agreeable to me, if he asked my father's permission to pay his addresses to me."

"Oh!" said I, considerably amused. "I suppose of course he would not pay them on any account without your father's consent?"

"Certainly not," answered Amabel, with such grave simplicity that I could not for very shame laugh at her. "That would not be right nor honorable."

"And you told him—"

"I told him that I was very young to think about such matters, but if his parents and mine saw no objection—" and here she made a pause and steadfastly studied the face of her new watch.

"And suppose your father does not consent, and even wished you to marry some one else," said I, rather cruelly, "what will you do then?"

"I will obey him so far as I can in conscience—at least till I am of age," she answered. "But there is no use in thinking about that."

"True," I answered. "'Sufficient unto the day is evil thereof.' Besides, I do not see why it is not a good match. Mr. Cheriton will have a good estate of his own, as I understand, besides being heir to Lord Carew, in Devonshire, if his poor son dies."

"You are not used to be so mercenary, Lucy," said Amabel, with a little indignation in her voice. "I should love—I mean I should like—Mr. Cheriton just as well if he had not a penny to call his own—if he were a poor curate, or a sailor, like young Mr. Thorpe."

This was carrying the war into Africa, as Mr. Lilburne's phrase was, and I hastened to parry the unintended attack.

"And so should I," I answered. "The question with me is what Sir Julius may like. He is a man of the world, you know, and you are his heiress. He may look for a grander match—some one like Lord Bulmer, for instance."

"Lucy!" said Amabel, with flashing eyes. "I would rather lie down in my coffin than marry Lord Bulmer."

"And I would almost rather see you there," I rejoined. "The man is detestable to me."

Amabel was silent again for several minutes, leaning her head on her hand so that I could not see her face. Then she raised it toward me filled with a kind of solemn brightness.

"Lucy, I think I can leave it all in my Father's hands," said she, smiling, though the tears stood on her long lashes. "I am sure He will do what is best for me and for—for Mr. Cheriton. I am quite sure that I shall never marry any one else. That cannot be my duty. But let us not borrow trouble about it. Tell me of your walk. You said you met Mr. Thorpe. Is he really going to-morrow?"

"He really is, and he has given me this little whistle made of a crocodile's tooth, though that is not the word—alligator I think he calls it, though 'tis a creature of the same kind. Is it not pretty?"

But I did not tell her what he had told me—that whoso receives one of these little amulets will surely never forget the giver.

"He is a fine young man," remarked Amabel, after she had admired the little whistle, which had a peculiarly sweet, ringing note. "I shall never forget how he looked when we first saw him, holding up that poor fainting woman. Did you give him nothing in return?"

"Yes, I gave him my little pocket prayer-book!" I answered. "I thought it might be useful and a comfort to him."

"I dare say!" answered Amabel gravely, and then we were both silent for a long time, till we were called to our dinner.

At tea-time, Mrs. Thorpe told us how disappointed she was, that she should not see her nephew again. His ship was to sail with the tide at nine o'clock, and he had sent her a hasty note to say that it was impossible for him to come to bid good-bye. My heart went down as into deep cold water, but I gave no sign as Mrs. Thorpe went on praising the young sailor, saying what a dutiful son he had been to his mother, and how fast he had risen in his profession.

One only beside Amabel gave a guess at my feelings. When my good uncle bade us good-night and good-bye—for he too, was to go early in the morning—he whispered in my ear—

"Keep a good heart, my pretty! There are many more sailors come home than ever are drowned, and the winds are in the hollow of His hand."

True enough. But those who are drowned are drowned just as much, for all that. But there has been no rebellion in my heart, at least I trust not—for many a long year. I have found plenty to do, and have been made to keep house and be a joyful mother of children, though I never had one of mine own.

We had one more Sunday at St. Anne's—one more afternoon at the school, and then came a messenger from Mrs. Deborah to say, that his mistress would be in Newcastle the next day, and hoped to set out for home on Wednesday.

CHAPTER XV.

THE SISTERS.

ON Tuesday afternoon, word came to us, that the Ladies Leighton had arrived at the Queen's Head Inn, and we at once set off to pay our duty to them, accompanied by Mrs. Thorpe herself, dressed all in her best.

The Queen's Head Inn was the oldest in the town, and had always been considered the best till of late, a new hostelry called the Crown had been built and furnished at a great expense by a company of speculators. This new inn or hotel (as it began to be the fashion to call them), was expected to carry off all the custom of the gentry, by its superior accommodation. But the county families of Northumberland, are like other county families—not at all fond of novelties. The Queen's Head continued to be patronized, and the new house was like to be a losing speculation.

The Queen's Head was a great rambling old pile, with tier upon tier of galleries surrounding a spacious court-yard, in which we recognized the family coach of the Leighton ladies, at least Mrs. Thorpe did, for we knew very little of such matters at that time. We were conducted up stairs and along a gallery, and through a passage, and finally found ourselves in a private sitting-room, furnished in a comfortably dingy fashion, where we found the three ladies.

Mrs. Deborah welcomed us with great kindness, and presented us to her sisters in this fashion.

"Sister Philippa, and Sister Chloe, this is our niece Amabel Leighton, and this is Lucy Corbet, daughter of Mr. Walter Corbet, and Mrs. Rosamond Treverthy, and my brother's adopted child."

Mrs. Chloe, who was evidently much the youngest of the three ladies, welcomed us with great cordiality, kissing us on the cheek, and immediately presented us in exactly the same form to Mrs. Philippa, the other sister.

Mrs. Philippa, who had heretofore appeared unconscious of our existence, now rose in her turn and welcomed us, with a little more stiffness in her manner. All three of the ladies then saluted Mrs. Thorpe, with gracious condescension.

"I hope I see you well, nieces!" said Mrs. Deborah.

"Yes, we hope we see you well, nieces!" echoed Mrs. Chloe. "Sister Philippa, no doubt you hope to see our nieces well."

"I hope I see my niece well!" said Mrs. Philippa, biting off the word niece as if she had a spite at it. "I hope also, that I see the other young lady well, but as she is not our niece, I do not understand why my Sister Deborah should call her so. But I never do pretend to understand my Sister Deborah."

"Oh Sister Philippe, I am sure—" said Mrs. Chloe. And then she looked at Mrs. Deborah in an appealing way.

"Miss Corbet is our kinswoman, Sister Chloe, and our brother's adopted daughter, so I see no reason why we should not call her our niece, if she likes to have us for aunts!" she added, relaxing her black brows as she turned to me with a smile.

I was considerably embarrassed, but I could only curtsy and say that she was very kind, and I should be very grateful for her notice.

"Yes, Sister Deborah is very kind!" said Mrs. Chloe. Then in a loud whisper, "You must not mind poor Sister Philippa! She is rather peculiar, but I am sure she means well."

"Sister Chloe, I desire that you will not trouble yourself to apologize for me!" said Mrs. Philippa tartly, hearing or guessing the import of the whisper. "No doubt the young ladies will find me out for themselves. I dare say Miss Corbet is a nice young woman enough, and I have nothing to say against her, though I may not have my Sister Deborah's reasons for adopting her at once."

Mrs. Deborah frowned again, and the color rose in her cheeks, but she did not speak. Mrs. Philippa, having relieved herself as I suppose by saying the most spiteful thing she could think of, became quite gracious, asked us our ages, and seemed surprised when she heard that we had lately passed our eighteenth birthdays.

"Is it possible that it is nearly eighteen years since my brother went abroad?" said she. "Well, well—and you are fine well-grown girls, no doubt, and carry yourselves well. They do you great credit, my good Mrs. Thorpe."

"I have had but little to do with their education beyond supplying them with masters since they have been with me, madam," replied Mrs. Thorpe, curtsying. "All the credit belongs to the good ladies at the French convent, where they were brought up."

"I understand you are Papists," said Mrs. Philippa, turning again to us. "But you must drop all that now. We cannot have Papists in our family, though some people, I believe, have no objection to them."

Again I saw Mrs. Deborah frown, but she did not speak.

Amabel answered quietly that we had attended the Church of England for several months. While I wondered if Mrs. Philippa thought one's religion a thing to be dropped like a hoop-petticoat when it was not convenient.

"You must follow your own consciences about that, nieces," observed Mrs. Deborah. "We shall be glad to have you go to church with us, of course, but no constraint shall be put upon you. Sister Chloe, will you be kind enough to ring for supper? Mrs. Thorpe, you will remain and sup with us."

"Yes, Mrs. Thorpe, you will certainly remain and sup with us," chimed in Mrs. Chloe. "Sister Philippa, no doubt you wish for the pleasure of Mrs. Thorpe's company to supper."

"I hope Mrs. Thorpe will please herself in the matter," answered Mrs. Philippa. "I have no doubt she will have a much better supper at home than we shall, but if she likes to remain, she is quite welcome."

Mrs. Thorpe, who I thought seemed to understand pretty well with whom she had to deal, thanked the ladies, but declined the invitation. "Having," as she said, "business to attend to at home."

"Very well," said Mrs. Deborah. "Do you wish to keep these girls of ours for a night or two more, or shall they stay here with us till we go?"

"I shall be only too glad to keep them as long as I can, Mrs. Deborah," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "I fear I shall miss them sadly when they are gone, for I am sure no one ever had two more agreeable and amiable young ladies in her family."

"I am glad to hear you say so, and it speaks well for both parties," said Mrs. Deborah.

"Yes, indeed, it speaks well for both parties," said Mrs. Chloe! "Sister Philippa, are you not glad to hear Mrs. Thorpe say that the young ladies have been agreeable and amiable?"

"Sister Chloe, I wish you would let me have an opinion of any own now and then," was the reply. "Of course Mrs. Thorpe would say nothing less now that her lodgers are going away. She may expect to have them back at some time."

"I shall only be too glad to have them back at any time, Mrs. Philippa," answered Mrs. Thorpe, with some spirit. "And I only speak what I think in saying that I have never known two better young ladies."

"I dare say you are right, Mrs. Thorpe, and I am sure we are greatly obliged to you for your care of them," said Mrs. Deborah. "I shall see you to-morrow, and talk over a few matters with you. We are going to stay over a day, as we wish to make a few purchases."

Mrs. Thorpe took her leave, and the servant coming to the door at the same moment, Mrs. Deborah ordered supper, Mrs. Chloe agreeing in all she said, and Mrs. Philippa as regularly disagreeing with her.

"If Sister Deborah has no objection, Sister Chloe, I will take supper in my own room," said Mrs. Philippa, rising from the sofa, where she had been lying ever since we had come in. "I am very much fatigued, and not at all in spirits to make me fit to entertain company. Perhaps you will have the goodness to call Tupper."

The person in question being called, accordingly entered from the next room, and giving her arm to Mrs. Philippa led her away, though I must say Mrs. Philippa, did not look as though she stood in need of such help.

We were all the more comfortable for her absence. Mrs. Deborah relaxed her brows, and Mrs. Chloe lost something of her uneasy and apprehensive manner, and seemed as if she were preparing to enjoy herself. She was a woman of about thirty-five, I should say, and must have been very pretty before her face was disfigured by the smallpox. She had still a neat, trim figure, and dressed and carried herself remarkably well, and when she smiled she showed a set of wonderfully even white teeth.

Mrs. Philippa was decidedly stout, with red hair, and handsome features which were disfigured with the strongest expression of fretful ill-temper that I ever saw on any face. She looked well enough in health, and certainly the dishes which went in to her full and came out empty did not look as if she suffered from want of appetite, yet I soon learned that it w as her pleasure to consider herself an invalid, and that she kept her bed or sofa most of the time. I learned more about her afterward, which I shall tell in its place.

We became very chatty and familiar over our supper. Mrs. Deborah herself took only some bits of dry toast and a glass of wine and water, but she had ordered a roast fowl, and various dainties in the shape of cakes and creams, which she seemed pleased to see us enjoy. She asked us about our lessons, expressed her satisfaction in our progress, and avowed her determination to purchase a harpsichord for us.

"We have an old-fashioned spinet and an organ, but the spinet is past use, I fear. No one has touched either of them since Sister Philippa gave up playing."

"Do you not remember, Sister Deborah, that Mr. Cheriton played the organ the last time he came with his mother to dine with us?" Mrs. Chloe ventured to remark. "He said the instrument was in good order."

"Very true, so he did. Your memory is better than mine, Sister Chloe, as is to be expected at your age. Do either of you play the organ, nieces?"

"Amabel plays," said I. "She used sometimes to play in the church when Sister Filomena was not able."

"And do you sing?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "I hope you do for we are all fond of singing."

"Lucy sings!" said Amabel, answering for me, as I had done for her. "Mr. Lilburne thinks she has a fine voice, and he has been teaching her some of Mr. Handel's songs."

There was a harpsichord in the room, and as Mrs. Deborah asked to hear me, I sung the last lesson I had learned, "I know that my Redeemer liveth," while Amabel played the accompaniment for me. I saw Mrs. Philippa's door softly opened a little bit while I was singing.

"That is beautiful!" said Mrs. Deborah, with a good deal of feeling when I had concluded. "I never heard it before. You have given us a treat we did not expect, niece."

"Yes indeed, a treat we did not expect!" added Mrs. Chloe. "I hope poor Sister Philippa will enjoy your music, niece. She used to be very fond of it. Do you think she will enjoy it, Sister Deborah?"

"I cannot say, I am sure!" was the answer. "It is not easy to tell what Philippa will like, you know. She is sometimes very much disturbed by noise."

The remark was made in a slightly raised tone, and I fancy was meant to be heard in the next room. Tupper opened the door directly afterward.

"My mistress would like to hear the young lady sing something else, if she knows any thing but psalm tunes!" said she, with a queer half-smile on her shrewd face.

"Do you know anything but psalm tunes, Niece Corbet?" asked Mrs. Chloe anxiously. "Not that I should call that a psalm tune."

Luckily we had learned some of Dr. Purcell's pretty music to the words of "The Tempest," and I sung Ariel's song—"When the bee sucks," and one or two others.

"There, you must not tire yourselves!" said Mrs. Deborah kindly, after Amabel had played "The Harmonious Blacksmith," and one or two other lessons. "It is time you were going home. I will send Richard with you. You must come and breakfast with us, and then we will go out together. De you need any new clothes?"

"No madam!" answered Amabel. "We have abundance of everything."

"Very good. My Sister Chloe wishes to buy some new morning gowns, and there are a few matters needed for the house, which I may as well see to now I am here. There, good-night. Be here by eight o'clock, or is that too early for my town-bred misses?"

She spoke these words smilingly, and Amabel answered in the same way.

"Oh no, aunt, we are early risers."

"Why, that is well; we shall suit all the better."

"Yes, we shall suit all the better!" added Mrs. Chloe. "My sister Deborah is a very early riser, and so am I; but poor Philippa is a sad invalid, and she keeps her hours to suit herself. Indeed, she lives quite by herself when she is at home, as you will see."

"Let them see then, and don't keep them to discuss family matters to-night, Sister Chloe!" said Mrs. Deborah, with a little impatience in her tone. "There, good-night."

We were not sorry to find ourselves once more in our own pretty room, which we were so soon to leave. We lighted our candles and sat down to our Bible reading as usual.

"Heigh ho! What pleasant times we have had since we came into this little parlor, and how much we have learned!" said I, as we rose to get ready for bed. "I wonder what sort of room we shall have at Highbeck Hall. I don't believe we shall have one as pretty as this, do you?"

"I am sure I don't know, but I doubt it will not be as pleasant in all ways!" answered Amabel. "However, Mrs. Chloe says Mrs. Philippa keeps her own room a good deal, so I hope she will not be in our way, or we in hers. Did you notice, Lucy, that she never spoke to Aunt Deborah once?"

"I saw she did not. Everything had to go through poor Aunt Chloe. But is it not very kind in the ladies to call me niece? It is much more than I expected, I am sure," said I. "I think we may get on with Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Chloe well enough, and as to Mrs. Philippa, why if we cannot coax her round, we must just let her alone as far as possible. I am glad she likes music."

"Yes, it gives one something to take hold of. Well, we can settle nothing beforehand—we can only wait and see. But, Lucy, if I had not learned something more than we knew in the convent—if I had not learned to trust to my Father in Heaven, and to feel sure that He will order everything that is best for us—I should feel as though we were indeed going into banishment. Good-night, dear!"

The next morning, eight o'clock found us in the sitting-room at the Queen's Head. Neither of the ladies was to be seen, but we heard Mrs. Chloe's voice in the next room.

"We talked about buying a new harpsichord, as the old spinet is out of order, but I don't know—Deborah thinks it will be a good deal of expense and trouble."

"Of course she does, since she knows it would please me!" Mrs. Philippa broke in. "That would be enough to set her against it. Mind, Chloe, I will have a harpsichord for these girls, if I have to go out and buy it myself. You can tell Deborah so if you like. I have always been the sacrifice—always had to give up in everything, but I will have my own way in this matter."

"Well, there, don't excite yourself!" said Mrs. Chloe soothingly. And then Tupper's voice chimed in—"I suppose of course you will get up to breakfast, Mrs. Philippa, since the young ladies are coming?"

"No, that I won't!" was the tart reply. "You ought to know better than to think of such a thing, Tupper. I don't think I shall get up to-day; you can bring me some chocolate and an egg, if a fresh one can be had in this odious place, and some bacon, and jam, and a fresh roll—no, I won't have a fresh roll, I will have some buttered toast, and you may get me out the first volume of Tom Jones. Do go away, Chloe, and let me have my breakfast in peace."

As Mrs. Chloe came out into the sitting-room and closed the door after her, she did not look as though she were greatly troubled by Mrs. Philippa's determination to stay in bed all day. Indeed, from what I learned afterward, I had no doubt at all, that it was the result of a conspiracy between herself and Tupper, to keep Mrs. Philippa quiet. She was so bent upon having her own way, and upon not being governed, that she habitually chose the exact contrary of everything proposed to her. Mrs. Deborah seldom condescended to manage her sister in this way, but neither Mrs. Chloe nor Tupper scrupled to do so.

We rose, of course, as Mrs. Chloe came in, and she greeted us each with great kindness.

"I am glad to see you, nieces. Sister Deborah is below looking after the horses—she likes to see herself how they are attended to—and Sister Philippa, poor thing, is not well this morning, and will not get up." Then lowering her voice to a whisper—"You must have great patience with your Aunt Philippa, my dears. She is peculiar, without doubt. Even I can see that."

Well she might, poor lady, since she had to bear the brunt of most of these peculiarities.

"But she has always been delicate, and she had a disappointment in early life," sinking her voice still lower. "She has been an invalid ever since, and often keeps her bed for weeks at a time." Here Mrs. Chloe's words were interrupted by a fit of coughing, which seemed enough to shake her to pieces. "There, never mind, girls, I have had this cough ever since I got over the smallpox. It is not much, only it takes my breath away. If you could fan me a little!"

Amabel hastened to do so, and I took from my pocket a box of comfits Mrs. Thorpe had given me, and offered them to her.

"Yes, that is just the thing—thank you, niece Corbet, I am better now. It is rather trying at times, but when I think how much more poor Philippa suffers, I ought not to complain. Oh yes, I am much better. It is of no consequence. It will soon wear off. And here comes Sister Deborah."

Mrs. Deborah made us welcome, and we sat down to breakfast. The meal was a very pleasant one. Deborah inquired somewhat anxiously how Mrs. Chloe had rested, remarking that she thought she heard her coughing just now.

"Yes, I did cough a little, but my niece Corbet had some comfits for me, and they helped me very much. Oh yes, I assure you, Sister Deborah, I am very much better. I shall be quite well when the frosty weather comes to brace me up a little. Do you know where Mrs. Thorpe found those comfits, niece?"

"I believe she has them for sale," I answered; "but, Aunt Chloe—I beg your pardon, madam," I faltered, confused by the liberty I had inadvertently taken.

"Oh call me Aunt Chloe, my dear," said Mrs. Chloe, evidently pleased. "It sounds as if you loved me already. Sister Deborah, do you not think it has a pretty sound to hear Lucy Corbet say Aunt Chloe?"

"Very pretty," replied Mrs. Deborah. "I am glad Lucy Corbet feels so much at home with us. But what were you going to say, niece?"

"I was going to say, madam, that if I had some hips, and currant jelly, and honey, and poppy-heads, I could make a confection that might help my Aunt Chloe's cough. I learned the recipe at the convent, where we used to make many such things, and I know this medicine did Sister Baptista a great deal of good."

"I should think it very likely," said Mrs. Chloe, with some eagerness. "It sounds like a good recipe. Sister Deborah, don't you think the remedy Lucy Corbet proposes to make for me might be worth trying?"

"I cannot see any hurt it would do," answered Mrs. Deborah; "and as we have abundance of hips about Highbeck there would be no harm in trying. Do you know how to use the still, Lucy Corbet?"

"Yes, Aunt Deborah; I learned to use the lembic and the hot still at St. Jean, but not the worm. There was always talk of buying one, but Sister Bursar never had the money to spare when the time came."

"Was she so stingy as that?" asked Mrs. Deborah.

"No, indeed, madam," I answered with some heat. "Sister Bursar never was stingy. We gave away all the medicines and cordials we made. But there never was more than money enough to buy what was absolutely needful, and not always that."

"Well, well, you shall tell me all about it sometime. I am glad you understand the still, for it is a kind of hobby of mine. Now if you have finished your breakfast, we will have prayers, and then go into the town. Do you like shopping?"

"Yes, Aunt Deborah, I like it very well when I do not wish to buy anything myself," answered Amabel, to whom the question was addressed.

"I meant to buy you some watches, but I see you have them already," continued Mrs. Deborah. "Did my brother send them?"

Amabel told the story of our watches, and I added that Captain Corbet left his respectful compliments for the ladies, and felt himself greatly obliged to them for giving a home to his niece.

Mrs. Deborah expressed herself very well-pleased, and said she was glad I had found such a friend. She read Prayers herself, requesting Amabel to read a psalm, and then asked us if we could not sing a hymn.

Then we went out into the town and dutifully followed the two elder ladies all the morning, watching to see Mrs. Deborah buy tea, and coffee, and loaf sugar, spices and other foreign commodities. All, these things were very high at that time, in consequence of the war with France. Tea, I remember, was thirteen shillings a pound for the best Bohea. Mrs. Deborah bought a chest of this and one of a cheaper sort, which Mrs. Chloe told me was to give away to the sick poor.

I saw that she paid ready money for every thing, and was very particular as to the quality of all her purchases for the house, while she was very indifferent as to those she made for her own dress. Mrs. Chloe bought two or three gowns for herself and Mrs. Philippa, showing a great deal of solicitude about the latter. She certainly tried her sister's patience to a considerable extent by her balancings between black lutestring and black paduasoy, chamois gloves and silk gloves, and I thought we should never get through.

At last, in desperation, I ventured to suggest that, as Mrs. Thorpe had the best stock in town, we should go to her, knowing that she had the knack of making her customers know their own minds. † So we got Mrs. Chloe comfortably set down at her counter with Amabel to attend on her, and Mrs. Deborah and I went to finish her marketing, meaning to take her up again.

† Or rather, I think, her own mind. She always made her customers buy what she pleased.—A. CAREY.

I was pretty well supplied with money—thanks to the liberal way in which Uncle Andrew filled my purse—and I asked my aunt's permission to buy some tea and sugar for Hannah Tubbs, and some sugar-candy for the children at the schools. This led to an inquiry as to the school, and a proposal to visit it. Aunt Deborah was much edified by the intelligent way in which the elder girls read in the Bible, and she pleased herself and me by giving a guinea toward the expenses of the school.

When we got back to Mrs. Thorpe's, we found Mrs. Chloe comfortably established in an arm-chair, discussing Mr. Thomson's poetry with Mr. Cheriton. Mrs. Thorpe had prepared a collation for us, which Mrs. Deborah was too kind-hearted to mortify her by refusing. Amabel and I were silent as in duty bound, but Mr. Cheriton was very sociable and pleasant with the elder ladies, sent a package of working materials to his mother and sister by Mrs. Deborah with his duty, and a pound of choice tobacco and snuff to the old rector.

"Do you not take snuff yourself, Mr. Cheriton?" asked Mrs. Deborah.

"No, madam. I was formerly a snuff-taker, but I have left it off of late, finding, as I think, better use for the money. But Mr. Bowring is an old man and an old friend, and I am glad to do him a little pleasure."

"And I am pleased that I can help you to do so!" said Mrs. Deborah. "But how is this Mr. Cheriton? I heard you had turned Methodist and preached against all the pleasures of life."

Mr. Cheriton smiled: "Perhaps if you looked into the matter, madam, you would find that the Methodists are not altogether so black as they are painted."

"But I hope you do not mean to leave the church of England, or lead others away from it!" said Mrs. Chloe, in a tone of some alarm. "I do not think your father and mother would ever forgive you."

"So far from that, Mrs. Chloe, that I have been more complained of for bringing folks to church than for keeping them away. But I hope to have the pleasure of calling upon you before long, and then we will talk the matter over."

We returned to the inn in the afternoon, and found Mrs. Philippa dressed and lying on the sofa, hugely indignant at having been left alone so long, although she had absolutely driven Mrs. Chloe away in the morning. She found fault with all the purchases which had been made for her, presumed that the tea which had been bought chiefly for her benefit, was unfit for the pigs, and that the new harpsichord (which I forgot to mention in its place), was a cheat.

"But Mr. Lilburne selected it, Sister Philippa, and he is considered an excellent judge," said Mrs. Chloe, as Mrs. Deborah paid no attention to these amiable remarks. "He plays the organ in Mr. Cheriton's church, who recommended him to us, and has been our niece's instructor."

"Oh, if Mr. Cheriton recommended him, it is all right, no doubt!" said Mrs. Philippa, with an ill-natured laugh. "But you are throwing away all your arts in that quarter, Sister Chloe. It won't do at all. I thought the smallpox might drive that folly out of you."

"Philippa!" said Mrs. Deborah sternly—the first time I had heard her address her sister directly: "If you have no regard for Chloe, you might have some respect for these young girls."

Whereupon Mrs. Philippa called aloud for Tupper, and being assisted to her room, proceeded to go into a screaming and kicking fit of hysterics.

"You should not speak so, Sister Deborah! You know it is poor Philippa's way, and I don't mind," said Mrs. Chloe, looking, however, as though she did mind very much, and beginning to cough.

"You are right, Chloe, and I am wrong!" said Mrs. Deborah. "There, now I have made you cough!"

I noticed, however, that neither of the ladies were at all disturbed at Mrs. Philippa's fits, which gradually subsided as they were not noticed.

That night we stayed at the inn to be ready for the early start we were to make the next morning. Mrs. Tupper came to rouse us at daylight, with cakes and cups of chocolate; but we were already up and dressed, and had put up all our affairs.

The coach, a great roomy lumbering affair drawn by four horses, came to the door, and we all packed ourselves into it. A tight pack it was, but we were all disposed to be good-natured. Mrs. Philippa traveled by herself in her own chaise with Tupper and Richard—a very fortunate arrangement for us. Our heavy luggage and Mrs. Deborah's purchases were to follow in the wagon.

All young folks like a journey, and Amabel was in good spirits, well-pleased at the prospect of seeing a little more of the world, and by no means ill-pleased that Mr. Cheriton should accompany us, for our first stage. I cannot say that I felt quite as happy—but I did my best to be agreeable, and gradually succeeded in cheering myself.

CHAPTER XVI.

HIGHBECK HALL.

HIGHBECK Hall was a very long day's journey from Newcastle, in the best of roads. A frost, the first of the season, had set in two or three days before, and the roads were as hard as iron, and rougher than anything I can think of, wherewith to compare them. We had four noble great horses, beside a saddle-horse for Mrs. Deborah to mount when she pleased, for she was a great horse-woman. We had four inside our coach, and two outside, and a man on horseback beside.

The first day's travel was very dreary, and the inn where we stopped at night was not particularly comfortable; though the good people of the house did their very best to accommodate us, and were so civil and obliging, that we could not in conscience find fault. They gave us the best they had for supper—brown bread, and freshly toasted oat cakes, bacon and eggs, and a noble dish of trout from the stream near by, and we had our own tea; so we fared well enough as to eatables.

But the beds were terribly hard, and Mrs. Philippa complained dolefully in the morning that she had not slept a wink, and felt as if all her bones were broken. Amabel and I had a great chamber to ourselves, with a high carved mantel, and a fireplace as big as a chapel, with a great roaring wood fire in it, which did not do much to warm us, and doors opening on all sides into dark closets and passage-ways. The building having once been a fine manor-house, room was the last thing wanting.

"It is a ghostly-looking place, is it not?" said I, with a little shiver, after we had fastened the doors as well as we could.

"It makes me think of some of the great disused rooms at St. Jean!" answered Amabel. "I suppose the poor old house is left quite alone by this time. How I wish we could hear from the dear mothers and sisters."

"What do you think they would say to what you are doing now?" I asked, for Amabel was at that moment taking our Bibles out of our hand-bags.

"They would be grieved, no doubt!" answered Amabel. "I think of it often, and wonder whether I can really be the same person I was a year ago."

"People would say we had changed our religion very suddenly!" said I. "Only think! It is not yet six months since we first saw a Bible. I don't know how it was with you, but with me, it has been more a finding of religion, than changing one for another. I believed what I was taught, because I knew nothing else; but I cannot say it ever satisfied me."

"If I had had any one to dispute or argue with, I dare say I should have held out longer!" remarked Amabel. "But Mr. Wesley was too wise for that. He just gave us the truth, and left it to make its own way. But Lucy, we must not sit up talking. Let us read our chapters and go to bed, that we may be bright in the morning."

I thought I should certainly lie awake to listen to suspicious noises, but as it happened, the first noise I heard was Tupper's voice at the door, calling us to get up.

The breakfast was a counterpart of the supper, except that as our meal was seasoned with Mrs. Philippa's doleful forebodings, so the other was with her still more doleful complaints. The bed was hard—she had heard strange noises—an owl had screeched close by the window, and a death-watch had ticked at her head five times over, and then stopped; and she knew it was an omen of her death, which would happen in either five years, five months, five weeks, or five days.

"Or five hours, or five minutes, or perhaps five seconds—who knows?" said Mrs. Deborah, more to herself than her sister.

"Who knows, indeed? I may be dead before I leave these walls. I only hope Sister Chloe will take the pains to see that I have a decent funeral, that's all."

"Oh, don't be alarmed. You shall have the finest funeral money can buy!" said Mrs. Deborah impatiently.

Whereupon Mrs. Philippa began to cry.

"Sister Deborah!" said Mrs. Chloe with gentle reproach.

"Well there, child, I won't do so again. Come, do eat your breakfast, we shall never get away at this rate."

"What is a death-watch?" I ventured to ask.

"It is a little maggot or beetle, rather, which lives in the timbers of old houses and the like, and makes a clicking noise when it gnaws or scratches the wood. It is thought by some to be a sign of death; but I have had one in my room these twenty years, and he has not killed me yet."

"A dozen death-watches would never kill some people!" said Mrs. Philippa spitefully, through her tears.

"But how does the beetle know when one is going to die?" asked Amabel. "It cannot make any difference to him, and it does not seem very likely that God would tell such news to a little worm in the wall, and hide it from the person it most concerns."

"If you are an infidel, Niece Leighton, you had better keep your infidelities to yourself!" said Mrs. Philippa with great asperity. "I have not come to my time of life, to be reproved by a chit out of a French convent."

"I beg your pardon, aunt!" Amabel answered gravely and gently, though the color rose in her cheeks.

Mrs. Deborah made her a sign to be silent, and helped her to a great piece of marmalade, and the breakfast was finished without another word from any one.

But we were not to get away just yet. It turned out that one of the horses had lost a shoe, and the coach had a screw loose somewhere, so we were fain to wait two hours till the village blacksmith could supply what was wanted. The elder ladies occupied themselves in knitting. Mrs. Deborah being engaged on a substantial pair of hose for some poor person, and Mrs. Chloe on a counterpane, which had been in hand for some years. Mrs. Philippa lay on the hard sofa and fretted at the delay. And Amabel and I explored the great old house, found our way into the kitchen, and made friends with the hostess and her mother, a pretty neat old woman, who sat all day in a warm corner, and read in her great Bible.

"Yes, mother is a grand scholar!" said the good woman proudly. "She reads in the Bible from morning till night, and now she has gotten another book, which a traveling gentleman gave her, who staid here one night. He was one of these new light People—what is this they call them?"

"Methodists!" suggested Amabel.

"Yes, Methodists! Gaffer Thistlethwaite says, they are only Papists in disguise, and mean to bring in the Pretender, and the Pope. Do you think that can be true, mistress?" asked the woman with some anxiety.

"Oh, no!" said Amabel. "They are not in the least like Papists. We know Mr. Wesley very well, and he is a clergyman of the church of England."

"I'm heartily glad to hear it!" answered the good woman, evidently much relieved. "The gentleman was that kind and civil spoken, and said such good words, I did not like to think ill of him. He gave mother a book with fine verses in it. Show it to the young ladies, mother."

The old woman pulled out a book from her pocket, which turned out to be a volume of Mr. Charles Wesley's hymns, then lately put out. She was wonderfully pleased, when we read some of them to her. I never saw a nicer old woman, and it was a pleasure to see her age made so happy, by the consolations of religion, and the respectful care of her daughter and grandchildren. She was able to spin, she told us, and showed us some very nice thread of her spinning.

At last the carriages were ready, and we set out on our travels once more. The second day's journey was much more pleasant than the first, though the roads were no better; for the sun shone brightly, making the poor birds twitter a little in the bushes, and the hips and rowan berries glitter like jewels. For the first two or three hours, Mrs. Philippa chose to ride in the coach, so Mrs. Deborah took to her saddle-horse, while Amabel, Mary Lee, and I, had the smaller carriage to ourselves. We had been gradually rising for some time, and the purple mountains which we had seen ever since the fogs cleared off, seemed to be drawing nearer, so that we could discern the deep valleys and ravines which divided them. Amabel asked Richard what mountains those were.

"Those be the Cheviot Hills, miss; you will have heard of them, sure," answered Richard. "On the other side of them hills lies Scotland. We shall soon see the hall now, aye, a long time before we come to it."

Accordingly it was not long before Mrs. Deborah, riding to the side of the chaise, pointed out a mansion of considerable size, and built of grey-stone, standing on the hillside which rose in thickly-wooded slopes behind it, dark with fir trees, while higher still it passed into what seemed rocky pastures and moorland. A village church with roofs clustered about it was seen some distance below.

"There is your home, children," said she. "See how brightly the sun shines on the old house. I take it as a good omen."

"And I wish we were there, Mistress Deborah," said Richard. "It will be a stiff pull from the village with this slippery ground."

"We shall do very well, Richard," answered Mrs. Deborah. "I dare say the young ladies and Mary Lee will not mind walking a little to lighten the load."

We at once professed ourselves willing and glad to walk a while. Mrs. Deborah smiled, and bade us keep our strength till it was wanted, as we had seven miles yet to go.

We stopped for our nooning at a farmhouse where Mrs. Deborah was well-known, and where we were received with immense hospitality, and regaled with all sorts of good things—milk and cream, fresh bread and butter, cheese, honey, and cold beef. The good woman would have dressed a fowl for us, but that Mrs. Deborah would not allow.

This was the first time I ever tasted ewe-milk cheese. I should dearly love to see a bit once more, but you might as well talk to the folk hereabout of milking the cat as milking an ewe.

We had come down into quite a deep valley, through which ran a considerable stream, with narrow fertile fields on each side. Mrs. Deborah told us this was our own burn, swollen by the accession of several other streams. We now began to ascend once more, a part of our road lying between fine woods. Then we came to the village, which looked forlorn enough to me. The church was large and handsome, though partly in ruins, and there was a row of very ancient cottages near it built of stone and covered with tiles, which Mrs. Chloe told us were almshouses, maintained by a charge on the estate.

It was near sunset when we came to a great gateway with ramping stone monsters surmounting the posts on either side, and a stone lodge, from which came out a pretty young woman with a little babe in her arms to open the gates.

"Now, young ones, if you like to save the horses a little and try your own legs, you may get out and walk a way," said Mrs. Deborah. "Stop where you see a stone bench and we will take you up again. Keep under the trees and you cannot miss your way."

We descended accordingly, glad of the chance to walk a little. The sun was setting in a great pomp of red and gold, and the moon, near the full and an hour high, hung in the midst of that solemn blue shade which creeps up the eastern sky of a frosty evening. The trees were leafless, of course, but the turf under foot was fresh and green. A low wall bounded the avenue on one side, and on the other spread a waste of bracken and gorse—fuzz they call it there—on which some honey-buds still lingered.

Presently we came upon a troop of deer, which rushed away in great alarm at the sound of our voices. We could see before us the upper part of the great hall gleaming in the solemn sunset rays. The air was clear and sweet with the peculiar fragrance of peat smoke, and a robin was singing an autumn song in the trees. We walked slowly, for the ascent was a steep one, and the carriages were far behind us.

"Does it not seem as if we were approaching an enchanted castle?" said Amabel, as we reached the bench of which Mrs. Deborah had spoken, and sat down to await the carriages which were slowly toiling up the hill.

"I wonder whether we shall find a sleeping beauty?" said I. "As for the dragon, we have brought that along, I think."

"She is certainly a trial," said Amabel. "I do not so much mind her myself, but it does stir me to hear her speak so to poor Aunt Chloe. Do you know, Lucy, I don't believe Aunt Chloe is long for this world?"

"I think the same thing," I answered; "but she herself believes she is going to get better."

"So does Martha Styles," said Amabel, alluding to a poor consumptive girl we sometimes visited in Newcastle. "Did you observe that she was not at all scared at the death-watch, which so alarmed poor Aunt Philippa?"

"I think Mrs. Deborah feels troubled about her. Here comes the carriage at last," as the great lumbering machine reached the level ground where we were standing.

We took our seats once more, the coachman cracked his whip, a pair of inner gates flew open, and we drove round a corner and under an archway into a paved court, which made me think at once of St. Jean de Crequi.

A flight of broad stone steps led up into a great hall surrounded by a gallery, to which a broad staircase with landings led up at the farther end. Half a dozen servants, headed by a gray-headed man carrying a silver branched candlestick, were drawn up to receive us, and, to judge by their faces, were well-pleased to have their mistresses among them again.

"Welcome to Highbeck Hall, nieces!" said Mrs. Deborah, turning around on the threshold and giving us each a hand. "Roberts, this is my brother's daughter, Mrs. Leighton, and my brother's adopted daughter, Mrs. Corbet, daughter of Mr. Corbet, of the Black Lee, whom you must remember."

The old man bowed profoundly and the maids curtsied.

"Yes, these are our nieces, Mrs. Leighton and Mrs. Corbet!" echoed Mrs. Chloe, as usual. "Nieces, you are welcome to Highbeck Hall. Sister Philippa, no doubt you welcome our nieces to the Hall?"

"I should welcome myself to my room and my bed, if I could be allowed to get there!" snapped Mrs. Philippa. "What signifies the welcome of a poor invalid like me? I dare say my room has not even a fire in it, and that there is no chocolate ready."

"There has been a good fire in your room all day, and I have your supper ready and waiting, Mrs. Philippa," said a pretty elderly woman, whom I afterwards found out to be the housekeeper.

"Then if it has been waiting, of course it is not fit to touch! I desire that you will make fresh chocolate directly. Tupper, are you ever going to help me to my room, or do you want me to lie down and die on the stone floor, as I seem like to?"

Tupper looked, I thought, as if she would have no particular objection to Mrs. Philippa's following out her fancy in this direction. However, she gave the lady her arm, and they disappeared in one of the galleries above.

"I have prepared the leather room and the turret for the young ladies, Mrs. Deborah, thinking they might like to be together!" said the housekeeper, turning to her elder mistress. "But the blue room is also ready for company."

On Mrs. Deborah referring the matter to us, we at once asked to be put together.

"Very well, you shall do as you please, and your maid can sleep in the turret-room above!" said Mrs. Deborah. "Jenny, do you show the young ladies the way."

An elderly maid-servant led us up stairs, and opened the door of a spacious room, where were candles and a bright fire. The walls were hung with leather, stamped in curious patterns of gilding and silver. There was a great high mantel, and a bedstead hung with curtains of brown damask; another little bed with white curtains, occupied the opposite corner. The toilette-table was of Japan, with many odd boxes and drawers, and hung also with brown damask as were the windows. The floor was bare, save for some foreign-looking rugs, and a square of cross-stitch wool work in the centre of the room, and so slippery with scrubbing and waxing, that it was like ice.

"This is your room, ladies!" said Jenny. "Here is a place for your gowns and mantles, and here is a closet—" opening the door of a small octagon-shaped room. "This staircase—opening another door which gave on a winding-stair—leads to a room above, where your maid will sleep. I will return and show you the way to the supper-room."

Amabel and I looked at each other in some little dismay at the aspect of the room, which was certainly rather gloomy. The high wainscot was of dark brown oak; the ground of the hanging was also brown, and in the flashes of the fire-light, the gold and silver dragons and wyverns seemed to come and go, in a weird and uncomfortable manner. The bed looked like a catafalque, and the corners of the room entertained companies of suspicious-looking shadows, in spite of the candles which stood on the dressing-table.

"This is certainly the enchanted room!" said I, trying to laugh off the eerie feeling which came over me. "I wonder if the sleeping monster who is to be set free by a kiss is lying in that bed. Dare you look and see, Amabel?"

"Oh, I am not scared!" said Amabel. "But as to the monster, I will leave him, or her, to you. But after all, Lucy, it is not so bad; that bow window will be beautiful in summer, and see what a grand East County cabinet here is, all full of little drawers and places. I wonder what the closet is like?"

She took up the candle to explore it, and I followed her. It proved to be an octagon room, with windows on three sides, and doors on two more, one opening to a spacious wardrobe, the other to the stair Jenny had spoken of, which seemed to wind around the turret from below. There was a great Bible and prayer-book on a little table, a hassock, and a square of carpet, two or three chairs, and a shelf on the wall holding a few books. There was also a fireplace, but no fire at present.

"This is a snug little place!" remarked Amabel, holding up the light. "If aunt will let us have a fire here, we can make a nice little study of it."

The entrance of Mary Lee with our bags recalled us to the needful duties of the toilette. Mary looked rather pale and scared, and being questioned as to how she liked her new home, confessed that it was all so big and grand, that it made her feel home-sick; she supposed she should grow used to it in time, but it was not what she was used to.

"Of course you will!" said Amabel cheerfully. "Why, what would be the use of traveling, if one never saw any thing but just what one was used to? Come, brush our gowns, and find some fresh kerchiefs, and when we are ready, we will look at your room."

Our mails had not yet come, but we made our traveling dresses look as smart as we could, by the help of clean kerchiefs and fresh lawn aprons, and then as Jenny did not come to call us, we mounted the winding-stair to inspect Mary's room. It corresponded in size with the one below, and had besides two windows rather high in the wall, a sashed door which seemed to open to the leads on the top of the house. It was all comfortable enough, and might be even cheerful and pretty in the day-time, but it did look rather gloomy by the light of our one candle.

"Why, this is a nice room, Mary!" said Amabel.

"No doubt it is, mistress, and better than I deserve," answered Mary, dissolving into tears. "But it does seem dreadful lonesome to sleep here alone, away from every body."

"Now Mary, I shall be sorry we brought you, if you are going to be a cry-baby," said Amabel decidedly. "Nay, I am not sure but I shall ask Mrs. Deborah to send you straight home again. And how can you say you are away from everybody, when here are Miss Corbet and myself close by you. What do think will happen to you?"

Mary did not know, only—

"Come, come, this will not do at all," said Amabel. "Mary, you profess to be a Christian girl. Don't you think the Lord can take just as good care of you here as if you were in Mrs. Thorpe's back attic? You must have more faith, child."

Mary wiped her eyes and said she would try. At that moment, we heard my Aunt Deborah calling us from the room below, and we hastened down the winding-stair to find her standing in our room.

"I could not guess what had become of you," said she.

Amabel explained that we had been looking at Mary Lee's room, and trying to reconcile her to her new quarters. It was rather an unlucky speech.

"Why, what is the matter with her quarters?" asked Mrs. Deborah, in a displeased tone. "Are they not grand enough for Mrs. Thorpe's apprentice? Perhaps she would like the state bedroom, where King Charles, the Martyr, slept on his way to Scotland!"

"On the contrary, it is the very grandeur of her lodgings that alarms her, I fancy," said Amabel, with ready tact. "She has been used to consider Mrs. Thorpe's attic as a luxurious bed-chamber. I assure you, aunt, I am a little scared myself at these splendid hangings."

Mrs. Deborah's brows relaxed, and she admitted that it was not unnatural the girl should be over-awed.

"The hangings are reckoned very uncommon, and very handsome," said she. "My great-grandfather brought them from Spain, whither he went about the business of the marriage of Prince Charles with the Infanta. This was your mother's room, Amabel, and here you were born. See, here is your mother's picture hanging on the wall. But you must not stay to look at it now, or we shall have Mrs. Tabitha in fits over her spoiled supper."

Mrs. Deborah led the way, and we followed her down the grand stairs and through a long corridor to the dining-room, a vast apartment with a fine carved ceiling and a buffet of silver plate and old china. Our supper-table was set in a recess where there was a fireplace, and which was partly enclosed by a great Indian screen.

Mrs. Chloe was already standing by the fire. The old butler and another elderly man in a blue livery were in waiting, and instantly proceeded to cover the table with steaming hot dishes—a cheerful sight to us travelers. Mrs. Deborah said grace, and we sat down with excellent appetites. Mrs. Philippa supped in her room, which was no draw-back to the cheerfulness of the party. We young ones were silent, of course, but Mrs. Chloe had already picked up various items of domestic news which she imparted to her sister, as that the brindled cat had three kittens, one of which was snow-white—a bit of news at which Mrs. Deborah looked rather grave—and I learned that the birth of a snow-white kitten was not considered a good omen. Old Roberts now and then put in his word informing his mistress with regard to the dogs, the horses, the sheep and cows.

"And what has happened in the village?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "I see Letty at the Lodge is about again."

"Oh yes, she was about and doing well, and old Ralph Tracy was also out of his bed, and had been to church; and it was said his son was going to marry the miller's daughter, which would be a grand match for him, to be sure, but rather a come-down—" so Mrs. Deborah opined—"for her."

At which Mrs. Chloe made some remark about true lovers, at which Mrs. Deborah smiled indulgently, and Roberts gave a little sniff.

I listened to the conversation with great interest, for—whether it be a fault of mine or not, I don't know—I do dearly love personal histories of all sorts. I discovered that Mrs. Deborah took a great interest in the villagers and their affairs, in which, as I surmised, she might sometimes interfere rather despotically.

"And what about the church?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "Has it been opened?"

"Oh yes, three or four times. The doctor had read service, and Mr. Longstreet had preached once. But Mr. Longstreet was going away, having been presented to a living not far from Allendale in the hills."

"From Allendale!" said Mrs. Deborah. "Why, what will he do there among the miners? And what will Doctor Brown do for a curate?"

"The living is a good one, as I am told, having a good income and very light duty," returned Roberts. "As to the miners, they will not trouble the church very much, and Dr. Brown has hired a new curate from Berwick way—quite a young man—but comes well recommended, and has a fine horse, but some complain that they don't understand him well."

"Why, does he not speak English?" asked Mrs. Chloe.

"Oh yes, madam, after a sort, but you know Berwick is near the border, and the people do have a kind of twang of Scotland, as it were."

I could not help wondering if the Scotch twang were worse than the Northumbrian burr. We had become used to this odd dialect in Newcastle, but the Newcastle folk speak classical English compared to those about Highbeck Hall and in the lead-mining districts. The conversation was now cut short by the ladies rising from table, and Mrs. Deborah, supposing we must be very weary, sent us to bed, promising to have us called betimes in the morning. She also told us that her own room was very near ours, and added, somewhat abruptly:

"I have had a cot-bed carried into your room, so you can have your maid sleep near you, if you like. Not, of course, that there is any thing to be afraid of, but young folks are sometimes timid, and the wind makes doleful noises at night among the old turrets and gables."

We thanked Mrs. Deborah for her consideration, which, I fancy, was meant as much for Mary Lee as for us, and betook ourselves to our room.

We had decided that we would have Mary read a chapter to us every night, that she might improve in her reading. We had bought Mr. Wesley's notes on the New Testament, and we proposed to go through the book with our little maid in regular course. When our lesson was finished, we asked Mary whether she would sleep in our room or hers.

"I think in mine, if it is all the same to you, ladies," answered Mary, with a little quiver in her voice, but quite decidedly. "I have been thinking on what Miss Leighton said about trust, and I don't think it becomes a Christian to give way to fear."

"Why, that is a brave girl!" said I, well-pleased, "You may leave the doors open between, if you like!" Amabel added.

But I observed after all, that she shut them.

"That is a grand victory!" said Amabel, when she had withdrawn. "And not the less that there is really nothing to be afraid of."

She took the candle as she spoke and went to look at her mother's picture.

"'Tis a lovely face," she observed after a little silence. "I never saw one that pleased me better; but who is it so like?"

"Look in the glass and see?" said I, "It is as like you as one pea to another. I wonder whether that is your father's picture next."

"It is not my notion of him!" said Amabel, studying the weak handsome face which in all its softness had a certain look of obstinacy often to be seen in such faces. "I wish you had a picture of your own mother, Lucy!"

"Thank you, but I do not know that I do!" I replied. "I would rather wait and see how she looks. But Amabel, you will take cold standing about so in your nightgown. We ought to be in bed."

Amabel and I had been used all our lives to occupy separate beds, but somehow to-night we thought that the great curtained bedstead looked very large for one, and we agreed to sleep together. Amabel fell asleep directly, but I lay awake a long time listening to the moan of the wind, the rustling and cracking which one always hears among old furniture at night, and the roar of a waterfall which I had noticed before and which I now heard more distinctly in the stillness.

I thought over all that had happened in the last few months. I thought of St. Jean lying lonely and forsaken with the bright moonlight shining on the graves and making colored shadows on the floor of the church. I thought too with a shudder of the awful caverns under ground and the dark and dreadful waters which had swallowed up the young heir of Crequi and where I had been so near to losing my own life.

I grew restless and nervous and began to fancy that I heard stealthy steps and whispering voices outside the door. At last I made a desperate effort to withdraw my attention from these sounds. I repeated all the Psalms with which I was familiar in French, English, and Latin, and then tried to imagine myself helping Sister Baptista to measure olives—a fancy which soon put me to sleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

LIFE AT THE HALL.

JENNY came to call us betimes in the morning, but we could hardly dress in time for breakfast, so occupied were we in gazing from our projecting window at the great picture spread out before us.

The morning was clear and frosty. The house, as I have said, stood very high on the hillside, and the ground was so steep that there was nothing to break the view over the broad plains, clothed here and there with little villages, farm-houses, and clumps of wood. A great deal of the land was pasture and still more was unclaimed waste, inhabited only by gypsies and other wild and lawless people. We seemed to look directly down into Highbeck village on one side, and on the other up the course of the noisy mountain stream to the place where it tumbled over a dam or ledge of rocks forming a considerable cataract. The woods were all brown and sere save where the red stems and dusky green heads of the Scotch furs mixed with the oaks and ashes, and the rowan trees still displayed their scarlet berries.

"Is it not beautiful!" said Amabel. "There is something exhilarating in such a wide prospect. It makes me think of our favorite window at St. Jean, only one cannot see the sea as we could there."

"What a large house it is!" said I. "I thought we were quite at the end of the passage, but see, there is a long range of wall beyond us. What beautiful ivy!"

"Half the house cannot be inhabited!" remarked Amabel. "But come, we must make haste or we shall not be ready."

We found breakfast prepared in a much smaller and snugger room than the great dining-room, hung with cheerful tapestry representing various pastoral scenes, where Corydon in cross-stitch made love to a satin-stitch Phillis herding her French knotted sheep on the worsted green. We were given to understand that Mrs. Deborah's grandmother had worked this tapestry from her own designs to illustrate her favorite book, "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia," and we looked on it with respect accordingly.

Mrs. Chloe had a tea equipage at her end of the table—there were jugs of milk and bowls of cream, and more kinds of hot cakes and cold cakes than ever I saw before. Each of the old ladies gave us a kiss, wished us good morning and hoped we had rested well. Then Mrs. Deborah rang a bell and the servants came in, bringing their stools with them and took their places near the door while Mrs. Deborah read prayers. Our little Mary was among the number, and I was glad to see that she looked quite cheerful. We ought to have called her to dress us, but a maid was a luxury we were not used to and we forgot all about her till we were quite ready.

"Your little maid looks bright and cheery this morning, nieces! I am glad to see it. Did she sleep in your room?" asked Mrs. Deborah.

Amabel told Mrs. Deborah how Mary had been determined to conquer her fears. The old lady looked well-pleased.

"That speaks well for her. I was afraid she was going to mope, and I hate moping people. If a thing is to be done, why do it, I say, or else let it alone, but don't go about it with a long face, as though you were a martyr. Well, nieces, and what will you eat? Here are oat cakes and barley scones and milk scones—and wheaten bread, you see! Or will you share my sister's pot of tea? I am no tea drinker, but I am willing that other people should take it, if they like it!"

"Yes, Sister Deborah is no tea drinker, but she makes no objection to my having it!" observed Mrs. Chloe. "Won't you take a cup, niece Corbet? This is very good."

I was no more a tea drinker than Mrs. Deborah, but I had been taught never, if I could help it, to refuse any thing offered in kindness, so I accepted one of the little cups, and liked it very well. The new milk was delicious, and Mrs. Thorpe had taught me to like fresh toasted oat cakes, so I made an excellent breakfast. Mrs. Deborah breakfasted heartily on porridge and milk, observing that she had been up long enough to get a good appetite.

"Yes, Sister Deborah has been up a long time!" said Mrs. Chloe, who ate scarcely anything. "Sister Deborah is very fond of the dairy and always oversees it herself. That is the reason we have such nice butter. Lady Thurston's butter does not compare with ours. Do you think it does, Sister Deborah?"

"Lady Thurston is become too fine a lady to know a cow's head from its tail!" returned Mrs. Deborah.

"Oh, but sister, I hardly think that can be the case, for she was dreadfully afraid when a cow looked at her the day we were out walking!" returned Mrs. Chloe, who always took everything literally. "Don't you remember?"

"I remember she made a great goose of herself with her fine London airs! I wonder how my old lady ever endured her follies. 'Tis enough to bring her out of her grave to see the way things go on. Nieces, are you afraid of cows?"

This was asked as who should say—"If you are, prepare at once for banishment."

Fortunately we were able to give an answer which turned away the impending wrath.

"Oh no! Aunt Deborah!" answered Amabel, smiling. "When we were at St. Jean, each of us had her own cow to milk—Lucy's was Fanfan and mine was Cocotte. Ah, my poor Cocotte, I wonder who milks thee now!"

"We used both to help in the dairy, but Amabel more than I!" I added. "Mother St. Anne used to like to have me help her in the still-room."

Mrs. Deborah's frown relaxed, but Mrs. Chloe looked shocked.

"But did you really milk with your own hands, nieces?" she asked. "I do not think the nuns ought to have required that. Many ladies take an interest in their dairies. They overlook them and even skim the cream, and mould the butter, and make cheese-cakes and so on, but I never heard of a lady that milked! Did you, Sister Deborah?"

"Yes, I know a lady who milked an Ayrshire heifer this very morning!" returned Mrs. Deborah, smiling. "But in general, we employ maids for such services. Did you have no menials, lasses, that the nuns put you to such work? I thought convents always had lay sisters!"

"I believe they do in general, but our house was very poor, and the ladies did all the work with their own hands. Sister Lazarus who attended to the cooking was the daughter of a Marquis."

"The daughter of a Marquis a cook!" said Mrs. Chloe, in, a tone of absolute consternation. "But perhaps she did that kind of work for a penance. I have heard of such things."

"Oh no, aunt. She had a special vocation for cooking!" answered Amabel, gravely.

"Well!" said Mrs. Chloe. "I have always fancied that it would be a good thing, if we had convents in the Church of England, but if that is the way—I hope they did not make a cook maid of you!"

"No, aunt, Sister Lazarus always said I had not enough of recollection to be a good cook, but Lucy used to help her, and she learned to make a great many nice things."

"Well, well, you shall tell Sister Chloe about it all at some other time!" said Mrs. Deborah, rising. "If you wish to go through the house, children, I have leisure just now to show it you. Sister Chloe, you had better remain by the fire."

We were not a little anxious to see the house, and followed Mrs. Deborah with great interest as she led us through the long gallery hung with family portraits and a few good Spanish and Flemish pictures, brought from abroad by the same ancestor who imported the leather hangings.

"Some day I will tell you the history of all these people!" said she, as she opened the door of the saloon. "I suppose you know nothing of your own family, niece Leighton?"

"Scarcely anything, aunt. But oh, who is this beautiful lady?" exclaimed Amabel, stopping before a full-length picture which was revealed by the light from the open door of the saloon.

A black silk curtain hung from the frame of the picture, but it was drawn aside. The figure was that of a woman of superb beauty, with large eyes and a queenly poise of the head. The expression of the face was haughty and resolute, yet had in it something—I know not what, which was not pleasing. I should call it a look of apprehension or rather of suspense, as though she were momently expecting the appearance of an enemy and were nerving herself to meet him.

Mrs. Deborah frowned, and hastily drew the veil over the picture.

"Who has dared!" she exclaimed, and then checking herself as by a strong effort. "There, never mind, child. I'll tell you the story some day, or you may ask old Elsie about it." Then as if to change the subject—"You must make old Elsie's acquaintance. She is one of the family curiosities, and very fond of young people."

"Who is she, aunt?" I ventured to ask.

"An old Scotch woman that came here with Amabel's grandmother, who was one of the Grahames of the Border. She knew all the ghost stories about the place, I believe. See, here are more pictures which my unlucky great-grandfather bought in Spain, and here is some curious pottery."

"Why do you call him unlucky, aunt?"

"Because he spent more money than he could afford, child, and that was very unlucky to those who came after him. We do not use these rooms very much in winter. But this will interest you!" she added, opening a door into a little room with a southern aspect.

It was prettily hung with an Indian paper, and contained a couch and chairs of lacquer work, a noble East India cabinet, an old-fashioned spinet and a work-table. A good fire was burning on the hearth, and the sun streaming in at the window made the little room look quite charming. Amabel and I both uttered an exclamation of delight.

"I am glad you are pleased!" said Mrs. Deborah. "This, children, was my Sister Leighton's own room, which she fitted up herself, and here your mothers used to sit together with their work and their books, before your mother, Niece Corbet, was married. I do not often come hither—it has sad recollections for me, but you can sit here when you please. I have given orders to have a fire for you, and you shall have your harpsichord in here, and practice as much as you like. Your bedroom is directly above, and here is the stair that leads up to it," opening a door which showed a dark entry and a winding-stair.

"How very good you are, aunt!" said Amabel. "I am sure we never thought of having such a lovely room to ourselves. I thought we should sit with you and my Aunt Chloe."

"And so you may, as much as you please, and I shall be glad if you can do anything to cheer and amuse poor Chloe, who has been sadly low-spirited ever since her illness. But I know young things like to be by themselves at times, and you have a kind of right to this room."

"But will not the fire be very expensive?" I ventured to ask. "In France, we never had a bit of fire except in the kitchen, and sometimes in the work-room, when it was very cold. Sister Bursar said that fire was the most costly of luxuries!"

"I dare say it may be in France, where, as I have heard, there is great want of fuel," replied Mrs. Deborah, not at all displeased, as I had half-feared she would be by my question. "Thanks to the near coal mine, and our own woods, great fires are among our cheapest enjoyments. I am glad to see, niece, that you can think of the cost of things. I wish some other people were as considerate. But come, we will go up stairs, and then you must pay your respects to your Aunt Philippa."

"How I shall like to sit by this work-table, and think that my dear mother sat here before me!" said Amabel, lingering a moment by the table, and taking up a little prayer-book that lay upon it. "It seems to bring her so near."

Mrs. Deborah stopped short and turned about.

"Your mother, child, was an angel!" said she abruptly. "I did not know it—my eyes were blinded, first by wounded pride, and then by—no matter what. I had been mistress here for many a year, and I resented it bitterly when my brother brought a stranger from a far country to reign in my stead, though I knew it was what I had to expect. She gave me no cause of offence, but I was not kind to her, and when a wound came from another quarter, I avenged the smart on her. God help me to atone for my sin by kindness to her child. There, we won't speak of it again."

"Come up this way, and I will show you the King's bed-chamber."

We passed up the turret stair and through our room, where Mary Lee sat sewing in the window. Mrs. Deborah looked at her work and commended its neatness.

"I hear you are a good girl!" said she. "Continue so, and you will always have a friend."

Somehow, a word of commendation from Mrs. Deborah always seemed to go farther than a whole chapter from any one else. Mary Lee blushed and curtsied, and said she would do her best.

Mrs. Deborah led the way to a door at the end of our passage, opened it, and disclosed another gallery lighted down one side, and with doors on the other. We passed two or three of these, and found ourselves opposite one, which Mrs. Deborah unlocked with peculiar solemnity.

"This is the room in which King Charles the martyr slept, on his way to Scotland in 1646!" said she solemnly. "No one has ever slept in the bed since." *

* I have heard since, that King Charles did not go to Scotland by that road at all. But it does not matter greatly. The story was fully believed in my time.

We looked at the bed with a sensation of awe. A king had really slept in it, and the Martyr King at that.

"No one has ever slept in it since!" repeated Mrs. Deborah. "No one ever shall in my day, unless another rightful king comes to occupy it, which may Heaven grant!" said she solemnly.

"Do you think King George is like to come this way, Aunt Deborah?" asked Amabel, innocently. "They say he is not very fond of traveling in England."

The thunder-cloud was on Mrs. Deborah's brow in an instant.

"I spoke of the rightful King, Niece Leighton, not of the usurper who at present occupies a throne to which he has no more right than I have. King George indeed! That I should live to hear the Elector of Hanover called King by a niece of mine, and in this sacred chamber!"

"I beg your pardon, aunt!" said Amabel, meekly and greatly astonished by the storm she had unwittingly raised. "I assure you I meant no offence."

"No, I dare say not! I forgot you had been living among the whigs of Newcastle, who would sell their elector as soon as their king, if they could make any thing by it. But you must learn better now. I shall make it my business to teach you. See, here is the Bible his Majesty used, and the chair where he sat. But we must not stay too long here; these shut up rooms are damp. Niece Leighton, if you ever come to be mistress of this house, as I hope you may, you must dust this room with your own hands, four times a year, and mind you lay everything down in just the place you took it up. Will you promise me this?"

"Indeed I will, aunt!" answered Amabel, sincerely desirous to atone for the offence she had given.

"Where do these doors lead to?" she added, as we passed the locked doors on our way back to the other part of the house.

"Those are the shut up rooms. They are never used or opened!" answered Mrs. Deborah abruptly. "Come, we will see the other wing."

Of course we asked no more questions, but we were all the more curious especially, as these shut up rooms adjoined our own.

Mrs. Deborah showed us the state bedroom, very grand in red satin, with needlework hangings, all a little the worse for wear—the blue room, the white room; her own apartment which was very plain, in green moreen, and Mrs. Chloe's, gay and pretty with Indian chintz, and a white muslin and pink silk toilette-table, covered with bottles of all sorts of washes and lotions for the complexion. Finally, she led us to the door of Mrs. Philippa's apartment, and left us to announce ourselves, telling us to come to her in the still-room, when Mrs. Philippa had done with us.

We knocked, and were admitted by Tupper.

Mrs. Philippa, dressed in a very becoming wrapping-gown and cap, was sitting up in bed, working on a very handsome piece of embroidery, with her silks and working implements on a sort of tray beside her, near which lay a fine tortoise-shell cat with a kitten. There was a great fire, and the air was heavy and close with the odors of musk, and sandalwood, and potpourri. I never entered that room without a kind of insane longing to break out a window-pane.

"Well, nieces, and so you have come at last," was Mrs. Philippa's greeting. "I expected you before, but no doubt more interesting matters claimed your attention than waiting on a poor lonely invalid."

"Aunt Deborah said she thought you would not wish to see us very early, and she has been showing us the king's chamber and the rest of the house," answered Amabel.

"Oh, of course. She makes an idol out of her king's chamber—not that I believe King Charles was ever in this house in the world. Well, and what do you think of the old pile?"

"I think it is beautiful," answered Amabel, sincerely. "I wonder my father does not live here all the time."

"Your father thinks too much of himself to shut himself up in such a lodge in the wilderness as this is," was the reply. "But he thinks it is good enough for his sisters, though he might take a house in Newcastle for us as well as not."

"But, Mrs. Philippa, I thought you did not like Newcastle," I said, rather unwisely. "I am sure you called it an odious place."

"You are very pert, miss, to remember my words against me," returned Mrs. Philippa; "but no doubt you have had your lesson. No doubt my Sister Deborah has given you your lesson already. I dare say she has been talking about me all the morning. Pray, what has she told you about me?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Philippa," I answered, truly. "She has not mentioned your name except to say that we should wait upon you, and come to her in the still-room when you dismissed us."

In my heart, I hoped this dismission would come soon, for the air of the room was stifling, and Mrs. Philippa had never asked us to sit down.

"Oh!" said she, in a tone of sarcastic incredulity. "You are very discreet—very wise, indeed, Miss Corbet; but you will not blind me quite so easily. I know my Sister Deborah."

"Indeed, Mrs. Philippa, she did not once speak of you except just as I tell you!" I said, feeling lay cheeks flame.

"Well, well, what do I care whether she did or not?" said Mrs. Philippa, peevishly. "There, sit down. Tupper, why do you not set chairs for the young ladies? And so you have lived in a convent all your days. Of course you know nothing of society. Well, so much the better. I might as well be in a convent myself, for all the company I have. Chloe is so silly she puts me out of all patience, but every thing she does is right in Deborah's eyes. I have not spoken to my Sister Deborah in more than twenty years!"

Mrs. Philippa made this announcement as if she thought it something to be proud of. We looked steadfastly at the floor and said not a word.

"Not in twenty years!" repeated Mrs. Philippa. "And I never will if I live twenty years more. She did me such an injury with my father as I shall never forgive if I live to be a hundred."

I cannot describe the expression of rancor with which Mrs. Philippa said these words. They made me shudder.

"But suppose you do not live to be a hundred, Aunt Philippa," said Amabel, raising her clear eyes to her aunt. "Suppose you should die to-night!"

"What do you mean by that, miss?" asked Mrs. Philippa. "Of course I must forgive her when I am dying or I cannot take the sacrament, but I am resolved I never will do so before."

"But you may die without having time for the sacraments," persisted Amabel; "or perhaps you may have lost the power of forgiving by that time. What would happen then?"

"Niece Leighton, I desire you will not preach to me!" said Mrs. Philippa, though she looked startled. "It is very unbecoming in you to lecture your elders and betters. There, I am not angry with you, but mind you don't do it again. Tupper, where are the presents I bade you look out for the young ladies?"

Tupper produced two parcels, and Mrs. Philippa gave Amabel a glass smelling-bottle in a gilt filigree case, and me a pretty tortoise-shell box full of caraway comfits. She then called upon us to admire her work and her cat, which we could do with a good conscience. Then, saying that she would send for us again some day, she bade Tupper show us the way to the still-room.

"Well, I declare, Mrs. Leighton—plague on this new-fashioned way of saying Miss, I never shall learn it—you have bewitched my mistress out and out," said Tupper, in a tone of admiration, as we went down stairs. "I never knew her bear such plain speaking from any one. If Mrs. Chloe had said one quarter as much, Mrs. Philippa would have flown at her."

"I ought not to have spoken so, perhaps, but it seemed to me so dreadful," said Amabel, "to think of her not speaking to her own sister for twenty years!"

"Yes, it is dreadful, and when you think it was all because Mrs. Deborah saved her from life-long distress and misery. Well there, it is not for me to gossip of the family affairs. I dare say you will hear it all, only, I will just hint to you that you will gain nothing by being afraid of her. Well, here is the still-room. If you can give Mrs. Deborah any new receipts, you will make her happy."

"Eh! What do you say?" asked Mrs. Deborah, whose sharp ears had caught the words. "What is that, Tupper?"

Tupper repeated her words without any symptoms of alarm, as I noticed.

"Yes, that is true enough, I am very fond of my still. Tupper, you may as well carry a bottle of this lavender water to your mistress. Tupper is a very valuable and faithful servant and knows how to deal with Sister Philippa, poor thing!" she added as Tupper shut the door. She always spoke of Mrs. Philippa in this tone of compassion behind her back, though she was occasionally sharp with her when they were together.

I was happy in being able to give Mrs. Deborah a recipe for distilling Milk water * which was new to her, and to promise her some others when our luggage came. For I had carefully compiled a receipt book under the instruction of Mother Perpetua and Sister Lazarus, which contained some very occult and precious secrets.

* See Mrs. Raffald's "Complete Cooke", or any old edition of Mrs. Glaesse—Mrs. Raffald is worth republishing. L. E. G.

From the still-room, we went to dinner. Afterward, we visited the dairy and poultry yard, admired the beautiful cows and the fine broods of ducks and fowls and made friends with two or three great bloodhounds and an immense mastiff, which were Mrs. Deborah's special pets. I was at once adopted and taken possession of by a queer little long-bodied short-legged rough terrier, of a color between grey and blue.

"Those are Scottish dogs and come from one of the Western Isles," said Mrs. Deborah. "There, take him for your own if you like dogs, Lucy Corbet, only you must teach him to let Sister Philippa's cats alone."

"If you please, Mum, the young lady can teach him with one word!" said the old Scotch woman who had the principal charge of the poultry. "Thae dogs are gey gleg at the uptak."

"I fear my niece does not understand Scotch!" remarked Mrs. Deborah.

"Oh yes! She means that such dogs are quick to learn!" said I, guessing the old woman's meaning. I always could understand dialects of all sorts and confess to being fond of them.

"I'm thinking the leddy is gleg at the uptak her-sell!" said Elsie with a smile. "She's no like the folk about her. I'm thinking I'll just gang hame and tak up my ain hoose in the spring, Mrs. Deborah. I coma thoh to bide wi' folk that canna speak plain."

This was past me, gleg as I might be, and as we walked away, I asked Mrs. Deborah what she meant.

"She means that she will go home and set up housekeeping in the spring, because she cannot endure to stay with people who cannot understand," answered Mrs. Deborah. "But I am not alarmed. She has said the same thing for fifty years at least. She is a good creature and very faithful, but I have to stand between her and the other servants who hate her for being Scotch, and dread her because they say she knows more than she ought, and never goes to church."

"Why does she not go to church?" I asked.

"Because she is a Presbyterian, child."

I was not much the wiser because I did not know what a Presbyterian was at that time. Afterward I found out that Elsie was a member of the National Church or Kirk as they call it of Scotland, who have a great dislike to Episcopacy—no great wonder either. I am not fond of plum pudding, but if any one were to try to drive it down my throat with a bayonet, I think I should like it still less.

In the afternoon the wagon arrived with our luggage and all Mrs. Deborah's purchases, including the harpsichord, which was set up in the little red parlor, and proved to have borne the journey very well. A part of the next day was spent in unpacking our various possessions and setting them in order.

We found that Mrs. Thorpe had prepared a pleasant surprise for us by adding to our small library a number of volumes, among which were "Sir Charles Grandison," and Clarissa Harlowe and Mr. Law's "Serious Call." There was a glass-cupboard in the room, which already contained a number of volumes, mostly books of devotion of the age and style of "The Whole Duty of Man" and "The Practice of Piety." There were also a Shakespeare, a copy of Spenser, and one of the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip Sidney. I should have mentioned the library in my survey of the house. It was rather a gloomy room containing some hundred or two of volumes in presses, mostly old chronicles, books of Roman Catholic and High Church divinity, and treatises on heraldry and hawking.

By Sunday we had begun to feel quite at home in our new quarters. We went to Church in the morning with Mrs. Deborah in the carriage all in state, with footmen behind.

The church had been a handsome one but it was partly in ruins, and only the lady chapel, or what had been such, was habitable. Small as it was, it was large enough for the congregation, which seemed quite lost among the high backed benches. There were no pews but our own and the rector's which was quite empty, he being a widower without children. Dr. Brown read Prayers. I never like much to criticise a minister but I must say that so far as our service can be spoiled, he spoiled it, mumbling and hurrying so that it was difficult to tell where he was. The lesson was the noble one for the first Sunday in Advent, but I do not believe one person in ten knew what he was reading about. There was no sermon, and nothing to take the place of it. A more lifeless, spiritless performance in the shape of divine service could not possibly be. Certainly it was a great change from St. Anne's, where even before Mr. Cheriton came over to Mr. Wesley's ways, he always gave full effect to the service and the lessons. I heard Amabel sigh more than once, and no wonder.

When we came out of church, Mrs. Deborah invited Doctor Brown to dine with us. He excused himself on the ground of having to hold afternoon service at his other church, five miles off, but said he would do himself the honor to call in the course of the week, as he had a great piece of news to communicate.

There was a great bobbing of curtsies and pulling of forelocks as we came out of church, and Mrs. Deborah spoke to several of the older people particularly, inquiring about their health and that of their families, and promising to come and see several sick people.

"Parson be going away, I hears!" said Richard, as he helped his mistress into the coach. "John Footman told me he has got great preferment about Durham, some gate. They say as the gentleman which was to be curate is to have the living when Doctor Brown goes."

"Indeed! I suppose that was his great news!" said Mrs. Deborah. "Well, I shall be sorry to have him go. He has been here a long time—twenty years I should say."

"Well, I hope, mistress, we shan't get a worse in his place!" answered Richard. "Folk do say the new gentleman has many new-fangled ways."

We had an early dinner, after which Mrs. Chloe betook herself to her own room, and Mrs. Deborah called upon us to read to her in a great folio volume of sermons by Bishop Kerr and some others of his school. Some of these discourses were on practical religion, and these were admirable for the most part, but a great many were political,—all about the divine right of kings, the duty of passive obedience to the sovereign, let him be ever so bad, and other kindred topics. Oh, what a weariness they were to the flesh and spirit—enough to make an out and out whig of any lively young person from sheer contradiction. I am afraid I was not one bit sorry for the Theban Legion, and only regretted their massacre, because I had to hear so much about it.

After two hours of this exercise, we were dismissed, and refreshed ourselves by a long walk in the high park as it was called, that which stretched up the hill behind the house. We had supper earlier than usual, and then the card table was set out, and we were invited to take a hand at whist with Mrs. Chloe and Mrs. Deborah. We excused ourselves on the ground that we knew nothing of whist.

"But you can learn!" said Mrs. Deborah. "It will be a pleasure to have some one to go partners with."

We looked at each other and hesitated what to say. We had talked over this matter of Sunday card playing with Mr. Cheriton and with each other, and had decided that it was not a right way of spending Sunday evening, though it was a very common one at that day. Even clergymen thought it no harm to take a hand at piquet.

"Well, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Deborah, impatiently. "Why do you not sit down?"

"Will you please excuse me, aunt!" said Amabel, "I will learn on some other evening, if you will be so good as to teach me, but not on Sunday."

"Heyday! What does this mean!" exclaimed Mrs. Deborah, the thunder-cloud on her brow looming blacker than usual. "What sort of a Puritan have I brought home with me? Pray miss, do you set yourself up for a saint?"

"Sister Deborah!" said Mrs. Chloe, warningly.

"I don't know what a Puritan is, and I am sure I am not a saint?" said Amabel, gently. "I wish I were. But you know, aunt, if I think a thing wrong, I cannot do it, even to please you."

"And what right have you to think a thing wrong when it is done by your elders and betters, miss?"

"Sister Deborah!"

"I have seen my elders and betters on their knees for hours at a time before a piece of bread which they worshiped as God!" said Amabel with some spirit. "But you would not like to see me do that, aunt. Indeed you must please excuse us."

But Mrs. Deborah was not to be pacified. She scolded us in no measured terms, and finally bade us begone to our room since she was not good company enough for two such young saints. We betook ourselves to our little study, and girl like, had a good cry over our disgrace.

Then having relieved our spirits, I opened the harpsichord, and we began to sing out of Ravenscroft's Psalms, of which we found a book in our book-case. We had not been singing long, before Mrs. Chloe came in and seated herself, followed presently by Mrs. Deborah. We sung several psalms and two or three sacred pieces of Mr. Handel's for the ladies, and Mrs. Chloe professed herself much delighted with the music.

Mrs. Deborah did not say a great deal, but she bade us a kind good-night, and her regular—"I hope I see you well, nieces," was spoken in the morning with the same cordiality as ever.

We were not again asked to play cards on Sunday evening, and after a while it became a regular thing for us to entertain our aunts with sacred music at that time. Mrs. Deborah had a hasty temper naturally, which was not improved by a long course of absolute rule, but she had not one atom of malice or rancor in her disposition. She liked the music at first, because it gave pleasure to poor Mrs. Chloe, and afterward for its own sake, and she was never the stuff whereof persecutors are made.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WINTER.

WE soon began to feel quite at home at Highbeck Hall, and knew all the nooks and corners about the old place, which were accessible to us. We were not a little curious about the shut up rooms, but of course we asked no questions, though I for one associated them with the beautiful lady in the saloon, and determined to get the story out of old Elsie some day.

We prescribed to ourselves a regular routine of study, practise, and work, beginning of course with about twice as much as we could do, and coming by degrees down to a more reasonable plan, to which we adhered as well as people generally do in such circumstances.

We read in our history which we had begun with Mrs. Cropsey, but at last abandoned it, for my Lord Clarendon's history of the Rebellion, at the request of Mrs. Deborah; who was determined to make us into as thorough Jacobites as she was herself. Even as Lord Clarendon tells the story, I must say, I did not acquire as greet an admiration for poor King Charles as I could have wished. He seemed to me to be tyrannical and timid both at once, and I could not forgive his abandonment of Lord Strafford, and the way in which he deceived his friends. But it may easily be guessed, that I no more hinted anything of this kind to Aunt Deborah, than I should have dared to suggest to Mother Prudentia a doubt of St. Agnes' prudence, in running away to St. Francis in the middle of the night. *

* Which she did at the age of fourteen, and afterward persuaded her Sister Clare, aged twelve, to do the same.—L. E. G.

We practised our music for two hours daily, during which time Aunt Chloe usually sat with us. We learned to ride on horseback, and to take long walks when the weather permitted, attended usually by one or other of the bloodhounds to keep off stray cattle or intrusive gypsies. We visited the poor people, and carried broth and medicines to the sick, and spent a good deal of time in gossiping with the old men and women in the alm-houses, and in reading to them. Only one or two of them could read, but all liked to be read to, and took pleasure also in telling their stories like other old people. We also made great friends with old Elsie, and heard many stories from her of the past glories of the Grahames, and their exploits on the border. In short, we were as much at home in Highbeck Hall in two weeks, as though we had lived there all our lives.

We had visitors from time to time, from among the gentry in the neighborhood. These visits usually lasted from two to four days, and were desperately dull, to my thinking. However, Aunt Chloe enjoyed them, and they brightened her up amazingly. We used to be called upon to play and sing for the edification of the visitors, and always received great commendation.

When there were young people of our own age, they were of course turned over to us for entertainment, and very much puzzled we were at first to know what to do with them, not being used to the company of girls of our own age. But we usually found we could amuse them by tales of our convent life, especially with the story of the robbery, which was always received with breathless interest. Then it was a time when fancy-work of all sorts was greatly in vogue. Ladies used to do cut-work, and lace-work, chenille-embroidery, and satin-stitch, and cross-stitch, and dozens of other stitches, and various kinds of knotting. *

* What is now called tatting. See Mrs. Delaney's memoirs.

Thanks to Mother Prudentia, we were proficient in all these pursuits, and what we did not know, our visitors did. Miss Jenny Thicknesse, I remember, was very enthusiastic over the shell-work, and cardboard work in imitation of stucco, with which she and her sister were adorning the gothic arches of an old chapel in her father's house. They were nice homely ladylike girls, and we were great friends with them.

Doctor Brown was to go to his deanery in Durham after the holidays, and Mr. Lethbridge from Berwick, was to come in his place.

What any one should have seen in Doctor Brown to merit such promotion I cannot guess; but he had grand connections, and was a cousin of the Bishop's lady, which might account for it. We young ones were not displeased at the prospect of a change, though we liked the doctor personally, well enough. He was a fat good-natured sort of man, ready enough to do a kindness when it came in his way, but not likely to seek such occasions, if they cost him any trouble. He used to read prayers every other Sunday, and administer the sacrament once a quarter; but he hardly ever preached, and as to any personal instruction, his people might as well have lived in Grand Tartary. He gave liberally in charity, and I suppose satisfied his conscience in that way. He was very fond of cards, and considered a wonderful whist-player. Whenever he came to the Hall, on a Sunday night, the card table was always set out. Doctor Brown almost always won, and as regularly gave his winnings to Mrs. Deborah for the poor people at the alm-houses. Sometimes Mrs. Philippa would send for him to play piquet with her, and at last it became a regular thing for him to do so. I don't think the other ladies were very sorry to be released.

By degrees, I learned from Mrs. Chloe, who was not disinclined to a little gossip, a good deal of the family history. I learned that each of the ladies had small independent fortunes of their own, derived from their mother's settlements—that she and Mrs. Deborah, used a good deal of their incomes in keeping up the house, while Mrs. Philippa saved hers, or laid it out for her own convenience; that Sir Julius had never been near the estate since his second marriage, though he derived a considerable revenue from it, and was very particular to have the rents paid up to the day, and sometimes drew for more money than it was convenient to spare—that his second wife had been very rich, and—

"A good sort of woman so far as I know, my dear—but of no family at all—not an ancestor to bless herself with. Of course I was sorry for the poor lady's death—very sorry!" said Mrs. Chloe. "And for the poor little lad, though I had never seen him; but still it would be much better for the estate to come to Amabel. Her mother was not a Northumbrian woman to be sure, but she was of a very old Devonshire or Cornish family."

"Perhaps Sir Julius may marry again," said I. "He is quite a young man yet."

"Oh, my dear, I hope not," answered Mrs. Chloe, looking startled. "It would be sad for poor Amabel to have a step-mother, though to be sure her last one never did her any harm. But if he does take a third wife I hope she may be a lady of quality."

Mrs. Chloe also had endless stories to tell of the families in the neighborhood. She had been a belle and a beauty in her day, and received many offers, none of which her brother had seen fit to let her accept. Either there was not money enough, or family enough, or something. So poor Chloe had gone on to thirty-five without being married, and now the smallpox had spoiled her beauty, and she was not like to marry at all. She was a good, gentle, little creature, not at all strong in any way, and had been kept in such a state of tutelage and dependence that she had no mind of her own about any subject save one which she could not keep to herself. Poor Aunt Chloe was desperately anxious to be married. She used to tell us, as she sat over her embroidery frame, about the offers she had had, something in this wise:

"There was Mr. Favor, my dears—such a fine young man—six feet high, at least, and a perfect gentleman in manners, I am sure, and a splendid horseman, but his grandfather had been in trade, it seems, and Julius thought it would not do. Then there was the Reverend James P. Thirlwall. He had no great fortune, to be sure, but a good living, and would have settled all my fortune on myself and my children; but then the Thirlwalls are all Whigs, and they say one of the family was connected with the regicides," and so on and so on. I know these stories left me with the strong impression that Sir Julius Leighton's aim had all along been to keep Mrs. Chloe from marrying at all, that her fortune might remain in the family. They did not make me augur well for the success of Mr. Cheriton's suit. I think Amabel felt the same, though she did not say a word.

It was from Mrs. Chloe that we heard Mrs. Philippa's story. It seems she had been betrothed to a young man of good family, and the wedding was near at hand, when Mrs. Deborah discovered that the bridegroom was playing a double game—that he was also betrothed to a citizen's daughter in Newcastle, and was only waiting till he could find out which lady was like to have the better fortune of the two. She acquainted her father with her discovery. Sir Thomas being a man of spirit, looked into the matter, discovered the gentleman's double game, and invited him to one of two courses—to marry Mrs. Philippa out of hand, or to meet him with the sword, as the custom was in those days.

Mr. Philip Falconer did neither, but preferred to elope with his city lady-love who, though neither young, handsome, nor well born like Mrs. Philippa, had a much larger fortune all in her own power. One would think Mrs. Philippa might have been glad to be free from such a poltroon. Instead of that, she went into fits, took to her bed, and had never spoken to Aunt Deborah since. There appeared no reason why she should not be as active as any one, only that she did not choose, for when she did take a fancy to come down stairs she walked as nimbly as Aunt Deborah herself.

It seemed for a time, however, that my auguries were likely to prove false, and that Amabel's course of true love was like to run smooth. Just about Christmas time Mr. Cheriton paid us a visit, bringing letters from Sir Julius to Mrs. Deborah and to Amabel herself. Sir Julius wrote very kindly to his daughter. He said she was rather young to marry, and must wait at least a year, but as Mr. Cheriton was a man of good family, and had a competent fortune beside his living, and a likelihood of church preferment, he should make no objection to his paying his addresses to his daughter.

What he wrote to Mrs. Deborah I don't know, but she received Mr. Cheriton very politely, even though he and his family were known for steadfast adherents to the reigning dynasty, and hoped she should have the pleasure of seeing his father and mother at Highbeck Hall during the Christmas season.

They came accordingly—he, a venerable, kind old man, very sincerely religious in his fashion, and though a little perplexed as to his son's new-fangled ways, as he called them, yet quite willing to accept them, and believe they must be good because Walter said so; she, the very model of a Lady Bountiful, a perfect housekeeper, a famous concoctor of syrups, draughts, and emulsions, of broth and brewis, the kind if somewhat arbitrary friend of the poor. She had not been in the house two hours, before she had propounded at least a dozen different remedies for Aunt Chloe's cough, from bread jelly with lemon-peel and raisins, to a couple of snails boiled in her tea-water. This last was confided in a whisper to Aunt Deborah, as it was essential to the cure that the patient should know nothing about it.

Both these good people took very kindly to Amabel, and invited us both to visit them. Mrs. Cheriton presented Amabel with a pair of pearl ear-rings which had been given herself on her wedding day, and promised her some silver which had been in the family three hundred years at least. (Did any one ever hear of an heirloom which had been in a family for less than three hundred years?) The subject of politics was kept out of sight by mutual consent, so we all parted excellent friends.

Mr. Cheriton returned to his parish in Newcastle, where, he told us, matters were going very much to his satisfaction. He had succeeded in establishing the weekly lecture on which he had set his heart; and it was well attended. He had also set up classes for the young women and elder girls, where they read good books and perfected themselves in various useful works, and in these Mrs. Thorpe was giving him very efficient help. He was on the best of terms with the rector of St. Nicholas, an old gentleman who was nearly or quite blind, but an excellent man and a good clergyman. This gentleman had been away during the whole of our stay in Newcastle, and we had more than once heard it said that on his return he would put a spoke in Mr. Cheriton's wheel; so that it was a great pleasure to hear that though he did not exactly approve of all Mr. Cheriton's doings, and thought him rather over-zealous, he made no active opposition to him.

Mr. Cheriton also told us another thing which we found it hard to believe—namely, that he was quite sure he had seen Father Brousseau at one of Mr. Wesley's out-of-door preachings he had attended not long before. He said he had not known how to believe his own eyes at first, but he had watched him and was quite sure it was the same person he had seen at Mrs. Thorpe's shop.

"How very strange!" said Amabel. "How did he look?"

"He seemed very much affected, I thought!" replied Mr. Cheriton. "At first, he pulled his hat down and kept his cloak up as if he were afraid of being seen, but toward the last he seemed too much interested in the discourse to think about concealment. But I can tell you news of another friend, which will surprise you yet more!" he added smiling. "Mrs. Cropsey is married!"

"Married!" we both exclaimed not very civilly! "Not married already! Why, her husband has not been dead a year, and she could never speak of him without crying."

"Exactly!" replied Mr. Cheriton drily. "She did up all her grief at once. She was married very privately by license more than two months ago to old Mr. Arnott the great ship owner, but it is owned now, and she presides over his fine house with great dignity."

"I hope she will not talk as much of poor dear Mr. Cropsey as she used to do to us!" I remarked. "I have wished sometimes the good man had either not died at all, or else had died before she ever saw him!"

"I have only heard her mention him once!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I had some business with Mr. Arnott, and was asked to dine, and Mrs. Arnott remarked as she dispensed the hare soup, how much poor dear Mr. Cropsey would have enjoyed it. He was so fond of hare soup!"

We had no very grand doings at Christmas, as Mrs. Chloe continued very unwell and there was no master at home. However, every cottager received a good piece of beef and a pudding or materials for one; all the old women in the alms houses had doles of tea and snuff, and those who needed them had new gowns or red cloaks.

Amabel and I had a guinea apiece for a Christmas box from each of our aunts, and Mrs. Philippa formally made over to Amabel her cat, which had attached itself to her very much of late. I did not understand this proceeding at the time, but I did afterward.

We had another present which made us feel sadly. Mrs. Chloe had for a year and more, been embroidering a set of chairs, and a couch in chenilles and silks. They were designed with a great deal of taste and beautifully worked so far, but on Christmas morning, Aunt Chloe gave them to Amabel and myself to finish, saying that it hurt her chest to bend over the frame, and besides she was rather tired of them. We could finish these against Amabel should have a room to furnish, and she would begin a set for me in the spring, when her cough should be better. Meantime, she would work at her knitted counterpane, which really ought to be finished.

Mrs. Deborah approved of this motion of her sister's saying that she was sure such close application was bad for Chloe, but she went out of the room directly afterward, and we did not see her till church time.

Christmas was a very serious day to us in another way. It was the first day that Amabel and I partook of the sacrament after the forms of the Church of England. Mrs. Deborah had been anxious to have us do so: we had talked the matter over with Mr. Cheriton, and had read the books he had suggested to us. This is not the place to enlarge upon such matters. I may just say, however, that we both found great comfort in the ordinance and never afterward missed it willingly. Mr. Lethbridge officiated for the first time, and his manner was very serious and proper. Dr. Brown was present, and preached a short sermon, which was as old Elsie used to say like chips in porridge, neither good nor bad.

Aunt Chloe went to church with us. It was the last time she ever went, and she seemed to feel very deeply the solemnity of the occasion. There was a fair congregation, a good many of whom I fear got very drunk at the ale house afterward,—but nobody in those parts thought that a matter of any consequence, or indeed expected anything else. It was one of the serious charges brought against the Methodist preachers as showing that they were not what they ought to be, that they drank neither ale nor spirits, and discouraged the use of them among their converts.

On twelfth day the whole family were invited to a dinner and ball at Brayton, the house of the Thicknesse family. We had never been at a ball, and Molly and Jenny Thicknesse were great friends of ours. We promised ourselves much pleasure in the visit, and were specially desirous of seeing the shell-work with which the girls had been adorning their chapel and their own room. But fate was against us. The very day we were to go, Amabel was taken with a violent rheum and defluxion,* and it was clearly impossible for her to venture out.

* What we should call a cold in the head, then considered a matter of more consequence than now.

Mrs. Deborah would have sent an excuse for the whole party, but Mrs. Chloe looked so greatly disappointed, that we begged Mrs. Deborah to go and leave me to nurse Amabel, with the help of old Elsie and Tupper to depend upon in case of an emergency.

Amabel felt very uncomfortable all the morning, but she was better at night, and able to sit up to tea in our own room. The housekeeper sent us up all sorts of nice things, including a plate of short bread, and we would have Elsie sit down and take tea with us. After we had finished, we drew up to the fire, and coaxed Elsie to tell us tales of the two families—and when we had drawn her into the full tide of narration, I put into execution a scheme I had long had in mind.

"Elsie, do you know the story of the beautiful lady whose picture hangs next the saloon door—the one who has a veil hanging over her picture?"

"Aye, do I, my lammie!" answered Elsie. "And a gruesome story it is; they dinna like to speak o't in the family, but it's true for all that."

"Oh, tell it to us!" we both exclaimed; and Amabel added,—"I love to hear ghost stories."

"It's no just a ghost story as you call't," said Elsie. "However, I do not ken any harm the telling it will do, unless it makes you afraid to go to bed. But you must not tell Mrs. Deborah, for I'm jealous she would not wish it talked about."

"She told us we might ask you!" said I, as indeed she had.

"Aweel, then it is all right!" And as Elsie took up her distaff which was as much a part of herself as Aunt Chloe's knitting, we settled ourselves for the enjoyment of a story.

"Aweel, young ladies!" Elsie began, dismissing her spindle to twirl upon the hearth-stone, and looking into the fire with her bright deep blue eyes.

"You maun ken that there was once a Lord of Leighton, who was the last heir in the direct line. It behooved him to marry, for the estate had gone on from father to son, ever since before the Danes came into the country. He would have had no fash at all in finding a mate, forby the great estate which was far greater then as they say, and the fine house and a'; he was a weal favored lad, and knew how to make the leddies pleased wi' him."

"His mother was at him night and day to take a wife, but he would not listen to her, and they say there used to be awful scenes betwixt them, for she was a Percy and proud as Lucifer, and he was as dour and obstinate as all the rest of the Leighton men—craving your pardon, mem." This to Amabel.

"I don't think I am very dour—am I, Lucy?" said Amabel smiling.

"You are never obstinate about little matters!" I answered. "But I think if you once made up your mind that a thing was right or wrong, you would be torn with wild horses before you would give up."

"And so much the better for her!" said Elsie. "And so my dawties—I beg your pardon—young leddies I should say—things got worse and worse between the young lord and his mother. At last the auld leddy began to have her suspicions, and she watched; and by and by she found sure enough, that her son was secretly married to a young lass, the only child of a poor old man who lived on the estate."

"Aweel it's a sad story, and hardly fit for young ears, only to show what pride may lead weak and sinful mortals to do. The leddy went to see the poor thing, who was no' weel at the time, and persuaded her to take a medicine she brought her, which should make her well and strong. She took it, fell into fits and in an hour was dead. Her father was like one wild, and when the lord came that very evening to visit his wife, the auld man up and tauld him the whole story, and showed him the draught that was left—for she had na taken it all. The young lord gave it to a dog that followed him, and the poor creature died directly."

"You may guess that the young lord and his mother did not meet on friendly terms. He charged her with murder to her face, and she owned it and gloried in it, and dared him to revenge it on her—the wicked creature—and he swore an awful oath, that now he would never marry at all, unless he married a she wolf—for that alone would be fit to mate with his mother. And then he flung away, and rode like one possessed through the mirk winter's night, and it was weeks before he returned. They say, that as he spoke his rash words, the long mournful howl of a wolf was heard in the woods so near the house that they both started—for though there were wolves in plenty in the Cheviot hills in those days, they did not often come near any dwelling."

"I hope there are none about here now?" said I, for I had heard stories enough about these creatures in France, to make me dreadfully afraid of them.

"Na, na! there's no wolf been seen in these parts for more than fifty years—not since I was a young maid like you. I heard tell that auld Lochiel killed one in Scotland not so long ago, but the Cameron's country is far away from here in the Highlands.

"Aweel, to go on with the tale. It was toward spring when my lord came home, and he was not alone; he had brought a wife with him, whom he had married in Scotland. He gave out that she belonged to one of the clans of the West Highlands, and that he had saved her from great danger, but what he did not say. She was a beautiful creature as you may see by her picture, and kind enough to her servants; but that was about her, which made her more feared than loved. She had bright eyes of the kind called hazel in these parts, but when she was angered or excited, they glowed like balls of green fire, and the servants declared they even shone in the dark. She was very civil to her mother-in-law, but soon let her know that she meant to be mistress in her own house, and after one trial the old lady never attempted to take the high hand again.

"Aweel, the time went on, and all through the summer there were merry-makings of all sorts; but when cold weather came, the lady was na weel, and kept her room, and nothing could make her stir out of doors, though doctor and nurse thought it would be much better for her. The wolves were very bold that winter, and came nearer the Hall than they had ever done before. The lady was dreadfully afraid of them, and when their long howls used to be heard, she would cling to her husband and hide her face in his neck. Neither would she thole his joining any of the hunting parties set out against the wolves, and it was a great vex to him no doubt, for he was a keen hunter, but it behooved him to pleasure his wife whatever it cost.

"Aweel, in the spring the leddy gave her husband a fine lad bairn, and there were great rejoicings on the estate. The leddy seemed to get over her fears, and went about with her husband and entertained company; but there were those who said she was na quite herself. She had a watchful look always about her, and any sudden noise in the night would make her start and clasp her bairn to her breast. She seemed to worship the child, and would not bear it out of her sight; but yet she would not nurse it, and had a young woman from the village to suckle it. After the babe was christened she seemed easier about it, but yet her face never lost the apprehensive look.

"The summer went by and the cold weather came on, and again the wolves began to come down from the hills. The lady showed the same terror of them, and begged her husband not to hunt them. But one day when he was away, some of his friends persuaded him, laughing at him, and telling, he should be too much of a man to be afraid of his wife, and be tied to her apron-string, handsome as she was. So away he went on the hunt, and had the fortune to slay a great dog wolf, and ye shall not hinder him from bringing the creature home to show to his wife.

"The poor leddy had been shut in her room all day, very low in her spirits, as though she mistrusted where her lord had gone. The rooms had all been new fitted for her with many beautiful ornaments and pictures, but she found no comfort in any thing. She sat by the fire with her babe hugged to her bosom till she heard her lord's horses in the court. Then she gave the babe to its nurse and ran down to meet him. He kissed her as she threw her arms round his neck, and bade his man show the leddy what he had brought her. The man threw down on the floor the carcass of a great gray wolf. The lady gave one scream—they said it echoed through the house—and fled to her bedroom, bolting herself in. She would na open to any one—not to her husband or her child—but they heard her wailing and crying fit to break her heart.

"It was just midnight when those within the hall heard, as though close at hand, the long-drawn, piercing howl of a wolf. It was answered so near that the cry seemed within the very hall itself, and so dreadful was the sound that it made every one's blood run cold. My lord, who had come down stairs, ran up to his lady's room, thinking she would be terrified to death. He found the nurse, who watched by the sleeping babe, in the outer room stretched on the floor in a faint, but there was no sound from within. Reckless in his dread, he ordered the door to be broken in. The room was empty. The leddy's clothes that she had worn all day lay in a heap on the floor. The door to a little turnpike stair that led down to the garden was open, but, alive or dead, the poor leddy was never seen mair.

"The babe seemed to pine for his mither, though she had never nursed him, and in a week, he too died, and was buried. The lord had the rooms which had been his wife's closed and locked just as she left them, and he went to the Holy Wars, as they called them, against the Turks, and never came home. The estate went to a cousin after all; but they say that when some great misfortune is about to happen to the family, the long howl of a wolf is heard at night in Highbeck Woods."

Elsie ended her story and we sat a few moments in silence. Then Amabel remarked quietly—

"I suppose those are the shut up rooms between this chamber and the king's room."

"Aye, they have never been opened since, or sae they say, and a veil hangs always over the poor leddy's picture, though Mrs. Deborah's mother used think it was only a fancy piece, since nobody knew how to paint such pictures in those days. She was a very well-educated young leddy, was my young mistress, and had been at school at a convent in France."

And here Elsie diverged into an account of her young mistress, who had been Amabel's grandmother. I was not sorry, for the tale had "garred me grew," as Elsie said, and I was glad that the poor wolf-lady, if such she was, could claim no kin with me. I have since learned that there are plenty of ghost stories in my own family. Indeed, the Corbet ghosts have made themselves so cheap that they are very little regarded. I cannot say that either Amabel or myself slept any the worse for Elsie's story, though I must confess to starting sometimes when the bloodhounds would give vent to their long melancholy bay, worshipping the moon after the fashion of their race.

Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Chloe came home the next day but one, Mrs. Chloe seeming much revived by her visit. The ball had been a great success, and Mrs. Chloe had danced one dance with a very fine gentleman indeed—some officer or other—who had given her a fine copy of verses next morning, as the fashion was then. *

* Those who are curious may find plenty of such copies of verses in old collections. They might mostly be made on a machine.

Molly and Jenny had greatly regretted our absence, and had sent us a box of shells, and a needle-book and work-bag of their own manufacture. Mine was made of flowers cut out in satin and paper, and placed between two thicknesses of transparent catgut, † and was really very pretty and ingenious.

† A thin, transparent, but rather stiff material, much used for ornamental works. I have seen an old work-bag made of it.

Aunt Chloe had learned several new stitches, and the teaching of these and describing the dresses at the ball afforded her amusement, till something happened which drove General B., his sword-knot, and copies of verses, effectually out of her head. This event, however, must be reserved for another chapter.

CHAPTER XIX.

SURPRISES.

WE went on in our usual course for some weeks.

Mr. Lethbridge, the new rector, proved quite a contrast to Doctor Brown. He was a thin, serious faced young man, very much in earnest, and not always (or so I thought) very discreet in his zeal. He was one of those men who seem, if I may so express myself, to have no perspective in their minds. To eat meat on a Friday in Lent, or to go to a dance on the green were in his eyes as great crimes as to get drunk at the alehouse or to beat one's wife.

He sorely puzzled and distressed old Gaffer Bell at the almshouse, by telling him that for a man so near the grave as he was, to spend hours in playing the fiddle was a frivolous if not a sinful waste of time. And when Gaffer Bell, one of the two or three old people who could read and a pretty good Bible scholar too, told him that he "didn't find nowt agen the fiddle in Bible—" he reproved him for speaking lightly of sacred things. Mr. Lethbridge approved highly of some of Mr. Wesley's doings, such as his prayer and conference meetings, and set one of the latter up in his own parish.

"And pray what sort of conferences do you have?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "Do not the people get into undesirable disputes."

"Oh no!" answered Mr. Lethbridge complacently. "I take care to prevent that by allowing no one to speak but myself."

"Rather an odd sort of conference meeting that, Brother Lethbridge, where the conference is all on one side, like the Irish gentleman's reciprocity," said Doctor Brown, with one of his jolly laughs. "Your pattern Mr. Wesley manages quite differently, as I understand. He allows the old folk to have their say, and I dare say it might be quite interesting to hear what they could find to talk about!" added the Doctor, as if struck by a sudden idea. "I am not sure but I should like to try it sometime. At any rate, it would give them pleasure, for old folk like to be listened to."

Mr. Lethbridge drew into his shell as his custom was when he thought himself assailed, and Doctor Brown began to talk about something else. It was one of Mr. Lethbridge's troubles that whenever any one criticised any of his methods, he always thought the cause of Christ was attacked. Nevertheless he was a good young man and a good preacher, visited the sick and the feeble faithfully, catechised the children and revived the school, which had fallen quite into disuse of late years.

Mrs. Deborah took a great interest in the matter, recommended a very capable and efficient school-mistress, and made liberal presents of working materials. Amabel and I visited this institution of learning twice or three times a week, helped to teach the children in sewing, reading, knitting, and the Catechism. And when the three girls who made the first class, got through their duty toward their neighbour without a stumble, we felt as proud as though we had made them ourselves.

People began to come to church on other occasions than to get themselves married or buried, and to join a little in the responses, and almost all agreed that Parson was a kind gentleman, and a good preacher and good to the poor, though he would look into matters for himself and refused the Shrove Tuesday dole to Betty Hackett, because he found out that she changed off her Christmas blankets at the alehouse.

Lent fell rather late that year, and about a fortnight before Shrove Tuesday, Mrs. Philippa surprised us all by coming down stairs to dinner, and still more astonished us by not finding fault with any thing on the table. She really made herself very agreeable, as she well knew how when she chose. But when she again appeared at supper, our surprise knew no bounds.

"These are very nice cheese-cakes!" said she in the course of the meal. "Pray, Sister Deborah, is this your usual receipt or have you a new one?"

The remark was not a startling one certainly, but when one considers that it was the first direct word Mrs. Philippa had addressed to Mrs. Deborah for more than twenty years, it is perhaps no wonder that Mrs. Chloe dropped her tea-cup, and that Amabel and I both tried so hard to look unconcerned, that it was well no strangers were present.

Mrs. Deborah however answered as quietly as though she had been chatting with her sister all day.

"The cheese-cakes are much as usual, Sister Philippa. It is perhaps that exercise has given you a better appetite."

"Possibly!" replied Mrs. Philippa with a smile. "You were always famous for your cheese-cakes, Sister Deborah."

From the cheese-cakes, Mrs. Philippa diverged to other subjects. She told several anecdotes of her youth, asked Mrs. Deborah if she did not remember this and that circumstance, told Mrs. Chloe that she was nervous and needed the doctor, and in short made herself so agreeable that I did not know her. After supper, she delayed a moment and said, as it seemed with a little hesitation:

"Sister Deborah, I am thinking of going to Berwick for a little change, and to visit my friend Lady Betty Alworthy. Will it be convenient to you to let me have the small travelling coach, and Richard to attend me?"

"Certainly, Sister Philippa, but will not the journey fatigue you?" said Mrs. Deborah. "You know the roads are not of the best!"

"I do not think so!" was the reply, without any of Mrs. Philippa's usual irritability at being opposed. "Doctor Brown has lately come from Berwick, and he tells me the roads are good; and Lady Betty specially desires my visit just now."

"Very well, Sister Philippa, suit your own convenience," was the reply. "I will see that all things are in readiness and trust you may have a pleasant visit."

"What is going to happen?" said I rather pertly, when Mrs. Philippa had withdrawn.

Mrs. Chloe's soft eyes were full of tears, and old Roberts shook his head solemnly.

"It is a warning, ladies! That's what it is!" said the old man. "Something is a going for to happen to Mrs. Philippa. Folks don't change that way for nothing. Didn't you notice, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Chloe, that she never so much as called me an old fool, once? Poor lady."

"What do you think is going to happen, Sister Deborah?" asked Mrs. Chloe in a quivering voice.

"I think Philippa is going to Berwick, if she does not change her mind before the day after to-morrow!" replied Mrs. Deborah, with a tone and look which showed she was annoyed. "And I am afraid I shall call Roberts an old fool myself, if he does not clear the table, instead of standing there talking nonsense to frighten you, Sister Chloe. Do draw up your shawl and go to the fire."

"What did Roberts and Mrs. Chloe mean by saying that something was going to happen to Mrs. Philippa?" I asked of Amabel, when we were in our own room together.

Mary Lee thought the question was addressed to her and answered with some solemnity.

"They think she is fey! Miss Corbet."

"Fey!" I repeated. "What is that?"

"Why, just fey! When any strange alteration comes over a person as from close to liberal or from fretful to pleasant or the other way, people say they are fey—and then they are not long for this world."

"Oh, that is it. Well, we will not be alarmed for Mrs. Philippa just yet," said I. "We shall see how she is to-morrow."

But to-morrow brought no alteration in Mrs. Philippa's mood. Amabel and I waited on her every morning. Sometimes she would admit us, and oftener we were sent away, and bid not to be troublesome little hypocrites, pretending what we did not feel. On these occasions, Tupper always came outside the door and dismissed us with the same remark.

"My mistress is not quite herself this morning, ladies. Another time I am sure she will be happy."

I suppose she was quite herself, but it seemed more as if she were somebody else the next morning, she was so very gracious. We found her in the midst of a wonderful litter, overseeing Tupper's occupation of packing a great mail, while another stood by filled to the brim. I could not but wonder that she should take so many things when she was only going to stay a fortnight. Mrs. Philippa invited us to sit down, and seeing that my eyes reverted to the great trunk, she condescended to explain that she was not going to take all these things with her.

"Not at least at present!" she added with a queer little blush and smile.

An idea darted through my head, but it was so preposterous that I rejected it directly.

"I hope you will be very kind to my sisters when I am gone!" said Mrs. Philippa. "My Sister Chloe is a good creature, though she is not very strong minded. Poor thing, I wish I could see her better. And Sister Deborah is a good creature too. We have not been on the best of terms always. Deborah is sometimes rather too officious, but she is a good creature. I am glad she will have your society while I am away."

The idea came back and did not go away quite so easily.

Mrs. Philippa went on clearing out her drawers, and bestowed upon us many bits for our patchwork, silks and crewels for our work, pincushions, and other little presents, and at last unlocked her jewel case and took from it two boxes.

"This necklace, my dear, was your mother's before it was mine, and you will like it none the loss on that account. Yours, niece Corbet, was brought me many years ago from over sea. Keep them to remember me by!"

She then dismissed us with great kindness.

"What does she mean?" asked Amabel, quite bewildered, as we went to our bedroom to put away our gifts. "One would think she never expected to come home again!"

"Perhaps she doesn't!" said I.

"What do you mean, Lucy. I see nothing like dying about her."

"I was not thinking of dying, but of something else!" I answered. "However, time will show."

"Lucy! How perfectly absurd!" said Amabel. "When she has been mourning all these years for Mr. Falconer, and has never seen any company."

"Except Doctor Brown!" I added.

"Worse and worse!" returned Amabel, laughing heartily. "Lucy, I believe you are fey yourself. You used not to think so much about matrimony."

"Ah, well, time will show! Let us look at our necklaces!"

Amabel's turned out to be a very rich thick gold chain supporting a fine pendant of amethyst set round with pearls. Mine was a chain of Turkey stones, supporting a locket enameled also with Turkey stones. It opened and had evidently once held a miniature.

"She never gave you that!" almost screamed Mrs. Chloe, when I showed it to her. "Why, it was the gift of Mr. Philip Falconer, and used to have his picture in it. My poor sister! She is not long for this world. My dears!" sinking her voice to a whisper. "Did either of you hear a strange noise last night?"

"I heard the bloodhounds baying as they do every moonlight night—that was all!" answered Amabel.

"Oh! You think it was the bloodhounds? Well, I don't know. To my thinking, it sounded like something else—longer and more dreary."

"Dear Aunt Chloe, don't give way to these dismal fancies!" said Amabel, kissing her pale cheek. "I do not believe in the wolf, one bit, if that is what you are thinking of. It is like Aunt Philippa's death-watch, at which she was so scared, and yet you see, she is not dead."

"But she may he. The five months are not up nor the five years."

"We may all be dead and gone before five years, but I don't believe the watch knew anything about it, more than the wolf, if there is such a creature, which is more than doubtful. Aunt Philippa is going to Berwick to make a visit, and she is pleased with the prospect, and thought she would give us some keepsakes,—that was all."

Mrs. Chloe sighed and shook her head and would not be comforted. She was very superstitious, and her life was really embittered with these fancies. If she had been going to church to be married, and had seen a weasel, she would have turned back. An owl's cry, or the flutter of a bird against the window, would make her turn pale, and she was quite certain that she had brought some great misfortune on Amabel, because she had given her a hair-pin point foremost.

Amabel, who had a way of speaking her mind freely without giving offence, remonstrated with her Aunt Chloe about giving way to needless fears.

"You know, dear Aunt Chloe, that we are all in God's hands, and He can and will care for us as tenderly as a mother cares for her babe. Why should we not trust Him to do just what is best for us? And if we do, why should we let ourselves be terrified by signs and omens?"

"I don't suppose it is right, but every one does it!" sighed Mrs. Chloe. "And we know, niece, that there are evil spirits, and such creatures allowed to go about, and why may they not be near us at any time?"

"They may and they may not!" replied Amabel. "We cannot see them, and nothing has been told us about them, so we do not know; but we do know that we are all the time in God's presence. He is always near at hand, to protect and care for us."

"That is very true, Niece Leighton—very true indeed," said Mrs. Chloe, as if struck with a new idea. "He is every where, and so He must be here. But I don't know—we seem to know so very little about Him. I can't help being afraid of Him, though I don't suppose it is right."

"I used to feel just so, before I read the New Testament!" said Amabel. "But when I read such places as, 'He that hath seen Me, hath seen the Father,'—'I and my Father are one!' then I felt that I knew a great deal more about Him. If the Lord Jesus is His image, we need not be afraid of Him."

"Very true, my love. I never thought of it in that way!" said Mrs. Chloe. "But tell me, don't you ever feel afraid at night, when you wake up and hear all sorts of strange noises, like sighs and moans and people walking and whispering?"

"Oh yes, very often. But, Aunt Chloe, if you are afraid in your snug pretty little room with Bateson within call, and your whistle just at your head, I wonder what you would say to sleeping where Lucy and I used to do, in one corner of the great deserted dormitory, with half the house shut up and in ruins, and those great awful caverns underneath it."

"Yes, I never was so very much afraid, till after I had seen the caverns and the black water!" I added. "I dream of them now at times."

"How dreadful!" said Mrs. Chloe shuddering. "What did you do?"

"Mother Prudentia used to tell us to put ourselves into the hands of God, and the Holy Virgin, and repeat the psalm 'Qui habitat,'—the ninety-first, you know. I used to feel so safe and easy when I came to, 'He shall cover thee with His wings.'"

"My dear, will you look me out that psalm? I think I will learn it by heart!" said Mrs. Chloe. "Of course I have read it hundreds of times, but somehow I never thought it was me whom He would cover. Thank you, my dear, you have done me a great deal of good."

Amabel found the psalm in Mrs. Chloe's great prayer-book, and I noticed afterwards that she kept it open by her, and used to be murmuring verses over to herself, whenever she was alone with her knitting—the only work she ever attempted nowadays. She had taken to sitting most of the time in our cheerful sunny little room, and though she was no great help to our lessons, being one of those persons who never can refrain from talking when there is any one to talk to, we were very glad to have her there, and to give up our time to her, for we both felt we should not have her very long.

But I am wandering a long way from Mrs. Philippa and her affairs. The lady accomplished her journey in safety, as she sent word when the carriage came back, and felt herself much better for the change. She sent her love to Mrs. Deborah, with a handsome new china jug—Mrs. Deborah was fond of jugs—and to Mrs. Chloe, a soft warm shawl and a pair of fur-lined slippers; and there were little presents for Amabel and myself, and a parcel of needles, knitting-pins and thread for the school children.

Richard on being questioned, declared that Mrs. Philippa had purchased all these things herself—that she was buying "a power of new gowns," and was "as pert as a pyet," and moreover had not called him a fool once since he left the Hall. By all which signs, he concluded infallibly, that Mrs. Philippa was not long for this world.

"Did you see any one that we know, Richard, beside Lady Betty's family?" asked Mrs. Chloe.

"I did see Doctor Brown!" answered Richard. "His Reverence was about buying of a new coach, and Lady Betty and Mrs. Philippa went with him to see it."

Whereupon I glanced at Amabel, and she shook her head severely at me.

Shrove Tuesday was a lovely day, I remember. Amabel and I had been out looking for flowers, and had found very few, for spring comes but slowly in Northumberland. However, we had gathered a bunch of wind flowers, and had the wonderful good luck to find in a sheltered sunny spot a tuft of primroses, and a few sweet blue and white violets.

When we went in to carry them to Aunt Chloe, we found her leaning back in her chair sobbing bitterly. Mrs. Deborah held an open letter in her hand, and looked as though she did not know whether to laugh or be angry. A box full of bride-cake and another of white gloves and favors stood on the table.

I guessed all in a minute and glanced at Amabel, who looked puzzled enough. With all her intelligence, she was never very "gleg at the uptak," except where people's feelings were concerned. I was dying with curiosity, but of course I did not ask any questions, but waited to be told.

"Well, nieces, what do you think has happened?" said Mrs. Deborah.

I knew well enough, but nobody likes to have their news forestalled, so I did not say a word, but left the answer to Amabel, who was as innocent as a babe.

"Nothing bad, I hope, aunt; nothing to Mrs. Philippa," said she.

"Something to Mrs. Philippa, but nothing bad," said Mrs. Deborah, trying to keep the corners of her mouth in order. "Nieces, your Aunt Philippa is married!"

And here Mrs. Deborah broke down into a hearty laugh, while Mrs. Chloe sobbed afresh, and murmured, "Sister Deborah, how can you?"

"Why, one may as well laugh as cry, child," said Mrs. Deborah. "Yes, after twenty years of mournful constancy to the memory of her first love, my Sister Philippa is really married, and to whom do you think?"

"To Doctor Brown!" I could not help saying.

"Even so, child, but how did you hear?"

"I did not hear, Aunt Deborah, I guessed," I replied. "Amabel was shocked at me for hinting such a thing before Mrs. Philippa went away."

"You are a shrewd little puss," said Mrs. Deborah, shaking her head, but not looking at all displeased. "I never thought of such a thing."

"I am sure I did not," said Mrs. Chloe, through her tears. "She never hinted such a thing to me—I that have stood by her for so many years. I do think she might have told me, at least."

"I suppose she was ashamed," replied Mrs. Deborah. "Never mind, Chloe, we all know that poor Philippa is peculiar. I hope Doctor Brown will be as glad of his bargain five years hence as he is now."

"She said he was her spiritual adviser," said Mrs. Chloe, beginning to recover herself a little. "She said she had derived great benefit from him."

"Well, so it seems she has."

"And here is Amabel going to marry the first Church of England clergyman she ever heard preach," continued Mrs. Chloe. "I declare, I shall begin to think spiritual advisers are very dangerous people."

Mrs. Chloe was very much hurt at her sister's want of confidence in her for a while, but her amiable spirit soon began to make excuses for her.

In truth, such marriages were not very uncommon in those days. Two people who were betrothed would steal away from a ball or party, perhaps, to another room in the same house, with two or three witnesses, be married, and return to the company as if nothing had happened; and marriages were sometimes kept a profound secret for months. It was not a good fashion, and brought about a good many complicated lawsuits, but it was not considered at all disreputable.

Mrs. Philippa's fortune was in her own right, and nobody had a shadow of authority over her, except, perhaps, her brother, and as she was older than he by two or three years, she naturally did not think he had any special right to direct her. Doctor Brown's family, though not distinguished, was respectable. There was nothing against him personally, and he had a comfortable private fortune besides his office at Durham. Nevertheless Sir Julius was furiously angry, and wrote Mrs. Deborah a most unreasonable letter—as though she had been the one to blame.

I think Mrs. Chloe suffered the most of any one from this very unexpected healing of Mrs. Philippa's twenty years' heart-break. She missed her sister, whom she had really loved despite her unkindness, and I am sure she felt it hard that Mrs. Philippa should get a rich husband, while she herself had none at all. It was truly pitiable to see how the poor thing's thoughts still ran upon such things, though every one in the house could see with half an eye that she was not long for this world. She grew thinner and weaker every day, and her little dry cough kept her awake in spite of all Mrs. Deborah's bread jellies, and poppy and lettuce syrups.

Mr. Lethbridge used to come and read to her sometimes, but she did not like him very much, and, indeed, he was not a cheering visitor. I used to wonder if he thought it was good for a sick person to hear the particulars of every case of illness and suffering in the parish.

Mrs. Philippa paid us a visit, during Lent, with her husband. I never in all my life saw any one so pleased with being married. She could talk of nothing else, and uttered some speeches which made us young ones feel as if we did not know where to look. I never was fond of seeing over-much billing and cooing in public between even young married folks; but I never saw a bride and bridegroom of twenty-one so exasperatingly silly in this respect as Doctor and Mrs. Brown. However, she was very good-natured, and invited us all to visit her so seen as she should be settled in her new house, which, according to her description, was quite a palace. She was especially kind to Mrs. Chloe, and took great pains to amuse her. She staid a whole week, and then left her old home apparently without a single regret.

We had another visitor during Lent, namely, Mr. Cheriton. It seems Mr. Lethbridge had business in Newcastle which would keep him there some three weeks, and Mr. Cheriton learning of it, arranged to exchange duties with him for that time. Oh what a comfort it was to have him preach again!

He held service on Wednesdays and Fridays, and, as we always went to church, we saw him tolerably often. Mrs. Deborah invited him to make the Hall his home during his stay, but he declined, saying that there were so many cases of severe illness among the people—as, indeed, there were—that he wished to be near at hand in case of a sudden call. Mrs. Deborah admitted the validity of the excuse, but begged him to come to dinner or supper without ceremony, as he would always find a plate, and he did so with very tolerable frequency. Both parties kept carefully clear of politics, and I think Mrs. Deborah came to regard Mr. Cheriton's whiggery as more his misfortune than his fault—as a kind of disorder that ran in some families like gout.

Mr. Cheriton was a fine musician, as I have said, and he brought us a great parcel of new music by the best composers. We used to sing together a deal, which was a great pleasure to Mrs. Chloe. Next to having a love affair of her own, was the pleasure of watching another's.

But Mr. Cheriton did Mrs. Chloe good in other and better ways. He himself proposed that as she could not go to church, he should have prayers for her benefit every Sunday evening, after which he would read her his sermon. He was a true "son of consolation," and knew just what to say and what not. Whenever he spent the evening with us, we had evening prayers, which we did not at other times, and Mr. Cheriton usually said a few words upon the Gospel for the day or week.

I think Mrs. Deborah, at first, looked on this practise of preaching in a private house, as a dangerous innovation akin to field preaching, and holding conventicles; but she soon came to like it.

Mr. Cheriton held several long conversations with Mrs. Chloe, and I began presently to perceive a change in her. She left off talking about her past matrimonial chances, and her plans for visiting "my Sister Brown," when warm weather came. Her Bible was constantly in her hand or by her side as she sat in her great chair or lay on the couch, and she spent a good deal of time studying a volume of Mr. Charles Wesley's poems, which Mr. Cheriton had brought to Amabel.

"I don't know how it is, but they seem somehow to express just what I want!" she said rather apologetically to Mrs. Deborah one day. "And, you know, Sister Deborah, that Mr. Wesley is a regularly ordained clergyman of the Church of England."

"Do read them as much as you like, if they are any comfort to you, Sister Chloe!" was Mrs. Deborah's reply.

I think she would even have welcomed a Roman Catholic priest if he had brought any comfort to Chloe. I used sometimes to wonder, by the way, how Mrs. Deborah reconciled her hatred of popery and her almost idolatrous loyalty to the banished Stewarts, but there were a great many others in the same case. I do not believe there were ever a more unreasonable and unreasoning set of people than the English Jacobites. After all the national experience of the faithlessness of their idols, they were just as ready to fall down and adore them again, as though they had never broken a pledge. They worshipped the Church of England. Yet they were ready to set over her a man who was bound by the most solemn obligations to overthrow her. It was certainly a pity to see the blood and treasure that were thrown away, and the misery and distress that were brought about, by the unreasoning loyalty to one particular family, which had never shown itself worthy of trust.

Mr. Cheriton went home at last promising to come again as soon as possible, and leaving a great many well wishes behind him. While he had been very careful not to interfere with Mr. Lethbridge's arrangements, but on the contrary had upheld him in every possible way, the people could not but feel the difference between his ministrations and those of the rector.

"Seems like as if one could talk to that gentleman and open one's mind to him!" said Mary Thorne, a very intelligent old woman in one of the alms houses. "He listens to one, he does, and finds out what one means. I told him all my trouble about the Sacrament,—" a matter on which poor old Mary had been much exercised—"and told him how I was afraid either to come or to stay away. Mr. Lethbridge always said it was want of faith, and Doctor Brown would just say, 'poor soul, poor soul,' kind of pitying like, and then go home and send me some broth or something. He was very kind, but he didn't help me any. But 'Muster Cheriton,' he made it all plain, and now it seems as if I could not wait for Easter to come, that I may go to the Lord's table."

Easter came and passed very happily, and it was observed that there were more communicants than were ever seen before. We all went to church in the morning, except Mrs. Chloe, who had failed a great deal of late, and now seldom left her bedroom before noon.

In the afternoon, Mr. Lethbridge brought the feast to her, and to old Roberts, who was growing very infirm and hardly able to perform his duties.

Amabel and I walked out in the park, gathered a great nosegay for Mrs. Chloe, and talked of our future as young folks will do. Of course, I was to live with Amabel, till I had a home of my own, and was to have the south room which looked toward the church. I was not so light-hearted as Amabel, for Mrs. Thorpe, who wrote to us sometimes, had mentioned in her last letter that her nephew's ship had never been heard from since it sailed for the Indies, and that people were beginning to think something had happened to her. However, I kept my troubles to myself, or rather I tried humbly to lay them on some one better able to bear them than I, and I listened to Amabel's plans and discussed them with real interest and pleasure.

"Mrs. Chloe does not talk any more about the set of chairs she was going to begin in the spring," remarked Amabel. "She never says anything now about getting well when the warm weather comes, but I think she seems a great deal happier than she used."

"She has given up!" said I. "You know dear Mother Superior used to say that there was great happiness in giving up. Mrs. Chloe told me the other day, that you and Mr. Cheriton, between you, had done her more good than you would ever know."

"I am sure I am very glad to hear it!" said Amabel, her quiet eyes shining with pleasure.

"Lucy, what have I done that I should be so happy? While you that are so much better in every way—"

Amabel stopped short. It was the first time she had given me a hint that she had guessed my secret.

"Don't, please, Amabel!" said I. "I hope I can bear all I am called on to endure, but I can't bear to hear it talked about even by you. Forgive me, dear!" For I was afraid I might have hurt her.

"There is nothing to forgive!" said Amabel, pressing my arm in hers. "I should feel just so."

We walked home without any more words, and I shut myself up alone awhile. Comfort came to me by and by, and when Mrs. Chloe remarked, as I kissed her good-night, that this had been a happy day, I was glad to be able to agree with her.

The next day but one, as Amabel and I were returning from the village school, we were astonished to meet Mr. Cheriton. His face was pale, his dress disordered, and his jaded horse showed how fast he had travelled. It was just at the entrance of the avenue, and one of the grooms being at hand, Mr. Cheriton gave him the horse, with a charge to be careful of him, as he had made a hasty journey.

"We were not looking for you!" said Amabel. "What has brought you in such a hurry?" Then turning pale as Mr. Cheriton did not answer, "Walter, what is it! You have ill news. What does it mean?"

"That is what you must tell me!" said Mr. Cheriton, in a hoarse voice, not a bit like his own. "I received this letter yesterday. Read it both of you."

He put it into Amabel's hand, as he spoke, and I looked over her shoulder. It was a very short and ungracious letter from Sir Julius, saying that he had heard reports injurious to Mr. Cheriton's character, and having learned from the best authority, that these reports were even less than the truth, he forbade him to entertain any hopes of his daughter, or even to see her more.

"An enemy hath done this!" was Amabel's first word.

"Yes, but who? I did not know that I had one. I know some idle tales were told about me at one time, but I thought they had all died out long ago. Amabel, you will not—"

"Don't ask Amabel to pledge herself to anything just this moment!" I interrupted. "Let us go straight to Mrs. Deborah."

"You are right, Lucy!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I hardly know what I am doing. Let us go to Mrs. Deborah, as you say."

"Mrs. Deborah is in her own sitting-room, reading her letters!" said Richard, in answer to my inquiries. "An express has come from Sir Julius, with great news."

I do not know that I have any Scotch blood, but I certainly do have at times an odd kind of second sight. The moment Richard spoke, I knew it all.

We found Mrs. Deborah sitting in her little room, half office, half parlor. She had an open letter before her, but she was not reading it. She was pale, and her black brows seemed almost to hide her eyes. She hardly seemed at first to understand who we were, and asked somewhat fiercely what we meant by coming to disturb her.

"We wanted help!" said Amabel. "Aunt, can you explain that?" Handing her the letter as she spoke.

Mrs. Deborah glanced through it.

"Too well!" said she. "I also have had a letter which explains it all. Child, your father is married again, and to Lady Throckmorton."

CHAPTER XX.

VISITORS.

"THAT is it!" said Mr. Cheriton, striking his hand on the table, while Amabel and I stood as if dumb. "She told me when I would not come to her card parties on Sunday, that she would send me a bull's head. * And to think of the hours that I have wasted, and worse than wasted in that woman's house—dishonoring my Master's livery. It is a judgment upon me, but this child—what has she done?"

* Alluding to the old Scottish and Northumbrian custom of placing a bull's head before guests, whose death was determined on.

"Hush, Walter, do not speak rashly, nor talk of judgments!" said Amabel, speaking quite calmly, though she was pale as death. "We will not talk of judgments, but of chastenings."

"Of persecutions, rather!" I added. "Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness' sake! If you had kept on flattering her, she would not have been your enemy."

"If I had never begun it, she could not have found occasion against me!" returned Mr. Cheriton. "My sin hath found me out."

"Hush!" said Mrs. Deborah, raising her hand. "You young people think you have all to bear. Is it nothing to me to have that woman come into my place,—knowing her as I do? To see my only brother besotted with a—Oh me, oh me! How shall I ever tell Chloe?"

And Mrs. Deborah broke down in a burst of bitter weeping, dreadful to see in one usually so self-restrained. We were all about her in a moment. She clasped Amabel in her arms, and laying her head on her shoulder as she knelt on the floor, she sobbed bitterly.

As for me, I was too fiercely angry to cry. Mr. Cheriton, who had in some degree regained his self-control, at the sight of Mrs. Deborah's distress, now spoke in his deep voice—

"Let us pray!"

I shall never forget that prayer, nor how it sustained and comforted us all. We knelt in silence for some moments, and then Mrs. Deborah rose—

"Children, we must consider what is to be done!" said she. "It is evident that my brother has been set against Mr. Cheriton, by somebody interested in preventing this marriage. Be quiet while I read you his letter, or that part of it which relates to you."

We listened accordingly. The letter was a repetition, for the most part, of what Sir Julius had written to Mr. Cheriton, only that it entered more into particulars, accusing Mr. Cheriton of low intrigues, and conduct unbecoming a gentleman, and concluded by saying—

"I will never give my daughter to a canting Methodist. Let Mr. Cheriton give up his irregular practices—his field preaching and class-meetings, let him apologize to my wife for his affronts to her, and show by his conduct that he regrets them, and I may possibly be induced to overlook the natural irregularities of a young man. I say possibly, for I may have other and higher views for my daughter."

"He is very good!" said Mr. Cheriton, with a look on his face and a tone of bitterness in his voice, which I never witnessed or heard before. "If I will give up preaching to the poor and seeking the lost, that is to say, if I will give up the work I am doing for the Lord, he will possibly overlook what I am said to have done for the devil. As to Lady Throckmorton, as I have never affronted her, I owe her no apology. What say you, Amabel? Shall I give up my preaching to the colliers and ballast men, for your sake?"

"Never!" said Amabel firmly. "I would rather never see you more in this world, than that you should swerve one hair's breadth from your duty for my sake."

"Besides, it would be only a chance!" said I. "Do you not see, that Sir Julius says he may have other and higher views for his daughter?"

"Let us say no more at present, my children!" said Mrs. Deborah. "But take time to think. Mr. Cheriton, you are much in need of refreshment. Lucy, will you order something? Amabel, my love, you had better retire to your room and compose your spirits. We will talk of this matter again."

But a sad interval was to pass before the matter was again discussed. We had not yet separated, when Jenny came in all haste to say, that Mrs. Chloe had fallen into a fainting-fit, and her woman could not bring her to, with all she could do.

"It was just that grinning fool Richard!" said Jenny in great wrath. "He must come in with a basket of sticks, for Mrs. Chloe wanted a bright fire, and what must he do, but congratulate her on the happy news as he called it, and when Mrs. Chloe asked what it meant, he said master was married to Lady Throckmorton, and poor Mrs. Chloe, she just gave one mournful cry and sunk back like one dead."

All these particulars were given to us, for Mrs. Deborah had hurried to her sister. Poor Mrs. Chloe came out of her fainting-fit, only to have a dreadful bleeding from her lungs. An express was sent in all haste for the doctor, and another for Mrs. Philippa—Mrs. Brown, I should say. The doctor did not arrive till night, and then gave no hopes. Mrs. Chloe survived about a week, and then passed quietly away, in the comfort of a reasonable, religious, and holy hope. I suppose she could not have lived long at any rate; but there is no doubt that the news of her brother's marriage to a woman whom she disliked, and with the best of reasons, hastened her end. She gave Mrs. Deborah written directions as to the disposition of her affairs, and said that she had made her will, which was in the hands of Mr. Thirlwall, the family lawyer and man of business at Newcastle. I had supposed as much, knowing that he had paid her several visits during the winter.

An express had been sent to Sir Julius, as soon as Mrs. Chloe's case had been pronounced hopeless, and he arrived in time for the funeral without his wife, who he said was unfit for such a hasty journey.

I am not apt to take impressions at first sight. But when I do, though I may sometimes change them for awhile, I am very apt to return to them. My first sight of Sir Julius' picture, led me to think him a vain man, at once weak and obstinate. I have never seen cause to change my opinion.

Sir Julius greeted his sister with a great show of cordiality, but withal, much as if he had been an impudent lad caught robbing an orchard and determined to brave it out. He was very gracious to Amabel, and more condescending to me than I thought there was any call for, seeing that my family was as good as his own or better, and that he had all these years been pocketing the rents from my poor father's little estate of Black Lees. (So I had learned from Mrs. Chloe, though forgot to mention it in the right place.) However, I was determined to bear everything for Amabel's sake.

He could not well find fault with the arrangements for the funeral, seeing that Mrs. Chloe had ordered them all herself; but he frowned at the needless expense, as he called it, of giving new frieze coats to the poor men in the alm-houses, and new gray gowns to the old women; and swore roundly, when he heard that Mrs. Chloe had ordered Mr. Cheriton to officiate at her funeral, "that he would not have the canting Methodist enter his house."

"There will be no occasion for him to do so, since he will meet my poor sister's corpse at the church-yard!" replied Mrs. Deborah calmly. "Let me advise you, brother, to swear no rash oaths. There has been harm enough done that way in this family."

Sir Julius was silent, and made no more objection to Mr. Cheriton. I could not but see how Mrs. Deborah put him down, whenever they were together.

We had another very unexpected guest at the funeral. Notice of Mrs. Chloe's death had been sent to an aunt of Mrs. Deborah's who had married one of the Scots of Eskdale, and was called Lady Thornyhaugh, after the name of the estate, as the custom is in Scotland concerning landed proprietors. She was a widow of many years standing, and was about eighty-five years old, though no one would have taken her to be seventy. She arrived on horseback riding behind a trusty man-servant, and attended by her bower-woman, as she called her, as old, upright, and active as herself.

I fell in love with her at once, and she was kind enough to take equally to me. Her presence was a great comfort to us all, and especially to Mrs. Deborah. She was a beautiful old lady, with silvery white hair which would curl in spite of her, eyes the exact counterpart of Amabel's, and a perfectly refined and ladylike manner. She spoke with a very strong Scotch accent, but we had learned Scotch enough from Elsie, not to mind that.

The funeral was celebrated, and then came the reading of the will, at which all the family were present. It seemed that Mrs. Chloe was much richer than either of her sisters, since beside her share of her mother's fortune, which was not inconsiderable, she had inherited some five thousand pounds from a god-mother, for whom she was named.

This fortune, after a legacy of five hundred pounds apiece to her brother and Mrs. Brown, and the same to myself; was equally divided between Mrs. Deborah and Amabel. Mrs. Deborah's portion was also to be divided between Amabel and me after her death. Remembrances were left to Doctor Brown and Mr. Lethbridge, to the doctor and lawyer, and to each of the servants—even to the little girl who weeded the flower-beds.

I think, Mrs. Philippa—I shall never learn to write Mrs. Brown—was disappointed a little, but if so she was too proud to show it. Indeed, I must say that no one could have behaved better than she did throughout the whole affair. I should say that Mrs. Chloe left "my Sister Brown" all her ornaments, of which she had a great many, and a fine cupboard of blue china which she had been collecting all her life, and which Mrs. Philippa had always coveted.

Sir Julius, on the contrary, did not try to hide his vexation. It was plain that he had always counted on Mrs. Chloe's leaving all her money to himself, and I was wicked enough to be glad to see him disappointed. He swore roundly at Mr. Thirlwall for allowing Mrs. Chloe to make such an absurd will, and for not letting him know about it in time to have it altered.

The old gentleman took snuff, and answered quietly that it was not his place to betray the secrets of his clients, but that if Sir Julius was dissatisfied, he was quite welcome to employ any other lawyer he pleased; whereat Sir Julius drew in his horns, if I may be allowed the expression, and began to stammer some sort of apology.

"I am astonished at you, brother, I am, indeed!" said Mrs. Brown, with a great deal of real dignity. "My Sister Chloe had a right to dispose of her property as she pleased, and I for one am quite satisfied with the arrangement. Doctor Brown, are you not satisfied with my sister's disposition of her estate?"

"Certainly, my dear, certainly," replied the doctor; "and I should have been satisfied if the good lady had not left us a penny."

In which, I doubt not, he spoke the truth, for he was already rich, and love of money was not one of his faults.

Sir Julius stayed at home about a week, and went away in a much better humor than that he had brought with him. He was very proud of Amabel's beauty and accomplishments, and disarmed by her submission to his will. He had a long talk with Mr. Cheriton, and at last, of his own accord, he promised to put no force upon Amabel's inclinations for the present, though he insisted that the young people should neither see each other nor correspond till he gave them permission, and this they both promised.

"I would not have the lass build too much on her father's present mood," said the old lady from Thornyhaugh, as we two sat together in the little south room the evening after Sir Julius had departed. "I should not speak so of my nevoy belike, but he aye minds me of what was said of King James the Sixth by ane wha keened him weel. 'Do you ken a jackanape?' said he. 'If you hold Jocko by the chain you can make him bite me, but if I hold him by the chain I can make him bite you.'"

"That is just what I think, madam," said I. (As we were alone together I thought I might have the comfort of speaking my mind for once.) "I know Lady Throckmorton—Lady Leighton, I mean—a little, and from what I have seen of them both, I do not believe Sir Julius is likely to make any stand against her."

"Aye, and what do you know of her, my lass?"

In answer I gave her an account of our visit to Lady Throckmorton.

"Just like her!" was the comment. "What's bred in the bone stays long in the blood. I keened her mother before her, and she was just such another. A fine guardian, truly, to set over his daughter. Aweel, Lucy Corbet, I am no Papist nor favorer of Papists, or of them that would bring them back on this land, but, saving their religion, I would wish you and my niece were safe back yonder in your convent. Poor children! This world is a hard place for motherless lassies."

She stroked my head as I sat on a low seat to which she had called me beside her, and I kissed her beautiful withered hand, and felt comforted by her sympathy.

"What I most fear, if I may venture to say so, madam—" I began, and then stopped.

"Say what is in your mind, bairn," said the old lady, "I shall never repeat a word."

"What I fear for Amabel then is, that Lady Throckmorton—I mean Lady Leighton—will try to marry her up to some of the men who are always hanging about her—to Lord Bulmer, for instance. Do you think, madam, that in that case Amabel would be bound to obey?"

The old lady meditated for a moment before she spoke.

"No, bairn, I would not say so. If my nephew forbids his daughter to marry this minister—what is his name?"

"Mr. Cheriton."

"Aye, Mr. Cheriton. If my nevoy forbids his daughter to marry this man, though there be naught against him, doubtless his daughter is bound to obey her father, at least till she is of age. Children are to obey their parents in the Lord. But no parent has the right to make his child perjure herself by promising to love and honor a man whom she hates and despises, or to promise to love one man while her heart is another's. That such matches have sometimes turned out well to appearance is but saying that sin is sometimes overruled for good. Nay, I am as earnest as any one for obedience to parents, but if a father bids his child to bow down before an idol, she is not bound to obey."

We both started as Amabel came forward to the fire and spoke, for we had not heard her enter.

"I think you are quite right, aunt," said she. "If my father requires me to give up Mr. Cheriton I will do so, at least till I am of age, but nothing shall ever make me marry any one else, while he lives—nothing!"

She spoke without excitement, but with the calm resolute air I knew so well.

"You are right, niece!" said Leddy Thornyhaugh. "So long as you hold that resolution, nobody can make you marry. But if you should ever, either of you, be driven to straits and need a friend, come to me at Thornyhaugh and you shall find one, if I am alive."

The good lady went away next day much regretted by us all. Elsie would fain have returned with her foster-sister, for such she was, but after some private conversation, she decided to remain.

Doctor and Mrs. Brown also took their departure, Mrs. Philippa—there it goes again—had made herself very agreeable during her stay. She seemed wonderfully well-pleased with her new state of life, and I suppose happiness agreed with her. She gave us all pressing invitations to come and visit her, and was very affectionate to Mrs. Deborah at parting. I believe she did really in some degree begin to appreciate her sister's forbearance toward her through all those weary years. As for her husband, he was always pleasant when he was pleased, and some people are not even that. He was just the husband for Mrs. Philippa for he was too easy-going to mind her little tempers, while he could be firm enough when once he set his foot down.

As soon as our company had departed, Mrs. Deborah set on foot a great house-cleaning and renovating. Sir Julius had intimated his intention to return to Highbeck Hall in the course of the summer with his wife and a party of friends, and Mrs. Deborah was determined to leave all in order for him. I say to leave advisedly, for nothing could shake her determination to depart from Highbeck Hall before Lady Leighton entered it.

"I will never see that woman in my honored mother's place!" she said. "If my brother had chosen to marry a sober respectable person like his second wife, though she had been even a grocer's daughter, I should have nothing to say; but I will never sleep under the same roof with that woman."

Amabel and I found in this cleaning and moving process some diversion at least. It was quite wonderful to me to see what hoards of curious things had accumulated in the house. Such heaps of old finery—silks and satins and laces—such odds and ends of gold and silver, and old-fashioned ornaments and what not. In turning out a chest of drawers one day, we came cross an old needlecase of gold with blue and white enamel, and seeing how much I admired it, Mrs. Deborah gave it to me. Carelessly enough I laid it on the top of a tall cabinet which stood in our bedroom, but when I went to look for it, it had disappeared.

"What can have become of it?" said I to Amabel. "I am sure I laid it here this morning."

"You should have put it carefully away in your work-bag, and then it would have been safe!" remarked Amabel, seeing an occasion which indeed she seldom wanted in my case, for a little homily on tidiness. "Perhaps it has rolled down behind the cabinet."

"I can see it!" said I peeping into the very narrow space between the cabinet and the wall. "But I cannot reach it. Let us try to move the cabinet out a little, Amabel."

To our agreeable surprise, the apparently heavy cabinet moved with a good deal of squeaking and creaking indeed but with tolerable ease, upon rollers concealed in the gilt griffin's claws which formed its feet. I recovered my needlecase and then began admiring the freshness and beauty of the hanging behind the cabinet.

"It is of a different pattern from the rest!" remarked Amabel. "It is like that in the little withdrawing-room down stairs."

"It is not fastened to the wall, either," said I.

I raised the long strip of hanging as I spoke, and to my surprise—to my alarm I might almost say—I discovered a bolted door behind it.

"See here, Amabel!" said I. "This door opens into the ghost room! Are you not afraid?"

"No, I don't know that I am!" replied Amabel. "There is a good substantial bolt, as you see, and as for the ghost I believe that sort of gentry do not need doors for their entrance and exit."

"Would you dare open it?" said I. "I have a curiosity to see how a room looks into which no one has set foot for two hundred years and more."

"Well, look then! What harm can it do! And yet after all I would let it alone, I think!" said Amabel. "Perhaps Mrs. Deborah would not like it."

At that moment Amabel was called down stairs to attend to some matter or other. I looked at the bolted door and my curiosity grew stronger. I could not think of any harm it would do to take a peep, and I wanted to see what a ghost's room looked like. So I pushed back the bolt and opened the door with less difficulty than I expected, rather dreading all the time, lest I should see the poor wolf-lady's green fiery eyes glaring at me through the darkness.

However, I saw nothing of the kind. The door opened into a kind of closet or press, and that into a common-place looking room enough, with a bed hung with dark faded red stuff, and other furniture of the same sort. The windows were close shuttered, and overgrown with ivy, but a little light struggled through the round apertures in the top of the shutters.

Certainly, the room was dusty and smelled close, but for a room unused for two hundred years, it had a remarkably modern appearance. I guessed at once that I had intruded unwittingly into some family secret, and was not slow in coming to a conclusion as to its import. I drew back at once, and closing the door I pushed the cabinet back into its place, determining to tell Mrs. Deborah what I had done. I took an opportunity of doing so when we were together in the still-room next morning. Mrs. Deborah looked surprised but not offended.

"You are a bold girl, Lucy. Were you not afraid?"

"No, Aunt Deborah. I did not believe anything would hurt me, and I had a great desire to see what the place was like."

"And you did not find it at all what you expected. Well, my girl, since you have seen so much, I may as well tell you that those rooms have been used within forty years as a place of concealment for hunted loyalists. Their haunted reputation protects them from any curiosity on the part of the household, and there is a way of access to them from the garden, which I will show you sometime. It is perhaps as well that some one beside myself should be acquainted with the clue, as poor old Roberts cannot live many days. He is the only one who knows anything about the matter, and I may die at any time."

"Does not Sir Julius know?" I asked in surprise.

"No. The family rule has been that the secret should be told to the eldest child—whether son or daughter, unless the daughter be married. To-night, when the family are in bed, I will shew to you and Amabel the secret passage, but you must promise me, solemnly, never to communicate it, unless to Amabel's eldest child. It may come to be a weighty secret, but since you have unwittingly intruded into it, you must be content to bear your share. There, I am not blaming you. Finding that a door opened into your room, it was but natural that you should wish to see where it led."

That night, accordingly, when the rest of the household had gone to bed, Mrs. Deborah came to our room carrying a light in a lanthorn. Instantly I was reminded of the time when Mother Superior took us children into the vault to show us the danger we had escaped.

"I will never poke my nose into any more secrets!" I said to myself, for truth to tell, I did not relish the expedition at all.

I had been looking at the picture of the ghostly lady in the saloon, and I did not at all fancy meeting that fierce beautiful face at some turn or corner. I had always said to myself that I did not believe in her one bit, but it was one thing to say so in daylight, and another when I was intruding on her den in the night time, by the fitful light of a dark lantern.

However, if the lady were displeased, she did not show it.

Mrs. Deborah led us through the room into which I had peeped, and into another very much like it. Here she pushed aside a corner press which opened bodily like a door, and shewed a dark entry and a flight of steps, very narrow and rugged, which led down below the level of the ground floor, and then up again at a sharp angle, to a low door in the thickness of the outer wall. This she opened and we found ourselves in a small court not far from the stables.

"There is a ghost here too!" said she. "That of a horseman, who walks despairingly up and down, while his horse paws the stones in the corner yonder. Hark, don't you hear him?"

I certainly did hear the sound of a horse's hoof, as it seemed, near by. I suppose it was an echo from the stables.

"Not one of the servants will come hither after night fall, for their lives!" said Mrs. Deborah. "I may just tell you that poor McIntosh of Borlam, lay concealed in these rooms, for many a day, after Foster's treachery lost the day for us at Preston, and it was by this very door that he made his escape, at last, after the pursuit had in some degree cooled down. * But come, we must not linger here. Come to my room."

* The Jacobites firmly believed that the fatal defeat at Preston in 1715, was due to Foster's treachery. There is a curious old ballad concerning McIntosh's escape in "The Borderer's Table Book."

We retraced our steps carefully, noting by Mrs. Deborah's desire, every turn of the path, and found ourselves once more in our own room.

From thence, we proceeded to Mrs. Deborah's, where we found a nice little supper prepared for us, with a jug of hot elder wine to keep us from taking cold, as Mrs. Deborah said.

Certainly, I did not sleep any better for it, nor for the images that haunted my mind of persecuted Jacobites, and possibly more desperate characters, finding refuge in the next room. However, one becomes used to anything. I never found in my life any particular difficulty in keeping secrets, nor did this one trouble me. I should not be telling it now, if there were any possible use in keeping it, or if these same rooms were still in existence.

Mrs. Deborah was the owner of a small but sufficiently convenient house, with an orchard and garden and a few acres of land, about half a mile from Highbeck church in the opposite direction to the Hall. This house it seems was a kind of heirloom, descending to the eldest unmarried or widowed daughter. It had stood empty for many years, save for the old man and woman who had lived in the kitchen. One day, we rode over to see it with Mrs. Deborah; it was rather forlorn in aspect certainly, but not badly out of repair.

"I shall have it put in order at once!" said Mrs. Deborah, surveying the little parlor. "I have saved money for that very purpose, and the furniture of my own rooms and that which my Sister Chloe left me, will go far toward making the place comfortable."

"Then you are determined to leave the Hall—and me!" said Amabel.

"Child, if I could do you any good by staying, I would never leave you, no, not if that woman humbled me in the dust!" was the reply. "But I should only do you harm. As my brother's wife, she has a right to rule, and I cannot live under her. There would be a constant clash, and I am no match for such as she. Besides, if worst comes to worst, I can make a home for you and Lucy."

There was no use in arguing with Mrs. Deborah, and besides, I felt that her course was a wise and dignified one. For myself, I was determined never to leave Amabel, come what might, unless I were absolutely driven away. I little knew then how I was to be tried, but I soon found out.

It was the middle of July, when letters were received from Sir Julius, or rather from his wife, saying that they would come to Highbeck Hall about the first of August. Lady Leighton wrote that a quantity of new furniture, etc., had already been sent by sea to Newcastle, and that her own housekeeper and other servants, would arrive about a week in advance of her, to attend to the disposition of the things. The old housekeeper was to be pensioned off, by Sir Julius' order. The other servants could remain for the present, if they chose to make themselves useful, and be amenable to the new housekeeper. Then came the sting of the letter, so far as I was concerned.

"As for the young woman, Lucy Corbet, if she chooses to take the place which belongs to her, and for which she was kindly educated by Sir Julius—that of our daughter's waiting-woman—I am content that she should remain for the present. But she must distinctly understand, that it is as a servant and not as an equal, that she is permitted to stay; otherwise, she must make up her mind to find another home. Moreover, if I find her abetting our daughter in her infatuation for that person in Newcastle, with whom she was so unhappily entangled, she will be dismissed at once; that affair Is entirely at an end, and Miss Leighton must hold herself like a dutiful child, at her parents' disposal."

"There shows the cloven foot!" said Mrs. Deborah.

"I am glad of it!" I answered. "I like to know what I have to expect."

"You need have to expect nothing of the sort, Niece Corbet!" said Mrs. Deborah. "You are quite welcome to a home with me so long as I have one, or till you can communicate with your kinsman in the South."

"Oh Lucy, you must not leave me—you will not leave me!" said Amabel imploringly, her eyes filling with tears. "Remember what you promised me before we came from France. I am selfish to wish to keep you here to be insulted, when you might have a happy home with Aunt Deborah, but how can I face life without you?"

"You shall not face it without me!" I answered. "My mind is made up about that. Dearly as I should love to live with Aunt Deborah, I can never leave you while it is possible for me to stay. When it is not, if dear aunt will take me in, I will gladly come to her."

"And will you—a Corbet of one of the best families of the South—will you take the place of a waiting-maid under this proud woman?" said Mrs. Deborah, her brows darkening.

"For Amabel's sake I will take any place, and endure any affront, Aunt Deborah!" I answered. "Where she goes I will go. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death or dire necessity part her and me."

I said these solemn words advisedly. I had said them in my own mind many times while thinking of this very thing. Mrs. Deborah's brows relaxed.

"You are your father's own child, Lucy. Have your way then, since I verily believe it to be the right one. When you can no longer stay here, then come to me both of you. If I am not living, go to your aunt at Thornyhaugh. Bless you, children, you do surely show forth your faith, not only in your lips but in your lives."

CHAPTER XXI.

CHANGES AT HIGHBECK.

MRS. Deborah at once began her preparations for removal to the Little House, as her mansion was called, and we helped her as far as we could.

Amabel kept up wonderfully considering, and tried her best not to let her trouble, trouble others. But it is not the people that bear things best, who feel them least, and as I saw my dear girl's face grow pale and thin, and noted the dark marks under her eyes, my heart was very bitter toward the author of all this distress.

In some sense, her pain was harder to bear than mine, inasmuch as I could say, "I opened not my mouth, because Thou didst it." No hand but my Heavenly Father's had parted Mr. Thorpe and me—for it seemed quite certain by news received from the East, that his ship had gone down with all hands, during a great storm in the Indian Ocean.

In another, mine was the worst. For Amabel there was still a charm, Sir Julius might change his mind or a dozen other things might happen. Mr. Cheriton was at Newcastle alive and well, and we heard of him every now and then by Mrs. Thorpe, who wrote every time she sent a parcel to me or to Mrs. Deborah. (It was a wonder how many things Mrs. Deborah needed from Mrs. Thorpe about that time.)

But my friend was gone. I could never see him again as long as I lived. My heart might hunger as it would to see or hear from him, and I never could see or hear from him—no, not if I should run all over the world. Let no one say that absence is like death. It is like that other popular folly of comparing death and sleep. There is the distance of an eternity between them.

As for my other trouble—that of being degraded from being Amabel's equal and companion, to being her waiting-woman—that did not disturb me very greatly at this time. I had faith enough in Amabel to believe that it would make no difference with her, and I had too great a contempt for Lady Leighton to trouble myself very much about her. I had yet to learn that people whom we despise can sting almost as deeply as those whom we respect.

The arrival of the new furniture and servants at the Hall was the signal for Aunt Deborah to leave it. The new housekeeper turned out to be Mrs. Wilson, my lady's woman, whose acquaintance we had made during that unlucky visit. She was full of her own consequence, found fault with everything, scolded the old servants, was barely civil to Amabel and a good deal less than civil to me.

The old housekeeper Jenny and Richard left the hall with Mrs. Deborah and also old Elsie, who was still alive and able, as she expressed it, to do a days' darg with any one.

I should mention perhaps, that Elsie's great nephew Alick Grahame who had attended his lady on her late visit to Highbeck was greatly smitten with our little Mary Lee, and some love passages had been between them. Elsie had at first been rather scandalized at her nephew for falling in love with a town-bred English girl, but Mary's pretty neat ways and kind attentions to herself had won her over, and she was well-pleased with the affair. So were we, for Alick was a fine young fellow, a favorite with his mistress and likely to do well in the world.

In due time came an avant-courier with news that my lady was on her way from Newcastle and might be expected by supper time. Every thing was now in a bustle to receive her, Mrs. Wilson was here, there, and every where, overseeing, scolding and arranging. Amabel and I were in our room, when she put her head in at the door without the ceremony of knocking and said in a sufficiently pert tone—

"Mrs. Leighton, I think on such a day as this, you might spare your woman to help me a little instead of keeping her here busy with that nonsensical embroidery!"

Amabel turned full upon her, her gray eyes lighting up—

"Did you knock, Wilson?" she asked carelessly. "I did not hear you!"

"I beg pardon!" said Wilson in a tone which sounded as if the words were dragged out of her—

"Very well!" said Amabel. "That will do. Be so good as to shut the door."

Wilson was absolutely cowed and went away without another word. I ventured to hint to Amabel that she had probably made an enemy of this woman.

"I do not think so!" was Amabel's reply. "If I read her aright, she is one of those natures who take all kindness for timidity and behave themselves accordingly. At all events, it will be time to give way when I am obliged to."

Lady Leighton arrived in good season with a train of servants and attendants of all sorts, and was received with a great deal of form. I did not see the meeting, but Amabel told me afterward that Lady Leighton had been very affectionate to her, saying that she had no doubt Amabel would show herself a dutiful and obedient child to the mother Sir Julius had given her.

"Mother indeed!" said I. "It is a profanation to apply the word to her.”

"Hush dear!" returned Amabel. "Remember she is my father's wife and we must treat her with the respect due to her position."

"And you, Amabel!"

"I curtsied and said I hoped I should always remember my duty. I could not say more."

"What did your father say?"

"Sir Julius has not come!" was the reply. "It seems business has detained him in London for the present. Lady Leighton tells me that she is expecting a house full of company next week."

There is a certain class of beings who are said to appear when spoken of. I would not say that Lady Leighton belonged to this class, however well qualified she might be to adorn it, but it is certain that she came in at the moment we were speaking of her.

"What is that about Lady Leighton!" said she.

"I was but saying Madam, that you told me you were expecting company!" replied Amabel.

"Yes, that is true, and I trust we shall give you a little gayer life than you have been leading lately. Is this your waiting-woman, my love?"

"This is Lucy Corbet, my foster-sister, Madam!" replied Amabel. "I thought you had known her as you entertained her at your house in Newcastle."

"Oh!" said Lady Leighton, looking slightly disconcerted, but recovering herself in a moment. "Yes! I was misled by the intimacy which existed between you, into treating her as an equal with yourself—but it must be understood," she added, her eyes growing bright and fierce as I had seen them before—"it must be understood at once, that all that must be at an end. I do not blame you so much as your guardians in France and your father, who allowed such a state of things to grow up, but the young woman must understand that if she remains, it must be as a servant and under my control or that of my housekeeper. Do you hear me, young woman?" Turning to me.

I simply curtsied.

"Very well! I see you can be humble when it suits you. Keep so, and you may find me your friend. Let me see you put on any fine lady airs and you leave this house on the instant!"

I curtsied again. My Cornish blood was boiling but I was determined not to give her any handle against me. Lady Leighton now turned to Amabel, criticised the fashion of her dress and found fault with the arrangement of her hair.

"One would think you had lived in the ark all your life!" said she. "Pray for whom are you wearing all this mourning?"

"For my Aunt Chloe, who died not three months since, madam!" answered Amabel.

"Nonsense, child! Nobody mourns for aunts and uncles nowadays. That kind of thing is gone out. I must see you in colors directly. What a preposterous head. I think, after all, I must put one of my own women about you. I cannot have you looking so like a fright. Corbet, cannot you at least lace up your mistress properly?"

"It was Mary Lee who dressed me, madam," said Amabel.

"I must find something else for her to do," was the reply. "A chit like you does not need two women, surely. This is a pretty room—much prettier than mine. I think I must change with you. What is next you?"

"The haunted rooms, madam," I answered, with some satisfaction. "There is said to be a ghost in them, and it is there the howl of the wolf is heard when any great misfortune is about to befall the family."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Leighton, turning pale through all her rouge. "What stuff is that?"

At that very moment, before the words were fairly out of her mouth, a long-drawn and most doleful howl, ending with a frightful sound between a scream and a yell, was heard, as it seemed, close by.

Lady Leighton turned still paler, and grasped a chair as if to keep herself from falling. "In Heaven's name, what was that?" said she.

"It sounded like a howl," said Amabel, which it certainly did.

As for me I was ready to choke, but I bestirred myself to hand Lady Leighton a smelling-bottle and to fan her, for she looked ready to faint away. She revived presently, and evidently made a great effort to recover her self-possession. I thought she was even a little mollified toward me, for she told me at parting that she had no ill will toward me so long as I behaved myself properly.

"What could it have been?" said Amabel, turning to me after her ladyship had left the room.

"You goose—begging pardon for calling my mistress a goose," said I. "Don't you know the voice of Sultan, the young bloodhound? I can make him warble like that any time with my little ivory whistle."

"Why did not you speak, then?" asked Amabel, rather pettishly, for she had been a little scared as well as my lady.

"It was not my place," I answered, with a demure curtsy. "I must practise upon keeping my place, you know. But, Amabel—mistress, I mean—"

Amabel flew at me and shook me.

"Let me ever hear you say that again!" said she, kissing me between the shakes. "How dare you? But what were you going to say?"

"How can I tell, you have shaken it all out of me," I returned, laughing. "Oh, I know. Amabel, don't you know when we first looked at the picture of the wolf-lady, we wondered who it was like?"

"Yes; why?"

"It is like Lady Leighton. Don't you see she has the same blue-green eyes and thin lips, and the same look of watchfulness? Perhaps, after all, that was her relation calling for her."

"Don't say such horrid things," answered Amabel, shuddering. "I can see the likeness you speak of, however. But, Lucy, you will never be able to stay here. It is not right that you, a young lady of fortune and family, should be exposed to such indignities. You must go to Aunt Deborah. It would bit too selfish in me to keep you."

"Don't you see that is exactly what she wants?" I asked. "It does not suit her policy just now to dismiss me altogether. It would make a talk, and perhaps give rise to awkward enquiries. If she can make me go of my own motion, she will, but I don't think she will accomplish that. I will leave when I am forced—not before. Don't you remember Mrs. Thorpe's saying once that when it came to a contest between will and won't, won't had the advantage, because won't had only to stand still?"

"How happy we were in those days, and how far, far away they seem!" observed Amabel, sighing. "Mother Superior might well say that the world was a hard place."

"It was in those happy days that we learned what must support us now, Amabel," said I. "Where should we be, but for the books Mr. Wesley gave us, and the truths he taught us?"

"Oh, if we could only see him and ask his advice!" said Amabel, and with that she fell to crying hysterically, so that I had much ado to get her quieted again.

Poor thing! She was over-wrought, and nature would have her way. She was really ill next day with a headache and sore throat, and the illness was not without its advantages, for Lady Leighton never came near us, and we were left in peace for at least a few days.

I will not pretend to give an account of the slights and indignities I was made to undergo whenever I left the shelter of Amabel's room. The new servants were not slow to perceive that I was no favorite with their mistress, and treated me accordingly. I no longer dined with Amabel, but in the housekeeper's room, and Mrs. Wilson took care that I did not lack sauce to my meat. She was herself in a very bad humor. She was horribly jealous of her lady's new French waiting-woman, and provoked at the amount of care and work which fell to her share.

A mischievous man-servant, one of the old stock who had staid behind, made sure that she should hear of all the ghost and goblin tales about the place, and did not fail to add mysterious hints of hordes of gypsies and border robbers which haunted the wild recesses of the hills. The brown man of the moors and the old Picts (still feared and abhorred in Northumberland,) were not wanting, till poor Wilson was actually afraid to go to bed.

An odd accident one day turned this woman from an enemy into my friend. There was a young Highland bull of a very fine breed (a present from Thornyhaugh to Mrs. Deborah, who loved cattle,) which was pastured in a field near the house. This bull had been a pet of mine, and I often fed him with bread and salt, so that he would come readily at my whistle, and as he had never shown any ill-temper, I was not at all afraid of him.

One day I had set out to see some of the poor women in the almshouses, and had not gone far when I saw Mrs. Wilson in a position of some danger.

Some one had left open the gate of Chieftain's enclosure, and he had come out to taste the grass by the lane side. He was feeding peaceably enough, when Mrs. Wilson came by with a red silk apron on, and Chieftain instantly conceiving in his bovine mind that the same red apron was intended as an insult to himself, at once began to stamp, tear up the ground and lash himself into a rage.

Wilson had just sense enough not to turn and run, but not enough to take off the obnoxious apron. She was backing toward a stone wall, and Chieftain was following her, more and more enraged every moment.

I saw directly that she would never be able to mount the wall, and that help must be had at once or not at all, and I resolved with an inward prayer, to try my power over the creature. I blew a sharp note on my whistle. The bull looked round, and gave a grumble of recognition, as who should say, "wait till I finish this little affair and I will come," but, as I called him, and held out the basket from which he was used to receive his treats, he turned and followed me quietly enough. I led him to his enclosure, tempted him inside, and gave him half a loaf of white bread, which I was carrying to poor Mary. Then securing the gate, as well as I could, I went back to find out what had become of Wilson. I found her sitting flat on the ground, crying as if her heart would break. Her first words were very unexpected—

"Oh, Mrs. Corbet, I have used you shameful, and yet you have saved my life. I do believe that nasty creature would have killed me before I could get away. But I beg your pardon for treating you so—that indeed, I do; and I will never do it again, if you will only forgive me!"

"I forgive you with all my heart!" said I. "But don't sit there on the wet grass, or you will get a fever, and that will be as bad as the bull."

I helped her to rise, and finding that she really trembled so she could hardly stand, I gave her my salts and my arm to lean on back to the hall. She found her voice presently and began to pour out her woes. She hated the place. It was not what she had expected. She was worked almost to death, and my lady was taken up with that grinning French woman, and had never a good word for poor Wilson, as had served her so long.

I tried to stop her, but I might as well have tried to stop the Highbeck at flood time. At last the worst of her troubles came out. She was so afraid. She heard such dreadful noises at night, like people walking and whispering in the entry and in the room itself, and cries and groans that seemed to come from far down, and I don't know what all. She slept with a Bible under her pillow, but it did no good. The noises came all the same.

"Did I think a Prayer-Book would be better?" Her terror was so real, that I could not but be sorry for her.

"Neither Bible nor Prayer-Book will do you any good by lying under your pillow!" said I. "They are not made to be used like adder stones or rowan twigs. Study your Bible and Prayer-Book, confess your sins, ask Divine protection, and then you will not be afraid of the noises the wind makes in this old pile."

"But, I can't!" sobbed Wilson. "I am not good like you and Miss Leighton, and I have done so many wicked things. Oh, I wish I had never left my mother's cottage to wait on a great lady."

The poor thing was really hysterical, so I got her to bed and sent her some lavender and sal volatile by Mary Lee. She was well enough next day, and I fear her penitence had vanished with her fears. However, she was henceforth kind and respectful to me, and did a good deal to make my life more endurable, by checking the insolence of her fellow servants.

Lady Leighton's guests arrived in a day or two, and I recognized among them several persons whom I had seen in Mrs. Thorpe's shop. Lord Bulmer did not present himself, but I heard from Mrs. Wilson, who told me more news than I cared to hear, that he was expected—

"And worse luck, I say!" added Wilson. "I wish he was a thousand miles away! Miss Corbet—" she added, whispering in my ear, "do you tell Miss Leighton to beware of him, and keep out of his way yourself. He is a bad wicked man. He has my poor lady under his thumb, and will make her see sorrow—"

"Hush!" said I, interrupting her. "You must not betray your lady's secrets."

The woman stared at me half amazed.

"I thought you would like to know!" said she. "I thought my lady was your enemy."

"She is not my friend, I fear!" I answered. "Nevertheless, I must do by her as I would be done by. We have no right to return evil for evil, even to our enemies, you know. If you knew any secrets of mine, supposing I ever had any, I should not like to have you tell them to my lady."

"I believe you really are good!" said Wilson. "My lady says you are a canting Methodist. Are you? Did you learn that among the Methodists?"

"I learned it from the word of God!" said I. "Where you may learn many things that will do you good, in this world and the next. As to being a Methodist, I do not know what that means. There, I think your distilling is going on all right now,—" for I had been helping her in the still-room, where she got into unheard of difficulties, and had nearly blown herself up two or three times. "Do not let your still get too hot, and you will do very well."

"I am sure you are very kind to take so much pains for me!" said Mrs. Wilson. "But Miss Corbet, it is on my conscience to tell you one thing which I know, for certain—no matter how," she added, putting her face close to mine. "Lord Bulmer is determined to marry Miss Leighton, and he will make my lady give her to him. As to Sir Julius, he is just a mould of weak calves-foot jelly, he will keep any shape you put him into, so long as he is in it and no longer!"

I retreated to my own room very much moved by what I had heard, and sat down to consider it. I was alone, for Lady Leighton had kept Amabel much with herself for the last few days, and seemed to be trying to conciliate her. I thought over what Wilson had told me, about her lady's being in the power of Lord Bulmer, and I remembered, or, thought I did, that on the evening we had spent with her, she had treated him quite differently from the other young men who formed her court. What hold could such a coxcomb have over this imperious woman of fashion, accustomed to carry all before her? Did she owe him money, or was he in possession of inconvenient knowledge?

"Oh my soul, come not thou into their secret!" I said to myself.

But supposing that Sir Julius and his lady were both against her, would Amabel hold out? Of that I had little fear. But would she not, might she not, be forced into a marriage? Such things were done I knew well enough. I had heard of more instances than one. All things considered, I thought it but right to tell Amabel of what I had heard, and the warning Wilson had given me. I had no chance during the day, but at last she came to our room looking pale and tired enough. Lady Leighton had said no more about changing rooms with us, and indeed she seldom or never came into our part of the house. Like many other perfectly irreligious people, she was very superstitious, would turn pale at the screech of an owl, and be miserable a whole day, because she had dreamed of a white horse, and I owed the only invitation I had received since her arrival, to the fact that there were thirteen people to sit down.

"Oh Lucy, how tired, how tired I am!" said Amabel, dropping wearily into a chair. "What should I do, if I had not you to come back to?"

"You would have a better Friend than poor Lucy!" I returned. "Come, let me loosen your gown and stays, and make you comfortable. What have you been doing to tire you so?"

"It is not what I have done!" said Amabel. "I have walked out with my lady a little, but that did not tire me. It is these people and their talk that disgusts me. That rational beings can occupy themselves in such ways, and that women who call themselves ladies should listen to, and join in such talk. Nobody is safe from their tongues—not those they call their dearest friends. I wonder whether it ever occurs to my lady, that these same people talk of her in just the same way, behind her back."

"No doubt they do!" I remarked. "You know Mrs. Thorpe used to say, that a dog which would fetch a bone would carry a bone. It was a homely proverb, but I believe it is true."

"Then the everlasting trifling!" resumed Amabel. "The utter impatience of any thing like seriousness, and worse, the making free with sacred names and things. Mr. Dugdale must needs address himself to me, with some ridiculous riddle about St. Peter."

"And what did you say?" I asked.

"I told him he must excuse me, for I did not consider the sacred word as a theme for merrymaking and jesting. He had the grace to look a little abashed."

"And what said my lady?"

"Oh, she said—'You must know, Dugdale, that my daughter sets herself up for a precisian and a saint; but we shall soon cure her of that folly when we get her to town.' And then, Lucy, she had the cruelty and effrontery—yes, I will say it, if she is my father's wife—to ask him if he had heard the upshot of the affair between Mr. Cheriton and the pretty milliner's daughter. Was he really going to marry her? Or was he only amusing himself? And Mr. Dugdale answered with an oath, that Walter Cheriton must be greatly changed since he knew him, if he mixed up in any such affair as that."

"I am glad the young man had that grace at least!" said I. "But Amabel, you will not let such idle talk disturb you, will you?"

"I will not let it shake my faith in Walter, for the tenth part of a moment, if that is what you mean!" said Amabel, raising her proud head as in defiance. "And then that Mr. Trimble, the new chaplain, must needs say, that every one knew how Cheriton was using his power over the poor people, and that old Wesley was just the same. And I had to sit by, and hear it all."

"Poor child!" said I devoutly, hoping this might be the worst that Amabel would have to bear. "But now listen to me, darling, I have something to tell you;" and I imparted to her Mrs. Wilson's news about Lord Bulmer.

"I have feared as much from some hints that my lady has let fall!" said Amabel. "But I will never consent. I have told my father that I will not marry Walter against his will, at least till I am of age; but I will never wed any one else—no, not if they drag me before the priest. I have made up my mind to that. I will flee to my aunt in Scotland, or perish on the hills before I will marry any one but Walter Cheriton."

"It may not be so easy to flee!" I suggested.

Amabel smiled.

"I know this old house, better than my lady does!" said she. "I have explored it too well, not to know that there is hardly a room which has not more entrances than one. Have you forgotten the ghost's room, and the secret stair, Lucy?"

"But suppose my lady changes the rooms?"

"I believe there is no danger of that at present. But Lucy, let us not borrow trouble, we know who has promised to care for us, and He will surely perform His word, though not perhaps in our way. Let us go to our reading and settle our minds in that way. There is no other."

The next day was Sunday, and in the evening occurred the first distinct collision between my lady and Amabel. We had all gone to church in the morning, filling the great family pew where Amabel and I had been used to sit with Mrs. Deborah. I was about to enter it as usual, when my lady in a voice which could be heard all over the church, haughtily ordered me to take my place with the servants where I belonged.

I knew that the little gallery was already crowded rather more than was safe, and was about to sit down on one of the free seats, when Mrs. Deborah opened the door of the rectory pew where she was sitting, for me. Whether my lady saw it or not, I do not know, at any rate she thought it best to make no disturbance. I saw a good many flashing eyes among the poorer folk, for Northumbrians are very independent in their feelings, and by no means endued with that slavish reverence for "the quality," which is found in the East and South; and I was decidedly a favorite among the villagers.

I was glad to see that Mr. Lethbridge was not in the least disturbed by the presence of so many distinguished strangers. He read the service in his usual solemn way, for though he was not what could be called a good reader, he was impressive by his evident sincerity.

His text was "Be sure your sin will find you out!"

And he spared nothing in enforcing it, though my lady yawned, whispered, and all but laughed aloud, as did several others of her company. I was glad to see that Mr. Dugdale and his sister took no part in these performances, but withdrew themselves into a corner and listened with respect at least.

My lady treated Mrs. Deborah to a swimming curtsy after service, which Mrs. Deborah returned with a dignified salute, and that was all which passed between them in church. As soon as she reached the porch, my lady called me sharply to her—

"Corbet, why did not you take your proper place as I told you?"

"The gallery was already crowded, my lady!" I answered. "And it is not considered altogether safe. It has not been used for some years."

At this moment Mrs. Deborah's clear voice broke in—

"I shall take it as a favor, madam, if you will allow my niece Corbet to sit with me in church as she has always been used to do. She is of course entitled to the pew which belongs to her father's estate—that next your own, but as it is not agreeable for a young gentlewoman to sit alone, I shall be obliged, if you will give me her company."

Lady Leighton turned her eyes on Mrs. Deborah and tried to stare her down, but it would not do—Mrs. Deborah was more than her match. Every one had heard her words and the visitors were exchanging glances of amusement. She tried to give the matter another turn.

"Certainly, Mrs. Deborah. It shall be as you please—I was not aware that the young person was an acknowledged relative of the family, though I had heard there was some connection. Shall we not see you at the hall, Mrs. Deborah?"

"I shall do myself the honor of calling when my brother returns!" was the answer, with another stately salute—and the two ladies separated.

I dined in the housekeeper's room, and found myself treated with more than her usual respect by Mrs. Wilson. She even rebuked one of the men sharply, for presuming to make fun of the sermon. The man stared, and asked Mrs. Wilson if she were turning Methodist.

"Methodist or not, I will be mistress at my own table!" answered the housekeeper. "And I will have you to know that, John Davis."

The man answered sulkily that he meant no harm. It was no more than his betters did.

"Aye, you must all ape your betters, though they were riding posthaste to perdition!" said Mrs. Wilson.

And there the matter ended.

That evening, I was alone in our bed room. My lady had taken the little red parlor for her own use, so I had no other place. I was sitting by the open window trying to compose my spirits reading Mr. Law's "Serious Call," which was, and is, a great favorite of mine, till it grew too dark to read, when I began singing softly to myself my favorite song from the Messiah. I had not finished it when Amabel entered the room.

"All in the dark!" said she.

"I did not expect you so early," was my answer, "and the twilight is so sweet, I do not like to shut it out. But how did you contrive to escape so soon?"

"I was sent away in disgrace," was her reply. "My lady all but boxed my ears!"

"Why, what was the matter?"

"The matter was this. I had sat quietly in my corner, taking no part in what was going on, but talking with Miss Dugdale about our old convent life in France. She seems a nice modest young lady, and I wonder her mother should trust her here by herself. However, we were talking quietly, as I said, when my lady came up and asked me if I knew how to play piquet. You know we learned it of Mr. Thicknesse, so I could not say no.

"'Come then!' said my lady. 'Here is Mr. Merton wishes to play. Sit down and play with him, and I will look on and learn.'

"She spoke quite kindly, and as I know a great many people do play cards on Sunday, I expected no scene, but simply asked her to excuse me.

"'But why? Why should you not afford Mr. Morton that pleasure?' she asked.

"I told her that I could not play cards on the Lord's day—it was against my conscience.

"With that she laughed scornfully—you know her way—and said that since my conscience allowed me to join such an assembly at all, it need not be so particular as to what I did there.

"And she was so far right, Lucy. I had no business there, and nothing shall take me there on a Sunday night again.

"I told her that if she would permit me I would leave the room, and Mr. Merton said very politely, 'Pray don't force Miss Leighton's conscience, madam, another time, perhaps, she will oblige me.'

"But my lady would not give up the point, and she must needs call in the chaplain, who talked about the danger of being righteous over-much, and said only Methodists and fanatics indulged in such fancies. Then my lady assumed the imperious, and ordered me to sit down instantly, and I told her she must excuse me, whereat, she ordered me out of the room, and here I am."

"I hope you may hear no more of it!" said I. "If I read my lady aright, she will never forgive anyone who refuses to yield to her."

"I cannot help it, Lucy. Where my conscience is not concerned—where there is no question of right and wrong—I will give way to her in all things, es I have done already, in leaving off my mourning. But when I see things to be wrong or even doubtful, I must forbear them whatever it costs."

I was right in thinking that Amabel had not heard the last of the matter. That very night my lady came to our room, and after berating Amabel in no measured terms—for fine ladies of that day used to scold and call names like fish-wives, actually forgot herself so far as to box her ears. If there had been a weapon in my hand at that moment, I do believe I should have killed her. I sprang forward, but Amabel put her hand on my arm to check me, while she stood looking Lady Leighton straight in the face, white as marble and as firm.

"Well, then, I did not mean to cuff you, though you richly deserve it," said my lady, feeling, I suppose, that she had put herself in an awkward position. "I am quite ready to overlook your silly and impertinent conduct this evening, so you promise to obey me in future."

"I have already said, madam, that I will obey you in all matters not of conscience," replied Amabel.

"Which means that you will only take your own way when you want it," was the reply. "We shall see who is to be mistress in this house. As for you, Corbet," turning to me, "you will do your young lady no service by abetting her rebellion, I can tell you that, nor yourself either. I chose to pass over your conduct this morning, because I did not wish to make a scene in a public place, and with a childish old woman, but I can tell you I shall allow no rebellion, however it may be abetted. It would take very little to make me send you a packing, and this insolent girl to a boarding-school, where she will learn to do what she is bid without appealing to her conscience."

I simply curtsied. I have always found silence the best armor in dealing violent people.

"As to you, Miss Leighton, your father is coming in a short time, and we shall then see who is to be Lady Paramount. I repeat once more that I will send your favorite woman adrift and yourself where you will learn obedience by the hardest if I see any more of these airs from either of you."

With this she quitted the room.

"Well, we have learned something!" said Amabel. "We know that my father is coming."

"Much good he will do," was on my lips, but I did not say it.

I bathed Amabel's heated cheek with elder flower water, for my lady had struck in good earnest, and I was afraid her fingers would leave a black mark. I think she herself was scared at what she had done, for she was all sunshine and sweetness the next day—even to me. She happened to hear me singing over my work, and was so much pleased with my voice as to ask, or rather command me, to come and sing for the entertainment of her company that evening. I was not sorry to oblige her, and received many compliments on my performance.

After this for a time we had fair weather at the Hall. I was frequently called on to sing alone, or in company with Amabel and young Mr. Dugdale, a simple young gentleman, knowing a great deal about music and china, and a very little about any thing else.

My lady was all honey to me, and even made me a present of some lace—small thanks to her. She intimated to me very clearly that she could make or mar my fortunes accordingly as I served her. I wanted none of her making, and, indeed, my greatest fear was that she should find out a match for me.

However, I was willing, for Amabel's sake, to be on good terms with her.

The next Sunday no one went to church but Amabel and myself, and Mr. Dugdale and his sister. We had a quiet, pleasant walk home, conversing on serious subjects, and Mr. Dugdale showed a little better side to his character than I had yet seen.

As we reached the Hall door, he asked Amabel if he should see her in the saloon that evening.

"No, sir!" answered Amabel. "My lady has kindly promised to excuse me."

"Then, perhaps—perhaps—" said the young gentleman, stammering between bashfulness and earnestness. "Perhaps you will allow my Sister Chatty to spend the evening with you."

"Please do, Miss Leighton," added Chatty.

"You see, though I have a great regard for my lady, and—and—all that," pursued Mr. Dugdale, "yet Chatty is young, and she has no mother to direct her, poor thing, and I am a man of the world, you know, but Chatty isn't, and—really, you know, I do think, young ladies—you understand—"

If we did understand, it was no thanks to him, poor young man, but of course, one could not refuse such a request.

Chatty spent the evening with us, and we had a very quiet, profitable time reading the Bible, singing, and talking. Chatty was a nice, modest, sensible young girl, who had a bias to good given her in her childhood by her mother. She was glad to talk of that mother, and to have her lessons recalled. She has since married well, and makes an excellent and happy wife and mother, with a great family of daughters, one of whom is my namesake.

The next day we saw the arrival of a groom on horseback with letters to my lady, and learned that Sir Julius was expected to arrive before evening.

CHAPTER XXII.

NEWS FROM THE NORTH.

SIR JULIUS arrived sure enough, and with him Lord Bulmer, and another gentleman whom I did not know, but who was presented to Amabel as Captain Dangerfield. The moment I saw this man, I conceived an intense aversion to him, as if I had had a premonition of what he had come for. He was rather handsome—indeed, I think most people would have called him very handsome—but his style of face was one which I always distrust. He had rather a high, round head, with wavy hair growing well back from his forehead, eyes at once black and shallow, and opening very widely lip and down, and eye-brows highly arched. I could judge nothing of the shape of his mouth, for he wore a heavy moustache, having been, it was understood, in the imperial service.

Sir Julius was very gracious to Amabel, and hardly less so to myself. He seemed surprised at the Position in which he found me, and meeting me after supper asked me why I had not been to the table. I told him the simple truth—namely, that my lady had ordered me to take my meals in the housekeeper's room, whereat, he muttered something, and seemed greatly disconcerted. I fancy, he and his wife had some words about the matter, and that she judged it best to give way; for the next day my lady sent for me, and ordered rather than invited me to take my meals with the family as usual.

It was evident from the very first, that Lord Bulmer had come as Amabel's suitor. He lost no opportunity of appearing in that character, and fretted her constantly by his assiduous attentions. She on her part was barely and distantly civil, gave him the coldest and shortest answers, refused his attentions whenever it was possible, and took no more notice of his compliments than the picture of her grandmother in the saloon would have done. She kept me close by her side on all occasions, and in short gave his lordship clearly to understand that he was utterly disagreeable to her.

I am not sure that this was good policy on Amabel's part. Lord Bulmer was so accustomed to conquer wherever he went, so used to being courted instead of courting (for he was esteemed the greatest match in the country), that this decided opposition on Amabel's part put him on his mettle, and made him determined to conquer her aversion and win her regard. I do think he loved her, so far as his base and sensual nature was capable of loving anything.

As for my lady, I did not know how to understand her. She seemed at once to be jealous of Lord Bulmer's attentions to her step-daughter, and desirous of forwarding his suit. At the very time she contrived to have the two tête-à-tête, by calling me to her side, I have seen her look at them, as though she would like to kill both of them.

Meantime she filled the house with guests—mostly gentlemen—till there was not a spare corner, except the ghost rooms and the apartments known as the King's chamber. I think that she would have laid violent hands on these, only that when she spoke of having them put in order, the servants, with Wilson at their head, declared they would leave the house at once, if the door was so much as opened. I knew there was no particular danger of such a catastrophe, from the simple fact that Mrs. Deborah had carried off with her the keys to that part of the house. There was no way of entering the ghostly rooms, for even the door which opened from our room had been fastened on the other side. So the guests were accommodated wherever a place could be found for them, and the shut up rooms remained shut up still.

There were a great many people coming and going, and, as I could not but observe, arriving very frequently in the night. There was much whispering in corners, and reading and writing of letters, and white flowers and ribbons were paraded upon all occasions. Only Amabel would wear none but red flowers and ribbons, though they were not especially becoming to her, and when one day my lord presented her with a basket of beautiful exotics which he had caused to be sent from his own famous hot-houses, she remarked carelessly that she did not like white flowers, and gave them to Chatty Dugdale, who appeared in them at dinner to my lord's evident mortification.

"So you would not honor my poor flowers!" I heard him say to her afterwards.

"I told you I did not like white flowers!" she answered. "I beg you will put yourself to no more trouble on my account."

His lordship's eyes blazed with anger, but he only bowed and turned away.

The next day news arrived which made every one open their eyes. The Pretender, whose landing in Moidart in July with but seven men at his back had been rumored but hardly believed, had put himself at the head of the Highland clans, and eluding the vigilance and skill of General Cope (no great feat if all tales were true), had actually entered Edinburgh in triumph, and was holding his court there.

There was no bound to the exultation at the Hall when this news arrived. Sir Julius ordered a distribution of beef and ale to all the tenants, and a grand banquet was prepared at the Hall to which all the neighboring gentry were invited. But I noticed that very few of them came, and of the families who accepted the invitation, only the gentlemen were present.

In fact, scarcely any ladies of what might be called the county families had visited Lady Leighton at all. The table was not half filled. Sir Julius' brow darkened ominously, as he looked on the vacant seats, and when the toast was proposed of "health to the rightful king and confusion to usurpers," it was not received with any great degree of enthusiasm.

In the year 1715, the gentry of Northumberland had risen almost as one man to support the cause of James Stewart, or the old Pretender, as the Loyalists called him. But a new generation had arisen since then.

People who remembered "the fifteen" had also a vivid recollection of the hangings and confiscations which followed it, and had no mind to run the same risks again. Others were content to see things remain as they were. The race of non-juring clergymen, who had done a great deal to keep alive the flame of devotion to the Stewart family, was dying out, and only here or there was one to be found.

It was observed afterward, in the march to Derby, that the proclamation of King James in the towns through which the army passed excited no more enthusiasm or curiosity than would have been produced by the advertisement of a quack doctor.

The ill success of his political banquet did not tend to put Sir Julius in any better humor than he was before. Neither did the fact that on the following Sunday, Mr. Lethbridge preached a really fine and eloquent sermon on the duty of resistance to rebellion and faithfulness to the existing government. His usually slow, and I must say tedious, delivery waxed nervous and decided, as he warned his hearers against being led into treasonable practises by false representations.

Sir Julius, who had come to church, I suppose in compliment to his wife, looked furious. Lady Leighton yawned, laughed and chatted all but aloud with the gentlemen who sat by her. Lord Bulmer whispered something to Amabel, but was met by a look which silenced even him.

I could not forbear peeping at Aunt Deborah. She seemed as if she did not know whether to be angry with the preacher for his doctrine or pleased at his vexing her sister-in-law. Indeed, I could not help thinking that Mrs. Deborah's loyalty toward James Stewart had cooled considerably, since she had learned that Lady Leighton espoused his cause so warmly.

The next morning, I was sitting with Amabel in our own bedroom, when Lady Leighton's woman tapped at the door, with a summons. Miss Leighton, was to attend her father and mother in the library.

"The time of trial is at hand!" said Amabel, turning to me, after she had sent a message, that she would come at once. "Pray for me, Lucy!"

"Dear Amabel, you won't give way!" said I. "Indeed, I would not urge you, but I know this Lord Bulmer is a wicked man, and will make you miserable."

"If he were the best man in the world, it would make no difference to me!" replied Amabel. "My love, such as I had, is given away, and I cannot call it back."

"But what will you say!" I asked, detaining her, as she bent to kiss me.

"I shall see, when the time comes. There is no use in planning before hand. Let me go, dear. I must not keep them waiting, and since it must come, the sooner it is over, the better."

This was just the difference between Amabel and me. She, as I have said before, hardly ever made a plan, and I was always making them, and then finding out that they were of no avail, and that I had after all to depend on the impulse or direction of the minute.

I threw myself on my knees and prayed most earnestly, that my darling might be supported and stayed up in the deep waters through which she was called to pass, and then feeling somewhat comforted, I set myself to cheat the moments of anxiety by planning and cutting a little coat out of an old gown of Mrs. Philippa's for Mary Thornaby, who was just about short-coating her first baby. I had the little garment well under way before Amabel's step was heard in the gallery.

I sprang up to meet her.

She was very pale and looked ready to drop with fatigue, and as I caught her in my arms she laid her head on my neck, and wept long and bitterly. I let the tears have their way, thinking they would relieve her oppressed spirits. At last she quieted herself and then told me all about it.

"I found my father and his wife sitting in the library, and Lord Bulmer standing behind my lady's chair. He made me a deep reverence as he came in, but I only curtsied in general and would not look at him."

"Amabel!" my father began, and then he hesitated and looked at his wife.

Then as she declined to help him out, he began again: "Amabel, your father and mother have sent for you to inform you of something which will be greatly to your advantage, and they hope to find in you an obedient and grateful daughter."

I did not see anything in this which called for an answer, so I curtsied again, whereat my father said—I would say peevishly, but that he is my father—"Oh, curtsying is all very well, but we want an answer in words!"

"To what, sir?" I asked.

"To this, Miss Leighton!" replied my lady, speaking suddenly and sharply. Lucy she is like the wolf woman as one pea is like another—"Your father has received an offer for you from worthy gentleman far beyond your desert or degree."

"Not so, and it please you madam!" said my lord, making another bow; "Nothing can be above Miss Leighton's deserts. Say from the humblest of her slaves, who has never before seen a lady so worthy of his devotion, and whose whole life shall be one study to promote her happiness."

My lady smiled strangely, while her eyes shot fire in their curious fashion.

"You plead your cause so well, my lord, that I might spare my pains. In one word, Amabel, my Lord Bulmer has made proposals for your hand, and it is your father's will and wish—"

"And yours also, I trust, madam!" interrupted my lord, in a tone of deferential anxiety. "I can ill want the good wishes of so old a friend!"

"And my own of course," said my lady, biting her red lip and frowning—"that you should accept his proposals, and as the times are something disturbed and your father may be called away, we intend that the marriage should take place immediately. You may now withdraw."

"Stay a moment, my lady!" said Lord Bulmer. "Let me have the pleasure of learning from my birdie's own sweet mouth that I am accepted."

"You hear what my lord says!" said my lady, and again it seemed as though she spoke by constraint. "What have you to answer?"

"Only this, madam!" I answered, being now constrained to speak. "I have already told my father that I will not marry without his consent, at least until I am of age. But I have already given my affection to a worthy man with his full concurrence, and I will never wed another. In any other matter, I am ready to yield to my father's wishes. In this I cannot do so. It is simply impossible."

My father looked confused enough for a moment.

"May I ask who is the happy man?" asked my lord.

"Our daughter refers to a childish entanglement with a person in Newcastle," said my lady—"that Mr. Cheriton who has so strangely disgraced himself of late."

"Oh! The Methodist parson who had the adventure with the pretty milliner!" said my lord, sneeringly. "I should like to meet this irresistible apostle."

"You have already met him, my lord," I could not help saying. "I had myself the pleasure of witnessing your encounter in front of Mrs. Thorpe's shop."

My lord had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself.

"This is all folly, Amabel," said my father, shortly. "I will hear no more of it. You must make up your mind to accept Lord Bulmer, and that speedily."

And then, he condescended to argue with me, and tell me of my lord's wealth, and the settlements he was prepared to make, and wondered I could hesitate between two such men.

"I do not hesitate, sir," I answered. "My choice is made long since."

"And you will be so mean spirited as to cling to this parson of yours, even while he is intriguing with all sorts of people," said my lady.

"That I do not believe, asking your pardon, madam," said I; "but since you will push me to the wall, I must needs say that if there were not another man in the world, I would never marry Lord Bulmer."

"But you shall marry him!" said Sir Julius, and he added,—

"Lucy—I will not repeat his words."

"What do you expect, Sir Julius, when you allow your daughter such a companion?" said my lady. "That insolent girl, Lucy Corbet, abets her in her rebellion, and your own sister acts as a go-between."

"We shall soon settle that by giving Lucy Corbet business enough of her own to attend to," answered Sir Julius, and then he bade me go to my room and not leave it till I was prepared to do my father's will.

"So here I am a prisoner, and if I may but have you for my jailer, I do not care for how long."

"I am glad you were firm," said I, "though it is a cruel necessity which makes a young girl stand out against her father."

"It is not my father but his wife," answered Amabel. "Only for her, I believe he would never have turned against Walter. Oh Lucy, how could he marry such a woman? And what is the strange power which Lord Bulmer has over her?"

"Perhaps she wished to marry him herself and could not succeed," said I. "I believe that what Wilson told me is true, and that she is under his thumb. But what means your father's remark about me?"

"Perhaps he has a match prepared for you, also," answered Amabel. "I have had my suspicions of that. Captain Dangerfield."

"That is a match which will never take fire," said I.

I suppose Sir Julius thought better of the matter, for Amabel was sent for to supper. She told me when she returned that Lord Bulmer had hardly spoken to her or noticed her, but had devoted himself entirely to Mrs. Wardlaw, a very showy young widow, who had come on a visit from Newcastle.

"She was delighted, of course," said I.

"She seemed so, certainly. Such airs as she put on—twisting her head, and rolling her eyes, and turning about those white hands of hers."

"She would be pretty, if she could over let herself alone," said I; "but I don't admire her ways. She seems as though she could not be happy without the attention of every man within reach. But what did you do all the evening?"

"Oh, I sat in the corner and taught Miss Dugdale how to make daisy trimming, and Mr. Dugdale entertained us with tales of his school and college days. Poor little lad! What a pity he should have an ambition to be considered a man of the world!"

The next morning Amabel was invited, or rather commanded, to attend her step-mother in her dressing-room, and I took the opportunity of walking over to see Mrs. Deborah. I found her opening a package she had received from Newcastle.

"You are just in time, Niece Corbet," said she. "Here are a letter and a parcel for you from good Mrs. Thorpe. But before you read, tell me the news at the Hall. Is it true, as the rumor goes, that Amabel is to marry this fine Lord Bulmer?"

"She will never marry him unless she is absolutely forced to do so, Aunt Deborah," I answered. "She says that she would not wed him, if there were not another man in the world."

"And you think she is right, I suppose."

"Yes, madam, I cannot but think so," I answered. "To marry one man while she loves another would be flat perjury, in my opinion."

"But suppose the one she loves to be unworthy."

"That may be a reason for refusing him, but not for marrying another."

"Well, child, you may be right for aught I know," said Mrs. Deborah, sighing. "I am glad, at least, that we are assured there will be no marrying or giving in marriage in the next world, for I think that same marrying makes most of the trouble in this."

"Then if my lady makes up a match for me, and I refuse it, you will take me in, won't you, Aunt Deborah?" I ventured to ask.

"Yes, child, you shall never want a home while I have one. But do you know whether my brother has any news from Edinburgh?"

"I have heard of nothing new, madam. The Prince has his court there and keeps possession of the city, but the castle holds out against him as does Sterling. It is also said that he intends to march into England, before long."

"I hear as much in my letters from Newcastle, and also that the citizens are very busy strengthening the defences and levying soldiers. By the way, Mr. Wesley is there and has made himself conspicuous by getting up a loyal address to the King. I should say the Elector of Hanover. You do not know whether my brother intends to join the Prince?"

"No, Aunt Deborah, not for certain, though I believe my lady is very earnest to have him do so."

"I dare say. Anything to take him out of the way!" muttered Aunt Deborah.

"Would you not wish to have Sir Julius join the prince, Aunt Deborah?"

Mrs. Deborah paused before she answered.

"I ought to wish it!" said she. "Our house has always been loyal to the rightful line, and yet—child, I do not know what to say. When I think of this gallant young prince, and the stock from which he is sprung, I feel as if I could risk anything to set him on the throne of his fathers. And then on the other side, when I think of a civil war and all the horrors it brings in its train, it seems as if anything must be better than that. You say my lady is desirous of having Sir Julius go north!"

"I am not so certain about that, madam, but there is no doubt of her loyalty to the prince. She wears no ribbons but white. She is very busy making of white favors and cockades, and receives letters from the north every day. I believe she would like to go to Edinburgh herself."

Mrs. Deborah muttered something which I did not hear, and then asked me why I did not open my parcel.

I was only waiting her leave to do so, and availed myself of it with all speed. It contained a letter from Mrs. Thorpe, enclosing quite a large packet, post marked Exeter, and sealed with black. I guessed at once what had happened. My kind old kinsman was dead.

So it proved. Mr. Carey, Captain Corbet's lawyer in Exeter, had written to that effect, and not knowing my exact direction had sent the letter to Mrs. Thorpe's care. Captain Corbet had died at home in his own bed, at the Wells House, as it was called, in Cornwall, and with the exception of some legacies, had left me all his property, which amounted, taking one thing with another, to about three hundred a year—perhaps more. I was to enjoy one-third of this income till I came of age, and the whole of it till I was twenty-five, after which the property was mine own, and was to be settled upon me in case of my marrying. If however, I wedded any one but a loyal subject of the present government, the whole was to go to a certain orphan school, not far from Exeter.

I could not but shed some tears for the kind old man who had come so far to see me. I had always thought of him, as a friend and dependence.

Mr. Carey wrote very kindly, saying that he would take every care of my interest, and that if I wished it, I could come to him at once, and be a guest in his family, for as long a time as I found it convenient. His wife added a marvelously ill spelled but very kind note to her husband's. I should say that Mr. Carey was appointed my guardian or trustee,—I don't now remember the proper term. He enclosed me a sum of money—fifty pounds I think, to provide myself with mourning and for any other occasions. I Was very glad of this supply, for I had very little left, and I thought I might need it. My mourning was already to my hand.

Mrs. Thorpe wrote a good deal of Newcastle news—for she was a very fluent pen woman. She told me how the walls were being fortified, and how loyal all the people were—how Mr. Wesley preached to the soldiers, and that with the approval of their officers, and how Mr. Cheriton assisted him. She said that Mr. Cheriton was thinner and graver than his wont, but worked harder than ever among the poor.

"Don't believe one word you hear against him!" wrote the good woman. "He has been slandered as others have been for the same reason, and my mind misgives me that Miss Leighton will have enough of these tales poured into her ear; but there is not one word of truth in them. Never was any man more careful of giving occasion for evil speaking than he."

Mrs. Thorpe told me a great deal more, as to how the people were busy with the defences of the town—how active Mr. Wesley had been in promoting loyal addresses, and how he had preached again and again, now in St. Anne's church, the only one opened to him, * now at the Sandgate, to the lowest of the people, and again to the soldiers and officers at the camp, being listened to everywhere with great attention. How Mr. Cheriton, though he did not hold with him in all things, yet sought his advice and looked up to him as a father. I could see that a great change had taken place in Mrs. Thorpe's feelings toward the Methodists.

* I do not know that in fact any church was ever opened to Mr. Wesley in Newcastle. L. E. G.

"I had news of an old friend of yours by Mr. Wesley!" she added, in conclusion. "He tells me that the French gentleman, who came over with us, Father Brousseau, has become a Protestant, and means, if possible, to take orders in the Church of England."

Here was a budget of news, and I was in haste to carry it to Amabel. I took my leave of Aunt Deborah, not thinking how soon I was to see her again, and hastened homeward.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A HASTY REMOVAL.

I HAD taken a short cut across the park in my hurry, but, as so often happens, my more haste turned out worse speed, for I got among the springs and had to go back.

I knew there was a path higher up on the hillside, leading through a very quiet and sequestered part of the domain, and crossing the beck by a little stone footbridge. I struck into this path and following it, I came out on a level spot of ground surrounded on all sides by high trees, where was a little pavilion half in ruins. The place had no very good name, being tenanted by some of the numerous bogeys with which the place abounded.

I was therefore the more surprised to hear voices from the interior, and to recognize one of these voices as Lord Bulmer's. I hesitated a moment what to do. The path ran close under the window, which however was raised a good deal on this side, and as the ground was soft, and the shade very deep, I thought I might slip by unperceived. Just as I came under the window, I heard Lord Bulmer say—

"Let him alone—let him alone. Let my lady manage; she will give him no rest till she gets him away to Edinburgh, and then she will take matters into her own hands."

"And your lordship will not forget to put in a word for me!" said another voice which I did not know for the moment.

"No, no! You shall have your black-eyed damsel, Dangerfield. 'Tis a pretty creature, too—far more attractive to my eye than yonder statue of snow."

I did not wait to hear more, but stole past the window and, once within the shadow of the wood, I ran like a hare till I reached the neighborhood of the gardens. As ill-luck would have it, I met my lady face to face in the gallery.

"So, girl, you have been playing truant!" said she. "I have been sending to seek you everywhere."

"No, madam!" I answered respectfully, for I always strove to act in such a way as to give her no handle against me. "Miss Leighton gave me leave to go out, and I have been to see Mrs. Deborah and the old women at the village."

"Mrs. Deborah! Mrs. Deborah may find—but that does not matter now. Come into my room."

I followed her, wondering what could be coming next.

My lady had taken Mrs. Philippa's apartment for her own, and had fitted it up much in the style of the room in Newcastle, that I remembered so well; with painted jars and china monsters, and all kinds of decorations in painting, and shell-work, and flower-work, and all the other ornamental works that ever were invented. The air was heavy with the same scents I so well recollected, and warm with a fire burning on the hearth. My lady threw herself into a great chair and I stood before her, noticing as I did so, how worn she looked, and how her wonderful beauty—for it was something wonderful even yet—seemed like a mask put on to hide the real woman underneath. She always gave me the odd idea of a spirit of some kind, inhabiting a body that was never made for it.

"Lucy Corbet, sit down!" were her first words. I obeyed, wondering more and more as she added—

"Child, how pretty you are! Ah, if my poor little Magdalene had lived, she would have been like you. She was dark, too; but I only had her five years, and then lost her forever. Ah me."

"Your ladyship may have her again!" I could not help saying. "She is in the hand of the Lord where no evil can touch her."

"So much the better if she is!" was the abrupt reply. "There, child, don't talk Methodism to me. I am too old for that sort of thing."

"Surely, no one is too old for the comforts of religion, madam!" I persisted, impelled by I know not what impulse, but I trust a good one. "It seems as if such a treasure in Heaven should be a strong magnet to draw one thitherward."

"Tush!" said my lady sharply and bitterly. "What do I know of Heaven or care to know? I tell you child, this world is all that we can grasp or hold. What do we know of the other? This alone is ours."

"For how long, madam?"

She winced at the question.

"There, that will do. You have discharged your conscience, and I wish to hear no more. Listen to me. I like your spirit, child, and if you will be obedient to me and help me, I will advance your fortunes and perhaps protect you from some dangers."

"I trust not to fail in my duty, madam!" I began, but she snapped me up.

"Duty! Nonsense—listen to me. Lucy Corbet, Amabel must marry Lord Bulmer; she must; there is no help for it. If she or you struggle or oppose, you will but make matters worse for her. If she gives up with a good grace, he may be kind to her, for he is greatly in love with her, though she angers him by her coldness. If she continues her present conduct, he will revenge it on her, when she is in his power, for marry him she must."

She paused a moment, and then went on in a lighter tone.

"You must see that it is for Amabel's interest to treat Lord Bulmer with civility at least, since she must marry him at last. Use your influence to induce her to do so, and I will reward you for it. A very good match has been proposed for you, better than you have reason to hope for, with a wellborn gentleman high in the service of King James. I will persuade my husband to accept the offer, and will provide for you like a lady. Refuse to do what I wish, and you will leave this house, and be separated from Amabel forever—for you may be sure that Lord Bulmer will suffer no one near his wife who shall oppose his power over her."

She ceased and sat looking at me with those strange eyes, in a way which made me think of a story Mr. Thorpe had told us, of certain poison snakes which draw birds into their mouths by looking at them. I felt as though a web was being woven round me, taking from me all power of free motion. I made a vigorous effort, said a short prayer for grace and direction, and then spoke out.

"Madam, will you please tell me in so many words what it is that you would have me do; then I can tell whether it is in my power or not?"

"Frankly spoken," returned my lady, apparently not ill-pleased. "I will have you use your influence with Amabel to give up Mr. Cheriton and consent to marry Lord Bulmer. Tell her that you have received certain news of her lover's infidelity and his approaching marriage. Work on her pride, of which she has abundance, and shame her out of caring for a man who has ceased to care for her. Tell her that Lord Bulmer has promised never to interfere with her religion, and that he also promises her every indulgence, even to having you live with her, if you do not marry."

"And if I refuse to do this?" said I.

"Then you leave this house forever!" she answered, suddenly and sharply. "There, I do not wish to hear your decision now. Go and think about it. Remember, girl, that I have your life and character in my hand—in my hand!" she repeated, shutting her small, thin hand, as if she would crush something she held within. "Now go, and come when I send for you!"

I made my curtsy and withdrew to our room. Amabel was not there, having gone out riding with her father, whom she strove carefully to please in all things.

I was not sorry to be alone. What a wave of temptation rolled in upon me! Suppose I were to refuse obedience to my lady, what would be the result? I should be separated from Amabel, my second self, never, perhaps, to see her again. My reputation would be ruined. I knew enough of my lady to know that she would not scruple to tell any story about me, and I also knew that the fact of living under her roof would be no advantage to me.

On the other hand, if Amabel married Lord Bulmer it would be no more than hundreds of girls did every year at the bidding of their parents. He had been a bad man, no doubt, but not worse than many other young men. He was very much in love with Amabel, that was plain to be seen, and she might have such an influence over him as to reform him. I had heard and read of such things. She would have every thing that the world has to give, and, if she were not interfered with in religious matters, why could she not happy after all?

Mr. Cheriton had not written to her, though he might easily have sent a note in Mrs. Thorpe's letter to me. Perhaps what my lady said was true, and he was going to marry some one else.

How long I sat pondering these things I do not know, but I was roused by the sound of the noon bell—the Angelus—which was always rung at Highbeck when the lord of the manor was at home. In a moment, a clear vision arose before me. I seemed to be standing once more in the old convent vault, holding fast to Mother Superior's hand, and gazing with awe and dread at that sullen and dismal pool, whose black waters hardly reflected the gleams of the lantern. I smelled the strange damp odor of the vault. I felt the soft and sticky ground under my feet, which seemed to catch and hold me fast, and I heard dear mother's sweet and solemn voice saying—

"This is the pit of destruction, and every willful sin brings you nearer to it."

The spell was broken. I sprang from my seat and walked rapidly up and down the room. How could I for a moment have dreamed of such a thing? What good would it have done if I had consented. I should not have moved Amabel one hair's breadth, and I should have lost her friendship forever. I should have been doing the devil's own work, to be paid with his wages.

No, it never could be, whatever the consequence to her or to me. I could not do this great wickedness and sin against God. The straight path was the only safe path, and, though it might seem to be hedged with briars and built up with stones, I must follow it. Through whatever scenes of trouble it might lead me in this world, the end was sure.

Then the tempter would try me on the other side. Was I quite sure which was the right path? Were not children to obey their parents? Would not Amabel have great means of doing good? Was not I myself throwing away chances of usefulness such as I might never have again? Was I not dishonoring my Christian profession by abetting Amabel's disobedience, and suffering a slur to be cast on my own good name? Had I not been taught by my former spiritual guides that falsehood was a venial sin, and might even become a virtue in the cause of religion?

But I knew now who was speaking to me, and how to answer him. I threw myself on my knees and prayed earnestly for help and direction, and I had it. It could never be right to do evil that good might come. I did not believe that Mr. Cheriton was unfaithful. I had evidence to the contrary under my hand, and I should be a base liar and slanderer if I told Amabel what I did not myself believe. No, come what might, I must be true to her, to my Master, to myself. Oh, if she would only come in, that I might speak to her, that I might warn her, that I might tell her what I had heard!

I thought for a moment what it was best for me to do. I took Mrs. Thorpe's letter, folded it small, and put it into Amabel's prayer-book, where she would be sure to find it. I wrote a few words to her, telling her that I might be sent away from her for a time, begging her to believe that I could not help it, and telling her that I would communicate with her if possible.

I had hardly finished these preparations when my lady's French woman knocked at the door, and told me I was to go to her mistress at once. I found my lady sitting where I had left her. She bade me be seated, and signed to her woman to withdraw.

"Well, Lucy Corbet, have you considered this matter?"

"I have, madam."

"And what is the answer?"

"The answer is No, madam!" I replied, with a firmness that surprised myself. "I have looked at the thing on all sides, and have come to the conclusion that I cannot serve you in this matter."

"Then the thing will be done without you, that is all!" said my lady coolly, though she looked disconcerted. "The thing will be done all the same, and you will lose the profit—that is all!"

"What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" The words seemed to come without any will of mine.

My lady looked taken aback, but she recovered herself in a moment.

"Nonsense, child? Leave such dreams and delusions to the vulgar, and those who have their living to make thereby. I tell you again, girl, this world is all we can grasp,—all that we can make sure of. Let us make ourselves happy here, and leave the next, if there be any next—to care for itself!"

"Your ladyship is happy here, then!"

"What do you mean? How dare you—" said she, strangely agitated for a moment. Then resuming her lofty and careless demeanor, "Think well, Lucy Corbet—think well, before you speak! Is this your final answer?"

"It is madam!" I replied, though a sharp pain seemed to rend my heart as I thought of all my words involved. "I cannot help you in this matter."

"Then you leave this house on the instant!" said my lady, sternly. "Taking with you my own and my husband's anger, and what relics of character your escapades here and in Newcastle have left you. You whom my husband, in his folly, has educated to be a fine lady at his expense. You shall learn what it is to be without a home."

Much more she said, which I will not set down here, calling me a beggar more than once.

"Not quite a beggar, madam, since Sir Julius has always drawn two hundred a year from my father's estate!" said I, as she paused from sheer lack of breath.

"As to what you threaten, I am in the hands of One who knows my innocence, and will not let my enemies triumph, even though they may seem to do so for a time. Oh, my lady, think, think of what you are doing before you take the last downward step that may make return impossible. Think of your own child in heaven, and of how you would have had her dealt by, before you go any farther. I do not speak for myself, though in driving me from my foster-sister, you are breaking both our hearts. I have both means and friends, who will not see me wronged."

"But think—oh think. The Judge even now stands before the door. Even now your hour may have struck, and the world you so love may be slipping from under your feet. Whose then will those things be which you have provided? What pleasure will they give you when you lie cold in death on yonder bed, and cannot raise so much as an eyelid to see or a finger to touch one of them? You might be so happy with Amabel, if you would. She would be to you all your own child might have been, if you would but let her. You know Lord Bulmer to be a wicked, hard, cruel man—you know it? Oh, do not sin by putting into his power the child the good Lord has given you, to make up for the one he took away, and to lead you to Heaven!"

My lady listened without interrupting me, and I almost thought she was going to yield. But she did not, though I believe her good angel whispered to her. Her face, which had softened for a moment, grew hard as stone, and her eyes shone balefully, while her red lips were compressed to a thread. She stood for a moment at the parting of two ways. Then she deliberately chose the wrong one, and walked on to her ruin. She would have the world for her portion, and she had it.

"You will leave this house at once!" said she, taking out her purse as she spoke. "Wilson will send your clothes after you wherever you choose. If Amabel ever speaks to you again, I will send her where she shall learn that there are worse things than step-mothers. But I do not wish to expose you to temptation by sending you away penniless. What wages are owing to you?"

My Cornish blood flashed up at this gratuitous insult.

"Thy money perish with thee!" said I. "I have enough of my own, but if I were starving, I would take nothing from your hand. As to my character, perhaps Mrs. Deborah's countenance may go as far in the country as Lady Throckmorton's."

I don't defend myself in saying this. It was not according to the spirit of meekness and it was foolish besides, for it lost me the advantage I had while I kept cool. But however unwisely sped, the arrow reached its mark and found a joint in the armor. Scarcely one of the county ladies had called upon Lady Leighton.

"You defy me, do you?" said she.

"No!" I replied, recalled to myself. "I was wrong to speak so. Not that I fear you, Lady Leighton. But I want nothing from this house save what is rightly mine. I have not wrought for gold, and I have no debts to put me in any man's power."

She winced at this, I could see, but answered haughtily.

"I am not here to bandy words with a discharged waiting-maid. Go and put your things together—such as you need at once. The rest I will give orders about. Leave this house within half an hour, or I will order the men to put you forth, like what you are!"

It showed the essentially cruel nature of the woman, that she should add this insult to the injury she had already done me.

And it was to her that I must leave my love, my lily, my other self. I can hardly recall, even now, without sickness of heart, the feelings with which I gathered together so many of my possessions as I could conveniently carry. I had not finished when Mrs. Wilson came to the room followed by the French waiting-woman.

"So Miss Corbet, I always said pride would have a fall!" said she, in her old insolent tone, which she had not used toward me for many a day. "Just be pleased to separate your things from Miss Leighton's, will you? Fine doings, when a young lady and her waiting-woman keep their clothes together in the same drawers. But there will be an end of all that now."

I did not answer, but stepped into the closet to take my Bible and Prayer-book. Wilson followed me, and, shutting the door as if by accident, she seized my hand and whispered—

"Poor thing, I know how it is. Don't you take it too much to heart, but keep up your spirits, and I will look after your things, and send all safe. I dared not speak before that French spy."

Then aloud. "I cannot let you take that, Miss Corbet—not till I have Miss Leighton's leave—"

"Wilson, if I have ever done you a good turn, be kind to Miss Leighton!" I whispered.

"I will, I will, and it shall go hard, but I will get you news of her. What shall I tell her?"

"Tell her I was sent away—that they would not let me stay to see her. I am going to Mrs. Deborah."

"Quite right. I'll befriend her, if only to save my poor dear lady from sinning—don't be too hard on her, Miss Corbet. She is in trouble herself."

Then aloud again. "There, you have had time enough, in all conscience."

So pack off.

"No, I don't want any money, Miss—" as I offered her a gold piece I had in my pocket. "There, go. I'd say God bless you, if I dared."

"God bless you, Wilson, and teach you to know and follow Him!" said I.

I followed her down stairs carrying my basket. As I left the Hall, I had just a glimpse of Amabel, flushed with exercise and looking more cheerful than I had seen her for a long time. Oh, for one word. But I dared not linger, and I turned away. Two or three of the men laughed sneeringly as they saw me go forth, and one of them made an insolent remark, whereat Harry, the only footman who had remained behind when Richard left, turned on him and knocked him down into a particularly thorny rosebush.

"Take that for your impudence to a young lady!" said he, and then coming to my side. "Let me carry your parcels for you, Miss Corbet!"

"Thank you, Harry, but I fear you will get into trouble with my lady, and perhaps lose your place!"

"I don't care that for my place!" said Harry, snapping his fingers. "Besides, I have given warning already. I don't care to stay in this house as things go now. I wasn't brought up to such things and I don't care about getting used to 'em."

So saying, he fell behind and carried my bundles all the way to the Little House.

Mrs. Deborah was in her little garden gathering some late flowers, and she looked up, surprised enough to see me so soon again. Then observing Harry with his load, and perhaps seeing something in my face which told her the story, she opened her arms to me. I fell on her faithful breast, and the anguish which had been rending my heart found a merciful vent in a tempest of tears and sobs. Mrs. Deborah led me into her little parlor, seated me on the sofa, and putting her arms about me, she let me weep my full before she asked me a single question. Then, as I grew calmer by degrees, she drew from me the story of my expulsion from the Hall.

"She is a wicked woman, and you are well out of her hands!" said Mrs. Deborah. "As to your character, I do not think you have much to fear upon that score!"

"It is not myself that I think about?" I replied. "I would willingly bear all she can inflict, to save Amabel out of her hands."

"We must ask God's help for her," said Mrs. Deborah, solemnly. "I know no better way at present—or at any time."

"But, oh, Mrs. Deborah, what can Sir Julius be thinking of?" I cried. "How can he let his daughter be so sacrificed?"

Mrs. Deborah's brow darkened. "Child, it is the curse of our house," said she abruptly, "that the men should be wholly governed by some woman or other. His father was so before him, as I know to my cost. My father married a second time, and his wife—Julius's mother—so drew his heart away from his elder children that he had hardly a kind word for us, and would have utterly disinherited us had it been in his power. My brother's second wife was not a lady, but she was a kind, good woman and would have been a good friend to the child had she but lived. But it was not God's will."

"The question is, what is to be done now!" said I, with a little impatience, I fear.

"We can make no move at present," replied Mrs. Deborah. "All we can do is to wait. My poor child, it is hard upon you, I know, but you must see that we must act, if at all, with great caution. Amabel is in her father's hands and under his roof, and we have no right to interfere, so long as she is not in actual danger. Take patience, my poor child, take patience. 'Tis the woman's medicine?"

With that, I fell to crying again, and grew so hysterical that Mrs. Deborah made haste to put me to bed, and dose me with hartshorn. I was not given to such attacks, but I was overcome with grief and fatigue. I quieted myself as soon as I could, and after awhile I fell asleep, and awoke somewhat refreshed and composed.

I lay a long time thinking over all that had happened. I did not see how I could have acted otherwise. Even had I dissembled with my lady, and promised to use my influence for her when I did not intend to do so, she would soon have found me out, for her eyes were everywhere, and her French waiting-maid was a ready and willing spy. No, I could not have done otherwise.

For myself, as I said, I had no cares or fears. Mrs. Deborah would give me a home as long as I needed one, and so I did not doubt would Mrs. Brown, were it only to spite her brother's wife, and then there was Mr. Carey in Exeter. True, it was a long way off, but others had made the journey and why not I. Again, there was Mrs. Thorpe in Newcastle, and the old lady of Thornyhaugh. Oh yes, I had a plenty of friends.

But Amabel! To have her so near me, and yet out of my reach, and beyond my help. It did seem to me that the thought was intolerable, and I cried aloud in my anguish. Then at last I betook myself to that place whither I should have gone at first. I laid my case before Him, who has promised to be the friend of the oppressed and the orphan, told Him all my woe, and besought His help. I laid my dear one at His feet, as a mother of old might have brought her suffering babe to the Lord Jesus, and besought Him to have a care over her. Having thus calmed myself, I arose, dressed, and went down to seek Mrs. Deborah.

It was near evening, and the level sun was shining into the south and west windows and lighting up the low rooms. Mrs. Deborah had brought away so many of her own and Mrs. Chloe's personal matters, that the little sitting-room had a curiously familiar look, as we see in a dream a well-known place which we know to be the same, though it not in the least like the reality.

Mrs. Deborah was sitting with her knitting as of old. She called me to a seat beside her, and seeing that I had no work, she opened a drawer, and took out something that carried me back to the old inn at Newcastle—Mrs. Chloe's bed-quilt knitting.

"There child, you may work at that at odd minutes, if you like. It does very well to take up when you have nothing else to do, and I should like to see the quilt finished."

We talked long and earnestly over Amabel's affairs, but when our conversation was broken off by a call to supper, we could arrive at no other conclusion than that we had already come to—namely, that we must wait and let matters take their course for the present. We had not finished our meal when we heard horses' feet outside, and were surprised by the entrance of Sir Julius.

With all reverence, I must say the great man reminded me of nothing so much as of a dog, that has to face his master with a stolen joint of meat on his conscience. In vain did Sir Julius strut and frown and try to look big and impressive. He was cowed under his sister's gray eyes and black brows, and looked as though he expected every moment to be taken across the old lady's knee and disciplined with her slipper.

He took on an elevated tone of reproof toward me at first, and talked of ingratitude and the expense he had been put to on my account; but he came down from his high horse rather suddenly when Mrs. Deborah remarked, drily, that my father's rents must have a good deal more than paid all the cost of my education, and that no doubt he would be ready to account for the surplus, when called upon to do so.

"And pray, Sister Deborah, who is to call me to any such account?"

"Perhaps Lucy herself, when she comes of age, or possibly Mr. Carey, her trustee, under her uncle's will."

This was news to Sir Julius; he eagerly inquired what his sister meant, and received an account of Mr. Andrew Corbet's will. He asked to see the letter, and I showed it to him.

"And you must take just this time to quarrel with my lady!" said he, irritably. "Why could not you let her say her say, and keep quiet?"

"Because she would not let me!" I answered. "I have ever treated her with respect as you know, but when she came to require of me to be downright false to myself and treacherous to Amabel—"

"Oh, false and treacherous!" he broke in peevishly, repeating my words. "Could you not temporise a little? But you and Amabel have got your heads full of Methodistical notions, and you are wiser in your own conceits than ten men that can render a reason."

"They might be that, and not be absolute Solomons, were the reason no better than some men's!" said Mrs. Deborah, drily.

"And I had such a good match for you, and have pledged my word to Bulmer that you should marry Dangerfield—and what am I to say to him?"

I did not see that I was called upon to furnish Sir Julius with words, so I remained silent and knitted as though all my energies were given to the square of cotton in my hands.

Sir Julius fussed and fumed and swore, and stalked about, and getting no help from either of us, he suddenly changed his tone, and began to coax me to come back to the Hall. He would make my peace with my lady. Dangerfield was a gallant gentleman, and a great favorite with the prince and King James. He was sure to rise, and I might be a countess before I died. Amabel and I were two silly girls, quarrelling with our bread and butter. He wished to Heaven he had left us in our convent. Then, growing angry again, he vowed that Amabel at least should bend to his will, and with that, he dashed away.

The next morning early, long before day, I was waked by the trampling of many horses, and the sound of subdued talking. I rose, and looked out of my window, which commanded a view of the road. By the bright moonlight, I saw a train of horsemen. There were about thirty in all, and Sir Julius rode at their head. I looked eagerly to see if Lord Bulmer was among the riders. He was a very big man, head and shoulders above any other man about the place, and looked especially tall on horseback; but I saw nobody that I could take for him.

I could not sleep again, and the moment I heard Mrs. Deborah stirring, I went to her room and told her what I had seen.

"He has gone then!" said Mrs. Deborah. "He has cast in his lot with this young adventurer, and who knows whether he will ever return? I ought to rejoice in his loyalty and courage, but something seems to tell me he is influenced neither by one nor the other, but by base subserviency to the will of a wicked woman."

"Nay, madam!" said I. "Sir Julius has always expressed the warmest devotion to King James and the prince. One ought not to think the worse of a good cause because it is espoused by a wicked person."

In my heart, I was by no means sure of the goodness of the cause. All Mrs. Deborah's lessons—all my reading in Clarendon, Ken, and Sancroft, had not convinced me of the divine right of kings, and the duty of absolute, passive obedience to their will; nor had they impressed me with any very exalted notions of the virtues of the Stuart family, but I was willing to comfort my dear old friend so far as was possible. My own heart was full of anxiety for Amabel, left as she was in the power of her enemies, without even the feeble support of her father's regard.

"Well, Amabel will at least be left in peace for awhile," said Mrs. Deborah, after a pause. "No doubt Lord Bulmer will have accompanied my brother."

"He was not with him this morning, I am sure," I replied, and gave my reasons.

"Even were it so, they will not drive on the business during my brother's absence."

"I am not so sure of that either," said I.

"She would never be so bold."

I believed Lady Leighton bold enough for anything, and said so, telling Mrs. Deborah what I had heard in my walk. I did not add what I thought—that Sir Julius had gone away on purpose to leave matters in the hands of his wife. One hesitates before telling a sister that her only brother, the head of her house, is a base coward, even though one may be convinced that she knows as much already.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"AN EARLY SNOW SAVES MUCKLE WOE."

IT was two or three days before we heard a word from the Hall.

Even my clothes were not sent to me, and I began to think I was to be deprived of them.

Meantime a visitor arrived in the shape of Alick Graham, old Elsie's nephew, and Lady Thornyhaugh's servant. He brought Mrs. Deborah a present of moor game, cheeses, and fine wool for her knitting, of his mistress' own spinning, and for Amabel and me each a large soft plaid or mantle, such as were then worn by all classes in Scotland. He would fain have gone at once to the Hall to see his sweet-heart, saying that he had but little time to stay, and, in the language of the old ballad—

"He could not come ilka day to woo."

But Elsie persuaded him to "bide a wee," as she said, seeing it was not likely that Mary would see him unless she had notice beforehand of his coming, which she (Elsie) would try to send her. They were still arguing the point, when who should appear but Mary herself, with my bundles and some of her own, escorted and assisted by Harry, who, I fancy, would gladly have cut out the handsome young borderer, had it been in his power. I left the two glaring at each other like two dogs, whom prudence or politeness restrains from fighting in the house, and took Mary in to Mrs. Deborah to learn her news.

"My lady has sent me away, miss!" sobbed Mary, bursting into tears. "And without a bit of a character, and she called me a thief to my face, me that never touched so much as a pin that did not belong to me, and though Mrs. Wilson herself said she wished every one in the house was as honest as I was."

I soothed and comforted Mary as well as I could, and Mrs. Deborah told her she would give her the best of characters, which seemed to afford her a little consolation.

"And what of Miss Leighton?" I asked, when Mary had recovered her composure. "How is she?"

"Well enough in health, miss, but sad enough in her spirits, as well she may be. My lady taunts and sneers at her from morning till night, and then, there is Lord Bulmer hanging round, and giving orders in the house—who but he?—as though he were its master and more. It's my belief as they mean to compel my poor young lady into a marriage whether or no."

"But how can they?" I asked. "Mr. Lethbridge would never lend himself to such business."

"No, miss, but there's that Mr. Trimble—chaplain as they call him—he is none too good at the best, and when he is half seas over, as he is about half the time, he will do any thing for more liquor. By what my lord's man let out one day, I believe he was brought to the hall for this very job."

I looked at Mrs. Deborah and wrung my hands with impatience and anxiety.

"Take care, Mary Lee! Say no more than you know to be true," said Mrs. Deborah, gravely.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon, Mrs. Deborah, ma'am, if I spoke disrespectful," said Mary. "But oh, Mrs. Deborah! Oh, ladies! Do save my poor young lady! They will kill her among them. They have shut her up alone in her room with no one near her, only that wicked French woman takes her her meals, and poor meals they are. Even Mrs. Wilson is not allowed to go to her. And, Mrs. Deborah, the wolf howled last night! I heard him myself, and so did all of us, and Harry says it bodes some great misfortune. And worse than that—"

Here her voice sank to a whisper, "The picture of the wolf-lady came out of its frame and walked about the house—Ellen saw it."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Deborah, but she looked uneasy.

I knew very well that she herself believed in the howling of the wolf as portending some great misfortune, and that she was not entirely incredulous on the subject of the walking picture.

"Where did Ellen see the wolf-lady?" I asked.

"In the long gallery, miss. She had been down to the kitchen to get a warm salt-bag to put to Hannah's cheek, for the poor thing is half dead with an income in her face, and she made bold to go through the gallery to reach the little stairs."

"She heard a voice as if pleading as for very life in the little saloon, and another deep voice that seemed to answer in scorn, Ellen said, and she had just time to slip behind the great Indian screen, when the lady came out in a long white gown, and with both hands pressed to the sides of her head. She passed along so close that Ellen said she could almost have touched her, and went into the great hall, and then Ellen ran up stairs to her own room."

I glanced at Mrs. Deborah. I did not believe in the ghostly character of Ellen's vision, neither, I saw, did she.

"When did you last see Miss Leighton, Mary?" I asked.

"Yesterday morning, Miss."

"And Lord Bulmer is still at the Hall? He did not go with Sir Julius!"

"Oh, no, ma'am, Captain Dangerfield did, but he is back again to-day. Oh, Mrs. Deborah, save my dear young lady!"

"Did you bring me no note or message, then?" I asked.

"Yes, Miss. I forgot! One from Mrs. Wilson. She has been very good to me, has Mrs. Wilson. She said the note was about some napkins or something!"

I took the note, and, dismissing Mary to her supper and the society of her favored lover, I opened it. It was fairly well written, and I had no trouble in reading it.

"Miss, if ever you loved Miss Leighton, contrive some way to help her to-night."

The word was underscored.

"To-morrow may be too late! They will all be in the great saloon at the other end of the house acting of plays. Miss is shut in her room. They will not let me near her. I sign no names for fear of accidents. Remember, to-night."

This, disentangled from her peculiar spelling, was Mrs. Wilson's note.

Mrs. Deborah looked at me in dismay.

"What can we do?" said she.

I considered a moment, and a plan darted into my head, which I proceeded to open to Mrs. Deborah.

"That might do so far as getting Amabel away from the house is concerned!" said Mrs. Deborah. "But what to do with her afterward? I could not keep her here with any safety, and there are strong reasons against her going to Newcastle!"

"I have an idea about that too!" I returned. "But we must call Elsie and her nephew in council. I think we can depend on their fidelity."

"My life for Elsie in such a case!" said Mrs. Deborah. "I will send for her at once."

Elsie made her appearance and I told her what I had in my head. Alick had ridden a stout pony and Mrs. Deborah had plenty of others, for horses were abundant and cheap in those days, in the North. Why should not Amabel and myself return with Alick to Eskdale, and take refuge with Lady Thornyhaugh till better times?

"And indeed mem, the lasses—I mean the young leddies—could not do better. Alick will ken every pass among the hills by night as well as by day, and by noon to-morrow, they may be in safety," said Elsie.

Alick being called in, laughed at the idea of pursuit, once we were among the hills.

"It will no be very mirk after midnight, though I doubt there's a storm brewing. I ken every path between here and Eskdale. Let us once have a gude start and let them follow wha' can!"

"And Mary and me will just slip cannily awa' after dark to the house of a seventh cousin of my ain, who will give us a blythe welcome!" added Elsie. "Then if any one hears of Alick's riding home with two women, folk may just think it was his joe * and his auld auntie."

* Sweetheart.

There was little time to lose, for it was drawing toward night already, and by midnight we must be well on our way.

Every thing favored us. The night was dark, with a fitful wind from the east, which I well knew would make all sorts of eerie noises about the old hall. I made up two bundles of needful clothing, dressed myself in a thick gray woolen gown, and wrapping my plaid about me, I stole up through the woods to the Hall.

The east wing was brilliantly lighted, as was also the great hall, and the sound of musical instruments told me that the revel was in full progress. In the west wing burned only one dim light, and that I well knew was in Amabel's room.

I do not pretend to be above fears more than other people, and I shuddered with something besides cold when I found myself in the little deserted court where the phantom cavalier was said to walk, and when I applied the well-oiled key to the lock, I could almost have sworn that a light hand was laid on my shoulder.

Nothing was to be seen, however, and in the cause of my foster-sister, I would have faced the evil one himself.

I unlocked the door, and lighting the dark lantern I carried, I went softly down and then up the rugged stairs, and found myself in the ghostly room. I stayed not to look around me, but knocked gently at the door of communication. There was no answer, and for a moment my heart sunk at the thought that Amabel might have been forced to be present at the play. I blew my little ivory whistle very softly at the keyhole, and to my intense delight I heard Amabel's voice.

"Lucy, where are you?"

"In the ghost room!" was my answer. "Open the door quickly!"

"I cannot!" was the answer. "It is fastened on your side."

I found the bolt and pushed it back,—the cabinet was rolled aside, and in a moment, Amabel was in my arms. She was but the shadow of herself, but her lovely face was calm as ever.

"Is it really you!" said she, holding me off and looking at me. "I almost lost hope when they took poor Mary from me. Oh, Lucy, I have been cruelly used."

"I have come to save you, but there is not a moment to lose!" said I. "Don't take anything from the room. I have wraps in abundance. Come!"

I pulled the cabinet back to its place, drew down the tapestry and bolted the doors. We hastened down the stairs and out into the court.

A few drops of rain were falling, and it was pitch dark. Amabel held the lantern, while I locked the door, and barred the entrance to the court on the outside. We then made the best of our way to the old pavilion, where Alick was to await us with the horses. He was not in sight.

"Can he have played us false?" was my first thought.

I whistled softly and had the satisfaction to see him emerge from a thicket of evergreens.

"It is all well so far, Leddies!" said he. "Hasten to mount, and let us be on our way. I believe it is going to snow, but so much the better for us. Early snow saves muckle woe, the auld by-word has it."

I had taken the precaution to bring from home a thick gown and riding skirt. These I hastily put on Amabel, over the silk gown she wore. Alick put her on horseback and we set out on our dark, long ride.

"Are we not going first to Aunt Deborah's?" asked Amabel as we turned our horses' heads away from the village.

"No!" I answered. "We must lose no time, and if you should be missed, they would go to the little house at once to seek you. We must run no risks that we can help."

Amabel murmured an assent and said no more.

The remembrance of that wild night's ride is like a dream to me. I only know that it snowed till after midnight, that it was very dark, and Alick seemed to find his way by some occult sense like a dog. We went up hill and down dale. We forded swollen streams where the ponies could hardly stem the current, and climbed and descended paths so steep and slippery that it was a wonder how they kept their feet or we our seats.

Once or twice we passed camps or trains of smugglers conveying whiskey from Scotland into England, but they took no notice of us except to exchange a civil or surly good-night with our guide, who I fancy, might have owed his intimate knowledge of the road to some practise in the same profession. Once we saw a camp of Gypsies in a recess of the hills, their bright fire looking wonderfully attractive in the cold and darkness. The snow was now quite deep and muffled the sound of our horses' feet, which was perhaps the reason why the Gypsies took no notice of us.

"I'm glad we are weel past thae folk!" said Alick in a whisper. "They are no good folk to meet in a dark night and a lonely place. Is thae other leddy, waking, do you think, mem? Speak to her and see!"

"Are you awake, Amabel?" said I, taking her hand, which felt cold as ice.

"Awake!" she repeated in a tone of wonder. "I do not feel as if I should ever sleep again. Lucy, why do we not go faster? They will follow us."

"I wad fine like to see them try it, mem!" said Alick, overhearing her words. "Forby any trouble they might have in finding the road, they might not pass thae gentry with the pack horses so easily as we have done. They are no' apt to be that civil to folk they do na ken. Na, na! Dinna be feared my bonny doo—I mean my leddy. We'll be in Scotland in another hour. See, yonder comes the moon."

The storm had now ceased, and the waning moon shone out through the clouds, so that we could see where we were going. We had ridden another half hour, when Alick drew bridle on the top of a long hill we had been climbing, and pointed out to me a dark spot in the waste of snow.

"Yonder is Tibbie Grey's cottage, mem. We shall soon be there, and then we can rest ourselves and our horses. Tibbie is an honest woman, a far awa' cousin of my own, and will give food, and fire, and a welcome to boot, to any friend to Thornyhaugh."

I was thankful to hear it, for I was growing very weary, and so sleepy that I could hardly keep myself awake. We descended a rougher path than any we had yet passed—so rough indeed, that Alick dismounted and led our ponies by the bridle a part of the way. The tree branches brushed our faces in some places; in others, the rocks towered high and seemed ready to fall down on us.

"It is turning colder!" said I, shivering.

"So much the better, mem. We'll no' have the snow wreaths sliding down on our heads. But we'll soon be out of this den, and then the road is good."

In effect we soon came out upon a wider valley, and presently drew up at the door of a small cottage—the same we had seen from the top of the hill.

Alick whistled once or twice.

The door was opened by a decent-looking woman, with a tartan screen cast over her white mutch.

"Eh! Wha' is this?" said the old woman, who I fancy, might not be unused to untimely visitors. "Man Alick, is this you? And wha' are these."

"Whist, whist, Tibbie! It's just myself, and these are two, young leddies, that I am guiding to my auld leddy at Thornyhaugh, and you must just give them the best you ha' for them. Best tell her the truth, mem," he whispered to me. "She will do all the better for us."

"That will I, that will I!" said old Tibbie, cheerfully. "Come in, by leddies! Come in by, and sit upon the fire. It is but a coorse night for, the likes of you to be out. Eh, the bonnie doo!" she exclaimed, as she removed Amabel's plaid. "Wha could ha' the heart to hurt such a winsome creature? But I'll no fash you with questions. Come in by, and sit upon the fire."

She led us into the cottage, where a great fire of turf, made on the earthen floor, threw out a glow which seemed something miraculous to us poor night wanderers. Tibbie set stools for us, removed our wet plaids and riding-skirts, and in a wonderfully short time, put into our hands basins of warm milk and generous pieces of freshly toasted oatcake.

"Eat and drink, eat and drink!" said she. "That will warm you best of a'."

"Do try to eat something, Amabel!" said I, seeing that she held her basin of milk in her hand, as if she hardly knew what it was. "Do try dear, to please me."

I held the basin to her lips, and had the satisfaction to see her drink. Then, as if roused and refreshed, she looked about her and spoke.

"Lucy, why do we not go on to my aunt's?"

"Because the horses must rest, my bonnie leddy!" said Alick, answering the question. "The puir beasts cannot gang a fit farther, without rest and meat, and we will be none the waur of them our ain selves."

"But they will overtake us and find us here!" said Amabel. "I am sure they will. They will track us with the bloodhounds."

"Not they!" I answered. "They have not missed us yet, and when they do they would not know which way to go. The snow will have covered all trace of us."

"And that's true, mem! Believe me, there is nothing to dread; you are as safe here as if you were at Thornyhaugh."

"I daresay you are right!" said Amabel. "But I am bewildered I think. Oh, Lucy! It seems as though it must be a dream; I have dreamed of getting away so often. It seems as if I must wake and find myself still in that woman's power. But I will never go back to her!" she added wildly. "I will kill myself first."

"You must just get her to bed, poor lamb!" said old Tibbie, answering my look of alarm. "The poor bairn is just overdone with a' she has come thro'! Shame on them that brought a sweet lamb to such straits."

As she spoke, she opened a door, on the farther side of the room, and led us into a very small bedroom, in which was a decent-looking bed.

"It's but coorse accommodations for the likes of you leddies!" said she, turning down the clothes. "But it's clean enough for the Queen hersel'."

The bed was indeed clean and sweet, with coarse but very white sheets. I coaxed Amabel to lie down, and placed myself beside her, taking her in my arms. It was long before we slept, for Amabel started at every sound, but she grew quiet at last.

When I woke, the low sun was shining through the one thick pane of glass which formed the only window. Amabel still slept heavily, and as I lay and looked at her wasted form and pale face, my heart swelled with indignation against those who, having such a treasure given them, had not known better how to use it.

A sudden trampling of horses' feet and the sound of voices roused Amabel. She started up in an instant.

"They have come!" she exclaimed. "I knew they would. Lucy, I will never go with them!"

"Hush, hush!" said I. "These are friends, I am sure. Do you not hear Alick's voice? I will peep out and see."

I arranged my disordered dress as well as I could and softly opened the door.

Alick was standing by the fire talking with an elderly man who looked like an upper servant, while old Tibbie was arranging a meal of cold fowl, white bread and other dainties which she took from a basket. A little barefooted lass was busy about the fire, broiling some venison steaks. Our faithful guide had tarried only for food and an hour's rest, and then taking a pony belonging to the cottage, he had gone forward to Thornyhaugh, and returned with fresh horses, dry clothes, and a basket of provisions.

"All is well!" said I, returning to Amabel. "You must eat some breakfast and then we will go on to your aunt's."

I must confess that now the danger was over, I was hungry enough to find the sight and smell of breakfast very agreeable. I tried my best to persuade Amabel to eat, but she only swallowed a few mouthfuls.

"I would eat to please you if I could!" said she with her usual sweetness. "But indeed I cannot. Perhaps when we are once at Thornyhaugh, I shall be better."

I was in as much of a hurry as herself, for I feared she was going to be ill. We mounted our fresh horses, and in about half an hour, Alick pointed out the house. It was a tolerably large one with various ornaments of pepper-box turrets, "crow-stepped" gables, and an addition of more modern date than the rest. It stood on a knoll two thirds surrounded by a brawling stream which here comes down to join the Esk, and must once have been a place of strength. Near by, but partly in ruins, stood a very old and massive tower, almost overgrown with ivy.

"That is the house!" said Alick. "And these are the lands of Thornyhaugh. It's very auld, some part of it. Folk say the tower was built by some of the Beattisons lang syne before the Scots drove them out, and took the land themselves, but a scholar gentleman who was here from Edinbro' last year would have us believe that it was far older even than that, and was built in the time of the Picts. Onyhow it's a very old work and a famous place for bird's nests, only my old Leddy will not let them be harried if she kens. See, there she stands in the porch. What would think that she was past her fourscore and four?"

No one, I thought, as I marked her erect figure and the light step with which she came to meet us. She clasped Amabel in her arms, calling her a poor motherless lammie and I know not what other endearing Scotch names. She led us into her sitting-room and busied herself in undoing Amabel's wraps while Mrs. Alice, her old bower-woman, performed the same office for me. Amabel sank down in a chair and looked round her with an expression of relief.

"It is not a dream," said she. "I am really at Thornyhaugh and not at Highbeck, and I am out of that woman's reach. Oh aunt, do not let her come near me! Indeed, I will be dutiful to my father, but I cannot marry that wicked man."

"And you shall not marry him!" said the old lady. "Fear nothing, my child, you are safe here. But how was it?"

"They shut me up in my room," said Amabel. "They would not let even Wilson come near me, and they took Mary away from me. That French woman brought me my meals, and, scanty as they were, I hardly dared eat them. I believe that they tried to give me opium. My lady came to me the last day—when was it, Lucy?"

"Yesterday, I presume."

"Yesterday," repeated Amabel. "Was it only yesterday? She came to me yesterday morning and told me that she had waited on my humors long enough, and would do so no longer; that I must make up my mind to be married in the morning, and if I would not come to the chapel willingly, I should be dragged thither. I appealed to my father, and she laughed at me, and told me he had gone on purpose to be out of the way."

"But Lord Bulmer!" said I. "Surely no man with a spark of manhood about him would take an unwilling bride, let alone one who hated him."

"He would have done it," answered Amabel. "I tried to appeal to his manhood—to his sense of justice. I might as well have appealed to the wolf-lady's picture. He gave me only empty compliments, and coaxed me as one might a wayward child at first. He even tried to kiss my cheek, and when I repulsed him with more force than you would think I could use, he grew white with rage, and swore that he would bend me to his will, and humble me in the dust. He would make me sue for his pardon and be thankful for a word."

"The villain!" said the old lady. "But how did you escape?"

"It was Lucy who set me free. She came alone in the dark through that dreadful room, and took me out of their power. Oh Lucy, I shall never hear music so sweet as the sound of that little whistle."

"Nay, we owe all to poor Wilson, who sent me word of your extremity by Mary," said I, "and to faithful Alick, who guided us through the hills to this place of safety. As to myself, what less could I have done for my foster-sister?"

"Aweel, we will thank the good Lord above all, my children," said the old lady, solemnly. "You have gone through fire and water, and He hath brought you out into a safe place if not a wealthy one. But you have had a hard journey."

"We have," said Amabel, leaning back in her chair; "but I would go through ten times more to be safe as I feel now. But oh my poor father!"

And she burst into a flood of hysterical tears.

"Let us hope his eyes may be opened," said the old lady. "But you were best go to your bed, and here comes Alice to say that it is ready."

We were led up a somewhat steep staircase in one of the turrets—what in Scotland is called a turnpike stair—to two small but pleasant and convenient rooms opening together, with a neat white bed in each.

Mrs. Alice brought up our bundles, and I undressed Amabel, got her to bed, and sat by her till she fell asleep.

Then, not feeling sleepy, I dressed myself as well as I could and went down to the parlor, where I found Lady Thornyhaugh sitting with her wheel on one side of the fire, while Mrs. Alice occupied a similar position on the other, only that she spun with a distaff, or, as she would have said, with a rock and reel. The spindle danced in eccentric circles on the floor, watched by an elfish kitten, and a still more elfish-looking terrier pup, who now and then made a simultaneous dash at it, and falling foul of each other, engaged in a rough-and-tumble game of romps.

"Bairn, why are you not in your bed?" was the greeting I received.

"I was not tired, madam, and as Amabel was asleep, I thought I would come down."

"And is she asleep, poor young thing! So much the better. I fear she will pay dearly for this night's work. I fear she will be ill."

"So do I, madam," I answered. "She seems so shaken, and unlike herself."

"I'm thinking Lucy Corbet, you may as well say 'auntie,'" said the old lady. "You are but a faraway kinswoman is true, but you have been more than a sister to my niece, and 'better kind fremit than fremit kind.' * But if you are not tired, sit down and tell me something more of this strange tale. How did Amabel see this other lad, the young minister?"

* That is, "Better kind strangers than strange kindred."

I told her of our coming to Newcastle, of our meeting with Mr. Wesley and Mr. Cheriton, and the way in which he had rescued the poor preacher's wife from the mob.

"That was bravely done," said the old lady, her eyes kindling. "He will be a fine lad, yon."

"'Tis a pity he is a prelatist, though," said Mrs. Alice; "and abune a' that he should take up with these Methodists—a wheen sectaries I doubt they are."

"What is a prelatist?" I asked.

"A prelatist? Oh, just ane that believes in bishops, and printed prayers, and written discourses, and surplices, and such like rags of Babylon," answered Mrs. Alice. "They're all prelatists the other side the border, except a few of the chosen seed scattered here and there."

"A weel Alice, they are brought up that way; you cannot blame the poor lad for preaching what he was taught to believe, and may be even the rags of Babylon may be better than no clothes at all!" said the old lady with a smile. "At all events, this Mr. Cheriton is a brave man and a gentleman, and comes of a good stock, you say."

"Oh yes, madam—aunt I mean. His friends live not very far from Highbeck, and his father is heir to a title in the South."

"And are they Jacobites like the rest of the Northumbrian gentry?"

"No, old Mr. Cheriton is loyal to the present government."

"That is well. Titles and the like are but empty breath, compared to the root of the matter, but yet one cannot but value good family and a long descent. If Sir Julius had objected to the match at first, it would have behooved Amabel to pleasure her father; but I cannot think he had a right to withdraw his consent, once given, or to match his child against her will to a wicked man and one whom she detests. You are quite sure that this Mr. Cheriton is faithful to Amabel, and that these tales about him are not true?"

"I have the best evidence!" said I.

And I told her of Mrs. Thorpe's letter, which by the way I had found in Amabel's bosom when I undressed her.

The old lady asked me several questions about Mrs. Thorpe, and set down her address in her pocketbook.

"And my nephew, you say, has had no more sense than to cast in his fortunes with that unlucky lad at Edinbro'!" said she.

"So I suppose, aunt!"

"The senseless haverell. What good does he think that will do him or any one else?"

"He believes that King James will be reigning in London before the next mid-summer."

"Aye, that he will, when the sky turns pea-green!" ejaculated the old lady.

"However, I do not believe Sir Julius would have gone to Edinburgh, but for his wife!" I added. "She is a violent Jacobite."

"Aye, I daresay she would like well enough to go to Edinbro' herself. How does my niece Deborah like such a partisan to her cause?"

"Not very well, aunt. I can't but fancy her zeal for the prince has cooled a good deal, since my lady came to the Hall."

"She should remember that loyalty, like poverty, makes us acquainted with strange bed-fellows!" said the old lady smiling. "Well, bairn, you are safe for the present, and the future is in better hands than ours."

CHAPTER XXV.

THE DOCTOR FROM NEWCASTLE.

LADY Thornyhaugh turned out a true prophet. Amabel slept long and heavily, and when she waked she was unable to rise. The old lady came up to see her, and pronounced at once that she was in for some sort of fever.

The disease did not seem very violent at first. Amabel was wandering at times, but she always knew my voice and was as docile as a child. She had bad nights and slept a good deal in the day-time. She had no appetite, and would take nothing but tea, to the great annoyance of Mrs. Alice, who held tea to be a new-fangled poison; and ranked it with a broken covenant, a toleration of sectaries, and all the other crying evils of the time. All the evils then existing in the kingdoms were attributed by her to one of two causes—a broken covenant, and the iniquitous union between England and Scotland.

I cannot say I have to this day a very clear notion of this same covenant, though I heard of it, till I wished either that it had not been made at all, or that it had been broken more effectually and blown out of remembrance.

But, day by day, Amabel grew more feeble and wasted, till at last she could not raise her head from the pillow, or her hand to her head. One day she called me to her bed-side—

"Lucy!" said she in a whisper. "I am going to die."

I could not contradict her. I believed it too, though I dared not dwell on the thought for a moment.

"I know my aunt and Mrs. Alice think so!" she continued. "I should be content, Lucy, only for you. My life has not been long, but I have learned that this world is a sad place for motherless girls."

"You must not talk, my dearest, you will exhaust yourself!" was all I could say.

"It will not hurt her!" said Lady Thornyhaugh, in a whisper from behind the curtain. "Let her say her say and ease her mind."

"I am ready to go!" repeated Amabel. "But, oh, Lucy! I want to see my father and Walter. I want to see my father once more—to tell him—to warn him—"

Her voice failed for a moment. I gave her a little wine and she went on.

"Lucy, if I never see him again, tell him that I could not help acting as I did. If he ever feels sorry, tell him that I forgive him where there is anything to forgive. And tell Walter I always loved him; tell him to go on as he is doing. We shall meet again."

She could say no more, and for some hours we thought she would never speak again.

The doctor, a sensible man, gave us very little hope.

"The disease is mostly of the mind, but it is wearing out the body!" said he. "If she could be thoroughly roused and the current of her thoughts changed, it would give her the best chance."

Lady Thornyhaugh followed the doctor from the room, and had a somewhat lengthened conference with him, in the course of which I was surprised to hear the doctor laugh.

"The very thing, madam!" I heard him say. "I would go for him myself, if I could leave my patients."

"Who would the doctor go for?" I asked, when Lady Thornyhaugh came back.

"Another doctor!" said she. "I have sent off an express for him. I have also sent for her father, but I doubt the messenger finding him. Take comfort, bairn, the case is not desperate. In the multitude of counselors there is safety, and I have known muckle good come from a change of doctors. But don't say a word to Amabel if she rouses up."

The days went on to three or four, and still Amabel seemed to grow weaker. She lay most of the time in a sort of trance, now and then rousing to take a spoonful of tea or milk. I read to her from the Bible and Prayer-Book, and the look of her face seemed to show that she heard and liked the words, and sometimes I sung softly, "Jesus, Lover of my Soul!" and others of Mr. Wesley's hymns.

I was thus engaged one day, when I heard the trampling of horses' feet, and the usual noises of a traveler's arrival. Amabel opened her eyes.

"Lucy, he is come!" she whispered.

"Who has come, dearest!" I asked, rejoicing to hear the voice I almost thought I should never hear again.

"My father! I heard his voice. He will be in time. Let him come up! Go and bring him."

I stopped a few minutes in my own room to compose myself, for the very thought of meeting Sir Julius roused such a tempest of indignation in my breast that I could hardly breathe.

When I went down to the sitting-room, I found Sir Julius walking up and down the room, evidently overwhelmed with grief and embarrassment, while my lady seated in her great chair was laying down the law to him, and Mrs. Alice behind her stood regarding him as though he were the breaker of the covenant, the author of the union, and the gypsy who stole her ducks, all rolled into one.

"But you must allow, aunt, that I had a right to bestow my daughter in marriage according to my own will!" said he, making a feeble effort to justify himself.

"I allow no such thing, nephew. You had no right to make your child miserable, by giving her to a bad man and one that she detested. You know this Bulmer to be a bad man!"

"Well, he was a friend to my lady, and she was set on the match."

"And you let her rule you! And you allow this same friend of hers to stay at your house in your absence and give orders to your servants and shut your daughter up in her own room and half starve her, while you are sent away on a wild-goose chase and made the scorn of the whole country."

Sir Julius turned red and white, and seemed not to know what to say.

"Well, Lucy Corbet, what is it?" said Lady Thornyhaugh, turning to me.

"Amabel is awake, madam!" said I. I could not bring myself to speak to Sir Julius. "She knows her father is here, and desires to see him, and I do not think there is any time to be lost."

"She is not so bad as that, surely!" said Sir Julius, turning pale.

"She is at death's door!" was the answer. "I have sent for another doctor from Newcastle. If he fails, all hope is over."

Amabel did, indeed, look like a body from which the breath had departed, as we entered the room. She smiled faintly as her father kissed her, but did not try to speak. I gave her a little wine and she opened her eyes and fixed them on Sir Julius with a look which must have gone to his heart, it was so full of love and of sorrow.

"Daughter, don't you know me?" said he, almost choked with grief, yet striving to command himself. "Speak to me, my love! Do you not know me?"

She made a faint sign of assent, and pressed his hand, but she could not speak.

"Oh, my child, my dear dutiful child, whom I have left to be murdered!" exclaimed the poor man, now really cut to the heart. "Only live and you shall never be troubled about this matter again."

She smiled again, and made an effort to speak, but in vain. Her eyes closed, and it seemed as though every faint breath must be the last. As we stood round her, sounds below announced the arrival of another guest.

"The doctor from Newcastle, but I doubt he comes too late," whispered the old lady.

She left the room as she spoke.

In a minute a man's hasty foot was heard on the stairs. Amabel opened her eyes and looked eagerly toward the door.

"He has come!" she whispered. "Thank God."

The door opened and Mr. Cheriton entered in his riding gear, just as he had dismounted, and stained with travel. He went straight to the bed, without giving so much as a look at any one of us, and took Amabel in his arms.

"My love, my precious one. Amabel, you must live for me! No one shall part us, more."

"No, Amabel, no one shall part you more!" said Sir Julius, speaking now with real dignity and feeling. "I have been cruel, and I have been misled by others, but my eyes are opened. Will you not try to live for your father and for the husband of your choice?"

"I will try!" said Amabel, speaking more cheerily than she had done for several days. The old lady made a sign, and we stole out of the room and left the lovers together.

"Aweel, Lucy Corbet, what think you of my doctor from Newcastle?" asked the old lady when we were in her parlor once more. "Has he not been worth more than all the bitters and bark for our patient?"

"Then you sent for Mr. Cheriton!" said Sir Julius, rather dubiously.

"I suppose, nephew, I can invite what guests I please to my own house!" answered the old lady, drawing herself up.

"Of course, of course, aunt, you have done the best thing possible, and just what I should have proposed, had I been here!" said Sir Julius. "I am very much obliged to you."

"It's a pity you had not thought as much before matters came to this pass!" muttered the old lady, who was rather apt to think aloud. "But, however, all's well that ends well, only remember, nephew, that you have given your consent to the wedding of these young ones, and cannot in honor withdraw a second time."

"I have no wish to withdraw at all!" returned Sir Julius, peevishly. "I wonder why every one takes me for a weak fool with no mind of my own."

"'Tis a wonder indeed!" said the old lady gravely. "But you must have refreshment after your ride. Alice, will you see if the meal is ready?"

Before dinner was served, Mr. Cheriton came down stairs, looking pale and worn enough, but very happy.

"She has taken half a cup of broth, and is sleeping quietly!" said he. "I hope the crisis is safely past, but she is very weak."

"We must try to strengthen her!" said Lady Thornyhaugh.

"I bring a petition from her to her father!" continued Mr. Cheriton. "I trust he will not refuse."

"'Tis a wonder if I do!" said Sir Julius, giving Mr. Cheriton his hand with great cordiality. "What is it?"

It was neither more nor less than that Amabel and Mr. Cheriton should be married then and there.

"She wishes at least to bear my name, she says, and that 'wife of Walter Cheriton' may be on her tombstone!" said the poor young man, his eyes overflowing in spite of himself. "Surely, Sir, you will not refuse what may be her last request."

"No, indeed!" replied Sir Julius. "She shall have her own way in everything, if she will only try to get well, and after all, once they are married, there will be no more to be said," he added, speaking more to himself than to us. Then aloud—

"But where to find a clergyman!"

"A minister is not far to seek!" said Lady Thornyhaugh. "Here is good Mr. Craig, not half a mile away. I can send man and horse for him at once if you say so."

"But he is a Presbyterian!" said Sir Julius rather perplexed.

"He is the best I can give you, however!" answered the old lady. "We have no other kind in these parts, unless you like to wait till I can send to Edinbro' for one of your non-juring sort. If you do not like mice, you should not take up your house with the owl you ken. Mr. Craig has visited your daughter many times during her illness and she has found comfort in his prayers. I fancy she will not object to take her husband at his hands."

"Do not let there be any needless delay!" said Mr. Cheriton, earnestly. "Amabel is so weak that a little agitation may make all the difference in the world."

"Don't be alarmed!" said Lady Thornyhaugh. "We will manage the matter. Nephew, is it your pleasure that I send for this good man?"

"Of course! Send at once!" replied Sir Julius. "I only trust that the fatigue of the ceremony may not be too much for my daughter."

"Never fear! She will not die from getting her own way!" answered Lady Thornyhaugh. "I will send Alick, directly."

Within an hour, Walter Cheriton and Amabel Leighton were wedded.

"Thank you, dear father!" said Amabel, sinking back, when we had all kissed her.

"Now, I am ready to go!"

"Hoot, toot, bairn! You are just ready to stay!" said the old lady. "Would you go and leave your good man so soon, after you have had all this fash to get him? Go down now all of you, and leave this child to Alice and me for awhile. She will be the better of rest and quiet, and you will be muckle the better of your dinners."

"But I fear I must return to Edinburgh, to-night, aunt!" said Sir Julius, hesitating.

"You will do nothing of the kind!" said Lady Thornyhaugh, positively. "Would you leave the bairn before she is able to talk five minutes with you? Na, na! Your place is here just now. Yon lad at Edinbro' can want you well enough, and maybe you will think better of it and go home."

I do not think the prospect of going home was very enticing to Sir Julius, after all that had happened, but he readily agreed to stay a few days till it should be seen what turn Amabel would take. Now that the thing was done, I believe he was glad to have her made happy in her own way. He was not altogether a bad man. He might even have been a good one if he had always lived with good people. The trouble was that he had absolutely no mind of his own.

The next day, Amabel was decidedly better, and on the third she was able to sit up. Sir Julius began to talk of returning to Edinburgh, though, as I thought, not with any particular enthusiasm, when news arrived which changed all his plans.

Old Robert came riding posthaste with letters from Mrs. Deborah, and startling letter's they were. The Hall had taken fire a few days after we left it and was almost entirely destroyed. No one had been hurt, but my lady had disappeared, and it was believed that she had perished in the flames.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE END.

MRS. DEBORAH'S letters contained a detailed account of the catastrophe.

"Wilson, who has been here since the fire, says that her lady was like a distracted woman when she missed her step-daughter and discovered that she was nowhere concealed in the house. No one could imagine how she had escaped, as there was no door left unfastened to Amabel's room. Even when they discovered the door of communication with the haunted room, they had no thought of her escaping in that way, as both it and that leading to the secret stairs were fastened on the other side and could hardly be broken open.

"The servants did not scruple to declare that their young lady had been spirited away, and they so threatened the French waiting-woman that she was glad to take refuge in her mistress' apartment. There had been a terrible scene between Lord Bulmer and Lady Leighton when it was at last made certain that Amabel was neither at Highbeck nor at the Little House. He accused Lady Leighton of playing him false and conniving at the young lady's escape, and she wept and declared her innocence and begged him to have pity on her; but he at last, flung away from her, leaving her grovelling on the ground, mounted his horse, and followed by his servants, rode away to Newcastle."

This was Wilson's account. How she gained her knowledge I don't know, but she was not likely to lack any which could be got by eavesdropping or peeping through key-holes.

"My lady was very ill for two or three days, and Wilson waited on her, the other woman not daring to come in the way of her fellow servants. At last Lady Leighton received a letter which seemed to calm her spirits a little, and she told Wilson in the evening to go to bed and leave her, as she felt like having a quiet night. At about two o'clock, Wilson was awakened by the smoke and heat, and hurrying down found her lady's room wrapped in flames. She searched it at the risk of her life, and at the expense of some terrible burns, but could find nothing of her mistress. The servants and such men as were left about the place worked like heroes, and Mr. Lethbridge specially distinguished himself by his coolness and daring, but a high wind was blowing and the flames defied all their efforts. The servants all escaped except the French woman, who, like her mistress, could not be found. No bodies had been discovered, but the east wing had fallen in, and they might be buried under the ruins."

"I cannot help thinking there may be another solution of the matter," Mrs. Deborah wrote in a private note to me; "but I have never hinted at such a thing to my brother in the letters I have sent him, nor have I mentioned it to Wilson, who, poor creature, is about distracted with grief for her mistress, for whom she risked her life. She rushed into the building again and again, and Mr. Lethbridge hardly rescued her just before the walls fell in. The silver, the family paper-chest, and some few other things, were saved by Richard and the other men. A part of the west wing is all that is left of Highbeck."

There was no more talk of returning to Edinburgh. Sir Julius at once took horse for Northumberland, accompanied, at Amabel's own desire, by Mr. Cheriton. She was now out of all danger, and gaining every day. Sir Julius thought of nothing but that his wife had indeed perished, and no one was so cruel as to suggest any thing else to him, especially as, the ruins being explored, the charred remains of a skeleton were indeed found beneath them. Mr. Cheriton, who was not quite so certain, made inquiries of his own, but could learn nothing beyond the fact that Lord Bulmer had gone abroad, intending, it was said, to remain some years, and taking no one with him but a young French servant whom he had hired in London.

Sir Julius put his family into the deepest mourning, and buried this poor remains with every solemnity. Then, putting all his business into Mr. Thirlwall's hands, he also went over to Holland, thinking, I imagine, that he was best out of the way till the matter of his little journey north was forgotten.

Amabel recovered rapidly, and by the time the snowdrops were in blossom, she was able to return with her husband to Newcastle. They were very earnest to have me take up my abode with them, and I consented to make them a visit; though I had no mind it should be a very long one. I think young married people are best left to themselves to shake down together. But I could not refuse to help her settle in her new home.

We found every thing in the best of order—thanks to the old housekeeper and Mrs. Thorpe—and the house was over-running with the gifts brought in by Mr. Cheriton's parishioners.

Mrs. Thorpe was the same, and yet not the same. There was an odd sort of consciousness and shyness about her, especially when she told me that she had thoughts of giving up her shop.

"You see I can live well enough without it," said she, "and I am tired of being at every one's beck and call."

"And have you met Father Brousseau lately?" asked Amabel. "You wrote us last winter that he had been to see you two or three times."

Mrs. Thorpe blushed like a young girl.

"Oh, yes. Have you not heard? He has a parish in London, among the French weavers, where he is doing a great deal of good."

"I am right glad to hear it," said Amabel. "He is an excellent man."

"Then, perhaps, you will not be sorry to hear that he—that I—in short, we are going to be married!" said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling, in the midst of her confusion, at our astonishment. "You see, he is such a babe in the woods in respect of English ways, and needs some one to care for him, and I thought I could do as much good in that way as any other. And I always did like the good gentleman ever since I took care of him when he was so seasick coming over on my brother's vessel."

I saw Amabel nicely settled in her new house, and then went back to Mrs. Deborah. I tried not to be selfish, but I must confess I felt rather forlorn. However, I knew there was no use in repining, and no sense in it either, seeing that my fate had been ordered by One wiser than myself, who knew just what was best for me.

So I set to work with all my might nursing Mrs. Deborah, who was growing very feeble and helpless from rheumatism, and attending to the poor folks and teaching in the school, whereby I got into some trouble with Mr. Lethbridge from teaching the children one of Mr. Charles Wesley's hymns. He forgave me afterward, however, and grew somewhat inconveniently friendly. However, he got over it, and married a very nice young lady.

I helped Mary Lee prepare her wedding set out, and saw her married to Alick, who made her an excellent husband. I spun a great deal of fine thread, and made baby-linen for Amabel, whose first child was named for me. I was quite rich for the time and place. Sir Julius had directed Mr. Thirlwall to pay me the rents of the Black Lees, which was in the hands of an excellent tenant, and I asked no questions about the past profits which had gene into Sir Julius' pockets. Besides, I had a hundred a year from Mr. Carey.

I finished Mrs. Chloe's knitted quilt, and made one of silk patchwork for Amabel, which was much admired. I will not say that I was not somewhat sad and lonely at times, but generally I was content enough. Amabel was happy as a woman could well be in this world, with an excellent husband and lovely, healthy children, and I saw her two or three times a year.

I knew that I was a great comfort to Mrs. Deborah in her lonely old age, and that I was useful in the village.

I staid several years with Mrs. Deborah, and laid her honored head in the grave beside Mrs. Chloe's.

Then, being over five and twenty, and my presence being needful in Exeter to settle certain business matters, I made the long journey thither, and staid with Mr. and Mrs. Carey several months, after which I came to my present home. It is a very neat and pretty old house, not large, but convenient and sunny, in a little valley or coombe opening to the sea.

After I had lived here a year, I put in practise a plan which had been brewing in my head for some time. I took into my family five or six orphan maidens, children of sailors, and with the help of an excellent worthy woman, I made a home for them; teaching them to read and write, to knit, spin, and sew, and giving them other learning suitable for their condition, preparing them either for service or for ruling families of their own. I never have more than six at one time, and though they have all sorts of dispositions among them, and are naughty and troublesome at times like all children, I have been very happy with them.

I have only one of my original flock left, and she is sister, child, and servant all in one. I fear that I shall soon lose her, for Simon Sablot, a fine young man of French protestant descent, and a ship's carpenter in good business, is looking after her, and I do not think she is at all averse to him.

Mr. Cheriton in course of time succeeded to the Carew estate and title, and came to live upon his lands. This was a great joy to me, as it brought Amabel once more within my reach. She often comes to see me, and I have one or other of her daughters with me for weeks at a time. She has been a happy woman, though she has had her troubles, particularly in the loss of several of her children.

When peace was proclaimed, Walter and Amabel went abroad and visited our old home in France. They found the convent quite deserted, save by an old priest who did duty in the church, and the court-yard and cemetery so overgrown that they could hardly find the place where dear Mother Superior was buried. The community were living and flourishing in the new house at Fleurs, having received several accessions to their numbers. Mother Prudentia was still superior, and received Amabel with great affection, though she mourned greatly over her desertion of the true church. The dear lady sent me some beautiful lace, and a book of His Grace the Archbishop of Cambrai's writings, which are good reading for any one, whether Catholic or Protestant. There is, it seems, little or no persecution for the sake of religion in France at present, though the Jesuits still hold up their heads, and have whatever education there is for the common people wholly in their own hands. But there is great distress among the people, especially among the peasantry, and many ominous mutterings of discontent. If the poor beast of burden does once get loose, I pity his former keepers.

My Lord Carew is an excellent landlord, and has greatly improved the condition both of his estate and the people living upon it. He and Mr. Wesley are as great friends as ever. Mr. Wesley always visits me when he comes into these parts, and approves my management of the children in general, though he thinks I allow them too much play, * and shakes his head over the baby-house and storybooks in the girls' sitting-room. However, he admits nowadays that fiction may have its uses, and has himself edited an edition of Mr. Brooke's "Fool of Quality" under the name of "The life of Henry, Earl of Moreland," and he has also written some notes upon Shakespeare, † as he tells me. He is still hale and hearty, and preaches with all the fire and vigor of his early days, when I heard him in the church-yard of St. Anne's.

* It is well-known that Mr. Wesley forbade play entirely in his own school at Kingswood—a strange mistake to be made by such a sensible, practical man. No wonder the school was not a success.

† Which were unhappily destroyed.

It is most wonderful to see the changes he has worked in these parts, among the tinners, fishermen, and other wild people. He has greatly lessened by his influence, the horrible practise of wrecking, that is, decoying vessels on shore by means of false lights that they may be wrecked and plundered. There are wrecks enough as it is on this dangerous shore. I hope we shall hear of none to-morrow, but it promises a wild night, and there are two or three ships in the offing.

*        *       *        *       *

Word has been brought to me that several bodies have come ashore, and that the fishermen have saved alive two persons who were floating on a spar. One, they tell me, says he is from Newcastle, and has been a prisoner among the Moors for many years. I must go down and see if I can do anything for them. I am so silly, that such a story sets my heart to beating as though Harry had not been dead this many a year. If it should be he! Well, if it were, I am growing an old woman, and very likely he would not know me, or he may be married. How silly I am. As if there were one chance in ten thousand.

*        *       *        *       *

But it was Harry, and we knew each other before a word was spoken. He was shipwrecked in the Indian Ocean as we heard, but was saved by a Moorish vessel after he had floated on some pieces of the vessel for two or three days, and was a slave to the Moors for many a long year. Being thus forced to serve on board a pirate vessel, he had the luck to be taken by an English Indiaman, and carried to Bombay, from whence he had come home at last.

He said he might have returned before, but hearing from some Newcastle man that I was married, he lost all heart or wish to see his native place again. So he staid in India, where he got good employment under the company and made a fair fortune.

At last, he conceived a desire to see England again. Coming to London, he met Wilson, who is comfortably established there in a hair-dressing business, and having formerly had some slight acquaintance with her, he made himself known to her, and heard the truth about me.

He was coming to seek me out, when his ship, which was bound for Bristol, was wrecked and threw him as it were at my very door.

Harry is very earnest with me to marry him at once, saying that we have been separated long enough, and if we have not many years to live there is so much the more reason why we should spend them together. I have told him that I must consult my Lord and Amabel, and he makes no objection, because, as he says, he knows well enough what they will say.

Harry told me, that while in London, he lodged with Mrs. Wilson, who is quite a changed woman and as devout and serious as she used to be the contrary. He found her caring for a poor demented sullen creature who never spoke, but spent her whole time in twisting and untwisting a ribbon in her wasted hands. Mrs. Wilson was as tender of her as though she were her own child, serving her with the best of everything, and treating her with the greatest respect, though the poor thing hardly seemed to take a sense of anything.

It was only just before he came away, that Wilson told him this wretched spectre was once the proud and beautiful Lady Throckmorton. She had found her former mistress sustained by the charity of some poor fallen creatures in a wretched garret (for it seems Wilson spends much time and money in visiting and helping the poor) and had brought her home to spend her last days in peace. The poor thing has a heart disease, and was like to die at any time.

Never was a woman who had more advantages, or one who more wantonly threw them all away. She chose the world for her portion. She would have her good things in this life. But the world slipped from her grasp, and its fruits turned to dust and ashes on her lips.

She did not sin in ignorance. She heard times enough, the voice which said: "This is the way, walk ye in it." But she chose her own way and it led her down to utter destruction. Poor thing, poor thing!

I shall go to see Amabel to-morrow, but I know very well what she will say.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

The Foster-Sisters.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

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