 Part 1 Chapter 26 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. What matter whether through delight, or led through veil of tears, or seen at once, or hid from sight? The glorious way appears, if step by step the path we see, that leads my savior up to thee. I could not help it, said Dr. May, that little witch. Meta Rivers? Oh, what, Papa? It seems that Wednesday is her birthday, and nothing will serve her but to eat her dinner in the old Roman camp. And are we to go? Oh, which of us? Every one of anything, like rational years. Lance is especially invited. There were transports till it was recollected that on Thursday morning school would recommend, and that on Friday Harry must join his ship. However the Roman camp had long been an object of their desires, and Margaret was glad that the last day should have a brilliancy, so she would not hear of anyone remaining to keep her company. Talked of the profit she should gain by a leisure day, and took art and interest in everyone's preparations and expectations. In Ethel's researches into county histories and classical dictionaries, Flora's sketching intentions, Norman's promises of Campanula Glomerata, and a secret whispered into her ear by Mary and Harry. Meta's weather, as they said, when the August sun rose fresh and joyous, and great was the unnecessary bustle and happy confusion from six o'clock till eleven, when Dr. May, who was going to visit patients some way further on the same road, carried off Harry and Mary to set them down at the place. The rest recalled four by Mr. Rivers' carriage and break. Mrs. Charles Wilmot and her little girl were the only additions to the party, and Meta, putting Blanche into the carriage to keep company with a contemporary, went herself in the break. What a brilliant little fairy she was, in her pink summer robes, fluttering like a butterfly, and with the same apparent felicity in basking and joy, all gaiety, glee, and light-heartedness in making others happy. On they went, through honeysuckleed lanes, catching glimpses of sunny fields of corn falling before the reaper, and happy knots of harvest folks dining beneath the shelter of their sheaves, with the sturdy, old-green umbrella sheltering them from the sun. Snatches of song, peels of laughter, merry nonsense, passed from one to the other. Norman, roused into blightness, found wit, the young ladies found laughter, and Richard's eyes and mouth looked very pretty as they smiled their quiet diversion. At last, his face drawn, all into one silent laugh, he directed the eyes of the rest to a high-green mound, rising immediately before them, where stood two little figures, one with a spy-glass, intently gazing the opposite way. At the same time came the halt, and Norman, bounding out, sprang lightly and nimbly up the side of the mound, and, while the spy-glass was yet pointed full at Wales, had hold of a pair of stout legs, and with the words, Keep a good look out, had tumbled Mr. May head foremost down the grassy slope, with Mary rolling after. Harry's first outcry was for his precious glass. His second was, not at his fall, but that they should have come from the east, when, by the compass, Stoneborough was north-northwest, and then the boys took the tumbling over one another, while made a frolic joyously, with nip and after her, up and down the mounds, chased by Mary and Blanche, who were wild with glee. By and by she joined Ethel, and Norman was summoned to help them to trace out the old lines of encampment, Ditch, Rampart, and Gates, happy work on those slopes of fresh turf, embroidered with every minute blossom of the moor, thyme, bird's foot, eye bright, and dwarf purple fistle, buzzed and hummed over by busy, black-tailed, yellow-banded dumbledores, the breezy wind blowing softly in their faces, and the expansive country, wooded hill, verdant pasture, amber harvest field, winding river, smoke canopy town, and brown moor, melting grayly away to the mountain heads. Now in sun, now in shade, the bright young antiquaries surveyed the old banks and talked wisely of Valum and Fassa, of Legion and cohort, of Agricola and Suetonius, and discussed the delightful probability that this might have been raised in the war with Characticus, whence argued Ethel, since Characticus was certainly Arviragus, it must have been the very spot where Imogen met Postimus again, was not yonder the very high road to Milford Haven, and thus must not Farafidel's grassy tomb be in the immediate neighborhood, then followed the suggestion that the mound in the middle was a good deal like an ancient tomb, where, as Blanche interposed with some of the lore lately caught from Ethel's studies, they used to bury their tears in wheelbarrows, while Norman observed it was the more probable, as Farafidel never was buried at all. The idea of a search enchanted the young ladies. It was the right sort of vehicle, evidently, said Norman, looking at Harry, who had been particularly earnest in recommending that it should be explored, and made it clear that if they could but find the least trace, her papa would be delighted to go regularly to work, and reveal all the treasures. Richard seemed a little afraid of the responsibility of treasure trove, but he was overruled by a chorus of ear voices, and dispossessed of the trowel, which he had brought to dig up some downgentians for the garden. While Norman set to work as pioneer, some skipped about in wild ecstasy, and Ethel melt down to peer into the hole. Very soon there was a discovery, an eager upcry, some pottery, Roman vessels, a red thing that might have been a lamp, another that might have been a lachrymatory. Well, said Ethel, you know, Norman, I always told you that the children's pots and pans in the clay ditch were very like Roman pottery. Postumus's pattypan, said Norman, holding it up. No doubt this was the bottle filled with the old queen's tears when Clotin was killed. You see it is very small, added Harry. She could not squeeze out many. Come now, I do believe you are laughing at it, said Meta, taking the derided vessels into her hands. Now, they really are genuine, and very curious things. Are not they, Flora? Flora and Ethel admired and speculated till there was a fresh and still more exciting discovery, a coin, actually a metal, with head of an emperor upon it, not a doubt of his high nose being Roman. Meta was certain that she knew one exactly like him among her father's gems. Ethel was resolved that he should be Claudius and began deciphering the defaced inscription T-H-V-R-V-S. She tried Claudius' whole torrent of names, and, at last, made it into a contraction of Tiberius, which highly satisfied her. Then Meta, in her turn, read D-V-X, which, as Ethel said, was all she could wish. Of course it was Dux a Imperator, and Harry muttered into Norm's ear. Dux and Geese, and then he decide, as he thought of the Dux no longer, V-V, continued Meta, what can that mean? Five, five, of course, said Flora. No, no, I have it. Venus fictrix, said Ethel, the ancestral Venus. Huh, don't you see? There she is on the other side, crowning Claudius. Then there is an E. Something about Aeneas suggested Norman gravely, but Ethel was sure that could not be, because there was no diphthong, and a fresh theory was just being started when Blanche's head was thrust in to know what made them all so busy. Why, Ethel, what are you doing with Harry's old medal of the Duke of Wellington? Poor Meta and Ethel, what a downfall! Meta was sure that Norman had known it the whole time, and he owned having guessed it from Harry's importunity for the search. Harry and Mary had certainly made good use of their time, and great was the mirth over the traps so cleverly set. The more when it was disclosed that Dr. May had been a full participator in the scheme, had suggested the addition of the pottery, had helped Harry to some liquid to a face part of the inscription, and had even come up with them to plant the snare in the most plausible corner for researches. Meta, enchanted with a joke, flew off to try to take in her governess and Mrs. Wilmot, whom she found completing their leisurely promenade, and considering where they should spread the dinner. The sight of those great baskets of good fare was appetizing, and the company soon collected on the shady turf where Richard made himself extremely useful, and the feast was spread without any worse mishap than nippins running away with half a chicken, of which he was robbed, as Tom reported, by a surly-looking dog that watched in the outskirts of the camp, and caused Tom to return nearly as fast as the poor little white marauder. Meta, very immorally, as Norman told her, comforted Nippin with the large share of her sandwiches. Harry armed himself with his stick and Mary with his stone, and marched off to the attack but saw no signs of the enemy, and had begun to believe him a figment of Tom's imagination, when Mary spied him under bush, lying at the feet of a boy with whom he was sharing the spoil. Harry called out rather roughly, Hello, what are you doing there? The boy jumped up, the dog growled, Mary shrank behind her brother, and begged him not to be crossed to the poor boy, but to come away. Harry repeated his question, Please, sir, Toby brought it to me. What, is Toby your dog? Yes, sir. Are you so hungry as to eat dogs meat? I have not had nothing before today, sir. Why, where do you live? Hear abouts? Oh, no, sir. I live with grandmother up in Cheshire, but she is dead now, and father has just come home from sea, and he wrote down I was to be sent to him at Portsmouth to go to sea with him. How do you live? Do you beg your way? No, sir. Father sent up a pound in a letter. Only Nanny Brooks said I owed some to her for her victuals, and I have not much of it left, and bread comes dear, so when Toby brought me this bit of meat I was glad of it, sir, but I would not have taken it. The boy was desired to wait while the brother and sister, in breathless excitement, rushed back with their story. Mrs. Wilmot was at first inclined to fear that the naval part of it had been inspired by Harry's uniform, but the examination of Jim Jennings put it beyond a doubt that he spoke nothing but the truth, and the choice's delight of the feast was the establishing him and Toby behind a barrel, and feeding him with such vians as they had probably never seen before. The boy could not read writing, but he had his father's letter in his pocket, and Mary capered at the delightful coincidence on finding that Jim Jennings was actually a quartermaster on Delcestis. He gave a sort of property in the boy, and she almost grudged Meta that having been first to say that she would pay for the rest of his journey instead of doing it by subscription. However, Mary had a consolation she would offer to take charge of Toby, who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned, he could not be taken on board, to be sure he was a particularly ugly animal, rough, grisly, short-legged, long back, and with an apology for a tale, but he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he and Jim lived on terms of such close friendship that he would have been miserable in leaving him to the mercy of nanny Brooks. So, after their meal, Jim and Toby were bidden to wait for Dr. May's coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank while the rest either sketched or wandered or botanized. Flora acted the grown-up lady with Mrs. Wilmot and Meta found herself sitting by Ethel, asking her great many questions about Margaret and her home, and what it could be like to be one of such a numerous family. Flora had always turned aside from personal matters as uninteresting to her companion, and, in spite of Meta's admiration and the mutual wish to be intimate, confidence did not spring up spontaneously, as it had done with the doctor and, in that single hour, with Margaret. Blood as Ethel was, her heartiness of banner gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their confirmation vows seemed to make a link, and made us unfaithful enthusiasm for the doctor was the sure-row to Ethel's heart. She was soon telling how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure in today's scheme, since not only were his spirits tried by the approach of Harry's departure, but he had, within the last few days, been made very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora's first letter on the news of last October's misfortune. My aunt in New Zealand exclaimed Ethel. Have you an aunt in New Zealand? cried Meta. I never heard of her. Did not you? Oh, she does write such charming long letters. Is she Dr. May's sister? No, he was an only child. She is their mama's sister. I don't remember her, for she went out when I was a baby, but Richard and Margaret were so fond of her. They say she used to play with them, and tell them stories, and sing scotch songs to them. Margaret says the first sorrow of her life was Aunt Flora's going away. Did she live with them? Yes, after Grandpa died she came to live with them, but then Mr. Arnot came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, for he is my godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt Flora. That letter of hers showed me what a comfort it would be to Papa to have her here. Perhaps she will come. No, Uncle Arnot has too much to do. It was a pretty story altogether. He was an officer at Edinburgh and fell in love with Aunt Flora, but my grandfather Mackenzie thought him too poor to marry her, and it was all broken off, and they tried to think no more of it. But Grandpa died, and she came to live here, and somehow Mr. Arnot turned up again, quartered at Whitford, and Papa talked over my uncle Mackenzie and helped them, and Mr. Arnot thought the best way would be to go out to the colonies. They went when New Zealand was very new, and a very funny life they had. Once they had burned in Heckie's Rebellion, and Aunt Flora saw a Maori walking about in her best Sunday bonnet, but in general everything has gone on very well, and he has a great farm besides an office under government. Oh, so he went out as a settler. I was in hopes it was as a missionary. I fancy Aunt Flora has done a good deal that may be called missionary work, said Ethel, teaching the Maori women and girls. They call her mother, and she has quite a doctor shot for them, and tries hard to teach them to take proper care of their poor little children when they are ill, and she cuts out clothes for the whole pa, that is, the village. And are they Christians? Oh, to be sure they are now. They meet in the pa for prayers every morning and evening. They used to have a hose struck against a bit of metal for a signal, and when Papa heard of it, he gave them a bell, and they were so delighted. And now there comes a clergyman every force Sunday, and on the others, uncle or not, reads part of the service to the English nearer and the Maori teacher to his people. Meada asked ravenously for more details, and when she had pretty well exhausted Ethel stopped, she said, how nice it must be! Ethel, did you ever read the Faithful Little Girl? Yes, it was one of Margaret's old Sunday books. I often collected it before I was allowed to begin coxmoor. I'm afraid I am very likely still, said Meada. What, in wishing to be a boy, that you might be a missionary? said Ethel. Not him being quite so cross at home? she added, laughing. I am not cross because I have no opportunity, said Meada. No opportunity. Oh Meada, if people wish to be cross, it is easy enough to find grounds for it. There is always a moon to cry for. Really and truly, said Meada thoughtfully, I never do meet with any reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it cannot be right or safe to live so entirely at ease and without contradictions. Well, but, said Ethel, it is the state of life in which you are placed. Yes, but are we meant never to have vexations? I thought you had them, said Ethel. Margaret told me about your main. That would have worried some people, and made them horribly cross. Oh, no rational person, cried Meada. It was so nice to think of her being with a poor mother, and I was quite interested in managing for myself. Besides, you know, it was just a proof how one learns to be selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I ought to spare her. And your schoolchildren? You were in some trouble about them? Oh, that is pleasure. I thought you had a class you did not like. I like them now. They are such steady plotting girls, so much in earnest, and one, that has been neglected, is so pleased and touched by kindness. I would not give them up for anything now. They are just fit for my capacity. Do you mean that nothing ever goes wrong with you, or that you do not mind anything? Which? Nothing goes wrong enough with me to give me a handsome excuse for minding it. Then it must be all your good temper. I don't think so, said Meada. It is that nothing is ever disagreeable to me. Stay, said Ethel. If the ill temper was in you, you would only be the crosser for being indulged. At least, so books say. And I'm sure myself that it is not whether things are disagreeable or not, but whether one's will is with them, that signifies. I don't quite understand. Why, I have seen the boys do for play, and done myself what would have been a horrid hardship if one had been made to do it. I never liked any lessons as well as those I did without being obliged. And always, when there is a thing I hate very much in itself, I can get up and interest in it, by resolving that I will do it well or fast, or something. If I can stick my will to it, it is like a lever, and it is done. Now, I think it must be the same with you. Only your will is more easily said at it than mine. What makes me uncomfortable is that I feel as if I never followed anything but my will. Ethel screwed up her face, as if the eyes of her mind were pursuing some thought almost beyond her. If our will and our duty run the same, she said, that can't be wrong. The better people are, the more they love what he commands, you know. In heaven they have no will but his. Oh, but Ethel cried Meada, distressed. That is putting it too high. Won't you understand what I mean? We have learned so much lately about self-denial, and crossing one's own inclinations, and enduring hardness. And here I live with two dear kind people who only try to keep every little annoyance from my path. I can't wish for a thing without getting it. I am waited on all day long, and I feel like one of the women that are at ease, one of the careless daughters. I think still, Papa would say, it was your happy contented temper that made you find no vexation. But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it. I never did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless I knew Papa was grieve, which always did make me unhappy enough. I laughed, and went to play most softly, whatever they did to me. If I had striven for the temper, it would be worth having, but it is my nature. And Ethel, she added, in a low voice, as the tears came into her eyes, don't you remember last Sunday? I felt myself so vain and petted a thing, as if I had no share in the cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself a member. It seemed ungrateful. Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her own had been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she sought for the answer that would only come to her mind in sense, not at first in words. Discipline, said she, would not that show the willingness to have the part, taking the right times for refusing oneself some pleasant thing. Would not that be only making up something for oneself, said Meida? No, the church orders it. It is in the prayer book, said Ethel. I mean one can do little secret things, not read storybooks on those days, or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. It is very trumpery, but it keeps the remembrance and it is not so much as if one did not heed. I'll think, said Meida, sighing, if only I felt myself at work, to please myself, but to be of use. Ha! she cried, springing up. I do believe I see Dr. May coming. Let us run and meet him, said Ethel. They did so and he called out his wishes of many happy returns of life days to the little birthday queen. Then added, You both look brave, though. Have they deserted you? No, Papa. We have been having a talk, said Ethel. May I tell him, Meida? I want to know what he says. Meida had not bargained for this, but she was very much an earnest, and there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented. Meida is longing to be at work. She thinks she is of no use, said Ethel. She says she never does anything but please herself. Placing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself, said Dr. May kindly. And she thinks it cannot be safe or right, added Ethel, to live that happy bright life as if people without care or trouble could not be living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meida? Yes, I think it is, said Meida. I seem to be only put here to be made much of. What did David say, Meida? returned Dr. May. My shepherd is the living Lord. Nothing therefore I need. In pastor's fair, near pleasant streams, he saideth me to feed. Then you think, said Meida, much touched, that I ought to look on this as the pastor's fair and be thankful. I hope I was not unthankful. Oh, no, said Ethel. It was the wish to bear hardness and be a good soldier. Was it not? Ah, my dear, he said. The rugged path and dark valley will come in his own fit time. Depend upon it. The good shepherd is giving you what is best for you in the Green Meadow, and if you lay hold on his rod and staff in your sunny days, he stops short and turn to his daughter. Ethel, they sang that psalm the first Sunday I brought your momma home. Meida was much affected and began to put together what the father and daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret discipline of which Ethel had spoken might be the true means of clasping the staff. Perhaps she had been impatient and wanting in humility and craving for the strife when her armor was scarce put on. Dr. May spoke once again. Don't let anyone long for external trial. The offering of a free heart is the thing. To offer praise is the great object of all creatures in heaven and earth. If they happier we are, the more we praise, than all as well. But the serious discussion was suddenly broken off. Others had seen Dr. May's approach, and Harry and Mary rushed down in dismay at their story having, as they thought, been forestalled. However, they had it all to themselves, and the doctor took up the subject as keenly as could have been hoped. But the poor boy being still fast asleep, after, probably, much fatigue, he would not then awaken him to examine him, but came and sat down in the semi-circle, formed by a terrorist bank of soft turf where Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Wilmot, Richard, and Flora had for some time taken up their boat. Meida brought him the choice of a basket of fruit which she had saved for him, and all delighted in having him there, evidently enjoying the rest and sport very much, as he reposed on the fragrant slope, eating grapes, and making inquiries as to the antiquities lately discovered. Norman gave an exceedingly droll account of the great Roman emperor, Tiberius V. V., and Meida, correcting it, there was a regular gay skirmish of words which entertained everyone extremely. Above all, Meida's indifference when the charge was brought home to her of having declared the old duke exactly like in terms to Domitian and Tiberius, his features quite forbidding. This lasted till the younger ones, who had been playing and rioting till they were tired, came up, and throwing themselves down on the grass, blanched petition for something that everyone could play at. Meida proposed what she called the story play. One was to be sent out of earshot and the rest to agree upon a word which was then to be guessed by each telling a story and introducing the word into it not too prominently. Meida volunteered to guess, and Harry whispered to Mary it would be no go, but in the meantime the word was found and blanch eagerly recalled Meida and sat in the utmost expectation and delight. Meida turned first to Richard, but he colored this stressfully and begged that Flora might tell his story for him. He should only spoil the game. Flora, with a little tinge of graceful reluctance, obeyed. No woman had been to the summit of Mont Blanc, she said, till one young girl named Marie resolved to have this glory. The Guides told her it was madness that she persevered. She took the staff and everything requisite and, following a party, began the ascent. She bravely supported every fatigue, climbed each precipice, was undaunted by the giddy heights she attained, bravely crossed the fields of snow, supported the bitter cold, and finally, though suffering severely, arrived at the topmost peak, looked forth where women had never looked before, felt her heart swell at the attainment of her utmost ambition, and the name of Marie was inscribed as that of the woman who alone has had the glory of standing on the summit of the giant of the Alps. It was prettily enunciated and had a pleasing effect. Meida stood conning the words, woman, giant, mountain, glory, and begged for another tale. Mine shall not be so stupid as Flora's, said Harry. We have an old sailor on board the USS, a giant he might be for his voice, but he sailed once in the glory of the West, and there they had a monkey that was picked up in Africa, and one day this old fellow found his queer messmate, as he called him, flying through glass just like the captain. The captain had a glorious collection of old coins and the like dug up in some of the old Greek colonies, and whenever Master Monkey saw him overhauling them, he would get out a lost button or a card or two and turn them over and chatter at them and glory over them, quite knowing, said Harry, imitating the gesture, and I dare say he saw Vivi and Tiberius Caesar as well as the best of them. Thank you, Mr. Harry, said Meida. I think we are at no loss for monkeys here, but I have not the word yet. Who comes next? Ethel? I shall blunder, I forewarn you, said Ethel, but this is mine. There was a young king who had an old tutor whom he despised because he was so strict, so he got rid of him and took to idle sport. One day, when he was out hunting in a forest, a white hind came and ran before him till she guided him to a castle, and there he found the lady all dressed in white with a beamy crown on head, and so nobly beautiful that he fell in love with her at once, and was only sorry to see another prince who was come to her palace too. She told him running was Gloria, and that she had many suitors, but the choice did not depend on herself. She could only be one by him who deserved her, and for three years they were to be on their probation trying for her. So she dismissed them, only burning to gain her and telling them to come back in three years' time. But they had not gone far before they saw another palace, much finer, all wearing with gold and silver, and their Lady Gloria came out to meet them, not in her white dress, but in one all gay and bright with fine colors, and her crown they now saw was of diamonds. She told them they had only seen her everyday dress and house. This was her best, and she showed them about the castle and all the pictures of her former lovers. There was Alexander who had been nearer retaining her than anyone, only the fever prevented it. There was Pyrus always seeking her, but slain by a tile, Julius Caesar, Tamerlane, all the rest, and she hoped that one of these two would really prove worthy and gain her by going in the same path as these great people. So our prince went home, his head full of being like Alexander and all the rest of them, and he sent for his good old tutor to reckon up his armies and see whom he could conquer in order to win her. But the old tutor told him he was under a mistake. The second lady he had seen was a treacherous cousin of Gloria, who drew away her suitors by her deceits, and whose real name was Vena Gloria. If he wished to earn the true Gloria, he must set to work to do his subjects good and to be virtuous. And he did. He taught them, and he did justice to them, and he bore it patiently and kindly when they did not understand. But by and by the other king, who had no good help him, had got his armies together and conquered ever so many people and drawn off their men to be soldiers. And now he attacked the good prince and was so strong that he gained the victory, though both prince and subjects fought manfully with heart and hand. But the battle was lost and the faithful prince wounded and made prisoner, but bearing it most patiently till he was dragged behind the other's triumphal army to Vena Gloria. And so he was carried into the forest leading and wounded, and his enemy drove the car over his body and stretched out his arms to Vena Gloria and found her a vain, ugly wretch who grew frightful as soon as he grasped her. But the good dying prince saw the beautiful beamy face of his lady love bending over him. Oh, he said, vision of my life asked thou come to lighten ever, even in my best days did I deem that I could be worthy of thee the more I strove the more I knew that Gloria is for none below for me less than all. And then the lady came and lifted him up and she said Gloria is given to all who do and suffer truly in a good cause, for faithfulness is glory and that is thine. Ethel's language had become more flowing as she grew more eager in the tale, and they all listened with extended interest. Norman asked where she got the story. Out of an old French book the Megazand is en Fall was the answer. But why did you alter the end? said Flora. Why kill the poor man? He used to be prosperous, why not? Because I thought, said Ethel, that Gloria could not properly belong to anyone here and if he was once conscious of it, it would be all spoiled. Gloria, do you guess? Oh, the word. I have forgotten all about it. I think I know what it must be but I should so like another story. May I not have one? said Meta coaxingly. Mary, it is you. Mary fell back on her papa and begged him to take hers. Papa told the best stories of all she said and Meta looked beseeching. My story will not be as long as Ethel's doctor, yielding with a half-reluctant smile. My story is of a hummingbird, a little creature that loved its master with all its strength and longed to do somewhat for him. It was not satisfied with its lot because it seemed merely a vain and profitless creature. The nightgale sang praise and the woods sounded with the Gloria of its strains. The fowl was valued for its flesh, the ostrich for its plume. But what could it do? Savory joys in the Gloria of the Flood of Sunbeams and to sport itself over the flowers and glance in the sunny light as its bright breastplate flashed from rich purple to dazzling flame color and its wings supported it, fluttering so fast that the eye could hardly trace them as it darted its slender beak into the deep-belt blossoms. So the little bird grieved and could not rest for thinking that it was useless in this world, that it sought gratification and could do nothing that could conduce to the Gloria of its master. But one night a voice spoke to the little bird Why hast thou been placed here? it said, but at the will of thy master was it not that he might delight himself in thy radiant plumage and see thy joy in the sunshine? His gifts are thy buoyant wing, thy beauteous colors, the love of all around, the sweetness of the honeydrop in the flowers, the shade of the palm leaf, esteem them then as his value thine own bliss while at last as the token of his care and love, and while thy heart praises him for them and thy wings quiver and dance to the tune of that praise, then indeed thy gladness conduces to no vain glory of thine own in beauty or in graceful flight, but thou art a creature serving as best thou cants to his glory. I know the word, half whispered Mehta, not without a trembling of the lip. I know why you told the story, Dr. May, but one is not as good as the hummingbirds. The elder ladies had begun to look at watches and talk of time to go home and Jim Jennings, having been seen rearing himself up from behind the barrow, the doctor proceeded to investigate his case was perfectly satisfied of the boy's truth and as ready as the ones to befriend him. A letter should be written at once, desiring his father to look out for him on Friday, when he should go by the same train as Harry, who was delighted at the notion of protecting him so far, and begged to be allowed to drive them home to Stoneboro in the gig. Consent was given, and Richard being added to give weight and discretion, the gig set out at once. The doctor, much to made his delight, took his place in the break. Lanch, who, in the morning, had been inclined to despise it as something akin to a cart, now finding it a popular conveyance, was urgent to return in it, and Flora was made over to the carriage, not at all unwillingly for, though it separated her from Meta, it made a senior of her. Norman's fate conveyed him to the exalted seat beside the driver of the break, where he could only now and then catch the sounds of mirth from below. He had enjoyed the day exceedingly, with that sort of abandon more than ordinarily delicious to grave or sudden temperaments, when roused or drawn out for a time. Menace winning grace and sweetness had a peculiar charm for him, and perhaps, his having been originally introduced to her as ill, and in sorrow, had given her manner towards him a sort of kindness which was very important to him. And now he felt as if he was going back to a very dusky, dusty world. The last and blightest day of his holidays was past, and he must return to the mishaprehensions and injustice that had blighted his school career, be kept beneath boys with half his ability, and without generous feeling, and find all his attainments useless in restoring his leisure in his studies. There would be no companionship among the boys, even his supporters, Ernst Clifford Larkins, were gone, and Harry would leave him still under a cloud. Norman felt it more as disgrace than he had done since the first, and wished he had consented to quit the school when it had been offered, be made a man instead of suffering these doubly irks and provocations and what would that little hummingbird think of me if she knew me disgraced, thought he, but it is of no use to think of it. I must go through with it, and as I always am getting vain glorious, I had better have no opportunity. I did not declare I renounced a vain pomp and glory last week to begin coveting them now again. So Norman repressed the sigh as he looked at the school others. The break had set out before the carriage, so that may had to come in and wait for her governess. Before the vehicle had disgorged half of its contents, Harry had rushed out to meet them. Come in, come in, Norman, only hearer. Margaret shall tell you herself, hurrah! Is Mr. Ernst Cliff come? crossed Ethel's mind, but Margaret was alone, flushed and holding out her hands. Norman, where is he? Dear Norman, here is good news. Papa, Dr. Hoxton has been here, and he knows all about it, and oh, Norman, he is very sorry for the injustice and you are ducks again. Norman really trembled so much that he could neither speak nor stand, but sat down on the window-seed while a confusion of tongues asked more. Dr. Hoxton and Mr. Larkins had come to call. Heard no one was home, but Miss May, had nevertheless come in, and Margaret had heard that Mr. Larkins, who had before intended to remove his son from Stoneboro, had in the course of the holidays made discoveries from him, which he could not feel justified in concealing from Dr. Hoxton. The whole of the transactions with Paul Hatchet and Norman's part in them had been explained as well as a true history of the affray in Randall's Alley, how Norman had dispersed the boys, how they had again collected, and, with the full concurrence of Harvey Anderson, renewed the mischief, how the Anderson's had refused to bear witness in his favor, and how Paul Hatchet's ill will had kept back the evidence which would have cleared him. Little Larkins had told all, and his father had no scruple in repeating it, and causing the investigation to be set on foot. Nay, he deemed that Norman's influence had saved his son, and came, as anxious to thank him, as Dr. Hoxton warm-hearted, though injudicious, was to repair his injustice. They were much surprised and struck by finding that Dr. May had been aware of the truth the whole time, and had patiently put up with the injustice, and the loss of the scholarship, a loss which Dr. Hoxton would have given anything to repair, so as to have sent up a scholar to give him so much credit. But it was now too late, and he had only been able to tell Margaret how dismayed he was at finding out that the boy, to whom all the good order in his school was owing, had been so ill-used. Kind Dr. May's first feeling really seemed to be pity and sympathy for his old friend, the headmaster, in the shock of such a discovery. Harry was vociferously telling his version of the story to Ethel and Mary. But the story was not as well understood, transfixed in attention. Mayna, forgotten and bewildered, was standing near Norman, whose color rapidly varied and whose breath came short and quick as he listened. A quick half interrogation passed made his lips, heard by no one else. It is only that it is all right, he answered, scarcely audibly. They have found out the truth. She heard words that implied the past suspicion. Yes, said Norman. I was suspected, but never at home. And is it over now? Yes, yes, he whispered huskily, all is right, and Harry will not leave me in disgrace. Mayna did not speak, but she held out her hand in heart a congratulation. Norman, scarcely knowing what he did, grasped and rung it so tight that it was positive pain as he turned away his head to the window to struggle with those irrepressible tears. Mayna's color flushed into her cheek as she found it still hell, almost unconsciously, perhaps, in his agitation, and she heard Margaret's words that both gentlemen had said Norman had acted nobly and that every revelation made in the course of their examination had only more fully established his admirable conduct. Oh, Norman! Norman! Glad! cried Mary's voice in the first pause, and, Margaret asking where he was, he suddenly turned round, recollected himself, and found it was not the back of the chair that he had been squeezing, lushed intensely, but made no attempt at apology for indeed he could not speak. He only leaned down over Margaret to receive her heartfelt embrace and, as he stood up again, his father laid his hand on her. My boy, I am glad, but the words were broken and, as if neither could bear more, Norman hastily left the room, Ethel rushing after him. Quite overcome, said the doctor, and no wonder he felt it cruelly though he bore up gallantly. Well, July? I'll go down to school with him tomorrow and see him ducks again. I'll have three times three, Harry, hip hip? Hooray, and Tom and Mary joined in chorus. What is all this, exclaimed Flora, open the door? Is everyone gone mad? Many were the voices that answered. Well, I am glad and I hope the Andersons will make an apology, but where is Pormeta, quite forgotten? Meda would not wonder if she knew all, said the doctor, turning with a sweet smile that had in it something, nevertheless, of apology. "'Oh, I am so glad—so glad!' said Meida, her eyes full of tears, as she came forward. And there was no helping it. The first kiss between Margaret May and Margaret Rivers was given in that overflowing sympathy of congratulation. The doctor gave her his arm to take her to the carriage, and, on the way, his quick warm words filled up the sketch of Norman's behavior. Meida's eyes responded better than her tongue, but, to her good-bye, she could not help adding, "'Now I have seen true glory!' His answer was much such a grip as her poor little fingers had already received, but though they felt hot and crushed all the way home, the sensation seemed to cause such throbs of joy that she would not have been without it. End of Part 1, Chapter 26, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona Part 1, Chapter 27, of The Daisy Chain Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young And full of hope they followed day, while that stout ship at anchor lay beside the shores of white. The may had then made all things green, and, floating there in pomp serene, that ship was goodly to be seen, his pride in his delight. Yet then, when called ashore, he sought the tender peace of rural thought in more than happy mood. To your bodes, bright Daisy flowers, he then would steal at least your hours, and loved you, glittering in your bowers, a starry multitude, words were. Harry's last home morning was brightened by going to the school to see full justice done to Norman, and enjoying this scene for him. It was indeed a painful ordeal to Norman himself, who could, at the moment, scarcely feel pleasure in his restoration, accepting for the sake of his father, Harry, and his sisters. To find the headmaster making apologies to him was positively painful and embarrassing, and his countenance would have been fitter for a culprit receiving a lecture. It was pleasure when the two other masters shook hands with him, Mr. Harrison, with a free confession that he had done him in justice, and Mr. Wilmot, with a glad look of congratulation, that convinced Harry he had never believed Norman to blame. Harry himself was somewhat of a hero. The master's all spoke to him, made him good speed, and wished him a happy voyage, and all the boys were eager to admire his uniform, and wish themselves already men and officers like Mr. May. He had his long-desired three cheers for, May, senior, shout it with a thorough goodwill by the United Lungs of the Witchcoat Foundation, and a supplementary cheer arose for the good ship Alcestus, while hands were held out on every side. And the boy arrived at such a pitch of benevolence and good humor, as actually to volunteer a friendly shake of the hand to Edward Anderson, whom he encountered skulking apart. Never mind, Ned, we have often licked each other before now, and don't let us bear a grudge now I'm going away. We are stone-borrow fellows, both, you know, after all. Edward did not refuse the offered grasp, and though his words were only, Goodbye, I hope you will have plenty of fun, Harry went away with a lighter heart. The rest of the day Harry adhered closely to his father, though chiefly in silence. Doctor May had attended much advice and exhortation for his warm-hearted, wild-spirited son, but words would not come, not even when in the still-eventing twilight they walked down alone together to the cloister and stood over the little stone-marked mm. After standing there for some minute, Harry knelt to collect some of the daisies in the grass. Are those to take with you? Margaret is going to make a cross of them for my prayer book. Aye, they will keep it in your mind. Say it all to you, Harry. She may be nearer to you everywhere, though you are far from us. Don't put yourself from her. That was all Doctor May contrived to say to his son, nor could Margaret do much more than kiss him, while tears flowed one by one over her cheeks, as she tried to whisper that he must remember and guard himself, and that he was sure of being thought of, at least, in every prayer. And then she fastened into his book the cross, formed of flattened daisies, gummed upon a framework of paper. He begged her to place it at the baptismal service, for he said, I like that about fighting, and I always did like the church being like a ship, don't you? I only found that perout the day poor little daisy was christened. Margaret had indeed a thrill of melancholy pleasure in this task, when she saw how it was regarded. Oh, that her boy might not lose these impressions amid the stormy waves he was about to encounter. That last evening of home good nights cost Harry many a choking sob, ere he could fall asleep. But the morning of departure had more cheerfulness. The pleasure of patronizing Jim Jennings was as consoling to his parents, as was, to Mary, the necessity of comforting Toby. Toby's tastes were in some respects vulgar, as he preferred the stable and well-adams to all Mary's attentions, but he attached himself vehemently to Dr. May, followed him everywhere, and went into raptures at the slightest notice from him. The doctor said it was all homage to the master of the house. Margaret held that the dog was a physiognomist. The world was somewhat flat after the loss of Harry, that element of riot and fun. Aubrey was always playing at poor Harry sailing away, Mary looked staid in sober, and Norman was still graver, and more devoted to books, while Ethel gave herself up more completely to the thickening troubles of Coxmore. These had arisen there, and these, with some rebukes for failures in sending children to be taught, had led to imputations on the character of Mrs. Green, in whose house the school was kept. Ethel was at first vehement in her defense. Then, when stronger evidence was induced of the woman's dishonesty, she was dreadfully shocked and wanted to give up all connection with her, and in both moods was equally displeased with Richard for pausing and not going all links with her. After Wilmot was appealed to and did his best to investigate, but the only result was to discover that no one interrogated at any notion of truth, except John Taylor, and he knew nothing of the matter. The mass of falsehood, spite, violence, and dishonesty that became evident was perfectly appalling, and not a clue was to be found to the truth. Scarcely a hope that mine's so lost to honorable feeling were open to receive good impressions. It was a great distress to Ethel, it haunted her night and day. She lay awake pondering on the vain hopes for her poor children, and slept to dream of the angry faces and rude accusations. Margaret grew quite anxious about her, and her elders were seriously considering the propriety of her continuing her labors at Coxmore. Mr. Wilmot would not be at Stoneborough after Christmas. His father's declining health made him be required at home, and since Richard was so often absent, it became matter of doubt whether the Mrs. May ought to be allowed to persevere, unassisted by older heads, in such a locality. This doubt put Ethel into an agony. Though she had lately been declaring that it made her very unhappy to go, she could not bear the sight of Mrs. Green, and that she knew all her efforts were vain while the poor children had such homes. She now only implored to be allowed to go on. She said that the badness of the people only made it more needful to do their utmost for them. There were no end to the arguments that she poured forth upon her ever-kind listener, Margaret. Yes, dear Ethel, yes, but pray be calm. I know Papa and Mr. Wilmot would not put a stop to it if they could possibly help it. But if it is not proper, proper? That is as bad as mess winter. Ethel, you and I cannot judge of these things. We must leave them to our elders. And men always are so fanciful about ladies. Indeed, if you speak in that way, I shall think it is really hurting you. I did not mean it, dear Margaret, said Ethel, but if you knew what I feel for poor Coxmore, you would not wonder that I cannot bear it. I do not wonder, dearest, but if this trial is sent you, perhaps it is to train you for better things. Perhaps it is for my fault, said Ethel. Oh, oh, if it be that I am too unworthy. And it is the only hope. No one will do anything to teach these poor creatures if I give it up. What shall I do, Margaret? Margaret drew her down close to her and whispered, trust them, Ethel, dear. The decision will be whatever is the will of God. If he thinks fit to give you the work, it will come. If not, he will give you some other and provide for them. If I have been too neglectful of home, too vain of persevering when no one but Richard would, sighed Ethel. I cannot see that you have, dearest, said Margaret Vonley, but your own heart must tell you that. And now only try to be calm and patient. Getting into these fits of despair is the very thing to make people decide against you. I will, I will, I will try to be patient, sobbed Ethel. I know to be wayward and set on it would only hurt. I might only do more harm. I'll try. But, oh, my poor children. Margaret gave a little space for the struggle with herself and advised her resolutely to fix her attention on something else. It was a Saturday morning and time was more free than usual, so Margaret was able to persuade her to continue a half-forgotten drawing while listening to an interesting article in a review which opened to her that there were too many cocksmores in the world. The dinrower sounded too soon, and as she was crossing the hall to put away her drawing materials, the front door gave the click peculiar to Dr. May's left-handed way of opening it. She paused and saw him enter, flushed, and with a look that certified her that something had happened. Well, Ethel, he has come. Oh, Papa, Mr. Ernst, he held up his finger, drew her into the study, and shut the door. The expression of mystery and amusement gave way to sadness and gravity as he sat down in his armchair and sighed as if much fatigue. She was checked and alarmed, but she could not help asking. Is he here? At the swan. He came last night and watched for me this morning as I came out of the hospital. We had been walking over the meadows to Fort Holm. No wonder Dr. May was hot and tired. But is he not coming? Asked Ethel. Yes, poor fellow, but hush. Stop, say nothing to the others. I must not have her agitated till she has had her dinner in peace, and the house is quiet. You know she cannot run away to her room as you would. Then he has really come for that, cried Ethel breathlessly, and, perceiving the affirmative, added. But why did he wait so long? He wished to see his way through his affairs, and also wanted to hear of her from Harry. I am afraid poor July's colors were too bright. And why did he come to the swan instead of to us? That was his fine noble feeling. He thought it right to see me first, that if I thought the decision to trying for Margaret in her present state, or if I disapproved of the long engagement, I might spare her all knowledge of his coming. Oh, Papa, you won't. I don't know but that I ought. But yet the fact is that I cannot. With that fine young fellow so generously, fondly attached, I cannot find it in my heart to send him away for four years without seeing her. And yet, poor things, it might be better for them both. Oh, Ethel, if your mother were but here. He rested his forehead on his hands, and Ethel stood aghast at his unexpected reception of the addresses for which he had so long hoped. She did not venture to speak, and presently he roused himself as the dinner bell rang. One comfort is, he said, that Margaret has more composure than I. Do you go to Coxmore this afternoon? I wished it. Take them all with you. You might tell them why when you are out. I must have the house quiet. I shall get Margaret out into the shade and prepare her as best I can before he comes at three o'clock. It was not flattering to be thus cleared out of the way, especially when full of excited curiosity, that any such sensation was quite overborn by sympathy in his great anxiety, and Ethel's only question was, had not Flora better stay to keep off company? No, no, said Dr. May impatiently, the fewer the better. And hastily passing her, he dashed up to his room nearly running over the nursery procession, and, in a very few seconds, was seated at table, eating and speaking by snatches, and swallowing endless drafts of cold water. You're going to Coxmore, said he, as they were finishing. It is the right day, said Richard. Are you coming, Flora? Not today. I have to call Mrs. Hoxton. Never mind Mrs. Hoxton, said the doctor. You had better go today, a fine, cold day for a walk. He did not look as if he found it so. Oh, yes, Flora, you must come, said Ethel, we want you. I have engagements at home, replied Flora. And it really is a trying walk, said Mrs. Winter. You must, reiterated Ethel, come to our room, and I will tell you why. I do not mean to go to Coxmore till something positive is settled. I cannot have anything to do with that woman. If you would only come upstairs, implored Ethel, at the door, I have something to tell you alone. I shall come up and do time. I thought you had outgrown closetings and foolish secrets, said Flora. Her movements were quickened, however, by her father, who, finding her with Margaret in the drying room, ordered her upstairs in a peremptory manner, which she resented as treating her like a child, and therefore proceeded in no amiable mood to the room, where Ethel awaited her in wild tumultuous impatience. Well, Ethel, what is this grand secret? Oh, Flora, Mr. Ernstcliffe is at the swan. He has been speaking to Papa about Margaret. Proposing for her, do you mean? Said Flora. Yes, he has come to see her this afternoon, and that is the reason that Papa wants us to all be out of the way. Did Papa tell you this? Yes, said Ethel, beginning to perceive the secret of her displeasure, but only because I was the first person he met, and Norman guessed it long ago. Do put on your things. I'll tell you all I know when we are out. Papa is so anxious to have the coast clear. I understand, said Flora, but I shall not go with you. Do not be afraid of my interfering with anyone. I shall sit here. But Papa said you were to go. If he had done me the favor of speaking to me himself, said Flora, I should have shown him that it is not right that Margaret should be left without anyone at hand in case she should be overcome. He is of no use in such cases. He makes things worse. I should not feel justified in leaving Margaret with no one else, but he is in one of those handoverhead moods when it is not of the least use to say a word to him. Flora, how can you, when he expressly ordered you? All he meant was, do not be in the way, and I shall not show myself unless I am needed, when he would be glad enough of me. I am not bound to obey the very letter, like Blanche or Mary. Ethel looked horrified by the assertion of independence, but Richard called her from below, and, with one more fruitless entreaty, she ran downstairs. Richard had been hearing all from his father, and it was comfortable to talk the matter over with him, and here explained the anxiety which frightened her while she scarcely comprehended it, how Dr. May could not feel certain whether it was right or expedient to promote an engagement which must depend on health so uncertain as poor Margaret's and how he dreaded the effect on the happiness of both. Ethel's romance seemed to be turned to melancholy, and she walked ungravely and thoughtfully, though repeating that there could be no doubt of Margaret's perfect recovery by the time of the return from the voyage. Her lessons were somewhat nervous and flurried, and even the sight of two very nice, neat new scholars, a very different appearance from the rest, and of much superior attainments, only half interested her. Mary was enchanted at them as a pair of prodigies, actually able to read, and had made out their names and their former bows, and how they'd been used to go to school, and had just come to live in the cottage deserted by the lamented Una. Ethel thought it quite provoking, your brother, to accede to Mary's entreaties that they should go and call on this promising importation. Even the children's information that they were taught now by Sister Cherry failed to attract her, but Richard looked at his watch and decided that it was too soon to go home, and she had to submit to her fate. Very different was the aspect of the house from the wild Irish cabin appearance that it had in the McCarthy days. It was the remains of an old farmhouse that had seen better days, somewhat larger than the general run of the Coxmore dwellings. Respectable furniture had taken up its abode against the walls. The kitchen was well arranged, and in spite of the wretched flooring and broken windows had an era of comfort. A very tidy woman was wrestling about, still trying to get rid of the relics of her former tenants, who might, she much feared, have left a legacy of typhus fever. The more interesting person was, however, a young woman of three or four and twenty, pale and very lame, and with the air of a respectable servant, her manners particularly pleasing. It appeared that she was the daughter of a first wife, and, after the period of schooling, had been at service, but had been lamed by a fall downstairs, and had been obliged to come home, just as scarcity of work had caused her father to leave his native parish, and seek employment at other quarries. She had hoped to obtain plain work, but all the family were dismayed and disappointed at the wild spot to which they had come, and anxiously availed themselves of this introduction to beg that the elder boy and girl might be admitted into the town school, distant as it was. At another time the thought of Charity Elwood would have engrossed Ethel's whole mind. Now she could hardly attend, and kept looking eagerly at Richard as he talked endlessly with a good mother. When, at last, they did set off, he would not let her gallop home like a steam engine, but made her take his arm when he found that she could not otherwise moderate her steps. At the long hill a figure appeared, and, as soon as Richard was certified of his identity, he let her fly like a bolt from a crossbow, and she stood by Dr. May's side. A little ashamed she blushed instead of speaking, and waited for Richard to come up and begin. Neither did he say anything, and they paused till, the silence disturbing her, she ventured a, Well, Papa! Well, poor things, she was quite overcome when first I told her. Said it would be hard on him, and begged me to tell him that he would be much happier if he thought no more of her. Did Margaret, cried Ethel? Oh! Could she mean it? She thought she meant it, poor dear, and repeated such things again and again. But when I asked whether I should send him away without seeing her, she cried more than ever, and said, You are tempting me. It would be selfishness. Oh, dear! She surely has seen him. I told her that I would be the last person to wish to tempt her to selfishness, but that I did not think that either could be easy in settling such a matter through a third person. It would have been very unkind, said Ethel. I wonder she did not think so. She did at last. I saw it could not be otherwise, and she said, poor darling, that when he had seen her he would know the impossibility, but she was so agitated that I did not know how it could be. Has she? Hi! I told him not to stay too long, and left him under the tulip tree with her. I found her much more composed. He was so gentle and considerate. Ah! He is the very man! Besides, he has convinced her now that affection brings him, not mere generosity, as she fancied. Oh, then it has settled, cried Ethel joyously. I wish it were. She has owned that if, if she were in health. But that is all, and he has transported with having gained so much, poor fellow. So far, I trust, it is better for them to know each other's minds, but how it is to be. But Papa, you know Sir Matthew Fleet, said she was sure to get well, and in three years' time. Yes, yes, that is the best chance, but it is a dreary look-out for two young things. That is in wiser hands, however. If only I saw what was right to do. My miserable carelessness has undone you all, he concluded, almost inaudibly. It was indeed, to him, a time of great distress and perplexity, wishing to act a part of father and mother both towards his daughter, acutely feeling his want of calm decision, and torn to pieces at once by sympathy with the lovers, and by delicacy that held him back from seeming to bind the young man to an uncertain engagement, above all, torture by self-approach for the commencement of the attachment, and for the misfortune that had rendered his prosperity doubtful. Ethel could find no words of comfort in the bewildered glimpse at his sorrow and agitation. Ethel spoke with calmness and good sense, and his replies, though brief and calm-place, were not without effect in lessening the excitement and despondency which the poor doctor's present mood had been aggravating. At the door, Dr. May asked for Flora, and Ethel explained. If Flora had obtruded herself, he would have been irritated, but, as it was, he had no time to observe the disobedience, and saying that he hoped she was with Margaret, sent Ethel into the drawing room. Flora was not there, only Margaret lay on her sofa, and Ethel hesitated, shy, curious, and alarmed. But, as she approached, she was relieved to see the blue eyes more serene even than usual, while a glow of color spread over her face, making her like the blue and Margaret of old times. Her expression was full of peace, but became somewhat amused at Ethel's timid, awkward pauses as she held out her hands, and said, Come, dear Ethel, Oh, Margaret, Margaret! And Ethel was drawn into her sister's bosom. Presently she drew back, gazed at her sister inquiringly, and said, in an odd, doubtful voice, Then you are glad? Margaret nearly laughed at the strange fanner, but spoke with a sorrowful tone. Glad in one way, dearest, almost too glad, and grateful. Oh, I am so glad, again, said Ethel. I thought it was making everybody unhappy. I don't believe I could be that. Now he has come. Now I know. And her voice trembled. There must be doubt and uncertainty, she added. But I can't dwell on them just yet. They will settle what is right, I know. And, happen what may, I have always this to remember. Oh, that is right. Papa will be so relieved. He was afraid it had only been distress. For Papa, yes, I did not command myself at first. I was not sure whether it was right to see him at all. Oh, Margaret, that was too bad. It did not seem right to encourage any such, such, the word was lost, to such a poor, helpless thing as I am. I did not know what to do, and I am afraid I behaved like a silly child, and did not think of dear Papa's feelings. But I will try to be good and leave it all to them. Then you are going to be happy, said Ethel, wistfully. For the present, at least, I cannot help it, said Margaret. Oh, he is so kind and so unselfish and so beautifully gentle, and to think of his still caring. But there, dear Ethel, I am not going to cry. Do call Papa, or he will think me foolish again. I want him to be quite at ease about me before he comes. Then he is coming. Yes, at tea time, so run, dear Ethel, and tell Jane to get his room ready. The message quickened Ethel, and after giving it, and reporting consolingly to her father, she went up to Flora, who had been a voluntary prisoner upstairs all this time, and was not peculiarly gratified at such tidings coming only through the medium of Ethel. She had, before been sensible that, superior in discretion and effectiveness as she was acknowledged to be, she did not share so much of the confidence and sympathy as some of the others, and she felt mortified and injured, though in this case it was entirely her own fault. The sense of alienation grew upon her. She dressed quickly in her aid down that she might see Margaret alone, but the room was already prepared for tea, and the children were fast assembling. Ethel came down a few minutes after, and found Blanche claiming Allen earns Cliff as her lawful property, dancing around him, chattering, and looking injured if he addressed a word to anyone else. How did lovers look, was the speculation which had, more than once, occupied Ethel, and when she had satisfied herself that her father was at ease, she began to study it as soon as the shame-faced consciousness would allow her, after Allen's warm shake of the hand. Margaret looked much as usual, only with more glow and brightness. Mr. Ernst Cliff, not far otherwise, he was as pale and slight as on his last visit, with the same soft blue eyes, capable, however, of a peculiar, keen, steady glance when he was listening, and which now seemed to be attending to Margaret's every word or look, through all the delighted upper, which Aubrey Blanche and Mary kept up around him, or while taking his share in the general conversation, telling of Harry's popularity and good conduct on Bordel-Sestes, or listening to the history of Norman's school adventures, which he had heard, in part, from Harry, and how young Jennings was entered in the flagship, as a boy, though not yet to sail with his father. After the storm of the day the sky seemed quite clear, and Ethel could not see that being lovers made much difference. To be sure, Papa displeased Blanche, by calling her away to his side, when she would squeeze her chair in between Allen's and the sofa, and Allen took all the waiting on Margaret exclusively to himself. Otherwise, there was nothing remarkable, and he was very much the same as Mr. Ernst Cliff, whom they had received a year ago. In truth, the next ten days were very happy. The future was left to rest, and Allen spent his mornings in the drawing-room, alone with Margaret, and looked ever more brightly placid, while, with the rest, he was more than the former kind playfellow, for he now took his place as the affectionate elder brother, entering warmly into all their schemes and pleasures, and wanting for himself a full measure of affection from all. Even his little goddaughter began to know him, and smile at his presence. Margaret and Ethel especially delighted in the look of enjoyment, with which their father sat down to enter on the evening's conversation after the day's work. And Flora was well pleased that Mrs. Hoxton should find Allen in the drawing-room, and ask afterwards about his estate. And that many rivers, after being certified that this was there, Mr. Ernst Cliff, pronounced said her papa thought him particularly pleasing and gentlemanly. There was something dignified in having his sister on the point of being engaged. Sail forth into the sea, thou ship, through breeze and cloud, right onward steer. The moistened eye, the trembling lip, are not the signs of doubt or fear? Long fellow. Tranquility only lasted until Mr. Ernst Cliff found it necessary to understand on what terms he was to stand. Everyone was tender of conscious, anxious to do right, and desirous to yield to the opinion that nobody could or would give. While Allen begged for a positive engagement, Margaret scrupled to exchange promises that she might never be able to fulfill, and both agreed to leave all to her father, who, in every way, ought to have the best ability to judge whether there was unreasonable presumption in such a betrothal. But this variability only served to perplex the poor doctor more and more. It is far easier for man to decide when he sees only one bearing of a case than when, like Dr. May, he not only sees them, but is rent by them in his inmost heart. Sympathizing in turn with each lover, bitterly accusing his own carelessness as the cause of all their troubles, his doubts contending with his hopes, his conviction clashing with Sir Matthew Fleet's opinion, his conscientious sincerity and delicacy conflicting with his affection and eagerness, he was perfectly incapable of coming to a decision, and suffered so cruelly that Margaret was doubly distressed for his sake, and Allen felt himself guilty of having rendered everybody miserable. Dr. May could not conceal his trouble, and rendered Ethel almost as unhappy as himself, after each conversation with her, though her hopes usually sprang up again, and she had a happy conviction that this was only the second volume of the novel. Flore was not often called into his counsels. Confidence never came spontaneously from Dr. May to her. There was something that did not draw it forth towards her, whether it resided in that half-sarcastic corner of her steady blue eye, or in the grave common sense of her gentle voice. Her view of the case was known to be that there was no need for such perplexity. Why should not Allen be the best judge of his own happiness? If Margaret were to be delicate for life, it would be better to have such a home to look to. And she soothed and comforted Margaret, and talked in a strain of unmixed hope and anticipation that often drew a smile from her sister, though she feared to trust to it. Flore's tact and consideration in keeping the children away when the lovers could best be alone, and letting them in when the discussion was becoming useless and harassing, her cheerful smiles, her evening music that covered all sounds, her removal of all extra annoyances were invaluable, and Margaret appreciated them as, indeed, Flore took care that she should. Margaret begged to know her eldest brother's judgment, but had great difficulty in dragging it out. Differently, as it was proposed, it was clear and decided. He thought that his father had better sense for Matthew Fleet a statement of Margaret's present condition, and abide by his answer as to whether her progress warranted the hope of her restoration. Never was Richard more surprised than by the gratitude with which his suggestion was hailed, simple as it was, so that it seemed obvious that others should have already thought of it. After the tossings of uncertainty, it was a positive relief to refer the question to some external voice, and only Ethel and Norman expressed strong dislike to Sir Matthew becoming the arbiter of Margaret's fate, and were scarcely pacified by Dr. May's assurance that he had not revealed the occasion of his inquiry. The letter was sent, and repose returned, but hearts beat high on the morning when the answer was expected. Dr. May watched the moment when his daughter was alone, carried the letter to her, and kissing her, said, within a pressed voice, I give you joy, my dear. She read with suspended breath and palpitating heart. Sir Matthew thought her improvement sure though slow, and had barely a doubt that in a year she would have regained her full strength in activity. You will show it to Alan, said Dr. May, as Margaret lifted her eyes to his face inquiringly. Will not you, she said? I cannot, he answered. I wish I was more helpful to you, my child, he added wistfully, but you will rest on him and be happy together while he stays, will you not? Indeed I will, dear Papa. Mr. Ernst Cliff was with her as the doctor quitted her. She held the letter to him, but, she said slowly, I see that Papa does not believe it. You promised to abide by it, he exclaimed, between entreaty and authority. I do, if you choose so to risk your hopes. But, cried he, as he glanced hastily over the letter, there can be no doubt. These words are a certain as language can make them. Why will you not trust them? I see that Papa does not. Despondency and self-reproach made him morbidly anxious. Believe so, my Margaret, you know he is no surgeon. His education included that line, said Margaret. I believe he has all but the manual dexterity. However, I would feign have faith in Sir Matthew, she added, smiling, and perhaps I am only swayed by the habit of thinking that Papa must know best. He does in different cases, but it is an old axiom that a medical man should not prescribe for his own family. Above all, in such a case, where it is but reasonable to believe an unprejudiced stranger, who alone is cool enough to be relied on. I absolutely depend on him. Margaret absolutely depended on the bright, cheerful look of conviction. Yes, she said, we will try to bake Papa take pleasure in the prospect. Perhaps I could do more if I made the attempt. I am sure you could, if you would let me give you more support. If I were but going to remain with you. Don't let us be discontented, said Margaret, smiling, when so much more has been granted than I dare to hope. Be it as it may, let us be happy in what we have. It makes you happy, said he, archly reading her face to draw at the avowal, but he only made her hide it with the mute caress of the hand that held hers. She was glad enough to rest in the present, now that everything concurred to satisfy her conscience and so doing, and come what might, the days now spent together would be a possession of joy for ever. Captain Gordon contrived to afford his lieutenant another fortnight's leave, perhaps because he was in dread of losing him altogether, for Allen had some doubts and many longings to remain. Had it been possible to marry at once, he would have quitted the navy immediately, and he would have given worlds to linger beside Margaret's couch and claim her the first moment possible, believing his care more availing than all. He was, however, so pledged to Captain Gordon that, without strong cause, he would not have been justified in withdrawing. Besides, Harry was under his charge, and Dr. May and Margaret both thought, with the captain, that an active life would be a better occupation for him than watching her. He would never be able to settle down at his new home comfortably without her, and he would be more in the way of duty while pursuing his profession, so Margaret nerved herself against using her inflows to detain him, and he thanked her for it. Though hope and affection could not at once repair an injured spine, they had wonderful powers in inciting Margaret to new efforts. Allen was as tender and ready of hand as Richard, and more clever and in prizing, and her unfailing trust in him prevented all alarms and misgivings, so that wonders were affected, and her father beheld her standing with so little support, looking so helpful and so blithe, that his forebodings melted away, and he talked joyously of the future. The great achievement was taking her round the garden. She could not bear the notion of wheels, but Allen adopted the hammock principle, and with the aid of Richard and his crony, the carpenter, reduced machine in which no other power on earth could have prevailed on her to trust herself, but in which she was carried round the garden so successfully that there was even a talk of next Sunday and of the Minster. It was safely accomplished, and tired as she was, Margaret felt, as she whispered to Allen, that he had now crowned all the joy that he had brought to her. Ethel used to watch them and think how beautiful their countenances were, and talk them over with her father, who was quite happy about them now. She gave assistance, which Allen never once called unhandy, to all his contrivances, and often floundered in upon his conferences with Margaret, in a way that would have been very provoking if she had not always blushed and looked so excessively discomfited, and they had only to laugh and reassure her. Allen was struck by finding that the casual words spoken on the way from Coxmore had been so strenuously acted on, and he brought on himself a whole torrent of Ethel's confused narratives, which Richard and Flora would vain have checked, but Margaret let them continue, as she saw him a willing listener, and was grateful to him for comprehending the ardent girl. He declared himself to have a share in the matter, reminding Ethel of her appeal to him to bind himself to the service of Coxmore. He sent a sovereign at once, to aid in the case of the sudden death of a pig, and when securely established in his brotherly right, he begged Ethel to let him know what would help her most. She stood coloring, twisting her hands, and wondering what to say, whereupon he relieved her by a proposal to leave an order for ten pounds to be yearly paid into her hands as a fixed income for her school. A thousand a year could hardly have been so much to Ethel. Thank you. Oh, this is charming. We could set up a regular school. Chair Elwood is the very woman. Alan, you have made our fortune. Oh, Margaret, Margaret, I must go and tell Richie and Mary. This is the first real step to our church and all. May I do it? said Alan, turning to Margaret, as Ethel frantically burst out of the room. Perhaps I should have asked leave. I was going to thank you, said Margaret. It is the very kindest thing you could have done by dear Ethel. The greatest comfort to us. She will be at peace now, when anything hinders her from going to Coxmore. I wonder, said Alan, using whether we shall ever be able to help her more substantially. I cannot do anything hastily, for you know, Maplewood is still in the hands of the executors, and I cannot tell what claims there may be upon me. But by and by, when I return, if I find no other pressing duty, might not a church at Coxmore be a thank-offering for all I have found here? Oh, Alan, what a joy it would be! It is a long way off, said, sadly, and perhaps her force of perseverance will have prevailed alone. I suppose I must not tell her, even as a vision. It is too uncertain. I do not know the wants of the Maplewood people, and I must provide for Hector. I would not let these vague dreams interfere with her as it would work. But, Margaret, what a vision it is! I can see you laying the first stone on that fine, heavy brow. Oh, your godchild should lay the first stone. She shall, and you shall lead her. And there shall be Ethel's sharp face, full of indescribable things, as she marshals her children. And Richard shall be curate, and read in his steady soft tone, and your father shall look sunny with his boys around him. And you? Oh, Alan, said Margaret, who had been listening with a smile. It is, indeed, a long way off. I shall look to it as the haven where I would be, said the sailor. They often spoke together of this scheme, avridecking it in brighter colors. The topics seemed to suit them better than their own future, for there was no dwelling on that without an occasional misgiving, and the more glad the anticipation, the deeper the sigh that followed on Margaret's part, till Mr. Ernst Cliff followed her lead, and they seldom spoke of these uncertainties, but outwardly smiled over the present, inwardly dwelt on the truly certain hopes. There were readings shared together, made more precious than all, by the conversations that ensued. The hour for parting came at last. Ethel never knew what passed in the drawing room, once everyone was carefully excluded. Dr. May wandered about, keeping guard over the door, and watching the clock, till, at the last moment, he knocked, and called in a trembling voice, Ernst Cliff! Alan! It is past the quarter. You must not stay. The other farewells were hurried. Alan seemed voiceless, only nodding in reply to Mary's vociferous messages to Harry, and huskily whispering to Ethel. Good luck to Coxmore. The next moment the door had shut on him, and Dr. May and Flora had gone to her sister, whom she found not tearful, but begging to be left alone. When they saw her again, she was tearful. She kept up her composure and animation without flagging, nor did she discontinue her new exertions, but seemed decidedly the happier for all that had passed. Letters came every day for her, and presents to everyone. Ethel had a gold chain and eyeglass, which, it was hoped, might cure her of frowning and stooping, though her various ways of dangling her new possession caused her to be so much teased by Flora and Norman that, but for regard to Margaret's feelings, she would not have worn it for three days. To Mary was sent a daguerreotype of Harry, her glory and delight. Say, who would, that it had pig's eyes, a savage frown, a pudding chin, there were his own tight rings of hair, his gold-banded cap, his bright buttons, how could she prize it enough? She exhibited it to the little ones ten times a day, she kissed it night and morning, and registered her vow always to sleep with it under her pillow, in a letter of thanks, which Margaret defended and dispatched, in spite of Miss Winters' horrors at its disregard of orthography. It was nearly the last letter before the Alcestus was heard of at spithead. Then she sailed, she sent in her letters to Plymouth, and her final greetings by a thumb of cutter. Poor Harry's wild scrawl and pencil looking very seasick. Dear papa and all, good-bye, we are out of sight of land, three years, and keep up a good heart, I shall soon be all right, your age may. It was enclosed in Mr. Ernstkles' envelope, and with it came tidings that Harry's brave spirit was not failing, even under untoward circumstances, but he had struggled on deck and tried to write when all his contemporaries had given in. In fact, he was a fine fellow, everyone liked him, and Captain Gordon, the chari of commendation, had held him up to the other youngsters as an example of knowing what a sailor was meant to be like. Margaret smiled and cried over the news when she imparted it, but all serenely, and though she was glad to be alone, and wrote journals for Allen, when she could not send letters, she exerted herself to be the same sister as usual to the rest of the household, and not give way to her wandering musings. From one subject her attention never strayed. Ethel had never found any lack of sympathy in her for her cocks more pursuits, but the change now showed that, where once Margaret had been interested merely as a kind sister, she now had a personal concern, and she threw herself into all that related to it as her own chief interested pursuit, becoming the foremost in devising plans, and arranging the best means of using Mr. Ernst-Cliff's benefaction. The Elwood family had grown in the good opinion of the maize. Charity had hobbled to church, leaning on her father's arm, and being invited to dinner in the kitchen, the acquaintance had been improved, and nurse herself had pronounced her such a tidy, good sort of body, that it was a pity she had met with such a misfortune. If Miss Ethel brought in nothing but the like of her, they should be welcome. Poor thing! How tired she was! Nurse's opinions were apt to be sagacious, especially when in the face of her prejudices, and this gave Margaret confidence. Cherry proved to have been carefully taught by a good clergyman and his wife, and to be a very different stamp from the persons to whom the girls were accustomed. They were charmed with her, and eagerly offered to supply her with books, respecting her the more when they found that Mr. Hazelwood had already led her their chief favorites. Other and greater needs they had no power to fill up. It is so long without the church bells you see, Miss, said Mrs. Elwood. Our tower had a real fine teal, and my man was one of the ringers. I seemed quite lost without them, and there was Cherry when almost every day with the children. Every day, cried Mary, looking at her with respect, it was so nearer, said Cherry. I could get there easy, and I got used to it when I was at school. Did it not take up a great deal of time, said Ethel? Why, you see, ma'am, it came morning and night out of working times, and I can't be stirring much. Then you miss it, sadly, said Ethel. Yes, ma'am, it made the day go on like and settled a body's mind when I fredded for what could not be helped. But I try not to fred after it now, and Mr. Hazelwood said, if I did my best wherever I was, the Lord would still join our prayers together. Mr. Hazelwood was recollected by Mr. Wilmot as an old college friend, and a correspondence with him fully confirmed the favorable estimate of the Elwoods, and was decisive in determining that the day school, with Allen's 10 pounds a salary and a penny a week from each child, should be offered to Cherry. Mr. Hazelwood answered for her sound excellence and aptitude for managing little children, though he did not promise genius, such as should fulfill their requirements of modern days. With these, Coxmo could dispense at present. Cherry was humbly gratified, and her parents delighted with the honor and profit. There was a kitchen which afforded great facilities, and Richard and his carpenter managed the fitting to admiration. Margaret devised all manner of useful arrangements. Settled matters with great earnestness, saw Cherry frequently, discussed plans, and learned the history and character of each child, as thoroughly as Ethel herself. Mr. Ramstone himself came to the opening of the school, and said so much of the obligations of Coxmo to the young ladies, that Ethel would not have known which way to look, if Laura had not kindly borne the brunt of his compliments. Everyone was pleased, except Mrs. Green, who took upon herself to set about various malicious reports of Cherry Elwood. But nobody cared for them, except Mrs. Elwood, who flew into such passions that Ethel was quite disappointed in her, though not in Cherry, who meekly tried to silence her mother, begged the young ladies not to be vexed, and showed a quiet dignity that soon made the shafts of slander fall inoffensively. All went well. There was a school instead of a hubbub, clean faces instead of dirty. Shining hair instead of wild elf locks, orderly children instead of little savages. The order and obedience that Ethel could not gain in six months seemed impressed in six days by Cherry. The neat work made her popular with the mothers, her firm gentleness won the hearts of the children, and the kitchen was filled not only with boys and girls from the quarry, but with some little ones from outlying cottages of Fort Holm and Abbott Stoke, and there was even a smart little farmer, who had been unbearable at home. Margaret's unsuccessful bath chair was lent to Cherry, and in it her scholars drew her to Stomvar every Sunday, and slowly began to redeem their character with the ladies, who began to lose the habit of shrinking out of their way. The Stomvar children did so instead, and Flora and Ethel were always bringing home stories of injustice to their scholars, fancy to reel, and of triumphs in their having excelled in a national school girl. The most stupid children at Coxmore always seemed to them wise in comparison with the Stomvar girls, and the Sunday school might have become to Ethel a school of robbery, if Richard had not opened her eyes by a quiet observation that the town girls seemed to fear as ill with her, as the Coxmore girls did with the town ladies. Then she caught herself up, tried to be candid, and found that she was not always impartial in her judgments. Why would competition mingle even in the best attempts? Cherry did not so bring forward her scholars that Ethel could have many triumphs of this dangerous kind. Indeed, Ethel was often vexed with her, for though she taught need to work admirably and enforce correct reading and reverent repetition, her strong provincial dialect was a stumbling block. She could not put questions without book, and nothing would teach her Ethel's rational system of arithmetic. That she was a capital dame and made the children very good was allowed, but now and then, when mortified by hearing what was done at Stoneborough, fold home or abbot stoke, Ethel would make vigorous everts, which resulted only in her coming home fuming at Cherry's outrageous dullness. These railings always hurt Margaret, who had made Cherry almost into a friend, and generally liked to have a visit from her during the Sunday, when she always dined with the servants. Then school questions, coxmore news, and the tempers of the children were talked over, and Cherry was now and then drawn into home reminiscences and descriptions of the ways of her former school. There was no fear of spoiling her, notice from her superiors was natural to her, and she had the lady likeness of womanly goodness so as never to go beyond her own place. She had had many trials too, and Margaret learned the true history of them as she won Cherry's confidence and entered into them, feeling their likeness yet dissimilarity to her own. Cherry had been a brisk happy girl in a good place, resting in one of the long engagements that often extend over half the life of the servant, enjoying the nod of her baker as he left his bread, and her walk from church with him on alternate Sundays. But poor Cherry had been exposed to the perils of window cleaning, and, after a frightful fall, had waken to find herself in a hospital, and her severe sufferings had left her a cripple for life. And the baker had not been an Alan Ernst cliff. She did not complain of him. He had come to see her, and had been much grieved, but she had told him she could never be a useful wife, and, before she had used her crutches, he was married to her pretty fellow servant. Cherry spoke very simply. She hoped it was better for long, and believed Susan would make him a good wife. Etha would have thought she did not feel, but Margaret knew better. She stroked the thin, slight fingers, and gently said, Poor Cherry. And Cherry wiped away a tear, and said, Yes ma'am, thank you, it is best for him. I should not have wished him to grieve for what cannot be helped. Resignation is the great comfort. Yes ma'am, I have a great deal to be thankful for. I don't blame no one, but I do see how some, as are married, seem to get to think more of this world, and now and then I fancy I can see how it is best for me as it is. Margaret sighed as she remembered certain thoughts before Alan's return. Then, ma'am, there has been such goodness. I did vex at being a poor helpless thing, nothing but a burden on father, and when we had to go from home, and Mr. and Mrs. Hazelwood and all, I can't tell you how bad it was, ma'am. Then you are comforted now? Yes ma'am, said Cherry, brightening. It seems as if he had given me something to do, and there are you and Mr. Richard and Mrs. Ethel to help. I should like, please, God, to be of some good to those poor children. I am sure you will, Cherry. I wish I could do as much. Cherry's tears had come again. Ah, ma'am, you, and she stopped short and rose to depart. Margaret held out her hand to wish her good-bye. Please, Miss, I was thanking him, Mr. Hazelwood, said that God fits our place to us, and us to our place. Thank you, Cherry, you are leaving me something to remember. And Margaret lay questioning with herself whether the school mistress had not been the most self-denying of the two, but with all gazing on the hoop of pearls which Alan had chosen as the ring of betrothal. The pearl of great price murmured she to herself. If we hold that, the rest will soon matter but little. It remained that both they that have wives be as they that have none, and they that weave as though they wept not, and they that rejoice as though they rejoice not. If ever Alan and I have a home together upon earth, may all too confident joy be tempered by the fears that we have begun with. I hope this probation may make me less likely to be taken up with the cares and pleasures of his position than it might have been last year. He is one who can best help the mind to go truly upward. But oh, that voyage.