 Part 2, Chapter 14 of the Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part 2, Chapter 14. Twas a long doubt, we never heard exactly how the ship went down. Archer Gurney. The tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope deferred had faded into the worst heart-sickness of fear deferred, and when spirits had been feigned to rebel and declared that they would be almost glad to part with the hope that but kept alive to spare. The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were again alone, when early in the forenoon there was a tap at the drawing-room door, and Dr. Spencer called. Ethel, can you come and speak to me? Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap. Go, go, Ethel, she said. Don't keep me waiting. Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel said. Is it? And he made a sorrowful gesture. Both, she asked. Both, he repeated. The ship burned. The boat lost. Ethel, come! Horsely called Margaret. Take it, said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand. I will wait. She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister, they read the paragraph together. Ethel with one eye on the words, the other on Margaret. No doubt was lapped. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list began thus. Lieutenant A. H. Ernstcliffe Mr. Charles Owen Mait Mr. Harry May Midshipman The Alsestas had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year. There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of Mr. Ernstcliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off without loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest land was far distant. For five days the boats kept together, then followed a night of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of Mr. Ernstcliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the other boats' crews, had reached Tahiti whence they had made their way home. Oh Margaret, Margaret, cried Ethel. Margaret raised herself, and the color came into her face. I did not write the letter, she said. What letter, said Ethel, alarmed? Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is well. All is well, I know, if we could but feel it. He never had the pain. It is unbroken, continued Margaret, her eyes brightening, but her breath and long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel into calling Dr. Spencer. Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes, but as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs. Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his face as he saw Margaret, restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish bloom and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the present scene. Ethel had a moment's sense that his expression was as if he had seen a death blow struck, but it was gone in a moment as he gently shook Margaret by the hand and spoke a word of greeting as though to recall her. Thank you, she said, with her own grateful smile. Where is your father, he asked of Ethel? Either at the hospital or at Mr. Ramstones, said Ethel, with a ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him. Papa, said Margaret, if you were but here, but, ah, I had forgotten. She turned aside her head and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel nearer to him. This is a more natural state, he said. Don't be afraid for her. I will find your father and bring him home. Pressing her hand, he departed. Margaret was weeping tranquilly, Ethel not down beside her, without daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to him who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction. Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress, but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had allowed her brother's loss and her father's grief to have been forgotten in her own. Ethel's, oh, no, no, did not console her for this which seemed the most present sorrow, but the flow of tears was so gentle that Ethel trusted that they were a relief. Ethel herself seemed only able to watch her, and to fear for her father not to be able to think for herself. The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May's step hesitating in the hall, as if he could not bear to come in. Go to him, cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a moment in the doorway, then sprang to him and was clasped in his arms. You know it, he whispered. Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him? No, I read it at Bramsha's office. How? He could not say the words, but he looked towards the room and wrung the hand he held. Quiet, like herself. Come. He threw one arm around Ethel and laid his hand on her head. How much there is to be thankful for, he said, then advancing. He hung over Margaret, calling her his own poor darling. Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving him up. Did I? Well, Margaret E. did his duty. That is all we have to live for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor and tears choked his utterance. Margaret gently stroked his hand. It falls hard on you, my poor girl, he said. No, Papa, said Margaret. I am content and thankful. He is fair of pain and perplexity. You are right, I believe, said Dr. May. He would have been grieved not to find you better. I had to grieve for my own selfishness, said Margaret. I cannot help it. I cannot be sorry that Link is unbroken and that he had not to turn to anyone else. He never would, cried Dr. May almost angrily. I tried to think he ought, said Margaret. His life would have been too dreary, but it is best as it is. It must be, said the doctor. Where are the rest, Ethel? Call them all down. Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her. She found her hanging over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond reminiscences of Harry's old days, sometimes almost laughing at his pranks, then crying again while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in each word. Blanching her truth came from the school room, where Miss Bracey seemed to have been occupying them with much kindness and judgment. She came to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss May, and looked so affectionate and sympathizing that Ethel gave her a hearty kiss. Dear Miss Ethel, if you can only let me help you. Thank you, said Ethel, with all her heart and hurried away. Nothing was more in favor of Miss Bracey than that there should be a hurry. Then she could be warm and not morbid. Dr. May gathered his children round him and took out the great prayer book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the burial service and the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their heads and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still left to him, and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who were gone. And he prayed that they might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the same holy place, and in the meantime realized the communion of saints. Then they said the Lord's prayer. He blessed them and they arose. Mary, my dear, he said, you have a photograph. She put the case into his hands and ran away. He went to the study where he found Dr. Spencer awaiting him. I am only calm to know where I shall go for you. Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor girls. They took care of themselves. They have the secret of strength. They have. He turned aside and burst out. Oh, Spencer, you have been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of joy, you have missed almost as much sorrow. And covering his face he let his grief have a free course. Dick, dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures you have left. I do. I try to do so, said poor Dr. May. But Spencer, you never saw my yellow-haired laddie with his lion look. He was the flower of them all. Not one of these other boys came near him in manliness and was such a loving heart. An hour ago I thought any certainty would be gained. But now I would give a lifetime to have back the hope that I might see my boy's face again. Oh, Spencer, this is the first time I could rejoice that his mother is not here. She would have been your comforter, sighed his friend, as he felt his inability to contend with such grief. There I can be thankful, Dr. May said, and he looks so. She has had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we little thought. But there are others, my poor Margaret. Her patience must be blessed, said Dr. Spencer. I think she will be better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her, there would be more rest. Rest, repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand. And, looking up dreamily, there remaineth a rest. The large Bible lay beside him on the table, and Dr. Spencer thought that he would find more rest there than in his words. Leaving him, therefore, his friend went to undertake his day's work and learn, once more, in the anxious inquiries and sudden countenances of the patients and their friends, how great an amount of love and sympathy that Dr. May had won by his own warmth of heart. The patients seemed to forget their complaints in sighs for their kind doctor's troubles, and the gouty mayor of Stoneborough kept Dr. Spencer half an hour to listen to his recollections of the bright-faced boys' roll-tricks and then to the praises of the whole May family and especially of the mother. Poor Dr. Spencer. He heard her accident describe so many times in the course of the day that his visits were one course of shrinking and suffering, and his only satisfaction was in knowing how his friend would be cheered by hearing of the universal feeling for him and his children. Ethel wrote letters to her brothers, and Dr. May added a few lines, begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. Margaret would not be denied writing to Hector Ernst Club, though she cried over her letters so much that her father could almost have taken her pen away, but she said it did her good. When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave Margaret to her and attend a merry, with whom Miss Bracey's kindness had been inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, some association, either with the past or the vanished future, soon set her off sobbing again. If I only knew where dear, dear Harry is lying, she sobbed, and that it had not been very bad indeed, I could bear it better. The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne to contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and she was trying to nerve herself by faith. Mary, she said, that is the worst, but, after all, God willed that we should not know. We must bear it like his good children. It makes no differences to them now. I know, said Mary, trying to check her sobs. And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a glorious great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or defile. It seems to me, said Ethel, looking up, as if resting there was like being buried in our baptism tide over again. Till the great new birth, it must be the next best place to a true chart. Anywhere, they are as safe as among the daisies in our own cluster. Say it again, what you said about the sea, said Mary, more comforted than if Ethel had been talking down to her. By and by Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the fond simple girl was the deprivation of her precious photograph. He was like losing Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though she would not, for the world seemed to grudge it to her father. Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it almost made him smile. Poor Mary, he said, is she so fond of it? It is rather a libel than a likeness. Don't say so to her, pray, Papa, it is all the world to her. Three strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been called by his name. Yes, a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear girl. He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude proportionate to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling voice she proffered it to him for the whole day, and every day, if she might only have it at night. And she even looked black when he did not accept the proposal. It is exactly like, said she. It can help being so in a certain sense, he answered kindly. But after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way. Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph more than ever, because no one else would admire it except Daisy, whom she had taught to regard it with unrivaled veneration. A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller account of the loss of his ship and of the conduct of his officers, speaking in the highest terms of Alan Ernstcliffe, for whom he said he mourned as for his own son, and, with scarcely less warmth, of Harry, mentioning the highest esteem all had felt for the boy, and the good effect which the influence of his high and truthful spirit had produced on the other youngsters who keenly regretted him. Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernstcliffe had made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor Alan had died into state. He should therefore take by himself the charge of young Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and his family for all the kindness that the lad had received. Though the loss of poor Hector's visits was regretted, it was, on the whole, a comforting letter and would give still more comfort in future time. Richard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Norman, whom he found calm and almost relieved by the cessation from suspense, not inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow in labour, but regarding his grief as an additional call to devote himself to ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he first heard the rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same force. Richard was surprised to find that Margaret was less cast down than he could have dared to hope. It did not seem like an affliction to her. Her countenance wore the same gentle smile, and she was as ready to participate in all that passed, finding sympathy for the little pleasures of Aubrey and Gertrude and delighting in Flora's baby, as well as going over Coxmore politics with a clearness and accuracy that astonished him and asking questions about his parish and occupations, so as fuller to enjoy his short visit, which he truly called the greatest possible treat. If it had not been for the momentary consternation that she had seen upon Dr. Spencer's face, Ethel would have been perfectly satisfied, but she could not help sometimes entertaining a dim fancy that this composure came from a sense that she was too near Alan to mourn for him. Could it be true that her frame was more wasted, that there was less capability of exertion, that her hours became later in the morning, and that her nights were more wakeful? Would she fade away? Ethel longed to know what her father thought, but she could neither bear to inspire him with the apprehension, nor to ask Dr. Spencer's opinion, lest she should be confirmed in her own. The present affliction altered Dr. May more visibly than the death of his wife, perhaps, because there was not the same need of exertion. If he often rose high in faith and resignation, he would also sink very low under the sense of bereavement and disappointment. Though Richard was his stay, and Norman his pride, there was something in Harry more congenial to his own temper, and he could not but be bowed down by the ruin of such bright hopes. With all his real submission, he was weak and gave way to outbursts of grief, for which he blamed himself as unthankful, and his whole demeanor was so saddened and depressed that Ethel and Dr. Spencer consulted mournfully over him whenever they walked to Coxmore together. This was not as often as usual, though the walls of the school were rising, for Dr. Spencer had taken a large share of his friend's work for the present, and both physicians were much occupied by the condition of Mr. Ramston, who was fast sinking, and, for some weeks, seemed only kept alive by their skill. The struggle ended at last, and his forty years' cure of Stoneborough was closed. It made Dr. May very sad. His affections had tendrils for anything that he had known from boyhood, and though he had often spoken strong words of the vicar, he now sat sorrowfully moralizing and making excuses. People in former times had not so high an estimate of pastoral duty, for Mr. Ramston had not much education. He was already old when better times came in. He might have done better in a less difficult parish with better laity to support him, etc. Yet, after all, he exclaimed with one of his impatient gestures, better have my Harry's seventeen years than his sixty-seven. Better improve a talent than lay it by, said Ethel. Hush! Ethel! How do you know what he may have done? If he acted up to his own standard he did more than most of us. Which is best, said Ethel, a high standard, not acted up to, or a lower one, fulfilled. I think it depends on the will, said Margaret. Some people are angry with those whose example would show that there is a higher standard, said Ethel. And, said Margaret, some who have the high one set before them, content themselves with knowing that it cannot be fully attained, and will not try. The standard is the effect of early impression, said Dr. May. I should be very sorry to think it could not be raised. Faithful in a little, said Ethel, I suppose all good people's standard is always going higher. As they comprehend more of absolute perfection, said Margaret. End of Part 2, Chapter 14, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona Part 2, Chapter 15 of The Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young The city's golden spire it was, when hope and health were strongest, but now it is the churchyard grass we look upon the longest, E. D. Browning. A disinclination for exertion or going in the public hung upon Dr. May, but he was obliged to rouse himself to attend the town council meeting, which was held a few days after the Vickers funeral, to decide on the next appointment. If it had depended on himself alone, his choice would have been Dr. Edward Wilmot, whom the death of his good old father had uprooted from Settlesham, and the girls had much hope, but he was too much out of spirits to be sanguine. He said that he should only hear a great deal of offensive stuff from Tomkins the Brewer, and that, in the desire to displease nobody, the votes should settle down on some non-antity, who was the best which was likely to happen. Thus, grumbling, he said off, and his daughters watched anxiously for his return. They saw him come through the garden with a quick, light step, that made them auger well, and he entered the room with the corners of his mouth turning up. I see, said Ethel. It is all right. They were going to have made a very absurd choice. But you prevented it? Who was it? Ah, I told you Master Richie was turning out a popular preacher. You don't mean that they chose Richard? cried Margaret breathlessly. As sure as my name is Stick May, they did, every man of them, except Tomkins, and even he held his tongue. I did not think it of them, said the doctor, almost overcome. But there is much more goodness of heart in the world than one gives a credit for. And good Dr. May was not one to give the least credit for all that was like himself. But it was Richard's own doing, he continued, though sermons made a great impression, and they loved the boy, because he has grown up among them. The old mayor waddled up to me, as I came in, telling me that they had been talking it over, and they were unanimously agreed that they could not have a parson they should like better than Mr. Richard. Good old Mr. Dottesley, I can see him, cried Ethel. I expected it so little that I thought he meant some Richards, but no, he said Mr. Richard May, if he had nothing better in view. They liked him and knew he was a very steady, good young gentleman, and if he took after his father's that went before him, and they thought we might like to have him settled near. How very kind, said Margaret, as the tears came, we shall love our own townsfolk better than ever. I always told you so, if you would but believe it. They have warm, sound hearts, every one of them. I declare I did not know which way to look. I was so sorry to disappoint them. Disappoint them, cried Margaret, in consternation. I was thinking, said Ethel. I do not believe Richard would make himself equal to this place in such a state as it is. He is so diffident. Yes, said Dr. May, if he were ten or twelve years older it would be another thing, but here, where everything is to be done, he would not bring weight or force enough. He would only work himself to death for individuals without going to the root. Margaret, my darling, I am very sorry to have disappointed you so much. It would have been as great a pleasure as we could have had in this world to have the lad here. And Coxmore, sighed Ethel. I shall be grateful all my life to those good people for thinking of it, continued the doctor. But look, you hear, it was my business to get the best man chosen in my power, and, though as to goodness, I believe the dear Richard has not many equals. I do not think we can conscientiously say he would be, at present, the best vicar for stone-borrow. Ethel would not say no, for fear she should pay Margaret. Besides, continued Dr. May, after having staved off the sale of the presentation as a sin, it would hardly have been handsome to have let my own son profit by it. It would have seemed as if we had our private ends when Richard helped poor old Mr. Ramston. Margaret owned this, and Ethel said Richard would be glad to be spared the refusal. I was sure of it. The poor fellow would have been perplexed between the right and consideration for us. A vicar here ought to carry things with a high hand, and that is hardest to do at a man's own home, especially for a quiet lad like him. Yes, papa, it was quite right, said Margaret, recovering herself. It has spared Richard a great deal. But are we to have Mr. Wilmot, said Ethel? Think of our not having heard. I, if they would not have had Wilmot or a man of his caliber, perhaps I might have let them offer it to Richard. I almost wish I had, with help, and Ethel. No, no, papa, said Margaret. You are making me angry with myself for my folly. It is much better for Richard himself and for us all, as well as the town. Think how long we have wished for Mr. Wilmot. He will be in time for the opening of Coxmore School, cried Ethel. How did you manage it? I did not manage it all, said the doctor. I told them exactly my mind that Richard was not old enough for such arduous work. And though no words could tell how obliged I was, if they asked me who was the best man for it I knew, I should say Edward Wilmot. And I thought he deserved something from us, for the work he did gratis, when he was second master. Tompkins growled a little, but fortunately no one was prepared with another proposal, so they all came round, and the merry is to write by this evening's post, and so shall I, if we can only have given Richard a dozen more years. Margaret was somewhat comforted to find that the sacrifice had cost her father a good deal. She was always slightly jealous for Richard, and now that Alan was gone she clung to him more than ever. His soft, calm manner supported her more than any other human comforter, and she always yearned after him when absent, more than for all the other brothers. But her father's decision had been too high-minded for her to dare to wish it recalled, and she could not but own that Richard would have had to undergo more toil and annoyance than perhaps his health would have endured. Moore had discontinued comments to her sisters on her father's proceedings, finding that observations mortified Margaret and did not tend to peace with Ethel. But she told her husband that she did not regret it much, for Richard would have exhausted his own income and his father's likewise, in paying curates and raising funds for charities. She scarcely expected Mr. Edward Wilmot to accept the offer, aware as he was of the many disadvantages he should have to contend with, and unsuccessful as he had been in dealing with the ladies' committee. However, Mr. Wilmot signified his thankful acceptance, and, in due time, his familiar tap was heard at the drawing-room door, at tea-time, as if he had just returned after the holidays. He was most gladly welcomed, and soon was installed in his own place, with his goddaughter, Mary, lushing with pleasure at pouring out his coffee. Well, Ethel, how is Coxmore? How like old times? Oh! cried Ethel, we are so glad you will see the beginning of the school. I hear you are finishing Cherry Elwood, too. Much against Ethel's will, said Margaret, but we thought Cherry not easily spoiled, and Whitford School seems to be in very good order. Dr. Spencer went and had an inspection of it, and conferred with all the authorities. Ah! we have a jewel of a parishioner for you, said Dr. May. I have some hopes of Stoneburn now. Mr. Wilmot did not look too hopeful, but he smiled, and asked after Granny Hall and the children. Holly grew up quite civilized, said Ethel. She lives at Whitford, with some very respectable people, and sends Granny presents, which make her merrier than ever. Last time it was a bonnet, and Jenny persuaded her to go to church in it, though she said what she called the moon of it was too small. How do the people go on? I cannot say much for them. It is disheartening. We really have done nothing. So very few go to church regularly. None at all went in my time, said Mr. Wilmot. Elwood always goes, said Mary and Taylor, yes, and Sam Hall very often, and many of the women, in the evening, because they like to walk home with the children. The children? The Sunday scholars? Oh, everyone that is big enough comes to school now, here on Sunday, if only the teaching were better. Have you sent out any more pupils to service? Not many. There is Willie Brown trying to be Dr. Spencer's little groom, said Ethel. But I am afraid it will take a great deal of the doctor's patience to train him, added Margaret. It is hard, said Dr. May. He did it purely to oblige Ethel, and I tell her, when he lames the pony, I shall expect her to buy another for him out of the Coxmore funds. Ethel and Mary broke out on a course of defense of Willie Brown. There was Ben Wheeler, said Mary, who went to work at the quarries, and the men could not teach him to say bad words because the young ladies told him not. The young ladies have not quite done nothing, said Dr. May, smiling. These are only little straight things, and Sherry has done the chief of them, said Ethel. Oh, it is grievously bad still, she added, sighing. Such want of truth, such ungoverned tongues, and tempers, such godlessness altogether. It is only surface work, taming the children of school, while they have such homes, and their parents, even if they do come where they might learn better, are always liable to be upset, as they call it, turned out of their places in church, and they will not run the chance. The church must come to them, said Mr. Wilmot. Could the school be made fit to be licensed for service? Ask our architects, said Dr. May. There can be little doubt. I have been settling that I must have a cure especially for Coxmore, said Mr. Wilmot. Can you tell me of one, Ethel, or perhaps Margaret could? Margaret could only smile faintly, for her heart was beating. Seriously, said Mr. Wilmot, turning to Dr. May. Do you think Richard would come and help us here? This seems to be his destiny, said the doctor, smiling. Only it would not be fair to tell you, lest you should be jealous, that the town council had a great mind for him. The matter was explained, and Mr. Wilmot was greatly more struck by Dr. May's conduct than the good doctor thought it deserved. Everyone was only too glad that Richard should come as Coxmore curate, and though the stipend was very small, since Mr. Wilmot meant to have other assistants, yet by living at home it might be feasible. Margaret's last words that night to Ethel were, the last wish I had dared to make is granted. Mr. Wilmot wrote to Richard, who joyfully accepted his proposal, and engaged to come home as soon as his present rector could find a substitute. Dr. Spencer was delighted, and, it appeared, had already had a view to such possibilities in designing the plan of the school. The first good effect of Mr. Wilmot's coming was that Dr. Spencer was cured of the vagueness habits of going to church at Abbot's Toak or Forehome that had greatly concerned his friend. Dr. May, who could never get any answer from him except that he was not a town counselor, and, as to example, it was no way to set that to sleep through the sermon. To say that Dr. May never slept under the new dynasty would be an overstatement, but slumber certainly prevailed in the minster to a far less degree than formerly. One cause might be that it was not shut up unerred from one Sunday to another, but that the chime of the bells was no longer an extraordinary sound on a weekday. It was at first pronounced that time could not be found for going to church on weekdays without neglecting other things, but Mary, who had lately sat very loose to the schoolroom, began gradually to slip down to church whenever the service was neither too early nor too late, and Gertrude was often found trotting by her side, going to Mama, as the little daisy called it, from some confusion between the church and the cluster, which Ethel was in no hurry to disturb. Lectures in Lent filled the church a good deal, as much perhaps from the novelty as from better motives, and altogether there was a renewal of energy in parish work. The poor had become so little accustomed to pastoral care that the doctors and the district visitors were obliged to report cases of sickness to the clergy, and vainly tried to rouse the people to send of their own accord. However, the better leaven began to work, and, of course, there was a ferment, though less violent than Ethel had expected. Mr. Wilmot sat more cautiously to work than he had done in his younger days, and did not attack prejudices so openly, and he had an admirable assistant in Dr. Spencer. Everyone respected the opinion of the travel doctor, and he had a courteous, clever process of the reduction to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, while it never gave offence. As to the ladies' committee, though there had been expressions of dismay when the tidings of the appointment first went abroad, not one of the whole Ioni inquire liked the dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he talked them over, individually, into a most comfortable state, merely by taking their compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it only the natural state of things, that the vicar should reign over the charities of the place. The committee was not dissolved. That would have been an act of violence. But it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and he and his curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, and shows the books, a state of affairs brought about with so much quietness, that Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. Wilmot had been the chief mover. Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and mis-rich keeper of the lending library, occupations which delighted them greatly, and Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of action was springing up, now that the period was over, of each doing right in her own eyes. In fact, said Dr. Spencer, when women have enough to do, they are perfectly trackable. The Coxmore Counts were Ethel's chief anxiety. It seemed as if now there might be a schoolhouse, but with little income to depend upon, since poor Alan Ernest Cliffs' annual ten pounds was at an end. However, Dr. May leaned over her as she was puzzling over her pounds, shillings and pence, and laid a check upon her desk. She looked up in his face. We must make Coxmore Harry's heir, he said. By and by it appeared that Coxmore was not out of Hector Ernest Cliffs' mind. The boy's letters to Margaret have been brief, matter of fact, and discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and there was not much to be gathered about him from Tom on his return for the Easter holidays, but soon poor Hector wrote a long, dismal letter to Margaret. Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recollection of his brother and the happy hopes with which they had taken possession came thronging upon him. The house was forlorn, and the corner that had been unpacked for their reception was as dreary a contrast to the bright home at Stoneborough, as was the dry, stern captain to the fatherly warm-hearted doctor. Poor Hector had little or nothing to do, and the pleasure of possession had not come yet. He had no companion of his own age, and bashfulness made him shrink with dislike from introduction to his tenants and neighbors. There was not an entertaining book in the house, he declared, and the captain snubbed him if he bought anything he cared to read. The captain was always at him to read musty old, improving books, and talking about the position he would occupy. The evenings were altogether unbearable, and if it were not for rabbit shooting now, and the half-year soon beginning again, Hector declared he should be ready to cut and run, and leave Captain Gordon and Maplewood to each other. And very well matched, too. He was nearly in a state of mind to imitate that unprecedented boy who wrote a letter to The Times, complaining of extra weeks. As to Coxmore, Ethel must not think it forgotten. He had spoken to the captain about it, and the old woodenhead had gone and answered that it was not incumbent on him, that Coxmore had no claims upon him, and he could not make it up out of his allowance. For the old fellow would not give him a farthing more than he had before, and had said that that was too much. There was a great blur over the words woodenhead, as if Hector had known that Margaret would disapprove, and had tried to scratch it out. She wrote all the consolation in her power, and exhorted him to patience, apparently without much effect. She would not show his subsequent letters, and the reading and answering them fatigued her so much that Hector's writing was an unwelcome sight at Stoneboro. Each letter, as Ethel said, seemed so much taken out of her, and she begged her not to think about them. Nothing can do me much good or harm now, said Margaret, and seeing Ethel's anxious look, it is not my greatest comfort that Hector can still treat me as a sister, or, if I can be of any use in keeping him patient, only think of the danger of a boy in his situation, being left without sympathy. There was nothing more to be said. They all felt it was good for them that the building at Coxmold be a full occupation to thoughts and conversation. Indeed, Tom declared they never walked in any other direction, nor talked of anything else, and that without Hector, or George Rivers, he had nobody to speak to. However, he was a good deal tranquilized by an introduction to Dr. Spencer's laboratory, where he compounded mixtures that Dr. Spencer promised should do no more harm than was reasonable to himself or anyone else. Ethel suspected that if Tom had chanced to send his eyebrows, his friend would not have regretted a blight to his nascent Cox comry, but he was far too careful of his own beauty to do any such thing. Richard was set at liberty just before Easter, and came home to his new charge. He was aware of what had taken place, and hardly grateful for the part his father had taken. To work at Coxmold, under Mr. Wilmot, and to live at home, was felicity, and he fitted it once into his old place and resumed all the little home surfaces for which he had been always feigned. Ethel was certain that Marvel was content when she saw her brother bending over her, and the sense of reliance and security that the presence of the silent Richard imparted to the whole family was something very peculiar, especially as they were so much more active and demonstrative than he was. Mr. Wilmot put him at once in charge of the Hamlet. The inhabitants were still a hard, rude, unpromising race, and there were many flagrant evils amongst them, but the last few years had not been without some effect. Some were less obdurate, a few really touched, and, almost all, glad of instruction for their children. If Ethel's perseverance had done nothing else, it had, at least, been a witness, and her immediate scholar showed the influence of her lessons. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jennifer Painter. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Yong. Part 2, Chapter 16 Then out into the world my course I did determine, though to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming. My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education. Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situation. Burns. In the meantime, the session of parliament had begun, and the river's party had, since February, inhabited Park Lane. Metta had looked pale and pensive, as she bade her friends at Stoneborough goodbye, but only betrayed that she had rather have stayed at home by promising herself great enjoyment in meeting them again at Easter. Flora was, on the other hand, in the state of calm patronage that betokened perfect satisfaction. She promised wonders for Miss Brace's sisters, talked of inviting Mary and Blanche to see sights and take lessons, and undertook to send all the apparatus needed by Cox North School. And she did, accordingly, send down so many wonderful articles that curate and school mysteries were both frightened. Mrs. Taylor thought the easels were new-fashioned instruments of torture, and Ethel found herself in a condition to be liberal, to Stoneborough National School. Flora was a capital correspondent, and made it her business to keep Margaret amused, so that the home party were well informed of the doings of each of her days, and very clever her descriptions were. She had given herself a dispensation from general society until after Easter, but, in the meantime, both she and Metta seemed to find great enjoyment in country rides and drives, and in quiet little dinners at home, to George's agreeable political friends. With the help of two such ladies as Mrs. and Miss Rivers, Ethel could imagine George's house pleasant enough to attract clever people, but she was surprised to find how full her sisters' letters were of political news. It was a period when great interests were in agitation, and the details of London talk and opinions were extremely welcome. Dr. Spencer used to come in to ask after Mrs. Rivers' intelligentsia, and when he heard the lucid statements, would say she ought to have been a special correspondent, and her father declared that her news made him twice as welcome to his patients. But her cleverest sentences always were prefaced with George says, or George thinks, in a manner that made her appear merely the dutiful echo of his sentiments. In an early letter, Flora mentioned how she had been reminded of poor Harry by finding Miss Walkingham's card. That lady lived with her mother at Richmond, and, on returning the visit, Flora was warmly welcomed by the kind old lady, Walkingham, who insisted on her bringing her baby and spending a long day. The sisters-in-law had been enchanted with Miss Walkingham, whose manners, wrote Flora, certainly merited papa's encomium. On the promised long day, they found an unexpected addition to the party, Sir Henry Walkingham, who had newly returned from the continent. A fine-looking agreeable man, about five and thirty, Flora described him, very lively and entertaining. He talked a great deal of Dr. Spencer, and of the life in the caves at Thebes, and he asked me whether that unfortunate place, Coxmore, did not owe a great deal to me or to one of my sisters. I left Metta to tell him that story, and they became very sociable over it. A day or two after, Sir Henry Walkingham has been dining with us. He has a very good voice, and we had some delightful music in the evening. By and by, Sir Henry was the second cavalier when they went to an oratorio, and Metta's letter overflowed with the descriptions she had heard from him of Italian church music. He always went to Rome for Easter, and had been going as usual this spring, but he lingered and, for once, remained in England, where he had only intended to spend a few days on necessary business. The Easter recess was not spent at the Grange, but at Lady Leonora's pretty house in Surrey. She had invited the party in so pressing a manner that Flora did not think it right to decline. Metta expressed some disappointment at missing Easter among her schoolchildren, but she said a great deal about the primroses and the green cornfields and nightingales, all of which Ethel would have set down to her trick of universal content, if it had not appeared that Sir Henry was there, too, and shared in all the delicious rides. What would Ethel say, wrote Flora, to have our little Metta as Lady of the Manor of Coxmore? He has begun to talk about Drydale, and there are various suspicious circumstances that Lady Leonora marks with the eyes of a discreet dowager. It was edifying to see how, from smiles, we came to looks and by and by to confidential talks, which have made her entirely forgive me for having so many tall brothers. Poor dear old Mr Rivers, Lady Leonora owns that it was the best thing possible for that sweet girl that he did not live any longer to keep her in seclusion. It is so delightful to see her appreciated as she deserves, and with her beauty and fortune, she might make any choice she pleases. In fact, I believe Lady Leonora would like to look still higher for her, but this would be mere ambition, and we should be far better satisfied with such a connection as this, founded on mutual and increasing esteem, with a man so well suited to her and fixing her so close to us. You must not, however, launch out into an ocean of possibilities, for the good aunt has only infected me with the castle-building propensities of chaperones. And Metta is perfectly unconscious, looking on him as too hopelessly middle-aged to entertain any such evil designs, avowing freely that she likes him, and treating him very nearly as she does papa. It is my business to keep our aunt, who, between ourselves, has below the surface the vulgarity of nature that high-breeding cannot eradicate, from startling the little hummingbird, before the net has been properly twined round her bright little heart. As far as I can see, he is much smitten, but very cautious in his approaches, and he is wise. Margaret did not know what dismay she conveyed as she handed this letter to her sister. There was no rest for Ethel till she could be alone with her father. Could nothing prevent it? Couldn't that flora be told of Mr. Ribber's wishes? She asked. His wishes would have lain this way. I do not know that. It is no concern of ours. There is nothing objectionable here, and though I can't say it is not a disappointment, it ought not to be, the long and short of it is, that I never ought to have told you anything about it. Poor Norman! Absurd! The lad is hardly one and twenty. Very few marry a first love. Ah, Ethel! Poor old Ribbers only mentioned it as a refuge from fortune hunters, and it stands to reason that he would have preferred this. Anyway, it is awkward for a man with empty pockets to marry an heiress, and it is wholesomer for him to work for his living, better that it should be out of his head at once, if it were there at all. I trust it was all our fancy. I would not have him grieved now for worlds when his heart is sore. Somehow, said Ethel, though he is depressed and silent, I like it better than I did last Christmas. Of course, when we were laughing out of the bitterness of our hearts, said Dr May's sign, it is a luxury to let oneself alone to be sorrowful. Ethel did not know whether she desired a tater-tate with Norman or not. She was aware that he had seen Fleur's letter, and she did not believe that he would ever mention the hopes that must have been dashed by it, or, if he should do so, how could she ever guide her father's secret? At least she had the comfort of recognizing the accustomed Norman in his manner, low-spirited indeed, and more than ever dreamy and melancholy, but not in the unnatural and excited state that had made her unhappy about him. She could not help telling Dr Spencer that this was much more the real brother. I dare say, was the answer not quite satisfactory in tone. I thought you would like it better. Truth is better than fiction, certainly, but I am afraid he has a tendency to morbid self-contemplation, and you ought to shake him out of it. What is the difference between self-contemplation and self-examination? The difference between your brother and yourself. Ah, you think that, no answer. Will you have a medical simile? Self-examination notes the symptoms and combats them. Self-contemplation does as I did when I was unstrung by that illness at Poon-Shed-Nagore, and was always feeling my own pulse. It dwells on them, and perpetually deplores itself. Oh, dear, this is no better. What a wretch I am. It is always studying its deformities in a moral-looking glass. Yes, I think poor Norman does that, but I thought it right and humble. The humility of a self-conscious mind. It is the very reverse of your father, who is the most really humble man in existence. Do you call self-consciousness a fault? No, I call it a misfortune. In the vain it leads to prudent vanity, in the good to a painful effort of humility. I don't think I quite understand what it is. No, and you have so much of your father in you that you never will. But take care of your brother, and don't let his brains work. How Ethel was to take care of him, she did not know. She could only keep a heedful eye on him, and rejoice when he took Tom out for a long walk. A companion certainly not likely to promote the working of the brain. But though it was in the opposite direction to Coxmoore, Tom came home desperately cross, snubbed Gertrude, and fagged Aubrey. But then, as Blanche observed, perhaps that was only because his trousers were splashed. In her next solitary walk to Coxmoore, Norman joined Ethel. She was gratified, but she could not think of one safe word worth saying to him. And for a mile they preserved an absolute silence, until he first began, Ethel, I've been thinking, that you have, said she, between hope and dread, and the thrill of being again treated as his friend. I want to consult you. Don't you think now that Richard is settled at home, and if Tom will study medicine that I could be spared? Spared, exclaimed Ethel, you are not much at home. I meant more than my present absences. It is my earnest wish, he paused, and the continuation took her by surprise. Do you think it would give my father too much pain to part with me as a missionary to New Zealand? She could only gaze at him in mute amazement. Do you think he could bear it? said Norman hastily. He would consent, she replied. Oh, Norman, it is the most glorious thing man can do. How I wish I could go with you. Your mission is here, said Norman affectionately. I know it is. I am contented with it, said Ethel. But oh, Norman, after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more excellent way. Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives as yours. She made a sound of inquiry. I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish life of competition and controversy. I thought you were so happy with your fellowship. I thought Oxford was your delight. She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted or perplexed. Perplexed, repeated Ethel. It is not so now, he replied. God forbid. But where better men have been led astray, I have been bewildered. Till, Ethel, I have felt as if the ground was slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able to hide my eyes, an intrigue that I might know the truth. You knew it? said Ethel, looking pale and gazing searchingly at him. I did. I do. But it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth. Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, it is past. Yes, thank him who is truth. You all saved me, though you did not know it. When was this? she asked timidly. The worst time was before the long vacation. They told me I ought to read this book and that. Harvey Anderson used to come primed with arguments. I could always overthrow them. But when I came to glory in doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Anyway, they left a sting. It might be that I doubted my own sincerity from knowing that I had got to argue, chiefly because I liked to be looked on as a champion. Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid habit of self-contemplation. I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more my own convictions paled me. And by the time you came up to Oxford, I knew how you would have shrunk from him who was your pride if you could have seen into the secrets beneath. Ethel took hold of his hand. You seemed bright, she said. It melted like a bad dream before. Before the hummingbird and with my father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject again. How could you? Was it safe? I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my father, or the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or things at the Grange would bring peace back. But there were dark hours, and I knew that there could be no comfort till I had examined and fought it out. I suppose examination was right, said Ethel, for a man and defender of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible thought away. But I can't tell how it feels. Worse than you have power to imagine, said Norman, shuddering. It is over now. I worked out their fallacies and went over the reasoning on our side. And prayed, said Ethel. Indeed I did. And the confidence returned, firmer I hoped than ever. It had never gone for a whole day. Ethel breathed freely. It was life or death, she said, and we never knew it. Perhaps not, but I know your prayers were angel wings ever round me. And far more than argument was the thought of my father's heart, whole Christian love and strength. Norman, you believed all the time with your heart. This was only a bewilderment of your intellect. I think you are right, said Norman. To me the doubt was cruel agony, not the amusement it seems to some. Because our dear home has made the truth our joy, our union, said Ethel. And you are sure the cloud is gone and forever? She still asked anxiously. He stood still. Forever I trust, he said. I hold the faith of my childhood in all its fullness as surely as ever I loved my mother and Harry. I know you do, said Ethel. It was only a bad dream. I hope I may be forgiven for it, said Norman. I do not know how far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was convinced last Christmas. But the shame and sting remained. I was not at peace again till the news of this spring came and brought, with the grief, this compensation that I could cast behind me and forget the criticisms and doubts that those miserable debates had connected with sacred words. You will be the sound of her having fought the fight, said Ethel. I do not dread the like-shocks, said her brother, but I long to leave this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there should be a constant defense and battle, but I am not fit for it. I argue for my own triumph and, in heat and harassing, devotion is lost. Besides, the comparison of intellectual power has been my bane all my life. I thought praise was your penance here. I would feign render it so, but, in short, I must be away from it all and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the rudiments and forgetting subtle arguments. Forgetting yourself, said Ethel. Right, I want to have no leisure to think about myself, said Norman. I am never so happy as at such times. And you want to find work so far away? I cannot help feeling drawn towards those southern seas. I am glad you can give me good speed, but what do you think about my father? Ethel thought and thought. I know he would not hinder you, she repeated, but you dread the pain for him? I had talked to Tom about taking his profession, but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, though, I believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only arises a few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I could soon talk him. Tom will not stand in your place, said Ethel. He will be more equitable and more to be depended upon, said Norman. None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear my alternative. If you think my going would be too much grief for Papa, or if Tom be set against helping him in his practice, there is an evident leading of providence, showing that I am unworthy of this work. In that case, I would go abroad and throw myself at once with all my might into the study of medicine and get ready to give my father some rest. It is a shame that all his sons should turn away from his profession. I am more than ever amazed, cried Ethel. I thought you detested it. I thought Papa never wished it for you. He said you had not nerve. He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me, said Norman, with heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for whatever is his duty. How he would like to have you to watch and help, but New Zealand would be so glorious. Glory is not for me, said Norman. Understand Ethel, the choice is New Zealand, or going at once, at once mind to study at Edinburgh or Paris. New Zealand at once, said Ethel. I suppose I must stay for divinity lectures, but my intention must be avowed, said Norman hastily. And now, will you sound my father? I cannot. I can't sound, said Ethel. I can only do things point blank. Do then, said Norman, any way you can, only let me know which is best for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, good old unready one, he added kindly. I believe you are the one who would be shoved in front if we were obliged to face a basilisk. The brightness that had come over Norman when he had discharged his cares upon her was encouragement enough for Ethel. She only asked how much she was to repeat of their conversation. Whatever you think best, I do not want to grieve him, but he must not think it fine in me. Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent him from doing that. It was not consistent with cautious sounding that Norman was always looking appealingly towards her and, indeed, she could not wait long with such a question on her mind. She remained with her father in the drawing room when the rest were gone upstairs. And, plunging at once into the matter, she said, Papa, there is something that Norman cannot bear to say to you himself. Hummingbirds to it, said Doctor May. No, indeed. But he wants to be doing something at once. What should you think of? Of... There are two things. One is going out as a missionary. Hummingbirds in another shape, said the doctor, startled but smiling so as to pique her. You mean to treat it as a boy's fancy, said she. It is rather suspicious, he said. Well, what is the other of his two things? The other is to begin studying medicine at once so as to help you. Hey, day! cried Doctor May, drawing up his tall, vigorous figure. Does he think me so very ancient and superannuated? What could possess him to be so provoking and unsentimental tonight? Was it her own bad management? She longed to put an end to the conversation and answered, No, but he thinks it hard that none of your sons should be willing to relieve you. It won't be Norman, said Doctor May. He's not made of the stuff. If he survived the course of study, every patient he lost, he would bring himself in guilty of murder and there would soon be an end of him. He says that a man can force himself to anything that is his duty. This is not going to be his duty to make it otherwise. What is the meaning of all this? No, I need not ask, poor boy. It is what I was afraid of. It is far deeper, said Ethel, and she related great part of what she had heard in the afternoon. It was not easy to make her father listen. His line was to be positively indignant rather than compassionate when he heard of the doubts that had assailed poor Norman. Foolish boy! Ethel had a medal with those accursed books when he knew what they were made of. It was tasting poison. It was running into temptation. He had no right to expect to come out safe and then he grasped tightly hold of Ethel's hands and, as if the terror had suddenly flashed on him, asked her with dilated eye and trembling voice whether she was sure that he was safe and held the faith. Ethel repeated his as-separation and her father covered his face with his hands in thanksgiving. After this, he seemed somewhat inclined to hold poor Oxford in horror only, as he observed, it would be going out of the frying pan into the fire to take refuge at Paris, a recurrence to the notion of Norman's medical studies that showed him rather enticed by the proposal. He sent Ethel to bed saying he should talk to Norman and find out what was the meaning of it and she walked upstairs, much ashamed of having so ill-served her brother as almost to have made him ridiculous. Dr May and Norman never failed to come to an understanding and after they had had a long drive into the country together Dr May told Ethel that he was afraid of what he ought not to be afraid of, that she was right, that the lad was very much in earnest now at any rate and if he should continue in the same mind, he hoped he should not be so weak as to hold him from a blessed word. From Norman, Ethel heard the warmest gratitude for his father's kindness. Nothing could be done yet, he must wait patiently for the present, but he was to write to his uncle, Mr Arnott, in New Zealand and, without pledging himself, to make inquiries as to the mission and, in the meantime, return to Oxford where, to his other studies, he was to add a course of medical lectures which, as Dr May said, would do him no harm, would occupy his mind and might turn to use wherever he was. Ethel was surprised to find that Norman wrote to Flora an expression of his resolution that if he found he could be spared from assisting his father as a physician he would give himself up to the mission in New Zealand. Why should he tell anyone so unsympathetic as Flora? Who would think him wasted in either case? The 5th of May was Porheri's 18th birthday, and, as usual, was a holiday. Ethel did privately thought his memory more likely to be respected if Blanche and Aubrey were employed than if they were left in idleness. But Mary would have been wretched had to celebrate her birthday with her father, but she did not know how to celebrate her birthday with her mother, and she did not know but Mary would have been wretched had the celebration been omitted and a leisure day was never unwelcome. Dr. Spencer carried off Blanche and Aubrey for a walk and Ethel found Mary at her great resort, Harry's cupboard, dusting and arranging his books and the array of birthday gifts to which, even today, she had not failed to add the marker that had been in hand at Christmas. Ethel untreated her to come down and Mary promised and presently appeared looking so melancholy that, as a sedative, Ethel set her down to the basket of scraps to find materials for a tippet for someone at Coxbore, intending, as soon as Marvitt should be dressed, to resign her mourning to the others, invite Miss Bracey to the drying room and read aloud. Gertrude was waiting for her walk till Nurse should have dressed Marvitt and was frisking about the lawn, sometimes looking in at the drying room window at her sister's, sometimes chattering to Adam's at his work or laughing to herself in the flowers and that overflow of mirth that seemed always bubbling up within her. She was standing in rapt contemplation of a pear tree in full blossom. Her hands tightly clasped behind the back for greater safety from the temptation. When, hearing the shrubbery gate open, she turned expecting to see her papa but was frightened at the sight of two strangers and began to run off at full speed. Stop! Blanche! Blanche! Don't you know me? The voice was that tone of her brothers and she stood unlocked but it came from a tall, reddy youth in a shabby, rough blue coat followed by a grizzled old seaman. She was too much terrified and perplexed even to run. What's the matter? Blanche, it is I. Why, don't you know me? Harry? Her brother Harry is drowned, she answered, and, with one bound, he was beside her and, snatching her up, devoured her with kisses. Put me down, put me down, please, was all she could say. It is not Blanche. What? The little Daisy, I do believe. Yes, I am Gertrude, but please, let me go. And, at the same time, Adam's hurried up as if he thought her being kidnapped was a bad cry. Ah, Adam's, how are you? Are they all well? Does it never master Harry? Bless me, as Harry's hand gave him sensible proof when we had given you up for lost. My father well, Harry asked, hurrying the words one over the other. Quite well, sir, but he never held up his head since he heard it and poor Miss Mary has so moped about if ever I thought to see the like. Give my letter, but I can't stop. Jennings will tell you. Take care of him. Come, Daisy, for he had kept her unwilling hand all the time. But what's that for? Pointing to the black ribbons and stopping short, startled. Because of poor Harry, said the bewildered child. Oh, that's right! cried he, striding on, and dragging her in a breathless run as he threw open the well-known doors hid her face in Mary's lap, screaming. He says he is Harry. He says he is not drowned. At the same moment Ethel was in his arms and his voice was sobbing. Ethel! Mary! Home! Where's Papa? One moment's almost agonizing joy in the certainty of his identity. But ere she could look or think he was crying. Mary! Oh, Ethel! See? Mary had not moved and sat as if turned to stone with breath suspended, wide-stretched eyes, and death-like cheeks. Ethel sprang to her. Mary! Mary, dear! It is Harry! It is himself! Don't you see? Speak to her, Harry! He seemed almost afraid to do so, but recovering himself exclaimed, Mary! Dear old Polly! Here I am! Won't you speak to me? He added piteously Mary's arm around her and kissed her, startled at the cold touch of her cheek. The spell seemed broken and, with a wild horse shriek that rang through the house, she struggled to regain her breath, but it would only come in painful, audible catches as she held Harry's hand convulsively. What have I done? he exclaimed in distress. What's this? Who is this frightening my dear? was old nurse's exclamation as she and James came at the outcry. Oh, nurse, what have I done to her? repeated Harry. It is joy. It is sudden joy, said Ethel. See, she is better now. Master Harry! Well, I never, and James, with one ring of the hand, retreated while old nurse was nearly hugged to death, declaring all the time that he did not odd to have come in such a way, terrifying everyone out of their senses, and asked for poor Miss May. Where is she? cried Harry, starting at the site of the vacant sofa. Only upstairs, said Ethel. But where's Alan? Is not he come? Oh, Ethel, don't you know? His face told, but too plainly. Nurse, nurse, how should we tell her? said Ethel. For a dear exclaimed nurse sounding her tongue on the roof of her mouth. She'll never bear it without her papa. Wait for him, I should say. But bless me, Miss Mary, to see you go on like that when Master Harry has come back such a bonny man. I'm better now, said Mary with an effort. Oh, Harry, speak to me again. But Margaret, said Ethel while the brother was holding Mary in his embrace, and she lay tremulous with the new ecstasy upon his breast. But Margaret, nurse, you must go up, or she will suspect. All come when I can. Speak quietly. Oh, poor Margaret, if Richard would but come in. Ethel walked up and down the room divided between a tumult of joy, grief, dread, and perplexity. At that moment a little voice said at the door, please, Margaret wants Harry to come up directly. They looked one upon another in consternation. They had never thought of the child who, of course, had flown up at once with the tidings. Go up, Miss Ethel, said nurse. Oh, nurse, I can't be the first. Come, Harry, come. Hand in hand, they silently ascended the stairs, and Ethel pushed open the door. Margaret was on her couch, her whole foreman face in one throb of expectation. She looked into Harry's face, the eagerness flitted like sunshine on the hillside, before a cloud and without a word, she held out her arms. And her fingers were clasped amongst his thick curls, while his frame heaved with suppressed sobs. Oh, if he could only have come back to you. Thank God, she said, then slightly pushing him back, she lay holding his hand in one of hers and resting the other on his shoulder and gazing in silence into his face. Each was still. She was gathering strength. He dreaded word or look. Tell me how and where, she said at last. It was in the loyalty aisles. It was fever, the exertions for us. His head was lying here, and he pointed to his own breast. He sent his love to you. He made me tell you there would be meeting by and by in the heaven where he would be. I laid his head in the grave, under the great palm. I said some of the prayers. There are Christians round it. He said this in short, and in short sentences, often pausing to gather voice, but forced to resume by her inquiring looks and pressure of his hand. She asked no more. Kiss me, she said, and when he had done so. Thank you. Go down, please, all of you. You have brought great relief. Thank you. But I can't talk yet. You shall tell me the rest by and by. Go to him, dearest. Let me be alone. Don't be uneasy. This is peace, but go. Ethel found Mary and Harry interlaced into one moving figure, and Harry greedily asking for his father and Norman, as if famishing for the sight of them. He wanted to set out to seek the former in the town, but his movements were too uncertain, and the girls clung to the newly found as if they could not trust him from them. They wandered about, speaking, all three at random, without power of attending to the answers. It was enough to see him and touch him. They could not yet care where he had been. Dr. May was in the midst of them ere they were aware. One look, and he flung his arms round his son, but suddenly letting him go he burst away and banged his study door. No, don't, said Ethel, then seeing him disappointed she came nearer and murmured. He entered into his chamber and Harry silenced her with another embrace, but their father was with them again, to verify that he had really seen his boy and asked, alas, whether Allen were with Margaret, the brief said answers sent him to see how it was with her. She would not let him stay. She said it was infinite comfort but she would rather be still and not come down till evening. Perhaps others would feign have been still could they have borne an instanced deprivation of the sight of their dear sailor while greetings came thickly on him. The children burst in, having her to report in the town, and Dr. Spencer waited at the door for the confirmation but when Ethel would have flown out to him he waved his hand, shut the door and hurried away as if a word to her would have been an intrusion. The brothers had been summoned by a headlong apparition of Will Adams in Coxmore School, shouting that Master Harry was come home and Normans long legs outspeeding Richard had brought him back, flushed and too happy for one word, while, while Harry was Richard's utmost and his care for Margaret seemed to overpower everything else as he went up and was not so soon sent away. Words were few downstairs. Blanche and Aubrey agreed that they thought people would have been much happier, but, in fact, the joy was oppressive from very newness. Ethel wronged about she could not sit still without feeling giddy in the strangeness of the revulsion. Her father sat as if a word would break the blessed illusion and Harry stood before each of them in turn as if about to speak, but turned his address into a sudden caress or blow on the shoulder and tried to laugh. Little truth, not understanding the confusion had taken up her station under the table and peeped out from beneath the cover. There was more composure as they sat at dinner and yet there was very little talking or eating. Afterwards, Dr. Man Norman exultingly walked away to show their Harry to Dr. Spencer and Mr. Willmont and Ethel would gladly have tried to calm herself and recover the balance of her mind by giving thanks where they were due, but she did not know what to do with her sisters. Blanche was wild and Mary still in so shaky a state of excitement that she went off into mad laughing when Blanche discovered that they were in mourning for Harry. Nothing would satisfy Blanche but breaking in on Margaret and climbing to the top of the great wardrobe to dissenter the colored raiment, deceiving that each favorite might be at once put on to do honor to Harry. Mary chimed in with her and begging for the wedding marinos. Would not Margaret wear her beautiful blue? No, my dear. I cannot, said Margaret gently. Mary looked at her and was again in a flood of tears and coherently protesting together with Ethel that they would not change. No, dear, said Margaret. I had rather you did so. You must not be unkind to Harry. He will not think I do not welcome him. I am only too glad that Richard would not let my impatience take away my right to wear this. Ethel knew that it was for life. Mary could not check her tears and would go on making heroic protests against leaving off her black, sobbing the more at each. Margaret's gentle caresses seemed to make her worse and Ethel, afraid that Margaret's own composure would be overthrown, exclaimed, How can you be so silly? Come away! and rather roughly pulled her out of the room when she collapsed entirely at the top of the stairs and sat crying helplessly. I can't think what's the use of Harry's coming home, Gertrude was heard saying to Richard. It is very disagreeable where at Mary relapsed into a giggle and Ethel felt frantic. Richard! Richard! What is to be done with Mary? She can't help it, I believe, but this is not the way to treat the mercy that Mary had better go and lie down in her own room, said Richard, tenderly and gravely. Oh, please, please! began Mary. I shall not see him when he comes back. If you can't behave properly when he does come, said Richard, there is no use in being there. Remember Richie, said Ethel, making him severe. She has not been well this long time. Mary began to plead, but with his own pretty persuasive manner he took her by the hand and drew her into his room, and when he came down, after an interval, it was to check Blanche who would have gone up to interrupt her with queries about the perpetual blue marino. He sat down with Blanche on the staircase window seat and did not let her go till he had gently talked her out of flighty spirits into the soberness of thankfulness. Ethel, meanwhile, had still done nothing but stray about long for loneliness, find herself too steady to finish her letters to Flora and Tom. And, while she tried to make her truth think Harry a pleasant acquisition, she hated her own wild heart that could not rejoice nor give thanks a right. By and by Mary came down with her bonnet on, quiet, quiet now. I'm going to church with Richie, she said. Ethel caught at the notion and it spread through the house. Dr. May, who just then came in with two sons, looked at Harry, saying, What do you think of it? Shall we go, my boy? And Harry, as soon as he understood, declared that he should like nothing better. It seemed what they all needed, even Aubrian Gertrudebake to come. And, when the solemn old minster was above their heads and the hand-out stillness around them, the tightened sense of half-realized joy began to find relief in the chant of glory. In the midst of the sanctuary, ever uplifting notes of praise seemed to gather together and soften their emotions. An agitation was soothed away and all that was oppressive and tumultuous gave place to sweet peace and thankfulness. Ethel dimly remembered the like-sense of relief, when her mother had hushed her wild ecstasy while sympathizing with her joy. Richard could not trust his voice, but Mr. Wilmot offered Harry was, indeed, at home, and his tears fell fast over his book as he heard his father's amen so fervent and so deep, and he gazed up and around with fond and earnest looks as thoughts and resolutions formed their vol came gathering thick upon him, and there little Gertrudebake seemed first to accept him. She whispered to her papa as they stood up to go away that it was very good and got to have sent Harry home, and as they left the cloister she slipped into Harry's hand a daisy from the grave, such a gift as she had never carried to anyone else save her father and Margaret and she shrank no longer from being lifted up in his arms and carried home through their twilight street. He hurried into the drawing room and was heard declaring that all was right, for Margaret was on the sofa, but he stopped short, grieved at her altered looks. He smiled as he stooped to kiss her and then made him stand erect and measure himself against Norman whose hide he had almost reached. The little curly midshipman had come back as nurse said a fine-grown young man his rosy cheeks brown and ruddy and his countenance you are much more like papa and Norman than I thought you would be said Margaret. He has left his snub nose and yellow locks behind, said his main. I believe lions go darker with age. So there stand June and July together again. Doctor May walked backwards to look at them. It was good to see his face. I shall see Flora and Tom tomorrow, said Harry, after nodding with satisfaction, as they all took their wanted places. Going! exclaimed Richard. Why, don't you know, said Ethel it is current in the nursery that he is going to be tried by Court King with the King of the Cannibal Islands. Aubrey says he had a desert island with Jennings for his men Friday, said Lange. Harry, said little Gertrude, who had established herself on his knee. Did you really poke out the giant's eye with the top of a fir tree? Who told you so, Daisy, was a general cry, but she became shy and would not answer more than a whisper about Aubrey only Gertrude was so foolish that she did not know Harry from Ulysses. After all, said Ethel, I don't think our notions are much more defined. Papa and Norman may know more, but we have heard almost nothing. I have been waiting to hear more to close up my letters to Flora and Tom. What a shame that has not been done. I'll finish, said Mary, running to the side table. Until her I'll be there tomorrow, said Harry. I must report myself and what fun to see Flora, a member of parliament. Come with me, June. I'll be back next day. I wish you all would come. Yes, I must come with you, said Norman. I shall have to go to Oxford on Thursday, and very reluctant he looked. Tell Flora I am coming, Mary. How did you know that Flora was a married lady, past Blanche, in her would-be-grown-up manner? I heard that from Aunt Flora, a famous lot of news I picked up earlier. Aunt Flora? Did you not know he had been at Auckland, said Dr. May? Aunt Flora had to nurse him well after all he had undergone. Did you not think her very like Mama, Harry? Mama never looked past so old, cried Harry indignantly. Flora was five years younger. She has got her voice and way with her, said Harry, but she will soon see. She is coming tonight. Yes, there is some money of Uncle Arnautz that must be looked after, but he does not like the voyage and can't leave his office, so perhaps Aunt Flora may come alone. She had a great mind to come with me, but there was no good birth for her in the schooner, and I could not wait for another chance. I can't think what possessed the letters not to come. She would not write by the first packet sure you had them, or I would have written before I came. The words were not out of his mouth before the second post was brought in, and there were two letters from New Zealand. What would they not have been yesterday? Harry would have burned his own, but the long closely written sheets were eagerly seized as, affording the best hope of understanding his adventures as it had been written at intervals from Auckland, and the papers passing from one to the other on further details, the much more was gleaned incidentally in Tetapets by Margaret Norman, or his father, and no one person ever heard the whole connectedly from Harry himself. What was the first you knew of a fire, Harry? asked Doctor May, looking out from the letter. Oh, and shaking me awake, and I thought it was a hoax, said Harry, but it was true enough, and when we got on deck there were clouds of smoke coming up all day. Margaret's eyes were upon him, and her lips formed a question, and he met us, and told us to be steady, but there was a need for that. Every man there was as cool and collected as if it had been no more than the cooked stove, and we should have sworn to be otherwise. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, keep by me, and I did. Then there was never much hope of extinguishing the fire. Well, if you look down below the four-castle it was like a furnace, and though the pumps were at work it was only to gain time while the boats were lowered. The first lieutenant told off the men, and they went down the side without one word, only shaking hands with those that were left. Oh, Harry, what were you thinking of? cried Blanche. Of the power, said Harry. Ethel thought there was more in that answer than at the year, of the power tonight at church. Mr. Ernstcliffe had the command of the second-cutter. He asked to take me with him. I was glad enough, and Owen, his mate, you know, went with us. Asked to tell him how he felt when he saw the good ship obsessed his blown to fragments. That was past Harry, and all but Blanche were wise enough not to ask. She had by way of answer. Very glad to be safe out of her. Nor was Harry tempted well on the subsequent days when the unclouded sun had been a cruel foe, and the inefficient stores of food and water did, indeed, sustain life but a life of extreme suffering. What he told was of the kindness that strove to save him, as the youngest, from all that could be spared him. If I dropped asleep at the bottom of the boat, I was sure to find someone shading me from the sun. If there was next to it, tell me their names, Harry, cried Dr. May, if ever I meet one of them. But the storm, Harry, the storm, asked Blanche, was that not terrible? Very comfortable at first, Blanche, was the answer. Oh, that rain! But when it grew so very bad, we did not wreck much what happened to us, said Harry. It could not be worse than starving. When we missed the others in the morning, we thought them the best off. Mary could not help coming round to kiss him, as if eyes alone were not enough to satisfy Harry that here he was. Dr. May shuddered, and went on reading, and Margaret drew Harry down to her, and once more by looks craved for more minute tidings. All that you can think, murmured Harry, the very life and soul of us all, so kind, and yet discipline as perfect as on board. But now, Margaret, the tone of the don't, the redding cheek, liquid eye, and heathen chest, told enough of what the lieutenant had been to one, at least, of the Desolate Boat's crew. Oh, Harry, Harry, I can't bear it, exclaimed Mary. How long did it last? How did it end? 15 days, said Harry. It was time it should end, for all the water we had caught in the storm was gone. Harry dropped to Jones, for we thought him dying. One's tongue was like a dry sponge. How did it end? repeated Mary in an agony. Jenning saw a sail. We thought it all a fancy of weakness, but twice true enough, and they saw our signal of distress. The vessel proved to be an American whaler, which had just parted with her cargo to a homeward bound ship, and was going to London Islands before returning for further captures. The master was a man of the shrewd, hard money-making cast, but at the price of Mr. Ernst-Cliff's chronometer and of the services of the sailors, he undertook to convey them where they might fall in with packets bound for Australia. The distressed Alsestis at first thought themselves in paradise, but the vessel, built with no view, safe to whales, and with little reminiscence of the blubber lately parted with, proved no wholesome abode when overcrowded, and in the tropics Mr. Ernst-Cliff's science, resolution and constancy had saved his men so far, but with the need for exertion his powers gave way, and he fell prey to a return of the fever which had been his introduction to Dr. May. There he was, said Harry, laid up in a little bit of a cabin, without the possibility of a breath of air. The skin-flint skipper carried no medicine. The water, shocking stuff it was, was getting so low that there was only a pint a day served out to each, and though all of us Alsestis clubbed every drop we could spare for him, it was bad work. Owen and I never were more glad in our lives than when we heard we were to cast anchor at the loyalty aisles. Such you little know what it was to see anything green, and there was this isle, fringe down close to the sea with coconut trees, and the bay as clear, you could see every shell and wonderful fishes swimming in it. Well, everyone was for going ashore, and some of the natives swam out to us and brought things in their canoes, but not many. It is not encouraged by the mission, nor by David, for those Yankee traders are not the most edifying society, and the crew vowed they were cannibals and had eaten a man three years ago so they all went ashore armed. You stayed with him, said Margaret. I it was my turn, and I was glad enough to have some fresh fruit and water for him but he could not take any notice of it. Did not I want you, Hoppa? Well, by and by, Owen came back in a perfect rapture with the place and the people and said it was the only hope for Mr. Earnsplit to take him ashore. Then you really did go amongst the cannibals, explained Blanche? That is all nonsense, said Harry. Some of them may once have been, and I fancy the heathens might not mind a bit of long pig still, but these have been converted by the Samoans. The Samoans, it was further explained, are the inhabitants of the navigator islands who, having been converted by the Church Missionary Society, have sent out great numbers of the most active and admirable teachers among the scattered islands, craving martyrdom and disease, never shrinking from their work and, by teaching an example, preparing away for fuller doctrine than they can yet impart. A station of these devoted men had for some years been settled in this island and had since been visited by the missions of Newcastle and New Zealand. The young chief, whom Harry called David, and another youth, had spent years under instruction at New Zealand and had been baptized. They were spending the colder part of the year at home and hope shortly to be called for by the mission ship to return and resume their course of instruction. Owen had come to an understanding with the chief and the Samoans and had decided on landing his lieutenant and it was accordingly done with very little consciousness on the patient's part. Black figures with woolly mop heads sometimes decorated with white wash of lime crowded round to assist in the transport of the sick man through the surf and David himself in a white European garb met his guests with dignified manners that would have suited a prince of any land and conducted them through the grove of palms interspersed with white huts to a beautiful house consisting of a central room with many others opening from it floored with white coral line and lined with soft, shining mass of Samoan manufacture. This, Harry Learn, had been erected by them in hopes of an English missionary taking up his abode amongst them. They were a kindly people and had shown hospitality to other Englishmen who had less appreciated it than these young officers could. They lavished every kindness in their power upon them and Mr. Ernst Cliff at first revived so much that he seemed likely to recover. But the ship had completed her repairs and was ready to sail. The two midshipmen thought it would be certain death to their lieutenant to bring him back to such an atmosphere. And so continued Harry's letter to his father. I thought there was nothing for it but for me to stay with him and that you would say so. I got Owen to consent after some trouble as we were sure to be fetched off one time or another. We said not a word to Mr. Ernst Cliff for he was only sensible now and then so that Owen had the command. Owen made the skipper leave me a pistol and some powder but I was ashamed David should know it and stowed it away. As to the quartermaster, Paul Jennings whose boy you remember we picked up at the Roman camp he had not forgotten that and when we were shaking hands and wishing goodbye he leaped up and vowed he would never leave the young gentleman that had befriended his boy be eaten up by them black savage niggers. If they made roast pork of Mr. May he would be eaten first though he reckoned they would find him a tougher morsel. I don't think Owen was sorry he volunteered and no words can tell what a blessing the good old fellow was to us both. So there we stayed and at first Mr. Ernst Cliff seemed mending. The delirium went off he could talk quite clearly and comfortably and he used to lie listening when David and I had our odd sort of talks. I believe if you had been there or we could have strengthened him in a way he might have got over it but he never thought he should and he used to talk to me about all of you and said Stoneborough had been the most blessed spot in his life he had never had so much of a home and that sharing our grief and knowing you had done him great good just when he might have been getting elated. I cannot recollect it all though I tried hard for Margaret's sake but he said Hector would have a great deal of temptation and he hoped you would be a father to him and Norman and elder brother you would not think how much he talked of Coxmore about a church being built there as Ethel wished and Little Daisy laying the first stone I remember one night I don't know whether he was quite himself or he looked full at me with his eyes that had grown so large till I did not know what was coming and he said built by a sinner's vow the roof was like the tempers of a ship that was right mind it is so that is the ship that varies through the waves there is that anchor that enters within the veil I believe that was what he said I could not forget that he looked at me so but much more he said that I didn't remember and chiefly about poor dear Margaret he bade me tell her his own precious pearl that he was quite intent and believed it was best for her and him both that all should be thus settled for they did not part forever and he trusted but I can't write all that there was a great pure blood just here it is too good to recollect anywhere but a church I have been there today with my uncle and aunt and I thought I could have told it when I came home but I was too tired to write then and now I don't seem as if it could be written anyhow when I come home I will try to tell Margaret the most part was about her only what was better seemed to swallow that up the narrative broke off here but had been subsequently resumed for all Mr. Ernst's talk as I told you he was so quiet and happy that I made sure he was getting well that Jennings did not and there came an old human native wants to see us who asked why we did not bury him alive because he got no better and gave trouble at last one night it was the 3rd of August he was very restless and could not breathe nor lie easily I lifted him up to my arms for he was very light and thin and tried to make him more comfortable but presently he said isn't you Harry God bless you and in a minute I knew he was dead you will tell Margaret all about it I don't think she can love him more than I did and she did not have to know him for she never saw him on board nor in all that dreadful time nor in his illness she will never know but she is lost there was another break here and the story was continued we buried him the next day where one could see to see close under the great palm where David hoped to have a church one of these days David helped us with her and the glory with us there I little thought when I used to grumble at my two verses of the Psalms every day when I should want an idea or how glad I should be to know so many by heart for they were such a comfort to Mr. Ernstcliff David got us a nice bit of wood and Jennings carved the cross and his name and all about him I should have liked to have done it but I knocked up after that Jennings thinks I had a sunstroke I don't know but my head was so bad whenever I moved that I thought only Jennings would ever have come to tell you about it Jennings looked after me as if I had been his own son and there was David too as kind as if he had been Richard himself always sitting by debate my forehead or when I was a little better to talk to me and ask me questions about his Christian teaching you must not think of him like a savage for he is my friend and a far more perfect gentleman than I ever saw anyone but you, Papa holding the command over his people so easily and courteously and then coming to me with little easy first questions about the belief and such things like what we used to ask Mama he liked nothing so well asked for me to tell him about King David and we had learned a good deal of each other's languages by that time the notion of his heart like Coxmore to Ethel is to get a real English mission and have all his people Christians Ethel talked of good kings being David's to their line I think that is what he will be if he lives but those Islanders have been dying off since Europeans came among them but Harry's letter could not tell what he confessed one night to his father the next time he was out with him by Starlight how desolate he had been and how he had yearned after his home and one evening he had been utterly overcome by illness and loneliness and had cried most bitterly and uncontrollably and though Jennings thought it was for his friend's death it really was homesickness and the thought of his father and Mary Jennings had helped him out to the entrance of the hut that the cool night air might refresh his burning brow Orion shone clear and bright and brought back the night when they had chosen the starry hunter as his friend it seemed, he said as if you all were looking at me and smiling to me in the stars and there was a southern cross upright which was like the minster to me and I recollected it was Sunday morning at home and knew you would be thinking about me I was so glad you had let me be confirmed and be with you that last Sunday Papa for it seemed to join me on so much the more and when I thought of the words in church they seemed somehow to float on me so much more than ever before and it was like the minster and your voice I should not have minded dying so much after that at last Harry's black prince had hurried into the hut with the tidings that his English father ship was in the bay and soon English voices again sounded in his ears bringing the forlorn boy such form of kindness that he could hardly believe himself from your stranger if Alan could but have shared the joy with him he was carried down to the boat in the cool of the evening and paused on the way for a last farewell to the lonely grave under the palm tree one of the many sailors' graves scattered from the tropics to the poles and which might be the first seed in a God's acre to that island becoming what the graves of holy men of old are to us a short space more of kind care from his new friends and his Christian chief and Harry awoke from a feverish dose at sounds that seemed so like a dream of home that he was unwilling to break them by rousing himself but they approved themselves as real and he found himself in the embrace of his mother's sister and here, this is our not story began of the note that reached her in the early morning with tidings that her nephew had been picked up by the mission ship and how she and her husband had hastened it once on board they sent me below to see a hero, she wrote what I saw was a scarecrow sort of likeness of you here, Richard but when he opened his eyes there was our Maggie smiling at me I suppose he would not forgive me for telling how he sobbed and cried when he had his arms around my neck and his poor aching head on my shoulder poor fellow, he was very weak and I believe he felt for the moment as if he had found his mother we brought him home with us but when the next male went the fever was still so high that I thought it would be only alarm to you to write and I had not half a story either though you may guess how proud I was of my nephew Harry's troubles were all over from that time he had thus forth to recover under his aunt's motherly care while talking endlessly over the home that she loved almost as well as he did he was well more quickly than she had ventured to hope and nothing could check his impatience to reach his home not even the hopes of having his aunt for a companion the very happiness he enjoyed with her only made him long the more ardently to be with his own family and he had taken his leave of her and of his dear David and sailed by the first packet leaving Auckland I never knew what the old great bear said Harry it was late when the elders had finished all that was to be heard at present and the clock reminded them that they must part and you go tomorrow side Margaret I must Jennings has to go on to Portsmouth and see after his son oh let me see Jennings exclaimed Margaret may I not Papa Richard who had been making friends with Jennings whenever he had not greeted by his sisters that afternoon went to fetch him from the kitchen where all the servants and all their particular friends were listening to the yarn that made them hold their heads higher as belonging to master Harry Harry stepped forward met Jennings and said aside my sister Jennings my sister that you have heard of doctor may had already seen the sailor but he could not help addressing him again come in and see my boy among us all without you we never should have had him make him come to me said Margaret breathlessly as the embarrassed sailor stood sleaking down his hair and when he had advanced to her couch she looked up in his face and put her hand into his great brown one I could not help saying thank you she said Mr May sir cried Jennings almost crying and looking around for Harry as a sort of protector tell them sir please it was only my duty I could not do no less and you know that sir as if Harry had been making an accusation against him we know you could not said Margaret and that is what we would thank you for if we could I know he Mr Ernstcliff must have been much more at rest for leaving my brother with so kind a friend and I will say no more about it Mr Ernstcliff was as fine an officer as ever stepped a quarter-deck and Mr May here won't fall short of him and was I to be after leaving the like of them to the mercy of the black fellows that was not so bad neither if it had only pleased God that we had brought them both back to you miss but you see a man can't be everything at once and Mr Ernstcliff was not so stout as his heart you did everything we know began Dr May it was a real pleasure said Jennings hastily for two such real gentlemen as they was Mr May sir I beg your pardon if I say it to your face never flinched nor spoke a word of complaint through it all and as to the other Margaret cannot bear this said Richard coming near it is too much the sailor shook his head and was retreating to come near again and grasped his hand Harry followed him out of the room to arrange their journey and presently returned he says he is glad he has seen Margaret he says she is the right sort of stuff for Mr Ernstcliff Harry had not intended Margaret to hear but she caught the words smiled radially and whispered I wish I may be end of part two chapter 17 I am Nancy Tochren-Gergen Gilbert, Arizona