 CHAPTER XXIII Oh, the golden-hearted daisies, witnessed there before my youth, to the truth of things with praises, of the beauty of the truth. E. B. Browning Margaret, see here! The doctor threw into her lap a letter, which made her cheeks light up. Mr. Ernst Cliff wrote that his father's friend, Captain Gordon, having been appointed to the frigate Alcestus, had chosen him as one of his lieutenants, and offered a nomination as naval cadet for his brother. He had replied that the navy was not Hector's destination, but as Captain Gordon had no one else in view, had prevailed on him to pass on the proposal to Harry May. Alan wrote in high terms of his captain, declaring that he esteemed that having sailed with him as one of the greatest advantages he had ever received, and adding that for his own part. Dr. May needed no promise from him to be assured that he would watch over Harry like his own brother. It was believed that the Alcestus was destined for the South American station. A three-year business, said Dr. May with a sigh. But the thing is done, and this is as good as we can hope. Far better, said Margaret, what pleasure it must have given him. Dear, Harry could not sail under more favourable circumstances. No, I would trust to Ernst Cliff as I would to Richard. It is kindly done, and I will thank him at once. Where does he date from? From Portsmouth. He does not say whether he has seen Harry. I suppose he waited for my answer. Suppose I enclose a note for him to give to Harry. There will be a raptor enough, and it is a pity he should not have the benefit of it. The doctor sat down to write, while Margaret worked and mused, perhaps on outfits and new shirts, perhaps on Harry's lion-locks, beneath a blue cap and gold band, or pechants on the coral shoals of the Pacific. It was one of the quiet afternoons, when all the rest were out, and which the doctor and his daughter especially valued, when they were able to spend one together without interruption. Soon, however, a ring at the door brought an impatient exclamation from the doctor. But his smile beamed out at the words, Miss Rivers. They were great friends. In fact, on terms of some mutual sourciness, though Metta was as yet far less at home with his daughters, and came in looking somewhat shy. Ah! your congeners are gone out! was the doctor's reception. You must put up with our sober selves. His floor had gone far. Asked Metta. To Coxmore, said Margaret, I'm very sorry she has missed you. Shall I be in your way? said Metta timidly. Papa has several things to do, and said he would call for me here. Good luck for Margaret, said Doctor May. So they had gone to Coxmore, said Metta. How I envy them. He would not if you saw the place, said Doctor May. I believe Norman is very angry with me for letting them go near it. Ah! but they are of real use there, and Miss Metta's obliged to take to envying the black hole of Coxmore, instead of being content with the egglentine bowers of Abbott's Stoke. I commiserate her, said the doctor. If I did any good instead of harm at Abbott's Stoke. Harm! exclaimed Margaret. They went on very well without me, said Metta, but ever since I've had the class they have been getting naughtier and noisier every Sunday, and last Sunday, the prettiest of all, the one I like best and had done everything for, she began to mimic me, held up her finger, as I did, and made them all laugh. Well, that is very bad, said Margaret, but I suppose she was a very little one. No, a quick clever one who knew much better, about nine years old. She used to be always at home in the week, dragging about a great baby, and we managed that her mother should afford to stay at home and send her to school. It seemed such a pity her cleverness should be wasted. The doctor smiled. Ah, depend upon it, the tyrant baby was the best disciplinarian. Metta looked extremely puzzled. Papa means, said Margaret, that if she was inclined to be conceited, the being teased at home might do her more good than being brought forward at school. I have done everything wrong, it seems, said Metta, with a shade of what the French called depie. I thought it must be right and good, but it has only done mischief. And now Papa says they are an ungrateful set, and that if it vexes me, I had better have no more to do with them. Does not vex you so much as that, I hope, said Margaret. Oh, I could not bear that, said Metta, but it is so different from what I thought. Ah, you had an arcadia of good little girls and straw hats, such as I see in Blanche's little books, said the doctor. All making the young lady an oracle and doing wrong, if they do it at all, in the simplest way, just for an example to the others. Doctor May, how can you know so well? But you really think it is their fault? Well, mine. Do you think me a conjurer? Well, but what do you think? What do Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot think? I know Mrs. Wilmot thinks I spoil my class. She spoke to me about making favourites, and sometimes has seemed surprised at things which I have done. Last Sunday she told me she thought I had better have a steadier class, and I know whom she will give me—the great big stupid ones at the bottom of the first class. I do believe it is only out of good nature that she does not tell me not to teach at all. I have a great mind, I will not. I know I do nothing but harm. What shall you say if I tell you I think so too? asked the doctor. Oh, Doctor May, you don't really? Now, does he miss May? I am sure I only want to do them good. I don't know what I can have done. Margaret made her perceive that the doctor was smiling, and she changed her tone, and earnestly begged to be told what they thought of the case. For, if she should show her concern at home, her father and governess would immediately beg her to cease from all connection with the school, and she did not feel at all convinced that Mrs. Wilmot liked to have her there. Feeling injured by the implied accusation of this management, yet with a sense of its truth, used to be petted and new to rebuffs, yet with a sincere wish to act rightly, she was much perplexed by this, her first reverse, and had come partly with a view of consulting Flora, though she had fallen on other councillors. Margaret, our adviser general, said the doctor, what do you say? Put yourself in the place of Mrs. Charles Wilmot, and say, shall Mrs. Rivers teach or not? I had rather you would, Papa. Not I, I never kept school. Well, then, I, being Mrs. Wilmot, should certainly be mortified if Mrs. Rivers deserted me because the children were naughty. I think I had rather she came and asked me what she had better do. And you would answer, teach, for fear of vexing her, said Mita. I should, and also for the sake of letting her learn to teach, the point where only trial shows one's ignorance, said Dr. May. But I don't want to do it for my own sake, said Mita. I do everything for my own sake already. For there's then, said the doctor, if teaching will not come by nature, you must serve an apprenticeship, if you mean to be of service in that line. Perhaps it was the gift that the fairies omitted, but will it do any good to them? I can't tell, but I am sure it would do them harm for you to give it up, because it is disagreeable. Well, said Mita with a sigh, I'll go and talk to Mrs. Wilmot. I could not bear to give up anything that seems right just now, because of the confirmation. Margaret eagerly inquired, and it appeared that the bishop had given notice for a confirmation in August, and that Mr. Wilmot was already beginning to prepare his candidates. Whilst Mr. Ramston, always tardy, never gave notice till the last moment possible. The hope was expressed that Harry might be able to profit by this opportunity, and Harry's prospects were explained to Mita. Then the doctor, recollecting something that he wished to say to Mr. Rivers, began to ask about the chance of his coming before the time of an engagement of his own. He said he should be here at about half past four, said Mita. He's gone to the station to inquire about trains. Do you know what time the last comes in? At nine forty-five, said the doctor. That's what we were afraid of. It is for Belé's my maid. Her mother is very ill, and she's afraid she is not properly nursed. It is about five miles from the Millbury station, and we thought of letting her go with a day ticket to see about her. She could go in the morning, after I'm up, but I don't know what is to be done, for she could not get back before I dress for dinner. Margaret felt perfectly aghast at the cool tone, especially after what had passed. It would be quite impossible, said the doctor. Even going by the eight o'clock train and returning by the last, she would only have two hours to spare—short enough measure for a sick mother. Papa means to give her whatever she wants for any nurse she may get. Is there no one with her mother now? A son's wife, who they think is not kind. Poor Belé's was so grateful for being allowed to go home. I wonder if I could dress for once without her. Do you know old Crabb? said the doctor. The dear old man at Abbottstoke. Oh, yes, of course. There was a very sad case in his family. The mother was dying of a lingering illness, when the son met with a bad accident. The only daughter was a lady's maid, and could not be spared, though the brother was half-crazy to see her, and there was no one to tend them but a wretch of a woman, paid by the parish. The poor fellow kept calling for his sister in his delirium, and at last I could not help writing to the mistress. Did she let her come? said Mita, a cheek-glowing. As a great favour, she let her set out by the mail train, after dressing her for a ball, with orders to return in time for her toilet for an evening party the next day. Oh, I remember! said Margaret. Her coming here at five in the morning, and you're taking her home. And when we got to Abbottstoke, the brother was dead. That parish nurse had not attended to my directions, and I do believe was the course of it. The mother had had a seizure, and was in the most precarious state. Surely she stayed! It was as much as her place was worth, said the doctor, and her wages were the chief maintenance of the family, so she had to go back to dress her mistress, while the old woman lay there, wailing after Betsy. She did give warning then, but before the month was out, the mother was dead. Mita did not speak, and Doctor May presently rose, saying he should try to meet Mr. Rivers in the town, and went out. Mita sat thoughtful, and at last, sighing, said, I wonder whether Belair's mother is so very ill? I have a great mind to let Susan try to do my hair, and let Belair stay a little longer. I never thought of that. I do not think he will be sorry, said Margaret. Yes, I shall, for if my hair does not look nice, Papa will not be pleased, and there is only an hour coming. How odd it will be to be without Belair's. I will ask Mrs. Larpent. Oh, yes, said Margaret. You must not think we are meant to advise, but Papa has seen so many instances of distress, from servants not spared to their friends in illness, that he feels strongly on the subject. And I really might have been as cruel as that woman, said Mita, while I hope Mrs. Belair's may be better, and able to spare her daughter. I don't know what will become of me without her. I think it will have been a satisfaction in one way, said Margaret. In what way? Don't you remember what you began by complaining of, that you could not be of use? Now, I fancy this would give you the pleasure of undergoing a little personal inconvenience for the good of another. Mita looked half puzzled, half thoughtful, and Margaret, who was a little uneasy at the style of counsel she found herself giving, changed the conversation. It was a memorable one to little Miss Rivers, opening out to her, as did almost all her meetings with that family, a new scope for thought and for duty. The code to which she had been brought up, taught that servants were the machines of their employer's convenience, good nature occasioned much kindliness of manner and intercourse, and every luxury and indulgence was afforded really, but where there was at any want of accordance between the convenience of the two parties, there was no question their master must be the first object. The servants' remedy was in their own hands. Aimee Boulez was Mr. Rivers. This, merely from indulgence and want of reflection, was his principle, and his daughter had only been acting on it, though she did not know it, till the feelings that she had never thought of with us displayed before her. These were her first practical lessons that life was not meant to be passed in pleasing ourselves, and being good-natured at small cost. It was an effort. Mita was very dependent, never having been encouraged to be otherwise, and Beliz was like a necessary of life in her estimation, but strength of principle came to aid her naturally kind-hearted feeling, and she was pleased by the idea of voluntarily undergoing a privation, so as to test her sincerity. So, when her father told her of the inconvenient times of the trains, and declared that Beliz must give it up, she answered by proposing to let her sleep a night or two there. Gayly promised to manage very well, and satisfied him. Her maid's grateful looks and thanks recompensed her when she made the offer to her, and inspired her to an energetic coaxing of Mrs. Larpent, who, being more fully aware than her father of the needfulness of the lady's maid, and also very anxious that her darling should appear to the best advantage before the expected aunt, Lady Lyonara Langdale, was unwilling to grant more than one night at the utmost. Mita carried the day, and her last assurance to Beliz was that she might stay as long as seemed necessary to make her mother comfortable. Thereupon Mita found herself more helpful in some matters than she had expected, but at a loss in others. Susan, with all Mrs. Larpent's supervision, could not quite bring her dress to the air that was so peculiarly graceful and becoming, and she often caught her papa's eye looking at her as if he saw something amiss, and could not discover what it was. Then came Aunt Lyonara, always very kind to Mita, but the dread of the rest of the household whom she was want to lecture on the proper care of her niece. Miss Rivers was likely to have a considerable fortune, and Lady Lyonara intended her to be a very fashionable and much admired young lady, under her own immediate protection. The two cousins, Lyonara and Agatha, talked to her. The one of her balls, the other of her music, patronised her and called her their good little cousin, while they criticised the stiff set of those unfortunate plates made by Susan, and laughed as if it was an unheard of concession at Beliz's holiday. Nevertheless, when honoured Miss received a note begging for three days longer grace, till her niece should come, in whom Beliz could place full confidence, she took it on herself to return free consent. Lady Lyonara found out what she had done, and reproved her, telling her it was only the way to make those people presume, and Mrs. Larpent was also taken to task. But decidedly, Mita did not regret what she had done, though she felt as if she had never before known how to appreciate comfort when she once more beheld Beliz's station at her toilet table. Mita was asked about her friends. She could not mention any one, but Mrs. Charles Wilmit, and the Mrs. May. Physicians? Daughters? Oh! said Lady Lyonara, and she proceeded to exhort Mr. Rivers to bring his daughter to London, or its neighbourhood, where she might have masters, and be in the way of forming intimacies due to her connections. Mr. Rivers dreaded London, never was well there, and did not like the trouble of moving, while Mita was so attached to the Grange that she entreated him not to think of leaving it, and greatly dreaded her aunt's influence. Lady Lyonara did indeed allow that the Grange was a very pretty place, her only complaint was the want of suitable society for Mita. She could not bear the idea of her growing accustomed, or want of something better, to the vicar's wife and the pet doctor's daughters. Flora had been long desirous to effect a regular call at Abbottstoke, and it was just now that she succeeded. Mrs. Charles Wilmit's little girl was to have a birthday feast, at which Mary, Blanche and Aubrey were to appear. Flora went in charge of them, and as soon as she had safely deposited them, and appointed Mary to keep Aubrey out of mischief, she walked up to the Grange, not a whit daunted by the report of the very fine ladies who were astonishing the natives of Abbottstoke. She was admitted, and found herself in the drawing-room, with a quick, lively-looking lady whom she perceived to be Lady Lyonara, and who instantly began talking to her very civilly. Flora was never at a loss, and they got on extremely well. Her ease and self-possession, without forwardness, telling much to her advantage. Mita came in, delighted to see her, but of course the visit resulted in no really intimate talk, though it was not without effect. Flora declared Lady Lyonara Langdale to be a most charming person, and Lady Lyonara on her side asked Mita who was that very elegant conversable girl. Flora May was the delighted answer, now that the aunt had committed herself by commendation, and she did not retract it. She pronounced Flora to be something quite out of the common way, and supposed that she had had unusual advantages. Mr. Rivers took care to introduce to his sister-in-law Dr. May, who would feign have avoided it, but ended by being in his turn pleased and entertained by her brilliant conversation, which she put forth for him, as her instinct showed her that she was talking to a man of high ability, a perfect gentleman she saw him to be, and making out some mutual connections far up in the family tree of the MacKenzie's, she decided that the May family were in acquisition, and very good companions for her niece had present, while not yet come out. So ended the visit, with this great triumph for Mita who had a strong belief in Aunt Lyonara's power and infallibility, and yet had not consulted her about belairs, nor about the school question. She had missed one Sunday's school on account of her aunt's visit, but the resolution made beside Margaret's sofa had not been forgotten. She spent her Saturday afternoon in a call on Mrs. Wilmot, ending with a walk through the village. She confessed her ignorance, apologised for her blunders, and put herself under the direction which, once, she had fancied too strict and harsh to be followed, and on Sunday she was content to teach the stupid girls, and abstained from making much of the smooth-faced engaging set. She thought it very dull work, but she could feel that it was something not done to please herself. And whereas her father had feared she would be dull when her cousins were gone, he found her more joyous than ever. There certainly was a peculiar happiness about Margaret Rivers. Her vexations were but ripples, rendering the sunny course of her life more sparkling, and each exertion in the way of goodness was productive of so much present joy, that the steps of her ladder seemed, indeed, to be of diamonds, her ladder, for she was indeed melting upwards. She was very earnest in her confirmation preparation, most anxious to do right and to contend with her failings. But the struggle at present was easy, and the hopes, joys and incentives shone out more and more upon her in this blithe stage of her life. She knew there was a dark side, but hope and love were more present to her than was fear. Happy those to whom such young days are granted! Chapter 24 It is the generous spirit who, when brought among the tasks of real life, hath wrought upon the plan that pleased his childish thought, whose high endeavours are an inward light, making the path before him always bright. Wordsworth The holidays had commenced about a week when Harry, now newly appointed to HMS Alcestus, was to come home on leave, as he proudly expressed it. A glad troupe of brothers and sisters, with a doctor himself, walked up to the station to meet him. And who was happiest when, from the window, was thrust out the rosy face with a gold band? Mary gave such a shriek and leap, that two passengers and one guard turned round to look at her, to the extreme discomforture of Flora and Norman, evidenced by one by a grave, Mary, Mary, by the other, by walking off to the extreme end of the platform, and trying to look as if he did not belong to them, in which he was imitated by his shadow, Tom. Sailor already, rather than schoolboy, Harry cared not for spectators, his bound from the carriage, and the hug between him, and Mary would have been worthy of the return from the voyage. The next greeting was for his father, and the sisters had had their share by the time the two brothers thought fit to return from their calm walk on the platform. Grand was it to see that party return to the town. The naval cadet, with his arm linked in Mary's, and Aubrey clinging to his hand, and the others walking behind, admiring him as he turned his bright face every moment with some glad question or answer, how was Margaret? Oh, so much better, she had been able to walk across the room, with Norman's arm around her, they hoped she would soon use crutches, and she sat up more. And the baby, more charming than ever, four teeth, would soon walk, such a darling, then came, my dirk, the ship, our berth. Papa, do ask Mr. Ernst Cliff to come here, I know he could get leave. Mr. Ernst Cliff, you used to call him Alan, said Mary. Yes, but that is all over now, you forget what we do on board, Captain Gordon himself calls me Mr. May. Some laughed, others were extremely impressed. Ha! There's Ned Anderson coming, cried Mary. Now, let him see you, Harry. What matters Ned Anderson to me, said Harry, and with an odd mixture of shame-facedness and cordiality, he marched full up to his old school fellow, and shook hands with him, as if able, in the plenitude of his officership, to afford plenty of good-humoured superiority. Tom had meantime subsided out of all view. But poor Harry's exaltation had a fall. Well, graciously inquired Mr. May, and how is Harvey? Oh, very well, we're expecting him home to-morrow. Where has he been? To Oxford, about the Randall. Harry gave a disturbed, wandering look round, on seeing Edward's air of malignant satisfaction. He saw nothing that reassured him, except the quietness of Norman's own face, but even that altered as their eyes met. Before another word could be said, however, the doctor's hand was on Harry's shoulder. You must not keep him now, Ned, said he. His sister has not seen him yet. And he moved his little procession onwards, still resting on Harry's shoulder, while a silence had fallen on all, and even the young sailor ventured no question. Only Tom's lips were quivering, and Ethel had squeezed Norman's hand. Poor Harry, he muttered, this is worst of all, I wish we had written it to him. So do I now, but we always trusted it would come right. Oh, if I were but a boy to flog that Edward. Hush, Ethel, remember what we resolved. They were entering their own garden, where, beneath a shade of the tulip tree, Margaret lay on her couch. Her arms were held out, and Harry threw himself upon her, but when he rose from her caress, Norman and Tom were gone. What is this? He now first ventured to ask. Come with me, said Dr May, leading the way to his study, where he related the whole history of the suspicion that Norman had incurred. He was glad that he had done so in private, for Harry's indignation and grief went beyond his expectations, and when at last it appeared that Harvey Anderson was actually Randall's scholar, after opening his eyes with the utmost incredulity, and causing it to be a second time repeated, he gave a gulp or two, turned very red, and ended by laying his head on the table, and fairly sobbing and crying aloud in spite of dirk, uniform, and manhood. Harry, why Harry, my boy, we should have prepared you for this, said the doctor affectionately. We have left off breaking our hearts about it. I don't want any comfort now for having gold instead of glitter, though at first I was as bad as you. Oh, if I had but been there, said Harry, combating unsuccessfully with his tears. Ah, so we all said, Norman and all, your word would have cleared him. That is, if you had not been in the thick of the mischief. Ha! July! Should not you have been on the top of the wall? I would have stood by him, at least. Would not I have given Axworthy and Anderson two such black eyes as they could not have shown in school for a week? They had better look out, cried Harry savagely. What, an officer in her Majesty's service? Hey, Mr. May! Don't, Papa, don't! Oh, I thought it would have been so happy when I came home to see Norman Randall's collar. Oh, now I don't care for the ship nor anything. Again Harry's face went down on the table. Come, come, Harry, said Dr. May, pulling off the spectacles that had become very dewy. Don't let us make fools of ourselves, or they will think we are dying for the scholarship. I don't care for the scholarship, but to have June turned down and disgrace. What I care for, Harry, is having June what he is, and that I know better now. He is, he is, he is June himself, and no mistake, cried Harry with vehemence. The prime of the year is not it, said the doctor smiling, as he stroked down the blue sleeve, as if he thought that generous July did not fall far short of it. That he is, exclaimed Harry, I have never met one fellow like him. It will be a chance if you ever do, said Dr. May. That is better than scholarships. It should have been both, said Harry. Norman thinks that a disappointment has been very good for him, said the doctor. Perhaps it made him what he is now. All success is no discipline, you know. Harry looked as if he did not know. Perhaps you will understand better by and by, but this I can tell you, Harry, that the patient bearing of his vexation has done more to renew Norman's spirits than all his prosperity. See if it has not. I believe it is harder to every one of us than to him. To Ethel especially, it is a struggle to be in charity with the Andersons. In charity, repeated Harry, Papa, you don't want us to like a horrid, sneaking, mean-spirited pair like those that have used Norman in that shameful way? No, certainly not. I only want you to feel no more personal anger than if it had been Chevyot, or some indifferent person that had been injured. I should have hated them all the same, cried Harry. If it is all the same, and it is the treasury you hate, I ask no more, said the doctor. I can't help it, Papa. I can't. If I were to meet those fellows, do you think I could shake hands with them? If I did not lick Ned all down Minster Street, he might think himself lucky. Well, Harry, I won't argue any more. I have no right to preach for barons. Your brother's example is better worth than my precept. Shall we go back to Margaret, or have you anything to say to me? Harry made no positive answer, but pressed close to his father, who put his arm around him, while the curly head was laid on his shoulder. Presently, he said, with a great sigh, there's nothing like home. Was that what you wanted to say? asked Doctor May, smiling, as he held the boy more closely to him. No, but it will be a long time before I come back. They think we shall have orders for the Pacific. You will come home, our real lion, said the doctor. How much you will have to tell? Yes, said Harry, but oh, it is very different from coming home every night, not having anyone to tell a thing to. Do you want to say anything now? I don't know. I told you in my letter about the half-sovereign. I never mind that. And there was one night—I'm afraid—I did not stand by a little fellow that they bullied about his prayers. Perhaps he would have gone on if I had helped him. Does he sail with you? No, he was at school. If I had told him that he and I would stand by each other, but he looked so foolish and began to cry, I'm sorry now. Weak spirits have much to bear, said the doctor, and you stronger ones who don't mind being bullied are meant, I suppose, to help them, as Norman has been doing by poor little Tommy. It was thinking of Norman that made me sorry. I knew there was something else, but you see I forget when I don't see you in Margaret every day. You have one always near my boy. I know, but I cannot always recollect, and there is such a row at night on board, I cannot think quite tend as I ought, murmured Harry. Yes, your life, sleeping at home in quiet, has not prepared you for that trial, said the doctor. But others have kept upright habits under the same, you know, and God helps those who are doing their best. Harry sighed. I mean to do my best, he added, and if it was not for feeling bad, I should like it. I do like it. And his eyes sparkled and his smile beamed, though the tear was undried. I know you do, said Dr. May smiling, and for feeling bad, my Harry, I fear you must do that by sea or land, as long as you are in this world. God be thanked that you grieve over the feeling. But he is ready to aid, and knows the trial, and you will be brought nearer to him before you leave us. Margaret wrote about the confirmation. Am I old enough? If you wish it, Harry, under these circumstances. I suppose I do, said Harry, uneasily twirling a button. But then, if I've got to forgive the Andersons, we won't talk any more of that, said the doctor. Here is poor Mary, reconnoitering to know why I am keeping you from her. Then began the scampering up and down the house, round and round the garden, visiting every pet or haunt or contrivance. Mary and Harry at the head, Blanche and Tom in full career after them, and Aubrey stumping and scrambling at his utmost speed, far behind. Not a word passed between Norman and Harry on the school misadventure. But after the outbreak of the latter, he treated it as a thing forgotten, and brought all his high spirits to enliven the family party. Richard, too, returned later on the same day, and though not received with the same uproarious joy as Harry, the elder section of the family were as happy in their way as what Blanche called the middle-aged. The daisy was brought down, and the eleven were again all in the same room, though they were suppressed sighs from some, who reflected how long it might be before they could again assemble. T went off happily in the garden, with much laughing and talking. Pity to leave such good company, said the doctor, unwillingly rising at last. But I must go to the union. I promised Ward to meet him there. Oh, let me walk with you! cried Harry. Add me! cried other voices, and the doctor proposed that they should wait for him in the meads, and extend the walk after the visit. Richard and Ethel both expressing their intention of adhering to Margaret, the latter observing how nice it would be to get rid of everybody, and have a talk. What have we been doing all this time? said Dr. May, laughing. Chattering, not conversing, said Ethel saucily. Aye, the Coxmore board is going to sit, said Dr. May. What is a board? inquired Blanche, who had just come down prepared for her walk. Richard, Margaret, and Ethel. When they sit upon Coxmore, said Dr. May, but Margaret never does sit on Coxmore, Papa. Only allegorically Blanche, said Norman. But I don't understand what is a board? pursued Blanche. Mr. May, in his ship, was Norman's suggestion. Poor Blanche stood in perplexity. What is it, really? Something wooden-headed, continued the provoking Papa. A board is all wooden. Not only its head, said Blanche. Exactly so, especially at Stoneborough, said the doctor. It is what Papa is when he comes out of the council room, added Ethel. Or what everyone is while the girls are rigging themselves, sighed Harry. Ha! here's Polly. Now we only want Flora. And my stethoscope? Has anyone seen my stethoscope? exclaimed the doctor, beginning to rush frantically into the study, dining-room, and his own room, but failing, quietly took up a book, and gave up the search, which was vigorously pursued by Richard, Flora, and Mary, until the missing article was detected, where Aubrey had left it in the nook on the stairs, after using it for a trumpet and a telescope. Ah! now my goods will have a chance, said Dr. May, as he took it and patted Richard's shoulder. I have my best right hand, and Margaret will be saved, endless sufferings. Papa! I poor dear, don't I see what she undergoes, when nobody will remember that useful proverb, a place for everything and everything in its place. I believe one use of her brains is to make an inventory of all the things left about the drawing-room. But beyond it, it is past her power. Yes, said Flora, rather aggrieved. I do the best I can, but when nobody ever puts anything into its place, what can I do single-handed? So no one ever goes anywhere without first turning the house upside down for their property, and Aubrey, and now even baby, are always carrying whatever they can lay hands on into the nursery. I can't bear it, and the worst of it is that, she added, finishing her lamentation, after the others were out at the door. Papa and Ethel have neither of them the least shame about it. No, no, Flora, that is not fair, exclaimed Margaret, but Flora was gone. I have shame, sighed Ethel, walking across the room disconsolently, to put a book into a shelf. And you don't leave things trainants as you used, said Margaret. That is what I meant. I wish I did not, said Ethel. I was thinking whether I had better not make myself pay a forfeit. Suppose you keep a book for me, Margaret, and make a mark against me at everything I leave about. And if I pay a farthing for each, it will be so much away from Coxmore, so I must cure myself. And what shall become of the forfeits? asked Richard. Oh, there won't be enough to be worth having, I hope, said Margaret. Give them to the ladies' committees, said Ethel, making her face. Oh, Richie, they're worse than ever. We're so glad that Flora is going to join it, and see whether she can do any good. We? said Margaret, hesitating. Ah, I know you aren't, but Papa said she might, and you know she has so much tact and management, as Norman says, observed Margaret dutifully. I cannot like the notion of Flora going and squabbling with Mrs. Ledwich and Louisa Anderson. What do you think, Richie? asked Ethel. Is it not too bad that they should have it all their own way, and spoil the whole female population? Why, the last thing they did was to leave off reading the pro-book prayers morning and evening, and it is much expected that next they will attack all learning by heart. It is too bad, said Richard, but Flora can hardly hinder them. It will be one voice, said Ethel, but oh, if I could only say half what I have in my mind, they must see the error. Why, these—these—what they call formal, these the ties, links onto the church, onto what is good. If they don't learn them soundly, ram down hard, you know what I mean, so that they can't remember the first, remember when they did not know them, they will never get to learn, no, understand when they can understand. My dear Ethel, don't frown so horribly, or it will spoil your eloquence, said Margaret. I don't understand, either, said Richard Gravely. Not understand when they can understand? What do you mean? Why, Richie, don't you see? If they don't learn them, hard, firm, by rote when they can't, they won't understand when they can. If they don't learn when they can't, they won't understand when they can? Puzzled Richard, making Margaret laugh, but Ethel was too much an earnest for amusement. If they don't learn them by rote when they have strong memories—yes, that's it, she continued—they will not know them well enough to understand them when they are old enough. Who won't learn and understand what, said Richard. Oh, Richie, Richie, why the children, the psalms, the gospels, the things, they ought to know them, love them, grow up to them, before they know the meaning, or they won't care. Memory, association, affection, all those come when one is younger than comprehension. Younger than one's own comprehension? Richard, you are grown more tiresome than ever, are you laughing at me? Indeed, I beg your pardon, I did not mean it, said Richard, I am very sorry to be so stupid. My dear Richie, it was only my blundering, never mind. But what did you mean, I want to know indeed, Ethel? I mean, that memory and association come before comprehension, so that one ought to know all good things with familiarity before one can understand, because understanding does not make one love. Oh, one does that before, and when the first little gleam, little bit of a sparklet of the meaning does come, then it is so valuable and so delightful. I never heard of a little bit of a sparklet before, said Richard, but I think I do see what Ethel means, and it is like what I heard and liked in a university sermon some Sundays ago, saying that these lessons and holy words were to be impressed on us here from infancy on earth, that we might be always unraveling their meaning, and learn it fully at last, where we hope to be. The very same thought, exclaimed Margaret, delighted. But, after a pause, I am afraid the ladies committee might not enter into it in plain English, far less in Ethel's language. Now, Margaret, you know I never meant myself, I never can get the right words for what I mean. And you leave about your faux commencements, as Mr. Ballon Pro would call them, for us to stumble over, said Margaret. But Flora would manage, said Ethel, she has power over people, and can influence them. O Richie, don't persuade Papa out of letting her go. Does Mr. Wilmot wish it? asked Richard. I have not heard him say, but he was very much vexed about the prayers, said Ethel. Will he stay here for the holidays? No, his father has not been well, and he has gone to take his duty. He walked with us to Coxmore before he went. And we did so wish for you. How have you been getting on? Pretty well on the whole, said Ethel. But, oh dear, oh dear Richard, them Carthys are gone. Gone where? Oh, to Wales! I knew nothing of it till they were off. Una and Fergus were missing, and Jane Taylor told me they were all gone. Oh, it is so horrid! Una had really come to be so good and so much in earnest. She behaved so well at school and church that even Mrs. Ledwich liked her, and she used to read her testament half the day, and bring her Sunday school lessons to ask me about. Oh, I was so fond of her, and it really seemed to have done some good with her. And now it is all lost. Oh, I wish I knew what would become of my poor child. The only hope is that it may not be all lost, said Margaret. With such a woman for a mother, said Ethel, and going to some heathenish place again, if I could only have seen her first and begged her to go to church and say her prayers. If I only knew where she is gone, but I don't, I did think Una would have come to wish me good-bye. I am very sorry to lose her, said Richard. Mr. Wilmot says it is bread-caste on the waters, says Margaret. He was very kind in consoling Ethel, who came home quite in despair. Yes, he said it was one of the trials, said Ethel, and that it might be better for Una as well as for me. And I am trying to care for the rest still, but I cannot yet as I did for her. There are none of the eyes that look as if they were easing up one's words before they come, and that smile of comprehension. Oh, they all are such stupid little delts, and so indifferent. Why, Ethel? Fancy last Friday, Mary and I found only eight there. Do you remember what a broiling day Friday was, interrupted Margaret. Miss Winter and Norman both told me I ought not to let them go, and I began to think so when they came home. Mary was the colour of a peony. Oh, it would not have signified if the children had been good for anything, but all their mothers were out at work, and of those that did come, hardly one had learned their lessons. Willie Blake had lost his spelling-card, and Harris kicked Susan Pope, and would not say she was sorry. Mary Hale would not know M from N, do all our Mary would, and Jane Taylor, after all the pains I have taken with her, when I asked how the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, seemed never to have heard of them. Margaret could have said that Ethel had come in positively crying with vexation, but with no diminution of the spirit of perseverance. I am so glad you have come, Richard. She continued, you will put a little new life into them. They all looked so pleased when we told them Mr. Richard was coming. I hope we shall get on, said Richard. I want you to judge whether the popes are civilised enough to be dressed for Sunday school. Oh, and the money! Here is the account book. How neatly you have kept it, Ethel. Ah, it was for you, you know. Receipts! See, aren't you surprised? Four pounds, eighteen and eight pence. That is a great deal. The three guineas were Mr. River's fees, you know. Then Margaret gave us half a sovereign, and Mary a shilling, and there was one that we picked up, tumbling about the house, and Papa said we might have, and the two pence were little blanchers' savings. Oh, Richie! As a bright coin appeared on the book. That is all I could save this term, he said. Oh, it is famous! Now I do think I may put another whole sovereign away into the purse for the church. See, here is what we have paid. Shoes, those did bring our money very low, and then I bought a piece of print which cost sixteen shillings, but it will make plenty of frocks. So, you see, the balance is actually two pounds nine. That is something. The nine shillings will go on till we get another fee, for I have two frocks ready made for the popes, so the two pounds are a real nest egg towards the church. The church! repeated Richard, half-smiling. I looked in the paper the other day, and saw that a chapel had been built for nine hundred pounds, said Ethel. And you have two. Two in eight months, Richie, and more will come as we get older. I have a scheme in my head, but I won't tell you now. Nine hundred, and a church has to be endowed as well as built, you know, Ethel. Oh, never mind that now. If we can begin and build, some good person will come and help. I'll run and fetch it, Richie. I drew out a sketch of what I wanted to be. What a girl that is, said Richard, as Ethel dashed away. It's not she, said Margaret, and she means all so heartily. Do you know she has spent nothing on her own pleasures? Not a book, not a thing has she bought this year, except a present for Blanche's birthday, and some silk to net a purse for Harry. I cannot help being sometimes persuaded that she will succeed, said Richard. Faith, energy, self-denial, perseverance, they go a great way, said Margaret. And yet when we look at poor dear Ethel, and her queer and gainly ways, and think of her building a church—neither Richard nor Margaret could help laughing, but they checked it at once, and the former said, That brave spirit is a reproof to us all. Yes, said Margaret, and so is the resolution to mend her little faults. Ethel came back, having, of course, mislaid her sketch, and much vexed, wished to know if it ought to cause her first forfeit. But Margaret thought these should not begin till the date of the agreement, and the three resumed the Coxmore discussion. It lasted till the return of the walking party, so late that they had been stargazing, and came in, in full dispute as to which was Cygnus and Witchaquilla, while Blanche was talking very grandly of Taurus Poniatowski, and Harry begging to be told which constellations he should still see in the Southern Hemisphere. Dr. May was the first to rectify the globe for the Southern Latitudes, and fingers were affectionately laid on Orion's studded belt, as though he were a friend who would accompany the sailor-boy. Voices grew loud and eager in enumerating the stars common to both, and so came bedtime, and the globe stood on the table in danger of being forgotten. Ethel diligently lifted it up, and while Norman exclaimed at her tidiness, Margaret told how a new leaf was to be turned, and of her voluntary forfeits. A very good plan, cried the doctor, we can't do better than follow her example. What you, Papa? Oh, what fun! exclaimed Harry. So do you think I shall be ruined, Mr. Monkey? How do you know I shall not be the most orderly of all? A penny for everything left about, confiscated for the benefit of Cocksmore, eh? And two pens for pocket handkerchiefs, if you please? Said Norman with a gesture of disgust. Very well. From Blanche upwards, Margaret shall have a book, and set down marks against us. Hold an audit every Saturday night. What say you, Blanche? Oh, I hope Flora will leave something about! Cried Blanche, dancing with glee. Oh, no! We never mention her. We never breathe her name. Song. A great deal of merriment had come home with Harry, who never was grey for ten minutes without a strong reaction, and distracted the house with his noise and his antics in proportion, as it sometimes seemed, to the spaces of serious thought and reading spent in the study, where Doctor May did his best to supply Mr. Ramson's insufficient attention to his confirmation candidates, by giving an hour every day to Norman, Ethel and Harry. He could not lecture, but he read with them, and his own earnestness was very impressive. The two elders felt deeply, but Harry often kept it in doubt, whether he were not as yet too young and wild for permanent impressions, so rapid were his transitions, and so overpowering his high spirits. Not that these were objected to, but there was a feeling that there might as well be moderation in all things, and that it would have been satisfactory if, under present circumstances, he had been somewhat more subdued and diligent. There are your decimals not done yet, Harry? For Harry, being somewhat divisioned in arithmetic, had been recommended to work in that line during his visit at home, an operation usually deferred, as at present, to the evening. I am going to do my sums now, Flora, said Harry, somewhat annoyed. He really fetched his arithmetic, and his voice was soon heard asking how he was ever to put an end to a sum that would turn to nothing but everlasting threes. What have you been doing, young ladies? Asked Doctor May, did you call on Miss Walkingham? Flora and Blanche did, said Ethel. I thought you did not want me to go, and I had not time. Besides, a London grand young lady, oh! and Ethel shook her head in disgust. That is not the way you treat Mehta rivers. Oh, Meeta is different. She has never been out. I should have been glad for you to have seen Miss Walkingham, said her father. Pretty manners are improving. Besides, old lady Walkingham begged me to send my daughters. I should not have seen her, said Ethel, for she was not well enough to let us in. Was it not pushing, said Flora? There were the Andersons leaving their card. Those Andersons exclaimed the Doctor. I am sick of the very sound of the name. As sure as my name is Dick May, I'll include it in Margaret's book of finds. Flora looked dignified. They are always harping on that little Trumpery girl's nonsense, said Harry. Aught, aught, ate. That is eight thousands. Hey, Norman, if it was about those two fellows, the boys, you would harp only on what affects you, said the Doctor. No, I don't. Men never do. That is one hundred and twenty-fifth. One man does it to an hundred and twenty-five women, said Doctor May. It is rather a female defect indeed, said Margaret. Defect, said Flora. Yes, said Doctor May. Since it is not only irksome to the hearers, but leads to the breaking of the Ninth Commandment. Many voices declared in forms of varying severity that it was impossible to speak worse of the Andersons than they deserved. Andersons again, cried Doctor May. One, two, three, four, five, six forfeits. Papa himself, for he said the name, sorcery put in blanche. I think I should like the rule to be made in earnest. Said Ethel. What, in order to catch Flora's pence for coxmoor? Suggested Harry. No, but because it is malice. I mean, that is, if there is dislike or a grudge in our hearts at them, talking forever of nasty little miserable irritations makes it worse. Then why do you do it? asked Flora. I heard you only on Sunday, declaiming about Fanny Anderson. Ha! cried out all at once. There goes Flora. She looked intensely serious and innocent. I know, said Ethel, it is the very reason I want the rule to be made, just to stop us, for I am sure we must often say more than is right. Especially when we come to the pass of declaring that the Ninth Commandment cannot be broken in regard to them. Observed the Doctor. Most likely they are saying much the same of us. Said Richard. Or worse, rejoined Doctor May. The injured never hates as much as the injurer. Now Papa has said the severest thing of all, whispered Ethel. Proving the inexperience of personalities, said Doctor May, and in good time entering the evening post. Why? How now, Mr May? Are you gone mad? Hello, why ho? Ha! Hurrah! And up when Harry's book of decimals to the ceiling, coming down upon a candle which would have been overturned on Ethel's work if it had not been dexterously caught by Richard. Harry! indignantly cried Ethel and Flora. See what you've done! and the Doctor's voice called to order, but Harry could not heed. Here, here, he has a fortune, an estate! Who? Tell us, don't be so absurd! Who? Who? Mr Ernstcliff. Here is the letter from Hector. Only listen. Did you know we had an old faraway English cousin, one Mr Halliday? I hardly did, though Allen was named after him and he belonged to my mother. He was a cross-old fellow and took no notice of us, but within the last year or two his nephew or son or something died and now he is just dead, and the lawyer wrote to tell Allen he is heir at law. Mr Ernstcliff of Maplewood! Does it not sound well? It is a beautiful great place in Shropshire, and Allen and I mean to run off to see it as soon as he can have any time on shore. Ethel could not help looking at Margaret, but was ashamed of her impertinence, and coloured violently, whereas her sister did not colour at all, and Norman, looking down, wondered whether Allen would make the voyage. Oh, of course he will, he must, said Harry. He would never give up now. Norman further wondered whether Hector would remain on the Stoneborough Foundation, and Mary hoped they should not lose him, but there was no great redness to talk over the event, and there soon was a silence broken by Flora, saying, He is no such nobody, as Louisa Anderson said when we… Another shout, which caused Flora to take refuge in playing waltzes for the rest of the evening. Moreover, to the extreme satisfaction of Mary, she left her crochet needle on the floor at night. While a tumultuous party were pursuing her with it to claim the penny, and Richard was conveying Margaret upstairs, Ethel found an opportunity of asking her father if he were not very glad of Mr Ernstcliff's good fortune. Yes, very. He is a good fellow, and will make a good use of it. And now, papa, does it not make, you won't say now or you are sorry he came here? She had no answer but a sigh, and a look that made her blush for having ventured so far. She was so much persuaded that great events must ensue, that all the next day she listened to every ring of the bell, and when one at last was followed by a light, though, to her ears, manly sounding tread, she looked up flushing with expectation. Behold! She was disappointed. Miss Walkingham was announced, and she rose surprised, for the lady in question had only come to Stoneborough for a couple of days with an infirm mother, who, having known Dr May in old times, had made it her a special request that he would let her see his daughters. She was to proceed on her journey today, and the return of the visit had been by no means expected. Flora went forward to receive her, wondering to see her so young-looking and so unformed. She held out her hand with a red wrist, and as far as could be seen under her veil, coloured when presented to the recumbent Margaret. How she got into her chair they hardly knew, for Flora was at that moment extremely annoyed by hearing an ill-bred peel of Mary's laughter in the garden, close to the window, but she thought it best to appear unconscious, since she had no power to stop it. Margaret thought the stranger embarrassed, and kindly inquired for Lady Walkingham. Much the same, thank you, mumbled a voice down in her throat. A silence, until Margaret tried another question. Equally, briefly answered, and after a short interval, the young lady contrived to make her exit, with the same amount of gorshery as had marked her entrance. Expressions of surprise at once began, and were so loud that when Harry entered the room, his inquiry was, What's the row? Miss Walkingham, said Ethel, but you won't understand. She seemed half-wild, worse than me. How did you like the pretty improving manners? asked Harry. Manners? She had none, said Flora. She, highly connected, used to the best society. How do you know what the best society do? asked Harry. The poor thing seemed very shy, said Margaret. I don't know about shyness, said Flora. She was stifling a laugh all the time, like a rude schoolboy, and I thought Papa said she was pretty. I, did you think her so? asked Harry. A great broad red face, and so awkward, cried Flora indignantly. If one could have seen her face, I think she might have been nice looking, said Margaret. She had pretty golden curls and merry blue eyes, rather like Harry's. Humpf! said Flora. Beauty and manners seem to me much on the par. This is one of Papa's swans, indeed. I can't believe it was Miss Walkingham at all, said Ethel. It must have been some boy in disguise. Dear me! cried Margaret, starting with the painful timidity of helplessness. Do look whether anything is gone. Where's the silver ink stand? You don't think she could put that into her pocket? said Ethel, laughing as she held it up. I don't know. Do Harry, see if the umbrellas are safe in the hall. I wish he would. For now I come to remember. The Walkinghams went at nine this morning. Miss Winter said that she saw the old lady helped into the carriage, as she passed. Margaret's eyes looked quite large and terrified. She must have been a spy. The whole gang will come at night. I wish Richard was here. Harry, it really is no laughing matter. You had better give notice to the police. The more Margaret was alarmed, the more Harry laughed. Never mind, Margaret. I'll take care of you. Here's my dirk. I'll stick all the rubbers. Harry! Harry! Oh, don't! cried Margaret, raising herself up in an agony of nervous terror. Oh, where is Papa? Will nobody ring the bell and send George for the police? Police? Police? Thieves? Murder? Rubbers? Fire? All hands a-hoi? shouted Harry, his hands making a trumpet over his mouth. Harry, how can you? said Ethel hastily. Don't you see that Margaret is terribly frightened? Can't you say it once that it was you? You? and Margaret sank back, as there was a general outcry of laughter and wonder. Did you know it, Ethel? asked Flora severely. I only guessed at this moment, said Ethel. How well you did it, Harry. Well, said Flora, I did think her dress very like Margaret's shot silk. I hope you did not do that any harm. But how did you manage, said Ethel? Where did your bonnet come from? It was a new one of Adam's wife. Mary got it for me. Come in, Polly. They have found it out. Did you not hear her splitting with laughing outside the window? I would not let her come in, for fear she should spoil all. And I was just going to give her such a scolding for giggling in the garden, said Flora, and to say we had been as bad as Miss Walkingham. You should not have been so awkward, Harry. You nearly betrayed yourself. He had nobody to teach him, but Mary, said Ethel. Ah, you should have seen me at my ease in Minster Street. No one suspected me there. In Minster Street? Oh, Harry, you don't really mean it. I do. That was what I did it for. I was resolved to know what the nameless one said of the Mrs. May. Hasty and ego inquiries broke out from Flora and Ethel. Oh, Dr. May was very clever, certainly very clever. Had I seen the daughters? I said I was going to call there, and they said, What? Oh, what, Harry? They said Flora was thought pretty, but— And as to Ethel, now, how do you think you came off? Unready? Tell me. They could not say the same of me at any rate. Quite the reverse. They called Ethel very odd, poor girl. I don't mind, said Ethel. They may say what they please of me. Besides that, I believe it is all Harry's own invention. Nay, there is a libel on my invention, exclaimed Harry. If I had drawn on that, could I not have told you something much drawler? And was that really all? said Flora. They said, let me see, that all our noses were too long, and that that as to Flora's being a beauty, when their brothers called her, so droll of them, but Harvey called her a stuck-up duchess. In fact, it was the fashion to make a great deal of those maize. I hope they said something of the sailor brother, said Ethel. No, I found if I stayed to hear much more, I should be knocking Ned down, so I thought it time to take leave before he suspected. All this had passed very quickly, with much laughter, and numerous interjections of amusement and reprobation or delight, so excited were the young people that they did not perceive a step on the gravel, till Dr May entered by the window and stood among them. His first exclamation was of consternation. Margaret, my dear child, what is the matter? Only then did her brother and sisters perceive that Margaret was lying back on her cushions, fairy pale, and panting for breath. She tried to smile and say, it was nothing, and she was silly, but the words were faint from the palpitation of her heart. It was Harry's trick, said Flora indignantly, as she flew for the scent-bottle, while her father bent over Margaret. Harry dressed himself up, and she was frightened. Oh no, no, he did not mean it! God, Margaret, don't! Harry, I did not think you could be so cowardly and unfeeling, and Dr May's look was even more reproachful than his words. Harry was dismayed at his sister's condition, but the injustice of the wholesale reproach chased away contrition. I did nothing to frighten any one, he said moodily. Now, Harry, you know how you kept on, said Flora, and when you saw she was frightened. I can have no more of this, said Dr May, seeing that the discussion was injuring Margaret more and more. Go away to my study, sir, and wait till I come to you. All of you, out of the room! Flora fetched the salvolatil. Let me tell you, whispered Margaret, don't be angry with Harry. It was not now, not now, my dear. Lie quite still! She obeyed, took the salvolatil, and shut her eyes, while he sat leaning anxiously over, watching her. Presently she opened them, and looking up, said rather faintly, and trying to smile, I don't think I can be better till you've heard the rites of it. He did not mean it. Boys never do mean it, was the doctor's answer. I hoped better things of Harry. He had no intention, began Margaret, but she still was unfit to talk, and her father silenced her by promising to go and hear the boy's own account. In the hall, he was instantly beset by Ethel and Mary, the former exclaiming, Papa, you're quite mistaken. It was very foolish of Margaret to be so frightened. He did nothing at all to frighten any one. Ethel's mode of pleading was unfortunate. The very foolish of Margaret were the very words to displease. Do not interfere, said her father sternly. You only encourage him in his wanton mischief, and no one takes any heed how he torments my poor Margaret. Papa cried Harry, passionately bursting open the study door. Tormenting Margaret was the last thing I would do. That is not the way to speak, Harry. What have you been doing? With rapid agitated utterance Harry made his confession. At another time the doctor would have treated the matter as a joke carried too far, but which, while it called for censure, was very amusing. But now the explanation that the disguise had been assumed to impose on the Andersons only added to his displeasure. You seem to think you have a license to play off any impertinent freaks you please without consideration for anyone. He said, But I tell you, it is not so. As long as you are under my roof, you shall feel my authority, and you shall spend the rest of the day in your room. I hope quietness there will bring you to a better mind, but I am disappointed in you. A boy who can choose such a time and such subjects for insolent, unfeeling, practical jokes cannot be in a fit state for confirmation. Oh, Papa, Papa! cried the two girls in tones of entreaty. While Harry, with a burning face and hasty step, dashed upstairs without a word. You have been as bad, said Doctor May. I say nothing to you, Mary. You knew no better. But to see you, Ethel, first encouraging him in his impertinent and terrifying Margaret, so that I dare say she may be a weak getting over it, and now defending him and calling her silly is unbearable. I cannot trust one of you. Only listen, Papa. I will have no altercation. I must go back to Margaret, since no one else has the slightest consideration for her. An hour had passed away when Richard knocked at Ethel's door to tell her that tea was ready. I have a great mind not to go down, said Ethel, as he looked in, and saw her seated with a book. What do you mean? I cannot bear to go down while poor Harry is so unjustly used. Hush, Ethel! I cannot hush, just because Margaret fancies robbers and murderers and all sorts of nonsense, as she always did, is poor Harry to be accused of wantonly terrifying her, and shut up and cut off from— and just when he is going away, too! It is unkind and unjust, and Ethel, you will be sorry. Papa will be sorry, continued Ethel, disregarding the caution. It is very unfair that I will say so. It was all nonsense of Margaret, but he will always make everything give way to her, and poor Harry just going to see. No, Richie, I cannot come down. I cannot behave as usual. You will grieve Margaret much more, said Richard. I can't help that. She should not have made such a fuss. Richard was somewhat in difficulties how to answer, but at that moment Harry's door, which was next, was slightly opened, and his voice said, Go down, Ethel! The captain may punish any one he pleases, and it is mutiny in the rest of the crew to take his part. Harry is in the right, said Richard. It is our duty not to question our father's judgments. It would be wrong of you to stay up. Wrong? said Ethel. Of course! It would be against the Articles of War, said Harry, opening his door another inch. But, Richie, I say, do tell me whether it has hurt Margaret. She is better now, said Richard, but she has a headache, chiefly, I believe, from distress at having brought this on you. She is very sorry for her fright. I had not the least intention of frightening the most fearsome little tender-mouse on earth, said Harry. No indeed, said Ethel. And at another time it would not have signified, said Richard. But, you know, Margaret always was timid, and now the not being able to move and the being out of health has made her nerves weak, so that she cannot help it. The fault was in our never heeding her when we were so eager to hear Harry's story, said Ethel. That was what made the palpitation so bad. But now Papa knows all. Does he not understand about Harry? He was obliged to go out as soon as Margaret was better, said Richard, and was scarcely coming when I came up. Go down, Ethel, repeated Harry. Never mind me. Norman told me that sort of joke never answered, and I might have minded him. The voice was very much troubled, and it brought back that burning sensation of indignant tears to Ethel's eyes. Oh, Harry, you did not deserve to be so punished for it. That is what you are not to say, returned Harry. I ought not to have played the trick, and just now too, but I always forget things. The door shut, and they fancied they heard sobs. Ethel groaned but made no opposition to follow her brother down to tea. Margaret lay, won and exhausted, on the sofa. The doctor looked very melancholy and rather stern, and the others were silent. Ethel had begun to hope for the warm reaction she had so often known after a hasty fit, but it did not readily come. Harry was boy instead of girl. The fault and its consequence had been more serious, and the anxiety for the future was greater. Besides, he had not fully heard the story. Harry, in his incoherent narration, had not excused himself, and Margaret's panic had appeared more as if inspired by him, than, as it was, in fact, the work of her fancy. Thus the evening passed gloomily away, and it was not till the others had said good night that Dr. May began to talk over the affairs with his elder son, who then was able to lay before him the facts of the case, as gathered from his sisters. He listened with a manner as though it were a reproof, and then said sadly, I'm afraid I was in a passion. It was very wrong in Harry, said Richard, and particularly unlucky it should happen with the Andersons. Very thoughtless, said the Doctor. No more, even as regarded Margaret, but thoughtlessness should not have been treated as a crime. I wish we could see him otherwise, said Richard. He once, and there Dr. May stopped short, and taking up his candle, slowly mounted the stairs, and looked into Harry's room. The boy was in bed, but started up on hearing his father's step, and exclaimed, Papa, I am very sorry. Is Margaret better? Yes, she is, and I understand now, Harry, that her alarm was an accident. I beg your pardon for thinking for a moment that it was otherwise. No, interrupted Harry. Of course I could never mean to frighten her, but I did not leave off the moment I saw she was afraid, because it was so very ridiculous, and I did not guess it would hurt her. I see, my honest boy, I do not blame you, for you did not know how much harm a little terror does to a person in her helpless state. But indeed, Harry, though you did not deserve such anger as mine was, it is a serious thing that you should be so much set on fun and frolic as to forget all considerations, especially at such a time as this. It takes away from much of my comfort in sending you into the world, and for higher things. How can I believe you really impressed in reverence, if the next minute? I am not fit! I am not fit! sobbed Harry, hiding his face. Indeed, I hardly know whether it is not so, said the doctor. You are under the usual age, and though I know you wish to be a good boy, yet I don't feel sure that these wild spirits not carry away everything serious, and whether it is right to bring one so thoughtless to— No, no!—and Harry cried bitterly, and his father was deeply grieved, but no more could then be said, and they parted for the night. Dr May, saying as he went away, You understand that it is not a punishment for your trick, if I do not take you to Mr Ramsdon for a ticket, but that I cannot be certain whether it is right to bring you to such solemn privileges, while you do not seem to me to retain steadily any grave or deep feelings. Perhaps your mother would have better helped you, and Dr May went away to mourn over what he viewed as far greater sins than those of his sons. Anger had indeed given place to sorrow, and all were grave the next morning, as if each had something to be forgiven. Margaret especially felt guilty of the fears which, perhaps, had not been sufficiently comforted in her days of health, and now were beyond control, and had occasioned so much pain. Ethel grieved over the words you had yesterday spoken in haste of her father and sister. Mary knew herself to have been an accomplice in the joke, and Norman blamed himself for not having taken the trouble to perceive that Harry had not been talking rudder-montaid when he had communicated his capital scheme the previous morning. The decision as to the confirmation was a great grief to all. Flora consoled herself by observing that, as he was so young no one need know it, nor miss him. And Ethel, with a trembling almost subbing voice, enumerated all Harry's excellences, his perfect truth, his kindness, his generosity, his flashes of intense feeling, declared that nobody might be confirmed if he were not, and begged and entreated that Mr Wilmot might be written to, and consulted. She would almost have done so herself if Richard had not shown her it would be undutiful. Harry himself was really subdued. He made no question as to the propriety of the decision, but rather felt his own unworthiness, and was completely humble than downcast. When a note came from Mrs Anderson, saying that she was convinced that it could not have been Dr May's wish that she should be exposed to the indignity of a practical joke, and that a young lady of the highest family should have been insulted, no one has spirits to laugh at the terms. And when Dr May said, What is to be done? Harry turned crimson, and was evidently trying to utter something. I see nothing for it but for him to ask their pardon, said Dr May, and a sound was heard. Not very articulate, but expressing full assent. That's right, said the doctor. I'll come with you. Oh, thank you! cried Harry, looking up. They set off at once. Mrs Anderson was neither an unpleasing nor unkind person, her chief defect being a blind admiration of her sons and daughters, which gave her, in speaking of them, a tone of pretension that she would never have shown on her own account. Her displeasure was pacified in a moment by the sight of the confused contrition of the culprit, coupled with his father's frank and kindly tone of a vowel that it had been a foolish and proper frolic, and that he had been much displeased with him for it. Say no more. Pray, say no more, Dr May. We all know how to overlook a sailor's frolic, and I am sure Master Harry's present behaviour. But you'll take a bit of luncheon. And as something was said of going home to the early dinner, I am sure you will wait one minute. Master Harry must have a piece of my cake, and allow me to drink to his success. Poor Mr May, to be called Master Harry, and treated to sweet cake. But he saw his father thought he ought to endure, and he even said, thank you. The cake stuck in his throat, however, when Mrs Anderson and her daughters opened their full course of praise on their dear, Harvey and dearest Edward, telling all the flattering things Dr Hoxton had said of the order in which Harvey had brought the school, and insisting on Dr May's reading the copy of the testimonial that he had carried to Oxford. I knew you would be kind enough to rejoice, said Mrs Anderson, and that you would have no feeling about Mr Norman, for, of course, at his age a little matter is nothing, and it must be better for the dear boy himself to be a little while under a friend like Harvey than to have authority while so young. I believe it has done him no harm, was all that the doctor could bring himself to say, and thinking that he and his son had endured quite enough, he took his leave as soon as Harry had convulsively bolted the last mouthful. Not a word was spoken all the way home. Harry's own trouble had overpowered even this subject of resentment. On Sunday the notice of the confirmation was read. It was to take place on the following Thursday, and all those who had already given in their names were to come to Mr Ramston to apply for their tickets. While this was read, large teardrops were silently falling on poor Harry's book. Ethel and Norman walked together in the twilight, in deep lamentation over their brother's deprivation, which seemed especially to humble them. Four, said Norman, I am sure no one can be more resolved on doing right than July, and he has got through school better than I did. Yes, said Ethel, if we don't get into his sort of scrape. It is only that we are older, not better. I am sure mine are worse, my letting Aubrey be nearly burned, my neglects. Papa must be doing right, said Norman, but for July to be turned back when we are taken makes me think of man judging only by outward appearance. A few outrageous looking acts of giddiness that are so much grieved over may not be half so bad as the hundreds of wandering thoughts that one forgets, because no one else can see them, said Ethel. Meanwhile Harry and Mary were sitting twisted together into a sort of bundle, on the same footstool, by Margaret Sofa. Harry had begged of her to hear him say the cataclysm once more, and Mary had joined with him in repetition. There was to be only one more Sunday at home. And that, he said, and sighed. Margaret knew what he meant, for the feast was to be spread for those newly admitted to share it. She only said a caressing word of affection. I wonder when I shall have another chance, said Harry, if we should get to Australia or New Zealand, but then perhaps there would be no confirmation going on, and I might be worse by that time. Oh, you must not let that be. Why, you see, if I can't be good here with all this going on, what shall I do amongst those fellows, away from all? You will have one friend. Mr. Ernstcliffe, you are always thinking of him, Margaret, but perhaps he may not go, and if he should, a lieutenant cannot do much for a midshipman. No, I thought, when I was reading with my father, that somehow it might help me to do what it called putting away childish things. Don't you know, I might be able to be stronger and steadier somehow. And then if, you know, if I did tumble overboard, or anything of that sort, there is that about the what they will go to next Sunday being necessary to salvation. Harry laid down his head and cried. Margaret could not speak for tears, and Mary was incoherently protesting against any notion of his falling overboard. It is generally necessary, Harry, Margaret said at last, not in impossible cases. Yes, if it had been impossible, but it was not. If I had not been a mad goose all this time, but when a bit of fun gets hold of me, I can't think, and if I am too bad for that, I am too bad for, for, and I shall never see Mama again. Margaret, it almost makes me afraid to sail. Harry, don't, don't talk so, sobbed Mary. Oh, do come to Papa, and let us beg and pray. Take hold of my hand, and Margaret will beg too. And when he sees how sorry you are, I am sure he will forgive, and let you be confirmed. She would have dragged him after her. No, Mary, said Harry, resisting her. It is not that he does not forgive. You don't understand. It is what is right, and he cannot help it or make it right for me if I am such a horrid wretch that I can't keep grave thoughts in my head. I might do it again after that, just the same. You have been grave enough of late, said Mary. This was enough to make me so, said Harry. But even at church, since I came home, I have behaved ill. I kicked Tom to make him look at old Levitt asleep, and then I went on, because he did not like it. I know I am too idle. On the Tuesday, Dr. May had said he would take Norman and Ethel red to Mr. Ramsdon. Ethel was gravely putting on her walking dress, when she heard her father's voice calling Harry, and she started with a joyful hope. There indeed, when she came downstairs stood Harry, his cap and his hand, and his face serious, but with a look on it that had as much subdued joy as all. Dear, dear Harry, you are going with us then? Yes, Papa wrote to ask what Mr. Wilmot thought, and he said, Harry broke off as his father advanced, and gave her the letter itself to read. Mr. Wilmot answered that he certainly should not refuse such a boy as Harry, on the proof of such entire penitence and deep feeling. Whether to bring him to the further privilege might be another question, but as far as the confirmation was concerned, the opinion was decided. Norman and Ethel were too happy for words, as they went arm in arm along the street, leaving their dear sailor to be leaned on by his father. Harry's sadness was gone, but he still was guarded and gentle during the few days that followed. He seemed to have learned thought, and in his gratitude for the privilege as he had so nearly missed, to rate them more highly than he might otherwise have done. Indeed, the doubt for the Sunday gave him a sense of probation. The confirmation day came. Mr. Rivers had asked that his daughter might be with Miss May, and Ethel had therefore to be called for in the Abbott Stoke carriage, quite contrary to her wishes, as she had set her heart on the walk to church with her father and brothers. Flora would not come, for fear of crowding Mr. Rivers who, with Mrs. Larpent, accompanied his darling. Oh, Margaret! said Flora after putting her sister into the carriage. I wish we had put Ethel into a veil. There is meter all white from head to foot, with such a veil, and Ethel in her little white cap, looks as if she might be Lucy Taylor, only not so pretty. Mama thought the best rule was to take the dress that needs least attention from ourselves, and will be least noticed. Said Margaret. There is Fanny Anderson gone by in a fly with a white veil on, cried Mary dashing in. Then I am glad Ethel has not one, said Flora. Margaret looked annoyed, but she had not found the means of checking Flora without giving offence, and she could only call Mary and Blanche to order, beg them to think of what the others were doing, and offer to read to them a little tale on confirmation. Flora sat and worked, and Margaret, stealing a glance at her, understood that, in her quiet way, she resented the implied reproof. Making the children think me worldly and frivolous, she thought, as if Margaret did not know that I think and feel as much as any reasonable person. The party came home in due time, and after one kiss to Margaret, given in silence, dispersed, for they could not yet talk of what had passed. Only Ethel, as she met Richard on the stairs, said, Richie, do you know what the bishop's text was? No man, having put his hand to the plow and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God. Yes, said Richard interrogatively. I thought it might be a voice to me, so Ethel. Besides what it says to all about a Christian course, it seems to tell me not to be out of heart about all those vexations at Coxmore. Is it not a sort of putting our hand to the plow? Dr May gave his own history of the confirmation to Margaret. It was a beautiful thing to watch, he said. The faces of our own set, those four were really like a poem. There was little Mita in her snowy whiteness, looking like innocence itself, hardly knowing of evil or pain or struggle, as that soft earnest voice made her vow to be ready for it all, almost as unscathed and unconscious of trial, as when they made it for her at her baptism. Pretty little thing. May she long be as happy. And for our own Ethel, she looked as if she was promising, on and on, straight into eternity. I heard her, I do, dear child, and it was in such a tone as if she meant to be ever doing. And for the boys? There was Norman grave and steadfast, as if he knew what he was about, and was manfully and calmly ready. He might have been a young knight watching his armor. And so he is, said Margaret softly. And poor Harry? The doctor could hardly command voice to tell her. Poor Harry. He was last of all. He turned his back and looked into the corner of the seat, till all the voices had spoken, and then turned about in haste, and the two words came on the end of a sob. You will not keep him away on Sunday? said Margaret. Far be it from me. I know not who should come, if he should not.