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Title: Little Eyebright and her pund o' care

Author: Agnes Giberne

Release date: August 17, 2025 [eBook #76696]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd, 1896

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE EYEBRIGHT AND HER PUND O' CARE ***

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

Letitia stood looking in blank dismay,

not offering to help.

Little Eyebright

AND HER PUND O' CARE

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF

"THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE," "IDA'S SECRET," "LIFE TANGLES,"

"FLOSS SILVERTHORN," ETC.

New Edition

John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.

Publishers

3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. EUPHRASIA'S HOME

II. EUPHRASIA'S PLANS

III. SOME CAUSE FOR CARE

IV. FOR ONE'S GOOD

V. THE JOHNSTON FAMILY

VI. EUPHRASIA'S FRIEND

VII. FRIENDS AND FRIENDS

VIII. A STEP IN THE DARK

IX. A PRISONER

X. HOW MUCH LONGER?

XI. NEVER SENT!

XII. GENUINE!

XIII. NOT CAST DOWN

XIV. SOMETHING WRONG

XV. "WILL YOU—?"

XVI. HOW "CARE" MAY BE CARRIED

LITTLE EYEBRIGHT

AND HER PUND O' CARE

———————

CHAPTER I

EUPHRASIA'S HOME

"I DON'T know, I'm sure, Mrs. Landor. I suppose you're right, of course. People never ought to fret, of course. Mr. Landor would say just the same if he were preaching. I suppose everybody ought always to feel sure that everything is always exactly right."

An odd expression crossed the other's face.

"Oh, I know it is quite wrong ever to let one's self get worried. But then, you see, it always was my way to be easily upset. Some people are made like that; don't you think so? And other people are made quite different. I don't see, for my part, how one is to help how one was made. When things go wrong, I always do get low-spirited. It is very foolish, perhaps, but then it is my way. I have been harassed half out of my senses the last week. As fast as ever one trouble clears off, another comes in its place. That is what I find," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "There's no sort of peace or rest in life,—nothing but worry!"

"Isn't it a comfort that one trouble does clear away before another comes?" asked her caller.

"Oh well, when it does. But sometimes everything seems to come together, all in a heap. I am sure, last winter I didn't know where to turn or what to do, with the influenza and all! And most likely it will be just as bad next winter. The influenza is certain to come again."

"Nay! Why certain?"

"Oh, they say it will; people all say so. And if my husband gets it a fourth time, I don't believe he will pull through. I don't, indeed! He has never been the same man since those three attacks, one on the top of another. He isn't fit for his work, and everybody says so, but if he stops, how in the world are we to pay our way?"

"He might take a holiday if needful. Still, I would not in your place give much for the opinion of 'everybody.' What does your doctor say?"

"Colin has not been to the doctor lately. He doesn't want to run up bills, but he looks so ill, I quite dread to see him come in! And Ken's cough frightens me. He has kept it on the whole summer, and now we are half-way through September. I suppose he won't lose it before the winter; and a boy is so exposed to risks . . . And in the middle of all my worries, my cook has given me warning, just because she wants to get married. It is hard, when she suited me so nicely, and when I have so many things weighing on me! And my housemaid has a bad finger, and can't do half her work . . . And then there is Euphrasia."

"What of Euphrasia? Nothing wrong there surely! Euphrasia looks the picture of health."

"Oh, as to health—yes, she is well enough. It isn't that, but I do get so disappointed. I suppose one must expect to be disappointed. I did think it would be such a comfort to have a daughter at home with her education done and no lessons, and plenty of time to help me: and really Euphrasia is as busy as Flo, and not half so pleasant. It is a sort of way with her—answering so shortly, I mean—but I always do feel hurt. And then she likes her own way so much! Girls do, I suppose, pretty nearly always. Flo is different, but then Flo always 'was' a little angel. It quite frightens me sometimes, she is so good."

"Euphrasia does not frighten you, apparently, in that respect. However, girls ought not to be too busy to help their mothers."

"Oh, I don't say she is. She means to do right, I dare say. Of course, she doesn't want to neglect her duties. Only I suppose I'm too sensitive: and then there is a grudging sort of manner; not that she means it so, I dare say. It is only awkwardness, only I can't help noticing. And to have her going away already, just when I was beginning to find her useful—"

"Going where?"

"It's an invitation from a school friend, Letitia Johnston. Euphrasia is so odd; she makes hardly any friends. She only has this one, and really I don't know anything about the girl's family. There's been a sort of promise that Euphrasia should pay them a visit when she had done with school, and now Colin says we can't well refuse. We had Letitia here once for a week; and she seemed nice, rather. But still—"

Mrs. Landor made no immediate answer. She was a graceful woman, over middle height, and perhaps beyond middle age, with hair already silvered, and a certain innate queenliness of bearing, not lessened by the severe plainness of her black merino dress and close gray bonnet. Serene eyes beneath a broad brow studied the pretty woman opposite—for Mrs. Mackenzie, wife of the Manager of West Norton Bank, was a decidedly pretty woman still, despite her forty years. She might have been a very attractive one, had her lips fallen habitually into less fretted curves; had her blue eyes been habitually less full of trouble and self-condolence.

"Still if you do not feel that you can spare her—"

"I don't suppose it will make much difference. She has to go some day, and the visit may as well be got over. Euphrasia would not like to give it up, and any time, almost, would be as bad. Women's lives are just made up of harass and bother."

"Are they?" queried Mrs. Landor soberly. "Mrs. Mackenzie, if I didn't know you quite so well, I should venture to say something . . . One can speak more freely, I think, on some subjects as a stranger than as a friend."

"I hope she isn't going to begin preaching," darted through Mrs. Mackenzie's mind. And then came a swift recollection of innumerable kindnesses, followed by the resolve, "I mustn't seem to be vexed." Aloud she said cautiously, "I should think you might say anything you liked to me!"

"Then may I ask a question? You have a good deal to say about harass and worry, and, of course, life does mean a fair amount of them for most people. Yet there is another side of the question. I wonder whether that side ever presents itself to you . . . When our Lord said, 'Come unto Me . . . and I will give you rest'—what do you think He really intended to do? Is absolute rest a thing compatible with perpetual mental harass? For surely harass means unrest! If the two are not compatible—then, what did He mean?"

Mrs. Mackenzie was silent.

"If I were you, I would find an answer to that question," continued Mrs. Landor softly. She was not at all a demonstrative person, but for once she stooped and kissed the plaintive downcast face. "We may be sure of one thing, that what Christ said, He meant, and that what He meant was something very real and practical . . . Perhaps the question resolves itself into not so much what HE means by rest, as what 'we' mean when we ask for rest; and whether we ever do actually take Him at His word! . . . It seems such a pity, if He is willing and waiting to give us rest, that we don't trouble ourselves to receive it . . . Forgive me for saying so much. Good-bye."

"It's all very well, but Mrs. Landor doesn't know what life means with such an income as ours," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "If she did, she might have a right to speak. If her husband died to-morrow, it wouldn't make a farthing's difference to her comforts. And if Colin were to break down, we should just be at the end of everything. It's bad enough now, trying to make both ends meet and never able to get a quarter of the things we need. Of course, it is quite right to have a proper amount of trust, but all the same one must be anxious. Mrs. Landor would in my place, whatever she may say now. And there's nobody to understand, nor to be the least help to me. Colin never will talk over things till he has made up his mind what to do, and Euphrasia is wrapped up in her own concerns. I did think Mrs. Landor would give me a little sympathy, but she is no better than anybody else. I might just as well have kept it all to myself . . . Why, there's Colin coming home now! What can be the matter? O dear!"

Mrs. Mackenzie ran to the front door and flung it open in a tremor of alarm. A tall man of somewhat solid build, not amounting to stoutness, came slowly up the little garden. His face, albeit by no means handsome, had good strong outlines, but the complexion at this moment showed an unnatural pallor.

"Colin! What has brought you back? Do tell me—quick! Is anything the matter? I am so frightened! Oh, make haste and speak! I know something is dreadfully wrong."

"Nothing for you to be frightened about, my dear. I am merely—a little out of sorts to-day." He spoke with a touch of breathlessness, as if the walk home had been too fatiguing. "I'll be all right presently."

Making his way past her into the small drawing-room, he sat down in his favourite arm-chair.

CHAPTER II

EUPHRASIA'S PLANS

"BUT what is the matter? What is wrong?" exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie. "Why have you come home at this hour?"

"Dr. North was there: and he said I should be better for an afternoon's rest. Where is Euphrasia?"

"How should I know, Colin? Girls are so restless. She is out somewhere walking with Flo. But I'm so unhappy about you! I know you are going to be ill. I am quite sure of it."

"My dear, I hope not. Pray do not talk so before the children. I am not quite up to the mark just now, perhaps." Then a smile dawned, as two girls came quickly in—the elder eighteen in age, the younger a mere child of thirteen, and an exceedingly pretty child.

Nobody ever called Euphrasia pretty. She had blunt manners, and irregular features, and no particular complexion. But, in Mr. Mackenzie's opinion, all defects were compensated for by the peculiar stedfast gleam of her gray eyes; a gleam which, in childhood, had made suitable the pet name of "Little Eyebright." The name clung to her still, though she was "little" no longer, but of good medium height and rounded proportions.

Perhaps Mrs. Mackenzie had never become entirely reconciled to the fact that Euphrasia had failed to take after herself. Kenred, the only boy, was good-looking enough to satisfy her desires: and Flo she was wont to describe as "a perfect picture" of her earlier self. Some people demurred privately, counting the "picture" far more attractive than the original. But, "poor dear Euphrasia had nothing to boast of in the way of looks," and this constituted one of Mrs. Mackenzie's many trials in life.

The elder girl was commonly said to be more her father's than her mother's child. She had inherited much of his Scotch reserve, of his Scotch slowness in giving expression to the deeper feelings, but she had not inherited his placid temper. At times, under pressure, she could be stirred into vehement speech. When not so stirred, she was apt to veil her true self under a crustiness of demeanour, which repelled some people and perplexed others. It certainly stood in marked contrast with Flo's sweet and winning ways.

Almost everybody liked Flo best, and wondered how it was that the elder girl should be so different. Perhaps Mr. Mackenzie alone in the house, and Mrs. Landor alone out of the house, guessed the real worth of character which lay undeveloped beneath this outer crustiness.

"Is father ill?" exclaimed Flo. She came to his side and put her little hand on him caressingly. "We met Mr. Everett, and he said he had been bringing father home."

"A little out of sorts, my dear. Just a headache," interrupted Mr. Mackenzie.

"Colin, you never told me that! Why, I saw you come in alone!"

"My dear, there was no cause for a fuss. Everett gave me his arm part of the way."

Mr. Mackenzie did not find it needful to state how large a part of the way. He was rather annoyed at this unexpected rencontre of the young clerk with his two girls, and vexed with himself for not having warned Everett to keep silence. But somehow he had felt so confused as to be unable to think steadily.

"It was just nothing," he reiterated,—"just a headache. I'll be all right to-morrow."

"But, daddy, he said—"

"Flo, do hold your tongue. You are bothering father," Euphrasia said sharply.

And Flo's sweet face flushed up, the blue eyes filling, like veronica blossoms full of dew.

"Really, Euphrasia!—You do scold that poor darling!" remonstrated Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Nay, nay; nobody is going to scold anybody," interposed her husband, always the family peacemaker. "My dear, I don't think we will have a discussion just now. I am not just up to the mark. I wonder if you could get me a nice cup of strong coffee. Somehow I think it would do me good; and nobody makes it like you, Mary."

"Why, nobody's likely to. I learnt it from a Frenchwoman," said Mrs. Mackenzie, much flattered.

She went off, and Colin Mackenzie used the opportunity for a strict injunction. Nobody was to say anything that would make the little mother anxious.

"But, daddy dear, 'was' it true? Mr. Everett did tell us you fell right down, and couldn't tell where you were at first. And he said you looked 'awfully bad.' Was it true?"

Flo's lips were quivering still with the rebuke she had received.

"James Everett is a silly boy to go and chatter. I was a trifle dizzy, I'll admit, but nothing to make a fuss about, nothing at all, you understand. I'll write a line to Everett, and bid him hold his tongue, and Ken shall take it round presently. And the less you both say to your mother the better."

"I told you so, Flo! I said father wouldn't like you to repeat it."

"Never mind! It's all right,—no harm done! Nobody is going to say anything more. I think I'll lie down for an hour, and then I'll be myself again." Mackenzie kissed Flo and patted Euphrasia's arm as he rose to move away. The slight fluster of talk had brought again confused sensations.

"Flo, you'd better tell mother where to take the coffee. Father will be upstairs." Then, as she vanished, Euphrasia came nearer and asked, "Is nothing the matter really? Not like what Mr. Everett said?"

Mackenzie stood still, leaning on the back of a tall chair. "I was—not just the thing, my dear; Everett was not so far wrong. Just a passing little attack, but I'm not to be counted ill; and Dr. North hopes it will not recur. I would not have your mother know, on any account. She would give herself no peace."

"Did anything happen to worry you, father?"

"Things do happen once in a way!" Mackenzie spoke evasively.

And Euphrasia, looking straight up into his face, read there an unwonted shadow, as of something impending.

"It isn't only that you are poorly," she said decisively. "Not only just a headache, father. Something or other has gone wrong at the Bank."

"Hush! My dear! I wouldn't have you overheard for anything. That is not your business. Something of worry comes, of course, now and again; and very often it means nothing—just nothing at all. Why should it? I am not quite what I was since the influenza, and a trifle too easily knocked down, perhaps. But you must not talk to people as if I had any special weight upon my mind. Be sure you do not! I would not have it said for anything. And I'll be all right in the morning."

"I will not tell, of course, but of course I can't help seeing," Euphrasia answered sturdily. Then an impulse came, and she acted upon it, without pausing to consider. "Father—would you like—would you rather—if you like, I'll put off going to the Johnstons! Shall I? If you are bothered, and would like to have me at home!"

As she made the offer, her heart gave a resisting bound, and then sank low at his look of instant relief. But quickly as she saw what his wish would be, so quickly he saw what the giving up would mean to her.

"No, no—nonsense—not the least need. Have your pleasure, Little Eyebright! I wouldn't for the world stand in the way. Not for a moment! No, no; you'll be off in two days, and back again in a month. And what is a month? Why, it's just nothing!"

CHAPTER III

SOME CAUSE FOR CARE

EUPHRASIA stood close to the bay-window, deep in thought. Her brows were knitted, her eyes fixed upon the dull street, seeing nought.

Most of the West Norton streets were dull; and this particular row of houses, built all upon the same fashion, fronted by a long blank wall which enclosed Dr. North's kitchen-garden, could not be called an exception. A girl who had lived there all her life might be expected to grow used to the dulness, but Euphrasia had not always lived there. Three years at a Brighton school, by way of educational finish, had made a marked break.

West Norton, after Brighton, wore a slumbrous aspect. For the sleepiness Euphrasia cared little. She had within her young self, life and vigour enough to counteract it. What she did mind was separation from her one friend, Letitia Johnston. Girl-like, she had flung herself, heart and soul, into this friendship; and Letitia had grown to be the centre of her world. An occasional letter by post was found to be a poor substitute for daily and hourly intercourse.

Moreover, Euphrasia was suffering from the abrupt ending of school-work. She had not yet found her niche in life, and her unused energies craved for more scope than seemed at present to be within their reach. A certain restlessness was upon her; and this added to the zest with which she looked forward to the promised visit. A whole month in a new place with Letitia's unknown relatives, above all with Letitia herself—all this contained a promise of delight, without a shadow. Euphrasia had not by nature her mother's unquiet spirit, always expecting ills. Her spirit was unquiet only in the desire for more change; and she was unsophisticated. Life thus far had been easy, on the whole.

And now as the day drew near, only two nights remaining between, the question arose sharply, Ought she to give it up?

Euphrasia was a girl of right principle, and to some extent, of subjection to duty. Religion in her was as yet a thing rather desired than possessed; and the personal love for an unseen Lord and Master, which cannot but result in obedience to His Word, had not yet dawned—although she wished for it. She had a very distinct aim in her mind, to do what was right, not to be selfish, not to be lazy. But the self-pleasing will was strong, as in most young natures—not to speak of older ones, unless transformed under a nobler force of love. She wanted very much to do her duty, but she wanted still more to get her own way. In this particular natter of the projected visit to Letitia, the craving to have her way was overmastering.

"Could" she give up so great a delight? That was the question which she asked of herself, standing in the bay-window. Not so much "ought she?" as "could she?" If her parents had insisted, she would, of course, have remained at home—not contentedly, or of her own free will, but simply because the thing had to be. Euphrasia appreciated the difference between such discontented submission and voluntary giving up.

Moreover, she knew that her parents would not insist. Mr. Mackenzie might wish, and Mrs. Mackenzie might fret, but neither of the two would decide against her going, so as to leave with her no further choice.

After all, why should she lose the pleasure? Why should anything go wrong at the Bank? Why should Mr. Mackenzie be ill? Anybody might suffer from a trifling attack of indisposition; and occasional business worries were a necessity. There, at least, she was powerless to help.

To be sure, her father did sometimes seem to find it a relief to confide in his eldest girl, when afraid to say a word to his wife lest she should magnify his meaning tenfold, and worry herself ill with unreasonable fears. He could be sure that Euphrasia would understand. But he would not expect that she should be invariably at hand for such confiding . . . To be sure, it was a very short time since her return from school, and she had not meant to go away again so soon. But the invitation had come, and was irresistible. Under a momentary impulse she had offered to withdraw from the promised pleasure; and the instant throb of fear lest her offer should be accepted, had shown her what such withdrawal would mean. Each hour since had made the giving up harder to contemplate.

She resolved to wait through the night, and to see how her father seemed in the morning.

At breakfast, he called himself "better," and looked wretched. His fixed paleness, yet more, his fixed look of trouble, gave her a guilty feeling. Mrs. Mackenzie, rather singularly, while noting and commenting on the former, did not perceive the latter.

Euphrasia was haunted through the meal by a sense of threatening trouble. Something surely had happened, or was going to happen. So she told herself, and then she tried to believe the notion a mistake. Anything rather than allow herself to feel that she might not go.

He kissed Euphrasia when starting for his day's work. "Pack up your traps, Little Eyebright. You will be off to-morrow. Mid-day train, is it not?"

"Father, are you really better?"

His smile was not cheerful. "'A man's weel or wae as he thinks himsel' sae.' I'm not going to be fancying myself an invalid, till I grow into one."

"If you would like me to put off my visit—"

Again the momentary gleam of half-assent, and the quick pulling in of himself. "No, no!—no need—it is best over. Have your pleasure while you can, child."

A deep sigh was audible as he turned away.

Then it was that Euphrasia found her way into the bay-window, to stand lost in thought.

"Ought I to go? I wonder if I ought? Is it wrong? 'Must' I give up? I don't see any real reason. It may be all just nothing at all. And Letitia would be so hurt. Perhaps she would never ask me again."

That thought won the day. Euphrasia resolved to leave arrangements undisturbed. She did not feel satisfied, but it was something to have come to a decision of any sort; and she went in vigorously for packing. She went in also for anticipations. This coming month promised to be the happiest she had ever known. Letitia and Letitia's parents, Letitia's home, and Letitia's brother—Euphrasia's imagination rang the changes on these thoughts hour after hour. But ever and anon rose once more the question, "Ought I really to go?"

"It is settled now. I can't unsettle things. Mother would be worried if I did. My box is packed, and why 'should' I put off? It would be absurd!" So she made answer, yet the little questioning voice would not be entirely put down.

Mr. Mackenzie, as an ordinary rule, came home to early dinner, but once in a way, if very busy, he would take lunch at a confectioner's close by. On this day they saw no more of him till the evening, and then his gray shadowed look sent a fresh thrill through the girl.

"Ought I to go?" the voice asked again.

"Oh, but I can't give it up now," she cried within herself. "Now! How can I? Just when everything is settled! Oh, I can't!"

And so the evening passed, till bed-time drew near.

"Euphrasia, my dear, I should rather wish—I should like a few words with you."

Mr. Mackenzie's voice broke into a half-happy, half-uneasy dream. Mrs. Mackenzie was upstairs, called away by some domestic appeal; and Flo had retired with Ken to the dining-room, where he prepared his lessons.

"Not here, I think. Your mother will be back directly."

"No. She said she would be more than half-an-hour. Nobody will interrupt us just now."

His face worked uneasily, the muscles twitching, the eyes sombre.

"I should like to say—something. It would be a—something of a relief to me. For yourself alone, mind—absolutely for yourself alone. Not a word to anyone."

"Father, you can trust me. You know I would never repeat a single thing." Euphrasia drew her chair a little nearer, and his hand came on hers. "How hot you are!" she said involuntarily.

"No, my dear, you never repeat things. I am quite aware! You are a good child! . . . Perhaps I am not wise to speak, but this burden on me—"

"What burden?"

"A sense of coming calamity. And if I do not speak now—if I should never have another opportunity—"

"Never—'what,' father?" A spasm of terror almost deprived her of utterance.

"My dear, nobody ever knows. Nobody can tell. Anything might happen before you come home. A whole month! Nations have changed owners in less than a month!" And he laughed faintly.

"But in West Norton—what 'could' happen? I don't understand what you mean!"

"I am—not wise, perhaps. Looking forward and expecting ill is not a sensible occupation. But the feeling overpowers me at times. It has been upon me so strongly of late—a constant sense of coming trouble. I can hardly define what I mean; it weighs me to the ground! And it will come true!" The last few words were almost whispered.

Euphrasia's heart beat thickly. "Then it is not only a feeling. It is something that you really know, something going wrong at the Bank."

"Hush! Hush!" and he glanced round apprehensively. "You must not suggest such things." He held one hand over his brow. "I wish my head did not feel as it does of late. But that is a small matter. If I could only think—"

"Father, what is wrong really?"

"Did I say—anything was?"

"Yes. You meant it."

Another anxious look round.

Euphrasia went to the door and demonstrated the fact of its being fast shut. Then she returned to his side, standing close and speaking low.

"Please tell me. I will not talk. I will not repeat a word. Only tell me what you mean."

He hid his face, groaned, and said, "Everything is going."

"Not the Bank!"

"Hush!"

"Father—do you mean—is 'that' going to fail?"

He laid his large hot hand again on her little plump one, and held it in a grasp which gave positive pain.

Euphrasia endured the pain without flinching. As she stood thus, waiting, listening to the loud ticks of the clock, watching the veins swollen on her father's forehead, she had a strange sense of growing older fast, of each minute being almost as a year in her existence, of all remnants of childhood slipping from her. Whatever her father's mood might imply, it certainly implied something serious.

A mutter came at length, hoarse and low, "Loss of everything."

"For 'us?'"

He moved his head in silent assent.

"When? How?"

"I cannot tell. I see it looming."

"And nothing can be done to keep it off?"

"Nothing whatever."

She crept closer, and caught her breath audibly.

"Hush! If your mother comes in—"

"Must she not know?"

"Not a day earlier than need be! . . . It will kill us both! . . . Let her be happy a little longer." His haggard eyes looked into Euphrasia's. "I do not know why I have told you—such a child as you are! It does no good. I have been selfish to speak."

"Poor father!" Euphrasia's voice was seldom so tender.

Mr. Mackenzie was stirred by it to strong emotion. He hid his face.

"Poor Euphrasia! Poor little Eyebright! They will say I have been a bad father to you all! But—not from want of love!"

"Oh, no! Don't say that! Don't talk so, please! The dearest and best of fathers! Please don't say such things. I can't go to-morrow. I'll stay at home."

"No, my dear. You must go."

"I can't! How can I? There will be no pleasure in it at all—now."

"You must. We could give no reason. I would not have this guessed for anything! I do not know how I have come to say so much. It has been foolish—selfish of me! To spoil your pleasure for no good. But the burden seemed more than I could endure alone."

"I'm glad you told me." She wondered vaguely—might not some word of trust be helpful here? People had to trust in trouble. Mrs. Landor would say so at once. But the trouble seemed so real, and the trust so dim. Euphrasia could not feel conscious of anything like real trust within herself; and how then might she advise another to exercise it?

No, all she could do was to give up going away, and stay at home, to be, if possible, some little comfort to him. But she strove in vain. His will was as a flint in opposition. The dread lest anything might in consequence be guessed overmastered all other considerations. To Euphrasia the fear seemed unreasonable, but she had no power to make him see as she saw.

"If you had decided against it earlier—of your own will—before I spoke, that would have been different," he said once, wistfully.

And a stab of self-reproach shot through the girl, for she knew "now" that conscience had spoken plainly, and that she had refused to listen.

"But not since I have spoken—not on any account! I could not permit it!"

When she pleaded further, a look of distress and confusion came. "I cannot stand discussion. You must go, my dear, and enjoy yourself. Nothing can alter the plan now."

Euphrasia's train was not until after mid-day. And an early message from Mrs. Landor intimated that a good-bye call was expected at the Rectory.

"I told you she would not be pleased if you didn't go," Mrs. Mackenzie observed.

"Mother, I was there the day before yesterday."

"Well, you must run round again now. There's no need to stay long, and your packing is finished."

Mrs. Landor was always especially kind to Euphrasia, treating her in some sort as she would have treated a favourite niece. She had no nieces, and she had known "Little Eyebright" from infancy. Euphrasia gave much quiet love to Mrs. Landor—a steady affection, without romance, but reliable.

Although Lady of the Manor, Mrs. Landor had, since her marriage some ten or twelve years earlier, lived always at the Rectory. Her own house lay at a good distance—inconveniently far for the clergyman. So it was let to strangers, and she quietly devoted herself to Parish work. Some people thought and whispered that Mrs. Landor's affairs had become involved, and that her wealth was by no means what it once had been. She seldom spoke of her own affairs, however, and conjecture went no further.

"Did you mean to flit without one word to me?" Mrs. Landor asked, when the girl came slowly in.

It was not Euphrasia's way to go about with lagging step, and Mrs. Landor noted the change instantly. Then she saw a look in the young face not commonly there, and she put aside the work over which she was busy, motioning Euphrasia to a seat by her side.

Euphrasia did not take it. She went to a chair at a little distance, resolutely reticent in air. Mrs. Landor would see, of course, that something was wrong, for Mrs. Landor always saw everything, and Euphrasia knew that she must guard her words carefully. It was so natural to tell Mrs. Landor all that was in her mind, and here she might not do so. She had an odd feeling that distance meant greater safety. But Mrs. Landor quietly moved to the nearest sofa, so she gained nothing.

"Mother said I was to come."

"Against your will, child?" Mrs. Landor scrutinised the grave face. "It is not a question of 'Little Eyebright' to-day. Those eyes have been awake nearly all night. What have you been doing with yourself?"

One glance answered, quickly veiled.

"Some little matter that you do not want to tell me? Girls have their troubles, have they not? Don't make too much of it, whatever it may be. Yours is not, I think, a peculiarly anxious temperament, but most of us possess some power of self-worrying."

"I don't think—" Euphrasia failed to complete her sentence.

"You are pleased, on the whole, to go to your friend."

"I didn't want to give it up."

"Not even if your mother wanted you at home?"

"But my father says I must go. I did offer—last night."

"Ah! That alters the question." A pause; and then—"Euphrasia, what is the matter with your father?"

CHAPTER IV

FOR ONE'S GOOD

THE question came abruptly, though uttered in gentle tones. It took Euphrasia by surprise. A wave of colour crimsoned her face to the hair-roots, and then fled, leaving her white. Mrs. Landor watched with quiet attention. She could do so, since the downcast eyes were not raised.

"I see. He has been talking things over with you. No; you need not answer. I am asking no questions. Perhaps, a little mistake on your father's part. The best of men make occasional mistakes. He does not quite realise what a child you are."

"I don't feel like a child."

"Children seldom do. You will feel younger when you are really older . . . But of course he does not realise—how should he? And he has not been the same man since last winter. A sort of nervous disorganisation about him. He ought to go abroad for a few weeks, and get shaken out of it . . . He has been telling you of some little business worry or other; and in his present state, it has grown to Brobdingnagian proportions. The mole-hill is to your mind a veritable mountain."

"I must not repeat—"

"Not a word. I wouldn't have you do so, on any account. Confidence is sacred, from anyone—from a father or mother especially so, if there can be any 'especial' in connection with what is absolute. 'I' shall not repeat even my own conjecture to any human being. Be sure of that! . . . But I do not wish Little Eyebright to leave home with so sad a face. It's not needful, child. Things will come right."

"Will they?" Euphrasia looked with unbelieving eyes at her friend. "How can you tell? Things don't always come right."

"Not with everybody. That may be. It depends—"

"Does it?" Euphrasia seemed to take the rest of the unspoken sentence for granted. "If people are good enough, you mean. But nobody can be more good than my father. And that does not mean that everything must always come right with him."

"I think it does. 'We "know" that all things work together for good to them that love God.' We 'know' so much, with a certain knowledge. If he loves God, then all things must and will work together for his good. Whether that is exactly what you mean by 'things coming right,' I cannot say. It is what I mean."

A certain girlish resistance was in the other's face.

"Not easy to grasp, at your age, perhaps."

"I don't see how that would make trouble any the less hard to bear."

"Trouble is meant to be trouble; and you must not expect it to be aught else. The knowledge that it is to work utterly and absolutely for our good, ought to make it less hard to bear."

"It wouldn't, with me. I should want the trouble taken away,—just the same. I hate things going all crooked. It's so miserable. I suppose I ought not to talk so—but—I'd rather be without the trouble, and without the good of it too."

"You may say what you think to me. Probably many of us feel so at times, in our ignorance of what we wish. To be 'without the good' 'might' imply such awful loss in the future,—yet of course we don't understand. And God knows that we don't. Mercifully He doesn't punish us by taking us at our word, and treating us according to our folly. After all, it is just Father and child over again, as we see the relationship daily. The father, knowing best and loving most, bent on the child's happiness, and willing at any cost to himself, to give present pain for future good. The child bent on present ease and enjoyment, not able to understand the discipline it has to bear, or to look ahead . . . What do you say? Yes, cost to the child, no doubt, but greater cost to Himself: because the pain of giving pain is more severe to a loving nature than that of receiving pain! . . . There is nothing for it but trust, where we cannot see. HE deals with us commonly according to the measure of our trust, responding more when we expect more, and less when we expect less."

Euphrasia seemed to be lost in thought. When she spoke, it was to put a question.

"Do you mean that if—if I saw a trouble coming—and if I prayed that it might not come, and felt quite sure it would not—do you mean that that would keep it off?"

A rather odd expression crossed Mrs. Landor's face. "You couldn't do it, child."

Euphrasia's look fell.

"Such a prayer in itself would be presumptuous, unless prayed in submission, and then, of course, the mode of answer would be doubtful. If you resolved wilfully to pray that the trouble might at all hazards be kept off, you could not make yourself believe that it inevitably 'would' be kept off."

"I thought, sometimes, people were so sure about getting an answer."

"People may be absolutely sure, always, about getting an answer, but not about getting the particular answer which they would choose for themselves . . . I don't say there are no exceptional cases. Sometimes a trouble threatens to come, and the child turns to his Father for help; and an instant assurance is whispered to him that the trial shall not come. Then it does not come . . . But I doubt if such assurance is ever given to one wilfully insisting in prayer on having—'Not Thy will but mine.' It is not for us to dictate to God: only to ask."

"Then I don't see the good of praying," Euphrasia broke out passionately. "One might just as well let it alone."

She gazed again with rebellious eyes, expecting to see signs of indignation, but she could detect nothing beyond pity.

"Poor child!" the elder lady said softly. "Wait a little while, till you know Him better! Then you will find the difference between bearing your own burden and putting it off into His hands."

Something of the same thought came to Euphrasia that had come to her mother. "If Mrs. Landor expected to lose everything, would she feel so, 'then?'" The question found half-expression in a murmured, "It is easy to talk—"

"For people who have not the trouble themselves. Yes, I dare say it seems so. It must, naturally. You know your own troubles, and you don't know mine. Perhaps you would even say that I had none. If it were so, my dear, remember that the highest honour God can put upon one of His children is, perhaps, to 'leave' that child in the dark, that he may trust without being able to see."

Euphrasia's glance was uncomprehending.

"Try at least to think what a splendid thing it is to have such a Friend as Christ to hold one's hand, and to shape one's life. If He includes some pain in the shaping, it is because we need the pain. Better to accept what He brings, bravely and without murmuring. I don't mean for a moment that we may not pray against coming trouble. We ought to pray, and to be confident of an answer. Only we may not dictate the manner of answer."

"I can't see the good of praying if the trouble is to come just the same."

"It does not come 'just the same.' If it comes, it comes differently, or we are made able to meet it differently. My dear, try for yourself," urged Mrs. Landor, her slender hand resting on the girl's sunburnt fingers. "Only try, and prove for yourself how kind and true a Master He is. He will not be dictated to, but He does love to be appealed to. Only put your worries straight off into His Hands, and ask Him to arrange everything for the best. If your experience in life is to be at all the same as mine has been, you will constantly be amazed at the manner of answer that comes, so simple and direct. Very often so exactly the thing that you have asked and wished for. I don't say it 'will' be the same. God does not treat us as patients were treated in olden hospitals—laid us in rows, to receive the same doses of medicine all round. Each case needs its own treatment, and each case gets it. But one thing I do know, that you will never turn to Him in vain."

"Some people don't seem to get such answers."

"Do they expect such answers, Euphrasia?"

Mrs. Landor had no reply to her question. Half to herself, yet distinctly, she quoted,—

"'If our love were but more simple,

We should take Him at His Word:

And our lives would be all sunshine

In the sweetness of our Lord.'

"All sunshine doesn't mean no clouds, but it does mean sunlight between and through the clouds . . . Still, answers are sometimes long delayed. That again may be the higher honour put upon us. We test a rope more or less severely, according to our belief in the strength of the rope."

CHAPTER V

THE JOHNSTON FAMILY

"WHERE is Letitia? I can't imagine what has become of her. That girl will be here directly, and it will seem so rude, if Letitia is out. Somebody ought to have met her in Bristol, but really I have not known how to arrange it; and Letitia never thinks of anything."

"Except it be a thing that she wants for herself," chimed in Howard Johnston, a rather handsome and severe-looking young man, busy at a side writing-table in the large drawing-room. It was an upstairs drawing-room, after the manner of the big old-fashioned Royal York Crescent houses in Clifton; and its front windows overlooked the lengthy crescent-shaped stone terrace which partly hid from sight the road below.

"Girls always think of themselves first. What can you expect? I'm sure she is welcome to do what she likes, generally. 'I' don't expect my children to put themselves out for me," declared Mrs. Johnston complacently, from the depths of a luxurious chair. "But I do think she ought to have managed to meet her friend. She knows that I meant to send her down in a cab with Jerrold—and I didn't see the use of Jerrold going alone. She would never have managed to stumble on the right person. Jerrold is all very well as a maid, but she is stupid about that sort of thing."

"It might have been more polite to make the effort."

"Do you think so? But really I have been so busy, I am afraid it slipped my memory. Letitia should have seen to things. At all events, she ought to have managed to come home in time."

"No doubt the young lady knows Letitia too well to be astonished at anything."

"But I have never seen her, and she knows none of us except Letitia. It was so provoking that she should accept the invitation just now. Almost any other time would have been better. So much going on in Clifton! And, of course, we can't take Miss Mackenzie everywhere. People haven't always spare space; and I don't even know yet whether she is presentable; and Letitia can't be perpetually leaving her. It is provoking. Letitia said we were bound to ask her before winter because it has always been a promise. I am sure I shouldn't have remembered, but I suppose I did say something once, and Letitia seems to have made the most of it. So absurd of her. And I suppose the girl will stay a month at least. Country people of that sort have no notion of paying a short visit."

"Make some other arrangement, and tell her the room won't be free after a certain date."

"My dear boy, how can I? Letitia has asked her for a month. 'It was always promised,' she says."

"Promised! For whose sake?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Letitia 'used' to wish it."

"Well—if Letitia undertakes her—"

"But that is the very thing! I believe Letitia would be as glad to be off it as I should be. Of course they were very good friends at school, but that is another matter. It isn't really that Letitia 'wants' her now, only she feels bound. I don't suppose Miss Mackenzie is anything particular—not pretty, or clever, and she doesn't sing or play, and her father is only the manager of a little country branch bank. For my part, I can't imagine what made Letitia take to her; only girls do like to have a fuss made about themselves, and it is plain that Miss Mackenzie has an immense admiration for Letitia. That's how it has been. And at school, as I say, it was all very well. Letitia was glad of anything to pass the time. But here it is different. She has any amount of friends; and really, between ourselves, I believe she would have been glad if Miss Mackenzie had put off coming. Only, in a sort of way, Letitia is conscientious, you know, and she declared we had to ask the girl."

"Conscientious 'in a sort of way!' I should think her sense of obligation might extend so far as to include a kind welcome."

"Oh, of course! Letitia means to be as kind as possible. She always does. I don't say the child isn't a little scrap spoilt, but she really has very nice manners—generally. Of course she will take Miss Mackenzie about, and make it a pleasant visit. Only it really is 'rather' a bore for poor dear Letitia because I don't suppose Euphrasia Mackenzie will suit Letitia's friends in the least. And a month is a long time. If it were only a week or ten days, one could manage better. But it can't be helped. That sort of thing has to be endured. Letitia ought to have been more cautious with her promises. I do wish she would come in first of the two."

Letitia failed to do so. At this very moment she was seated in a friend's house, deeply interested in a certain discussion of plans, and oblivious of the hour. At this very moment Euphrasia was driving alone into the road below the Royal York Crescent.

She had not expected to find nobody waiting for her at the big noisy Bristol station. Euphrasia was not yet much of a traveller.

"You will be met, of course," her mother had said, on seeing her off.

And though capable of managing for herself, she did look out, with eagerness amounting to certainty, for Letitia's pretty face, as the train drew up.

But no Letitia was there! Euphrasia wasted some little time gazing blankly about, before she could make up her mind to the reality. Then she secured a porter and found her luggage, not a little hurt at the apparent coldness. Something might unexpectedly have happened to keep Letitia away—still, Euphrasia felt that it must have been a very serious something which should have sufficed to keep her away, if Letitia had been coming to her home.

"And if she could not come herself, she might have sent somebody," thought Euphrasia, during the long drive through Bristol, and up a Bristol hill, into Clifton.

The cabman presently pulled up and leant over for a word. "Will you get out at the lower door, or at the steps?"

"Lower door!"

"Royal York Crescent is a terrace, Miss. The luggage 'll have to go in at the lower door, but there's steps up to the terrace, if you'd sooner go in at the front door."

Euphrasia forlornly decided to cling to her luggage, and the cab drove on.

Then the "lower door" was reached. And Euphrasia found herself, inwardly quaking, in a long stone passage—kitchen regions, plainly. The maid led to a flight of stairs, by means of which they gained the hall. But this was only the "ground-floor," ordinarily considered, level with the terrace. Here were dining-room and library, while for the drawing-room yet another climb was needful. Country-bred Euphrasia, used to two little sitting-rooms on a level with earth's surface, found this a somewhat breathless experience. She grew each instant more heated, bewildered and embarrassed. One glimpse of Letitia would have set all right, but no Letitia appeared.

Had her coming been forgotten? Was she really not expected?

CHAPTER VI

EUPHRASIA'S FRIEND

"MISS MACKENZIE," announced the man, who had taken the place of the maid on the front door level.

Euphrasia cast a hungry glance round the drawing-room as she entered, and she found there no Letitia. Not even when, advancing farther, she obtained a view of the smaller back part, at first hidden. The disappointment was so keen as actually to bring a threatening of something like tears. Reserved Euphrasia was by no means always so reserved as she liked to count herself. She had to clench her gloved hands, and to set her teeth.

A young man, seated at a side writing-table, stood up, and the lady beyond made a half motion, as of intent to do the same, but did not actually raise herself. Perhaps the object seemed hardly worth the exertion. She held out a hand of welcome, however, smiling in a lavish style.

"How do you do, Miss Mackenzie? Quite well, I hope? And not very tired with your long journey! Travelling really is most fatiguing, is it not? We are delighted to have you at last in our midst."

Mrs. Johnston's eyes ran all over Euphrasia, taking careful stock of her exterior, and farther than the exterior those eyes had no power to penetrate. ("Dear me! What a very ordinary girl!" decided the lady. "What 'could' have made Letitia ever take a fancy to her? Such a jacket! And no manner at all!")

"It's really most unfortunate that Letitia should have been prevented from meeting you at the station. Bristol is such a bustling place that she fully meant to be there, but she found it impossible, I suppose, to get back in time. Letitia has so many engagements, and Clifton is such a busy place, always something going on. I never can count upon her now for anything. One lives in a perpetual rush. (Has the girl nothing to say? Does she mean to stand and stare for an hour?) Pray sit down, Miss Mackenzie. Yes, that chair please, Howard. My son,—no doubt Letitia has mentioned her brothers to you. Girls always talk over their home-people together, don't they? And you and she are great friends, I know—'immense' friends. Letitia has so often spoken of the pleasure of having you here."

"Letitia is rather more given to speech than action," remarked Howard.

"Oh, that is too bad—poor dear Letitia! When she isn't present to defend herself! But Miss Mackenzie and I know better. Of course Letitia has her little faults—what girl has not?—and sometimes she may even forget to look at her watch when she has an important engagement on hand, but she would never be willingly neglectful of anybody. I'm really afraid she must have forgotten the hour this afternoon, but she will be back directly. We shall see her in a minute or two; and I know how distressed she will feel at her own carelessness. (I declare, the girl has not uttered one single syllable, good, bad or indifferent! Is she a dummy? I'll try a direct question!) Have you had a pleasant journey?"

"Yes, thanks." Euphrasia gazed with combative eyes at the speaker; eyes which had to be combative, if they would escape being tearful.

"Chilly, I should imagine."

"I don't mind cold." Euphrasia spoke curtly.

"Ah! So different from me! Now, cold quite shrivels me up, positively kills me! But you are young and vigorous. Have you ever seen Clifton before?"

"No, never." ("And I shall not stay long to see it now," thought Euphrasia. "If only I had not come!")

"A very pretty place, you know. Delightful walks and drives. Letitia must take you across the downs, and into the Leigh Woods."

Euphrasia was silent.

"Ah, here is the child at last!" Mrs. Johnston spoke in a tone of relief, feeling that her share of responsibility was ended. "My dear, you have been most thoughtless! Your friend has arrived in your absence, and you know that you were to have gone down to the station. I had looked upon that as a settled matter. Miss Mackenzie must have thought you quite unkind, really 'most' unkind, letting her come among us as a perfect stranger. But of course you could not help it!"

Letitia entered slowly—a pretty girl, prettily dressed—with a thundercloud of annoyance on her brow. No confirmation came from her of the last assertion—no disclaimer from Euphrasia of the preceding. A mechanical kiss was exchanged between the friends, and Letitia stood gazing into the fireplace, wrapped up in her own thoughts. Mrs. Johnston glanced from the one downcast face to the other, uncomfortably aware of something out of joint.

"Where have you been, my dear?"

"To the Fearings!"—shortly.

"Lady Fearing?"

"Yes, of course! You knew! I told you I was going there!" The tone spoke of ill-temper, and was, to say the least, disrespectful.

That her friend "had a temper," as the saying goes, Euphrasia was aware, but she had not before seen precisely this form of it. At school Letitia had been in wholesome subjection, and such a tone to the principal, or to any of the teachers, would not have been tolerated for a moment. At home the spoilt manner of a spoilt child was at once reassumed, but it came upon Euphrasia with a shock. She was not herself peculiarly sympathetic in manner to her own mother, but at least she never showed disrespect.

"Well, you may have told me, Letitia, but I am sure I don't remember. So many things are always coming up."

"Lady Fearing asked me to call, and I told you I had to go and couldn't get back early. You 'might' have remembered," Letitia continued curtly. "And it's most provoking. Lady Fearing wants me to go to Bath with her and Cecy next week for three or four nights—to one of the hotels. We should go everywhere and see everything. It would be so delightful. Of course, I said I could not, but—"

"No, of course not," assented Mrs. Johnston, with a warning glance, which had more effect on Euphrasia than on Letitia.

Letitia sighed, and dangled one of her gloves to and fro with a dismal air.

"Of all things I should have loved it," she murmured.

"Why should you not go?" asked Euphrasia.

"Oh, why—of course—" uttered Letitia, half-ashamed.

"It would not be convenient. Entirely out of the question." Mrs. Johnston launched another reproachful glance. She might be as much disappointed as Letitia at the impossibility, and she was not delighted at first sight with her daughter's friend, nevertheless, she knew what politeness required of them both.

"Then it is not because of my being here for a few days? That need make no difference. I shall be going home early next week."

"Oh, nonsense—why, you promised us a month at least." Letitia was beginning to get a glimpse of herself from outside, and to realise the rudeness into which temper had betrayed her.

"I don't think I promised anything. I have only come for a 'very' few days. My father isn't well, and I almost put off coming altogether."

"Oh, well—of course that makes a difference. I mean, I am very sorry he isn't well. What is the matter with him? But you wouldn't like to be long away, if he is poorly. And then, of course—"

"My dear, I think you had better show Miss Mackenzie to her room. Tea will be up in a few minutes, and Miss Mackenzie may be glad to remove her hat."

Euphrasia made no objection. She was upheld by a consciousness of having acted her part well. She certainly 'would' go home—if not before Sunday, then immediately after. At home she was wanted, here she was not wanted. A glow of affection for the dear little home crept over her as she walked silently in Letitia's rear; and she wondered how she could ever have been so eager to leave it.

CHAPTER VII

FRIENDS AND FRIENDS

A PANG came as Euphrasia remembered her father's forecast of loss and change, and she wondered how long the little home would still be theirs. How small other matters seemed by comparison!

"And yet I 'did' think Letitia really loved me! I didn't think she could be like this!" the girl said voicelessly.

The cloud had cleared from Letitia's brow and she tripped lightly upstairs showing the way. Once she paused to slip her arm within Euphrasia's in the old affectionate style, but there was no response.

"Why, Euphrasia! You are not vexed with me, are you?"

Euphrasia made no answer till the question was repeated. "I don't know," she said then, slowly. "Perhaps not—exactly—vexed! Only I thought you really wanted to have me, and now I see it was a mistake."

"You dear old goosie! Nonsense, Euphrasia! What 'can' have put such an absurd notion into your head? Not want you! Of course I want you. I wanted you to stay a whole month—you know I did."

"Only you are very glad I cannot."

"Really, Euphrasia, you are too ridiculous! What nonsense! Of course if your father isn't well, you are right to go home. That is another matter. I shouldn't be right to try and keep you."

"And then you will be free to go to Bath!"

"Oh, that—as to that, I shall see! Other things might prevent. I may not go, anyhow. It just depends! Of course, I should like it, and I don't see why you should mind! Anybody would like such a treat, and anybody would be provoked when things don't fit in properly. But my wanting to go there doesn't mean that I don't want to have you here too."

Euphrasia shook her head, almost imperceptibly.

"Why, they can all tell you that I have talked for months of your visit. But of course I have other friends too. And Cecy Fearing is the very dearest girl! If you knew her, you wouldn't wonder at me."

"I quite understand," Euphrasia answered, standing gravely near the dressing-table. By this time they were in the little bedroom.

"Well, I hope you are not going to have any more fancies. You ought to know me better by this time. Do you think you can find your way downstairs? Shall I send the maid to help you unpack? No? You dear piece of independence! Tea will be up in a few minutes, and there's something I 'must' do first. But don't be long coming down."

Letitia hurried off, plainly eager to be free; and Euphrasia gazed solemnly out of the window, seeing nothing.

"Father would say that one has to learn what the world is like. And Mrs. Landor would call this being désillusionnée. I did think I had one real friend in Letitia, and now I find I have not! Perhaps it is a good thing to find out early, not to be long deceived. She seemed so different at school. But everything was different there. These Fearings—why, they are quite new people. Letitia didn't know them three months ago. And yet she would rather be with them than with me. But they are somebodies and I am a nobody."

Euphrasia laughed faintly. One may be quite as proud of being a Nobody as of being a Somebody, but she did not know this.

"Anyhow, I am not going to make a goose of myself, or to let them see that I care. My father being poorly is excuse enough for me to hurry home. I shall not write to-night, because I might say too much. But to-morrow morning I'll tell him plainly that Letitia is not the friend I thought her, and that I'm not really wanted here, and so I mean to go home on Monday or Tuesday. Only he must not think that I am letting out anything he said to me. I shall have to be careful."

Meanwhile Letitia ran downstairs, and was greeted in the drawing-room by a—

"Really, Letitia—!"

"It's all right, mother. She's obliged to go home in a hurry because of her father! So now I can go to Bath."

"You will do nothing of the kind," Mrs. Johnston said, for once seriously displeased. "I would not on any account have Miss Mackenzie hurried away in such a fashion, just for your convenience. Of course I should like you to be in Bath with Lady Fearing, but I will not have a guest treated with rudeness, and that would be positive rudeness."

"She says she has to go home."

"Nonsense, my dear. Could you not see for yourself? Of course she felt bound to say so, when you showed so plainly what you wanted. But after asking her here for a month—really it was too bad, and Howard says the same. If you choose to make foolish promises to your friends, you must take the consequences. Nobody else wanted her, but now she is here, she will stay—at all events for ten days or a fortnight. I don't believe a word about her father's health. Why did she not mention it in writing?"

"I don't see why she should." Letitia spoke sullenly.

"Anybody else would see. Which day do the Fearings go to Bath?"

"Tuesday. To stay till Friday or Saturday."

"Then it is out of the question. You must give up all idea of such a thing." Mrs. Johnston spoke with unwonted decision. "It can't be, and that is the long and short of the matter."

A few minutes later Euphrasia made her appearance. She would not remain long upstairs. She did not wish for solitude or time to think, and she was especially desirous not to show signs of affront. Such signs would be tantamount to an avowal that her father's indisposition was not the real, or at all events not the sole cause of her shortened visit. "And it 'shall' be short," she told herself resolutely.

Letitia's face showed a fresh phase of affairs, which at first perplexed Euphrasia. Tea was come, and Mrs. Johnston while dispensing it talked continuously, to cover her daughter's silence. Euphrasia made necessary answers, not hearing half that was said, till the words caught her attention:

"Next Wednesday Letitia shall take you."

The "where" had doubtless been explained before.

"Thank you," she said at once, "but I shall not be here on Wednesday."

Mrs. Johnston laughed. "Indeed, Miss Mackenzie, we shall not let you off so early. If a whole month is impossible, a fortnight is the least we can be content with."

"Thank you. It is very kind." Euphrasia's eyes went straight to Letitia's face, and lingered there for two seconds. "But I must go home on Monday or Tuesday. Not later than Tuesday."

"No, indeed! I really could not consent. I shall write to your father myself, and ask him if it is necessary." Mrs. Johnston spoke with an air of pleasant determination. "I do not think he can be so ill as not to spare you for a short time. As for Letitia's absurd notion about Bath, pray do not let that trouble you. The plan is absolutely out of the question."

"It makes no difference. I must go on Monday or Tuesday."

A smile of dissent answered, and Mrs. Johnston put the matter aside, as if further discussion were superfluous. Since Letitia would not exert herself, Mrs. Johnston did, and the next hour was made as pleasant to Euphrasia as could be possible under the circumstances.

"Most fatiguing for myself, for the girl has no conversation," Mrs. Johnston stated inwardly, with compassion for her own arduous task. But she succeeded in winning Euphrasia's gratitude, and even to some extent Euphrasia's liking.

"Letitia, my dear, I wish you would run upstairs and get me that little work-basket out of my bedroom," she said, after a while. Lights had been brought in, for it was getting dark.

"Oh, bother,—why don't you ring for the maid? I'm tired." As with most spoilt children, "tired" with her meant "out of temper."

"Really, my dear, you might speak more civilly."

And Euphrasia started up, actually blushing for Letitia.

"Please let me! I should like so much to go. Yes, I know your bedroom—the front room over this. And the work-basket—"

"Well, really, you are very kind! I'm most obliged—but after all—yes, just a little work-basket, on the small table within the door. But I don't like—"

Euphrasia was gone. "I call 'that' obliging," said Mrs. Johnston.

Euphrasia had no difficulty in finding her way, though the landing above was dark. It seemed that the servants had delayed later than usual lighting the gas. She gained the room, found the work-basket, and set off swiftly to return. Too swiftly for one not familiar with the geography of the house.

Before she knew it, the first short flight was reached. When just about to move cautiously, in search of the stairs, her foot was already over the topmost step. Beyond that—a dead blank!

CHAPTER VIII

A STEP IN THE DARK

"LETITIA, what is that noise?"

"Somebody has let something fall, I suppose. The servants are always dropping trays about."

"Somebody has fallen down, I am sure. Not Miss Mackenzie, I hope! Do pray see."

Mrs. Johnston did not wait for Letitia's reluctant motion. Although usually far from rapid herself, being of lymphatic temperament, she started out of her chair, and hurried into the hall.

"Nothing here, but the sound seemed to come from above. Do find out. How you dawdle, child! I declare, the fright has turned me positively ill. If Miss Mackenzie—"

Letitia, mounting unwillingly to the half-way landing, broke into a scream: "Mother, it is Euphrasia! Down a whole flight!"

And Mrs. Johnston hastened thither.

Euphrasia was coming to herself. The first shock had driven away all conscious sensation. For though the flight was not a long one, she had fallen with considerable force. But she woke up to her position as Mrs. Johnston arrived on the scene.

Letitia stood looking in blank dismay, not offering to help.

"I'm sorry—so stupid of me—" were Euphrasia's first words, uttered vaguely. She was hardly yet awake to actual pain, but an odd dread of the least movement held her in a cramped heap. "It isn't—it won't be much."

"Can I help you up, my dear?" asked Mrs. Johnston, with extended hand.

Euphrasia could have cried out, "Oh, don't!" merely from that instinct that she might not move. She resisted the impulse and made an effort to raise herself, only to sink back, voicelessly clutching the nearest baluster.

"What is it? Where are you hurt?" asked Mrs. Johnston, much concerned. "Somewhere, surely. She does look white! Letitia, pray call somebody. Call Horris. Oh no, he is out. Call anybody. Do make haste. Oh, here is Howard."

"Something wrong?" enquired Howard's voice.

"Miss Mackenzie missed the top step somehow, and has fallen down. She has hurt herself, I am afraid."

"If I may just wait a minute! It isn't so very bad—if only I needn't move! If I may just wait—please—" That terrible thrill of pain had turned her sick, and she did not know how to endure another.

"You will have to let me carry you upstairs." Howard spoke as if it were the most everyday thing in the world.

"Oh no, thank you, indeed, I'll walk in a few minutes. If I may just wait!" pleaded Euphrasia, dreading the most kindly touch, and only craving to be left alone.

The servants by this time were gathering round. "Dear me, ma'am, this is bad!" Jerrold was saying. "Hadn't we best send for the doctor, ma'am?"

"Robert should certainly come," Howard said in a decisive under-tone, as Mrs. Johnston hesitated.

"Doctor! I don't want a doctor," exclaimed Euphrasia, a vivid recollection springing up of the state of the home finances. "I shall be all right after a night's rest."

"You think so really?"

"Oh yes, of course. It's only a little—a little twist, I think."

"Where?"

No answer came. She made another resolute effort to rise, endeavouring to pull herself up by means of the baluster, but again the result was failure. "My—knee, I think—" she said faintly,—"and—and—"

"My dear Howard, she is too heavy for you! Don't, pray," urged Mrs. Johnston. "Do wait for Horris. He will be in directly."

"Please don't!" echoed Euphrasia, as he prepared to lift her.

Both appeals were disregarded. "Then don't take her all the way. Bring her to my room, at all events, just for the moment,—only one little flight, Howard!"

"Two moves are better avoided."

Euphrasia protested no further. All her strength of will was required to suppress outward signs of suffering. The jar of each step was as much as she could possibly endure. And by the time Howard laid her on the bed in her little front bedroom, she was on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Poor girl! Fainted away. Really, she has borne it very pluckily. Better send at once for Bob, and the less movement the better, meantime, till we know what is wrong. I am afraid she is a good deal hurt." And again he said,—"Poor girl!"

Euphrasia, though too far gone to speak or to open her eyes, heard distinctly, as from a distance—

"Yes, indeed, I am very sorry for her,—though really I do think, Howard, that 'we' are to be pitied too! I suppose it will mean no end of trouble and bother to everybody. One wouldn't say it to her, of course, but it is true."

"I shall go for Bob myself," Howard responded shortly.

The doctor, Robert Wells by name, nephew to Mrs. Johnston, paid his visit and departed, leaving dismay behind him.

Though young in appearance, he was several years older than his cousin Howard, a man of skilful fingers and of few words, not in the least good-looking, but pleasant-mannered. He spent some time with Euphrasia, putting her to as little pain as could consist with needful examination of her injuries. Euphrasia endured bravely, and waited for the opportunity of a brief tête-à-tête with him to ask in earnest tones, "Will it be much? How soon may I go home?"

"It is an awkward twist," Mr. Wells said in answer. "Everything depends on perfect rest from the first."

"But I may get up to-morrow morning?"

"Certainly not. This knee has to be kept entirely still. I don't think you would advance far in your dressing, if you made the attempt; and you must not make the attempt. You will feel very stiff all over to-morrow, apart from the knee."

"But staying in bed means giving trouble, and I can't bear to do that. I would rather go home to be nursed, please."

The doctor looked her over gravely, asked, "Where is your home?"—Then said, "H'm!"

"I can't stay here to be a bother. I don't know Mrs. Johnston well enough. I couldn't bear to give such trouble to strangers. May I go home to-morrow?"

He shook his head.

"Then on Monday—I may go on Monday!"

Another shake.

"It isn't such a very long journey; and only one change. Somebody could meet me there, and I might be helped in and out of the train. I would not make any fuss, really."

"I am sure you would not. But this knee must have a few days of absolute rest. You don't want to be troubled with it for months to come. There is nothing like taking a thing in time."

"Only a few days! Not more, you are sure?"

"I'll tell you that when I see the effect of the few days."

Further questioning failed to bring a more definite answer. Euphrasia lay after his departure, conning over his words, trying to extract some comfort from them. If not Monday, then Tuesday, or Wednesday at the latest! To lie here, giving "no end of trouble and bother" to people who did not care in the slightest for her personally—no, not even Letitia!—seemed unendurable!

"I can't do it; oh, I can't," she said aloud. "It is too dreadful. If only I were at home. If only I had never come. Oh, I can't stay here! And I don't see the need. The pain isn't so very bad, except when I move. I couldn't stay here to be nursed!" But one often has to do in life just that thing which one most shrinks from.

The doctor's reticence was of small avail. Letitia presently came in, by her mother's desire, not as it appeared too willingly. She stood at the foot of the bed, and in moody tones said—

"Well, you've done for yourself now, at any rate!"

"I couldn't help falling, Letitia."

"You could have helped it with common care. So absurd, to go rushing about in a strange house, where you didn't know your way. It was not your business to offer to get the basket at all. If you hadn't meddled, this wouldn't have happened." The implied rebuke of Euphrasia's action to her own lazy inaction rankled still.

"I thought I ought," in a constrained tone.

"Well, I hope you are satisfied!"

Letitia's unkindness cut deeply. Euphrasia could hardly have believed in such a display of temper to one in her then position. She had to wring her hands under the bed clothes, for self-control before speaking again.

"I want to say one thing. Please don't let this make any difference about your going to Bath. If I should not get away quite so soon as I had meant to do, I should like you to go just the same. There's no need for you to be here. It would only make me miserable to think that you stayed at home on my account."

"Mother won't hear of it."

Then the question had been already mooted!

"I would so much rather—I would, indeed. I don't want anybody. I shall just lie quiet, and nobody need take any trouble, till the doctor says I may travel. I want to go on Monday or Tuesday, but it might perhaps have to be Wednesday."

"Tuesday! Wednesday! Why, Robert says you won't be able to travel for a month at least—six weeks very likely. He says it's out of the question. And he won't even hear of your getting up for some days. I am sure I don't know how we shall manage. The servants are always grumbling as it is about their work."

A month or six weeks. Euphrasia's heart died within her.

"He can't mean that! He didn't tell me. He only talked of a few days."

"Oh, that was to pacify you, of course. I suppose I ought not to have told you, but I forgot. Don't go and repeat it, or you'll get me into a scrape."

CHAPTER IX

A PRISONER

BEFORE morning, Euphrasia knew well that getting up was at present a matter, not of course, but of absolute incapacity. Bruised back and strained side had asserted themselves, and might alone have been enough to enforce a short imprisonment, but the knee was far worse. The slightest movement meant an unbearable thrill of agony, and all through the long night she had hardly dared to let herself drop asleep, because of the inevitable awakening.

"Won't quite do for a journey yet, will it?" the doctor said kindly.

"But will this go on long?"

"I hope not. You have given the knee a most awkward twist, and the least additional strain now might make it very serious. Nothing for such a case but absolute rest. I don't want to keep you in bed longer than need be, but I am afraid a few days are necessary. Then we must try to get you on a sofa."

"But all that means so much trouble. Oh, I could not," Euphrasia was dismayed almost to the point of tears. "How can I? Among strangers! I'd rather just lie quiet here, and give no trouble. Much rather!"

"You are of an independent spirit."

"I shouldn't mind so much at home. But in somebody else's house—"

"Well, yes, that does make matters more trying, I grant. It can't be helped. The more quiet you can keep your knee, the sooner it is likely to improve. A great deal depends on yourself. Not much sleep last night, I'm afraid."

"I couldn't. I kept waking with a start every time I dropped off. If I moved ever so little, the pain woke me."

Mr. Wells took his leave, and Euphrasia was left to her own cogitations. She had time enough for them that day and in days following. Far more solitude was hers than had ever before fallen to her lot; yet even solitude is better than a grudged companionship.

Mrs. Johnston, while expressing all polite concern for her guest's condition, never visited the room without letting it appear how great an exertion she counted the effort. Letitia never spent half-an-hour there without showing a desire to be elsewhere.

Worse than the worst bodily suffering was Euphrasia's consciousness of being looked upon as a mere burden. No doubt the Johnstons, mother and daughter, were in a general sense sorry for her, but they were a great deal more sorry for themselves. To have a guest in the house requiring care and nursing was simply a "bother" in their eyes. And if they could politely have got rid of their unwished-for invalid, they would gladly have done so. Euphrasia realised this to the core of her being.

The very servants, pampered and trained in self-indulgence, objected to the "extra work," and seeing this feeling plainly in their mistress, they did not hesitate to speak it out plainly among themselves. A lazy young housemaid had been told off to wait upon Euphrasia; and due orders were given to her, but nobody saw whether these orders were carried out. In point of fact, they often were not. And Euphrasia was allowed to wait long for many things that she needed. Proudly, she would not ask or remind the girl. At least it should not be said of her that she gave unnecessary trouble.

"And I need not have come! I might have escaped all this! If I had just given it up when I really felt as if I ought, I might be at home now, and quite well—not boxed up here where nobody wants me!" Such regrets haunted Euphrasia unceasingly.

She would not let her parents know what had happened. Why should she? It would only make them anxious, and could do no good. Nay, in her father's condition, the additional worry might even break him down altogether. So reasoned Euphrasia, putting bravely aside her own longings for home sympathy. One short note she sent, to notify the fact of her arrival, carefully worded, and dealing only with generalities. No mention was in it of her accident; and a request for silence stopped any communication from Mrs. Johnston.

Two or three days later came a hasty scrawl from Mrs. Mackenzie, telling little or no news, and merely hoping that Euphrasia would enjoy her visit. After which followed silence. Mrs. Mackenzie did not write again. Mr. Mackenzie did not write at all; and Mrs. Landor sent only a line on Parish matters. Ken and Flo were equally remiss. Absence of home letters made easier the keeping of her secret, since she too could thus be silent, without causing particular remark.

But the state of things was unusual, and she fretted over it a good deal. During her long absences at school, letters had been frequent and regular. She could only conjecture now that her father was not well, and that they would not write for fear of having to say what might shadow her pleasure. As for her own silence—doubtless they would think that she was selfishly so enjoying herself as to forget to write.

"But I must bear that for a little while. They will soon know," she said.

Days crept by with such desperate slowness that a week seemed like a month. And the silence therefore appeared a great deal longer than it really was. Euphrasia did not allow for this fact.

Improvement in the injured knee was slow, so slow that she sometimes wondered if it improved at all. At the end of a week, she was allowed to be moved to a small sofa, which the doctor ordered to be brought to her room, and from this sofa she could gain glimpses of the outside world through the window. But the unwelcome trouble to others involved by even so slight a change pressed upon Euphrasia's mind, and destroyed her pleasure in it.

"To have to be such a bother!" she said.

Yet she could not do without the help. Her restless young spirit chafed under her own incapacity to stand or move about alone.

One day, nearly a fortnight after the accident, she lay alone on the sofa, looking out wearily into a blaze of sunshine. She could just see the square tower of the old Parish Church beyond and away from the further end of the Crescent; and a sound of bells came thence, ringing merrily. It was almost half-past two. And Mrs. Johnston and Letitia were gone to a wedding which would be immediately taking place. Euphrasia did not expect their return till late in the afternoon, since a "reception" was to follow the wedding.

"So much the better!" she said. "If they come up here to see me, it is only because they think they must. And I hate to be a disagreeable duty to anybody!"

Nevertheless, she felt somewhat forlorn in her dull little room, with the bright sunshine and gay bell-ringing outside. And the afternoon seemed long to get through.

Nobody had thought of bringing her a book to while away the tedious hours. And true still to her resolution of making no needless requests, she would not ask for one. A copy of "Hymns Ancient and Modern" was the sole volume within reach, almost the sole volume in her room. No bookcase was here, and Euphrasia had brought no books with her.

There was nothing to draw her mind away from the subject of home. An absolute dearth of letters continued. Euphrasia had written once again, this time to Ken, saying little of herself and nothing of her condition, only begging to know how they all were, especially Mr. Mackenzie. But to her note, posted only the day before, no answer could yet arrive.

As she pondered, a favourite motto of her father's wove its measure into the peal of bells, making itself heard with tiring persistency.

"A pund o' care winna pay an ounce o' debt—an ounce o' debt—an ounce o' debt—an ounce—an ounce—an ounce o' debt—A pund o' care—a pund o' care winna pay—winna pay—winna pay an ounce—an ounce o' debt."

"O dear, I wish I could forget that wretched proverb! And I don't see the sense of it either. One doesn't worry because worrying does any good, but only because one can't help it . . . Ought one to help it? Mrs. Landor would say so. But then she has no cares—at least, none worth speaking about. It is so easy not to be bothered when there is nothing to bother one."

"Winna pay—winna pay—winna pay an ounce—an ounce—winna pay an ounce o' debt," persisted the bells.

Euphrasia took up the small hymnbook and turned over its leaves with fingers thinner than their wont. Anything to break the line of thought!

"If our love were but more simple,

We should take Him at His word—"

"I've seen or heard that before."

"A pund o' care—a pund o' care winna pay—winna pay—an ounce—an ounce—an ounce o' debt—winna pay an ounce o' debt!"

"O do stop! Where did I hear those lines before? Somewhere, I know." And straightway she read the hymn:—

"Souls of men! why will ye scatter

Like a crowd of frightened sheep?

Foolish hearts! why will ye wander

From a love so true and deep?

"Was there ever kindest shepherd

Half so gentle, half so sweet,

As the Saviour who would have us

Come and gather round His feet?

"There's a wideness in God's mercy,

Like the wideness of the sea;

There's a kindness in His justice,

Which is more than liberty.

"There is no place where earth's sorrows

Are more felt than up in heaven:

There is no place where earth's failings

Have such kindly judgment given.

"There is plentiful redemption

In the blood that has been shed;

There is joy for all the members

In the sorrows of the Head.

"For the love of God is broader

Than the measures of man's mind;

And the heart of the Eternal

Is most wonderfully kind.

"Pining souls! come nearer Jesus,

And, oh, come not doubting thus,

But with faith that trusts more bravely

His huge tenderness for us.

"If our love were but more simple,

We should take Him at His word;

And our lives would be all sunshine

In the sweetness of our Lord."

CHAPTER X

HOW MUCH LONGER?

EUPHRASIA read slowly, for there was no need to hurry. She had nothing else to occupy her time. When she had reached the last verse, it took shape in the tones of Mrs. Landor, and she knew then where she had heard the words. She saw herself in Mrs. Landor's room, with Mrs. Landor by her side.

"My dear, try for yourself! Only try, and prove for yourself how kind and true a Master He is!" This also came back in Mrs. Landor's quiet voice.

"Is He so kind?" the girl asked dreamily. "So very very kind! I have always thought of Him as good and just and true—all that, of course. And angry, if one did wrong—only 'angry' never seems quite the right word. But KIND—'most wonderfully kind'—is that what God is really and truly like?" Another utterance sprang from her very heart,—"If He is, how I could love Him!"

"Why don't I?" came next.

"I suppose I haven't known before what He is really like—that He is so truly kind."

Recollections arose, unbidden, of the "old old story" of how the Son of God went to and fro on earth, ever with infinite kindness listening to all who spoke, answering all who petitioned, accompanying all who asked Him to go.

"He was kind—He is kind—and He was—is—God! He is just the same now as then. No difference at all. 'The heart of the Eternal is most wonderfully kind!' Doesn't that mean that He is kind still, even when He sends trouble, because He only sends it for our good? . . . I wonder how this can be for my good, except to make me do next time exactly what I think I ought. Yes, it may be that. But wouldn't my visit alone have been disappointing enough without the accident? I did expect so much from it; and it has all turned out to be worth nothing,—Letitia to be no real friend at all. Wouldn't that have been punishment enough, I wonder, without my having to be shut up here for a whole month or more, where nobody wants me? And I can do no good to anybody, and I am wanted at home! Is it just a punishment for being wilful? Well, I shan't soon forget it all!

"'There is no place where earth's sorrows

Are more felt than up in heaven—'

"Is that true too? I never even thought of such a thing before. Are the angels sorry up There when any of us are in trouble?—sorry now because I am dull and alone! And most of all, is God Himself sorry, even though He has sent the trouble? Of course, I brought it on myself by being careless and in a hurry, and by coming here at all. But still I suppose God allowed it. And now, perhaps, all the while He really is sorry for me, because He is so wonderfully kind!"

Euphrasia was startled to find some quick drops falling.

"How do you do?" a voice said by her side, not an echo this time of past utterances. Mr. Wells took her hand as he spoke. "Did you not hear me ask leave to come in? The door was open, and I saw you lying here in full view."

"Oh, was the door open? I didn't know. I thought I was alone." Euphrasia spoke shamefacedly, conscious of huskiness and wet eyes.

"No bad news from home?"

"No letters at all—I hope my father is not ill. They don't generally leave me so long. But then I have not written either, till yesterday."

"I would not lie and conjure up imaginary ills. It is a waste of power. Whatever may or may not be the cause, you are pretty certain to picture to yourself worse than the reality. Some most commonplace reason may have prevented them from writing."

"If it were anything very bad, I should hear, of course; only my father was not well when I came away."

"And you have too much time for thinking. Rather solitary work, is it not? Three or four days would be all very well, or even a week, but you have some right to get tired of it now."

"It won't be much longer."

"I hope not. So you have been reading." Mr. Wells took up the hymnbook, glanced at its open page, and looked over the edge at Euphrasia. "Nothing else to read except this!"

"That is nice enough. Why should I have anything else?"

"Variety is sometimes good for people, the more so if they are in a mood to take melancholy views of things."

"And you think I am in a mood to do that?"

"Possibly, just in the last half-hour."

Euphrasia's look was one of protest. She could not explain. She could only feel that if the thoughts which had brought tears into her eyes were "melancholy," it was a melancholy which she would fain keep for life.

Mr. Wells read something unexpected in her face.

"I see I used the wrong word. Not melancholy, only perhaps a little sober—a little serious. And when one is laid by, and a good deal alone, it is just possible to dwell too long at a time upon the very serious side of things. I don't say that it has been so with you at this moment, but a change of ideas might be advantageous. I should certainly like you to have some variety in your reading; and I do not see much variety within reach." He glanced round critically.

"I could have asked for a book, of course."

"Letitia ought not to have waited to be asked."

"Oh, she was busy. There was the wedding. Please don't say anything to her."

Mr. Wells gave his attention to the lame knee, and presently remarked, "Yes, it is getting on fairly well, perhaps as fast as we ought to expect. But you are too much run down yourself."

"I shall be all right as soon as I get home. When may I go?"

"By-and-by. You must get into another room first."

"I shall like that. I mean, if I may walk. I would rather not do it at all, if it means giving extra trouble."

"Is that the chief bugbear of your existence?" asked Mr. Wells smiling.

"I wonder how much longer this is to go on?" sighed Mrs. Johnston, next morning.

"This!" echoed her eldest son. The younger brother was a mere boy, away at school.

"Nonsense, Howard. As if you didn't understand! Euphrasia Mackenzie, of course. Here has she been nearly a fortnight in the house, and the servants are run off their legs—or, at all events, they think so, which comes to the same thing. I am sure, I did feel that we had done as much as could be expected of us. And now Robert must needs make all this stir about nothing."

"What stir?"

"Oh, he declares we leave her a great deal too much alone, and let her feel dull, and don't attend to her as we ought. He fairly scolded Letitia. Poor dear, I do pity her, having to go and sit in that stuffy little room for an hour at a time!"

"Something must be wrong with our household arrangements if we put our guests into stuffy little rooms."

"You know what I mean. Not exactly stuffy, but one doesn't want to sit there half the day. And poor Letitia was so bent on going to Bath with the Fearings. Of course I made her give that up, but it was rather hard on the child. And she says Euphrasia is quite changed from what she used to be, so stiff and cold."

"I wonder whether Letitia ever does sit with Miss Mackenzie for anything like half-a-day—or even for an hour at a time?"

"I'm sure I can't tell. I only know I am perpetually at her about it. And I shall be thankful when it is all over. Euphrasia is not an interesting invalid. And she hardly ever says a word of apology for the trouble she gives."

"Does she not? Robert speaks of her as excruciatingly anxious not to be a bother."

"Oh, as to that—I suppose she doesn't make more work than she can help. I don't complain of the girl. Some people in her position would be much more thoughtless. But, of course, there are no end of things to be done. And now Robert wants us to have her wheeled every day into Letitia's boudoir—"

"Where is that?"

"The little room that used to be her nursery. Letitia turned it into a sitting-room when she came home from school, but she never sits there now by any chance. And Robert wants us to contrive not to leave Euphrasia so much alone. That is the worst of having a near relative for one's doctor. He feels free to say whatever he happens to think. It seems he found her crying with nothing to read. So absurd not to ask for what she wanted, if she had not a book! Robert does not commonly make such a fuss about his patients, and why he should with Euphrasia Mackenzie, I can't imagine. I never in my life saw a more unattractive girl; did you?"

"That wasn't precisely my impression, I confess. I thought she looked sensible."

"Oh, sensible—if you think so much of being just sensible! Yes, I dare say she is sensible—any amount! But not attractive—not pretty, or clever, or anything." Then, reverting to her former subject, "As likely as not, if I tell Horris that he is to wheel the sofa in and out of that room every day, he will say he hasn't time, and can't do it. That man gives himself such airs! I believe he will want to go the next thing."

"Let him go, by all means. If he does not want it, I shall, so soon as I find him indulging in airs. Plenty more men in the kingdom."

"You always talk like that. I can't bear the worry of change."

"A man who will not do his duty is a much worse worry, to my mind. Never mind; I'll see to replacing Horris if he goes. Meantime, if he is too grand or too lazy to wheel Miss Mackenzie's chair—no, sofa—a few paces, I am neither. Let me know when it wants doing."

"Oh, Horris must do it, of course, if he is told. But as for somebody to sit in the room—Letitia never does a single thing she doesn't wish. And as for dragging myself up those stairs more than once in twenty-four hours, I really could not undertake the exertion!"

"Pray don't think of it," her son answered politely.

CHAPTER XI

NEVER SENT!

"MOTHER, I've got a letter from Euphrasia!" Kenred burst into the house as he spoke, sending the words in advance of himself.

"A letter from Euphrasia!" repeated Flo in his rear, and her pretty little face was flushed with delight.

"At last!" A faint suspicion of hurt feeling might be detected in the tone. Nobody had expected that the absent member of the household would allow almost a whole fortnight to elapse with no further communication than a scribbled statement of her safe arrival.

"And the queer part of it is, mother, that she doesn't say one word about why she hasn't written, or what she has been doing. Not one word! She only wants to know why 'we' haven't written, and says she is afraid somebody can't be well."

"Your father is not well of course. He hasn't been for weeks and months past, and she knows it. Besides, I told her in my last letter that he did not seem particularly better."

"But she says she has not heard at all." The boy flung himself down on the sofa, beside Mrs. Mackenzie and her mending-basket. "You'll see. There is the letter. Couldn't be much shorter. Eyebright is a funny girl, isn't she? One might think 'she' had been sending heaps of letters all the time."

"But I wrote last. I have written twice, and she has never answered either of my letters."

"I don't believe Euphrasia is enjoying herself one bit," murmured Flo, when Mrs. Mackenzie had perused the short note, and had pronounced it unsatisfactory. "She writes in such a dull sort of way, and she doesn't say a word about anything or anybody there."

"As likely as not, she is disappointed with her friend. Euphrasia would never confess that she had been taken in. Girls never do! I don't think the note does sound very happy: but she will manage to get some enjoyment out of her visit. If not, why should she stay on, and not come home sooner? I cannot understand about the letters. Not had a single one from anybody, since three days after she left! Well, if she had not, she hasn't written either! But she forgets."

"Flo and I made up a long letter to go with yours last week, mother—a joint concern. She couldn't have forgotten that. It was the day you had such a long call from old Mr. Brown."

A recollection came to Mrs. Mackenzie, summoned up as such recollections often are, by a passing word. She started up, opened a drawer, and after some rummaging drew thence a stamped and addressed envelope.

"How stupid of me! I remember now. Your speaking of Mr. Brown brought it back. When he came, I popped the letter in here to be safe, meaning to post it directly he was gone. Somebody must have pushed it out of sight afterwards, and I declare I never thought about it again until this moment."

"Poor Euphrasia!" exclaimed Flo.

"My dear, if she had taken the trouble to write home just a little oftener, we should soon have found out about it." Mrs. Mackenzie really had been pained by her eldest's prolonged silence.

"Shall I post it now?" asked Ken.

Mrs. Mackenzie debated, then wrote outside—"Just found this; ought to have gone off days ago."

"Yes, do, Ken; and some of us will write in a day or two. I really can't to-day; I have so much to do. And there is Mrs. Landor coming in; so run away, Flo dear, because I want to speak to her particularly."

Flo obeyed. And Mrs. Mackenzie received her visitor with a careworn expression, quite unconsciously and involuntarily assumed. Mrs. Landor was at all times so absolutely at leisure, so free to hear her friends' worries, and to bestow sympathy for the same—albeit with the sympathy went sometimes a less welcome word of warning, or even of reproof—that a temptation existed to make claims upon her sympathy, even without especial cause; and Mrs. Mackenzie occasionally yielded to this temptation. She did not so much as notice, being wrapped up in her own thoughts, that Mrs. Landor looked paler than usual, and that her air of kind attention was, to a slight degree, forced—as if the mind were trying to wander, and required reining in.

The note from Euphrasia had to be shown first, with sundry comments on its tardy arrival, on its limited contents, and on her wish that Euphrasia cared more for home interests, less for mere pleasure.

Mrs. Landor read the note, and said—"It does not give one the idea that she is having too much pleasure."

"Well, no. I always thought she would be disappointed with those people. But of course a good many things are going on—sure to be, in a place like Clifton—and she does not somehow find time to write to us as she might."

"She says nothing about the many things going on. How is Mr. Mackenzie to-day?"

This led to a fresh assortment of cares. Mr. Mackenzie was not at all the thing, not by any means well. He could not be described as positively ill, but Mrs. Mackenzie was very anxious, very worried about him. He had seen Dr. North again; and Dr. North, as usual, laid it chiefly to the state of his nerves—wherein Mrs. Mackenzie was not at all sure that the doctor might not be mistaken, as Mrs. Landor knew doctors so often were. But anyhow, Dr. North recommended a thorough change for her husband, some day soon, if it could be managed.

"And how we are to afford it, I am sure I don't know, and I can't imagine. Colin's income is not much, as, of course, everybody knows. And expenses are so heavy. And there's always something or other that must be got, whether one can afford it or no. It always seems to me every year that we shall never manage to fight our way through, or keep our heads above water."

"And yet, somehow, you always do."

"Well—somehow—at least, we always have, so far. But nobody can be sure about the future."

"Except that we have the absolute certainty that 'He' Who has cared for us in past years will never grow forgetful or indifferent."

"Oh, of course—I do try to trust. One knows one must, of course. But it is dreadfully hard to make both ends meet. And as for this idea of a change for my husband—I really don't see how it is to be managed. If it must be, it must, but I can't see how." Far back in her mind Mrs. Mackenzie was saying—"So easy for Mrs. Landor! Why, she only has to sit down and write a cheque, and there would be enough in a moment to take away all one's bother. She wouldn't even miss it. But people don't do that sort of thing, unfortunately. I wish they did."

"There can hardly be a 'must' for anything that is clearly impossible. Still, it would do your husband good. I do not doubt that his nerves are out of order, but it is partly the result of long years of work, and he has fairly earned a holiday."

"So Dr. North says. It is not a necessity, I suppose, exactly; only he would be ever so much the better for a thorough change. He is always so down-hearted now; not like himself. It may be partly Euphrasia being away and not writing. But he isn't as he ought to be; and Dr. North says a change would be the best remedy."

"If it is the right thing for him, you will see your way to it."

Mrs. Mackenzie counted this rather hard. She had been building a little structure of hopes, founded on Mrs. Landor's wealth and liberality, and the apparent collapse of that structure made her feel irritable.

"Of course it is the right thing for Colin to get away. It is not a question of what is the right thing, but of whether we can do it. It seems to me that most of the right things for us in life are just kept away from us for no reason at all."

"You do not really think so, Mrs. Mackenzie."

"I don't know why not—" rather faintly. "That is what I often notice."

"It is not my experience. But if a thing is kept from me, I am so sure that it is 'not' the right thing for me to have. We look at the question from different standpoints."

"You don't understand; you don't know what it really is," protested Mrs. Mackenzie, plaintive, because she felt herself in the wrong. "To have one's deposit getting lower and lower in the bank, and to know that nothing more is coming in for ever so long, and to see all the family needs, when there is no money to get what is wanted, and to have one's husband falling ill for want of a little holiday, and no holiday possible—at least, to know one can't rightly afford it;—oh, I dare say I ought to be sure that everything is always right, and it is very easy for people to preach, but—"

"It seems to me a simple opportunity for exercising a little trust—just to show that one knows 'Him!'" Mrs. Landor spoke in a curious dreamy tone, almost as if addressing the words to herself.

"People always talk such a lot about trusting. And it is generally those who don't need to trust, because they have got everything they want."

"Is that the case, I wonder, with any human being? Money anxieties are not by any means the only ones in the world. And few of us escape even them sooner or later, in one form or another." Mrs. Landor stood up, as if wishing to end the discussion. "Would you ask your husband to come round to the Rectory by-and-by if he is able. I should be glad of a few words with him. And, Mrs. Mackenzie, if I may make the suggestion, don't you think a more courageous spirit would be a happier one? It is such a help to feel absolute certainty in the Divine love which watches over us . . . I am not speaking out of ignorance of what anxiety means . . . But another day you shall hear more. We have used all the time that I can spare just now."

Mrs. Mackenzie had a dismayed sense of having stopped some interesting communication, and curiosity vied with something like fear. "Oh, do wait!" she begged, with about as much result as if she had endeavoured to check the inflow of the tide.

Mrs. Landor smiled, bade a kind farewell, and was gone.

"What does she mean?" inquired Mrs. Mackenzie of herself, no one else being present. "Is Mr. Landor ill? He didn't look so on Sunday. Why on earth couldn't she explain? I wish people would not be so puzzling. There comes Colin—what a pace. I have not seen him walk so fast for ever so long. He will meet Mrs. Landor; oh no, she has turned the other way, and doesn't see him. I do detest mysteries; and of course Colin will know nothing."

But Colin came in with an absorbed face. "I see Mrs. Landor has been here. Has she told you?"

"No! Told me what? She said she had not time to wait any longer. And she wants to see you presently. What is it all about?"

"I'll go, of course. Did she say when?"

"I don't think so. I don't know. Colin, what is wrong? Has anything happened?"

"Yes—"

"Is Mr. Landor not well? There can't be much the matter

with him, or she would not be out. Besides, she seemed just like

her usual self. Colin, do speak out. Make haste."

"What? Do tell me!"

"The Landors—"

"Is Mr. Landor not well? There can't be much the matter with him, or she would not be out. Besides, she seemed just like her usual self. Colin, do speak out. Make haste."

"My dear, you allow me no opportunity. Mrs. Landor—"

"Yes. Go on! Make haste! O dear, you men are so slow!"

"Mrs. Landor—"

"Yes, I hear! Oh, make haste!"

"—Has lost pretty nearly everything she has."

CHAPTER XII

GENUINE!

MRS. MACKENZIE had to sit down, absolutely panting under the blow, and for once without words, as her husband gave a few particulars. It appeared that the Landors' affairs had been for some years in an involved condition, unknown to many of their most intimate friends. Losses here and embarrassments there dated nearly, though not quite, so far back as their marriage. The prosperous widow chosen by Mr. Landor for his wife had been since by no means so prosperous as was commonly supposed. But inasmuch as he had chosen her for herself, and not for her money, this fact had had no power to touch their happiness.

They had hoped to emerge in the end from their difficulties. And in the ordinary course of events, the hope might have been fulfilled. Now however, at one blow, the main bulk of Mrs. Landor's possessions was swept away by the collapse of the great Company in which most of her money was embarked. An immediate sale of the estate was inevitable, and the utmost that it could be expected to bring in would be swallowed up by previously-existing liabilities.

"The extraordinary thing is that nobody should have expected anything of the sort! No one seems to have so much as guessed what was coming. If you had asked me about that Company, I could have declared that it was almost as staunch as the Bank of England." Mr. Mackenzie looked back to his own haunting fears, as partly expressed to Euphrasia, about the bank with which he was himself closely connected, in a kind of wonder. Clear vision had come suddenly, and he realised now the futility, the needlessness, of his fears.

At this instant, the imaginations which had made him wretched for months past looked absolutely absurd, the mere fruit of a disorganised nervous system, with no positive foundation in fact. That which he had so feared for himself, and for those dependent on him, had not come, might never come. But the blow which none had foretold for the Landors had fallen with startling abruptness. He woke out of a dream to the sound of his wife's voice:—

"Do tell me! What are you thinking about? Do pray tell me. What will they have to live on?"

"My dear, I fear almost nothing—beyond Mr. Landor's stipend."

"A stipend of eighty-five pounds a year!"

Mrs. Mackenzie burst into tears. She might be habitually a good deal self-occupied, and not a little addicted to nursing her own troubles, but she had a warm heart, and a very real affection for his long-tried friend.

"She can't do it, Colin. At her age, and all her life accustomed to have everything she could want. And he is getting elderly, and not strong. It is perfectly dreadful! Of course, they have had some worries now and then, everybody has, but nothing of this sort. Why, she has always been able to get every single thing she wanted. And just think of eighty-five pounds a year!"

"Yes, it's the suddenness of it—and the change from what she is used to. That makes it so much worse."

"Worse! It makes it awful for them. How you can talk of it so quietly! And what in the world are they to do now? This is what I cannot imagine. Brought up as she has been. Eighty-five pounds a year. She must be half dazed with it. Of course she does not see yet what it all really means—she can't. And, oh dear, to think of what I have been saying to her. How I could!"

Colin made a sound of enquiry.

"Oh, I don't know—I mean—Oh, of course I didn't know anything about this; and she never told me. But it must have sounded so horribly unfeeling. I told her about the doctor wanting you to get away, and she said I ought to trust more. And I thought it was so easy for her to talk when she had got everything she wanted, and I said something of the sort. She won't be vexed, I know, because it is not her way, but I am vexed with myself."

"Perhaps it is a little lesson just to be more careful next time, my dear."

Mrs. Mackenzie rather resented having "little lessons" pointed out to her, however clearly she might perceive them for herself. And she hastened to explain that "another time" was very unlikely to recur. In fact, one might think that this was the only time in her life that she had ever been betrayed into hasty speech. But in the midst of her defence, she relapsed into tears.

"Mrs. Landor wanted you to go and see her, Colin. Don't you think I might go too, and tell her how sorry I am?"

"No, my dear. If Mrs. Landor asked for me only, she did not mean you too. It is always best, when people are in trouble, to do exactly what they ask, and not more. It may be that she wishes to put some business questions," observed Colin, in his most oracular tone.

He had his way, and started alone, bearing a long message of unlimited apology and sympathy, which went utterly out of his head by the time he quitted the garden gate.

It was a trying visit to pay. He was a tenderhearted man, and could not endure to look upon distress. And, judging from people generally, he expected to find the Landors overwhelmed by the blow which had fallen upon them, Mr. Landor in depths of despair, Mrs. Landor in floods of tears. She had kept up, it was true, while calling on his wife, doubtless for her sake, but that she should continue to keep up was beyond the bounds of reasonable expectation. Colin wondered sorrowfully what he should say to comfort them.

Of course Mrs. Landor would "trust." Both of them would of course "trust." He felt no doubt on that head. He always asserted the fact of his own "trust," no matter how dismally certain he might feel that everything was going wrong, no matter how dolefully hopeless he might be of any help arriving in time to tide him over rocks ahead. His idea of trust was vague, and therefore was quite compatible with a general hopelessness.

By the time he reached the Rectory, his face had grown portentously long over the thought of his friends' grief. Rather oddly, this blow to them had acted with a rousing force upon himself. He had not for months felt so hopeful, so light-hearted about his own affairs. It was almost as if he had foreseen that something would happen, and had only been mistaken in supposing it to be a something concerning himself. Probably a truer explanation would be that Colin Mackenzie, after repeated attacks of severe influenza, coming upon long years of hard work, had fallen into a dyspeptic and nervous condition of body, which condition had reacted on the mind, rendering him unable to take a fair and reasonable view of things in general, more especially of business questions.

As Mrs. Landor had once said, molehills grew to mountains in his eyes, and a usually unselfish nature had become for the time morbidly self-centred—a state of things largely physical, but not on that account altogether free from blame.

Wakened now by the shock of his friends' trouble, he looked back upon his own past mental condition with a curious sense of surprise, almost of disgust. What could have made him talk as he had done to Euphrasia, the day before she left home? Absurd,—when really there had been no sufficient cause, but only some needful business uncertainties, and a desperate fit of the "blues," inclining him to see everything on its darkest side. Dyspepsia, of course, as Dr. North had at the time assured him. While Colin, because of that same dyspepsia, had counted himself wiser than any number of doctors, and had refused to believe the explanation. Now he knew better!

Poor little Eyebright! How she might have worried herself! Only of course she had not, or she would have written oftener. No doubt she had not grasped his full meaning. Still, he might have spoilt her visit with his ill-considered remarks. He would write at once, this very evening—cheerily, and in a different strain.

But then he would have to tell her about the Landors. She would feel that down in the depth of her loving little heart, which Colin knew to be really loving, though some might count her to be of a cold disposition. No, he would not write yet. Better to wait, since evidently she was not grieving. Mr. Mackenzie, like his wife, had been somewhat hurt by Euphrasia's long silence, even while telling himself that it meant nothing.

Then he reached the Rectory, and his courage was at a low ebb, though not now for himself.

Floods of tears! States of despair! Not a whit! As he stood in the hall, lugubrious with the weight of his pity, he heard the merriest laugh, coming through the closed study door. That Mrs. Landor! And a deeper-toned masculine laugh, no less cheerful. That the poverty-stricken and despairing Rector! Colin could hardly believe his own ears.

CHAPTER XIII

NOT CAST DOWN

"HERE, sir, please." Into the study Colin was welcomed—by the Rector with a smiling face, by Mrs. Landor with outstretched hand and look of welcome. In all the years he had known that sweet serene woman, he had never seen her so bright. Calm she had usually been, but seldom bright. Was this forced, unnatural, the result of over-strain?

"Come in, pray come in, Mr. Mackenzie. Come in and sit down. If you don't mind an economical cup of tea. My husband and I are practising at once for the future. No use to put off, is it? You see, we cannot possibly afford any longer the most expensive Souchong, so I picked up a pound of one-and-sixpenny tea as I came along; and we have made it with half the usual quantity. It 'really' isn't bad. Like Dickens' Marchioness, one only has to exercise one's imagination a little. And, after all, the most important ingredient is real boiling water."

Colin received his cup from those slender hands, and had some difficulty in swallowing the first mouthful.

"Some cake, or bread and butter? I did not tell your wife about our affairs because I thought it would take too long, as she had a good deal to say first. So you must explain it all to her, and say that it is nothing for her to fret about. Is it, dear?" lovingly to her husband. "The less one has to carry in life, the more lightly one ought to be able to go!"

Colin might appropriately have delivered his message here, but he was in no state of mind to remember it.

"Most people think the burden of anxiety a great deal heavier than the burden of wealth," he could not help saying.

"If one must be anxious," she said, smiling a little.

"For my part, I am sure of one thing," observed Mr. Landor placidly, "and that is that it is worth a great deal to know what sort of a wife one has. I thought I did know before—pretty well—but it seems I didn't!"

"Why, the whole matter is so simple." Mrs. Landor was too much interested in her view of the question to notice at the moment what he said. "So very simple and plain. All these years God has chosen to give us money in plenty, to use for Him; and I do think we have tried to use it rightly. And now He has chosen to take it away. Hasn't He a perfect right to do as He will? It is His, not ours. I do think it would be so utterly ungrateful of us to grumble."

"I am afraid if I had lost everything—"

"Ah, everything!" she echoed with a quick breath. "But it is not that. Not everything! My husband is left to me still. And our health. It is not like Job."

"If health broke down, or if the call came to me to go, you would say the same still, my dear," interposed the Rector. "I know you would, because it would still be His will."

Mrs. Landor smiled again, though tears were in her eyes.

"Few would feel as you do, in your position," said Colin.

"Perhaps because they have been accustomed to look upon the money as strictly their own. I do not think we have ever done that." She spoke in a thoughtful tone, as if considering the question.

"It is harder for her than for me," the old Rector said softly, looking towards Colin. "I was poor for years before I married, and she does not know what it is to be poor."

"So every one tells me. But is not the unknown sometimes more alarming than what one does know? Well, we are to have a new experience together—you and I! It will be a new kind of life entirely. We shall have to make every single penny go as far as it possibly can, instead of never troubling one's head about the matter. I am bent on proving that, at least, luxury has not spoiled me, Mr. Mackenzie. Don't think I am putting on a cheerfulness which I do not really feel. Perhaps, as my husband says, I don't know what it all means as yet. But what I 'cannot' understand is the sense of doubt and terror in looking forward, which I seem to be expected to feel. Of course there is uncertainty. We have not the least idea how we are to manage. Expenses must be cut down to the utmost; and even then it is a mystery in what way we can get along. Only—we shall get along! We simply have to wait till the 'how' becomes clear."

"I suppose something always turns up somehow," remarked Colin, in a reflection of his wife's favourite tone.

"Is that enough for you? It would not be for me. 'Something turning up somehow' sounds dreary. With me it is the direct and positive care of a Father for His child; not a mere turning up of something, one hardly knows how. Of course, one is left in the dark now and then—if only to give one the opportunity of trusting Him!—and of course we have to do the very utmost that we can do towards helping ourselves. But when we can do no more, and still it is not sufficient, then comes the waiting, because it is just there that God steps in."

"If everybody felt as sure."

"Does 'everybody' know God well enough?" she asked with a curious keen smile. "Even on earth one must know a person before one can repose trust in him; and for the absolute repose of perfect trust, very full knowledge of his character is needful. Not quite everybody knows God so well as that!"

"No, indeed!" Colin spoke in a conscience-stricken voice.

"And yet—one may. It is His wish for us all. And when one does know Him, even a little, all is altered by it. Without any boasting, but just as a matter of common reasonableness, I am absolutely sure that He will take care of us. Absolutely sure! That He should fail us in our need is, I know, a thing impossible. Then what nonsense it would be to fret and worry. Why should we feel anxious, any more than your Flo does? She knows you will provide for her, to the extent of your power—knows it with a perfectly undoubting trust in your love. Your powers are limited, and you might fail in providing for her, not through lack of love, but through poverty of means.

"My Father's powers are without limit; and His love is boundless. Would it not be the height of absurdity for us to keep worrying about the future, when we 'know' that He will supply all our needs? All our real needs. We may have to do without a good many things that we are used to, but what then? It may be something of a trial. Just a little of life's discipline, and no more! Don't you see?"—with a smile which had become positively radiant.

It had a quiet reflection in her husband's face.

Colin listened, like one dumbfoundered. Another manner of trust, this, from any exercised by himself!

*****

Was Euphrasia "not at all an interesting invalid?" Howard Johnston, recalling his mother's words, began to doubt their truth—not so much with respect to himself, as with respect to his cousin, the doctor. Howard still held that Euphrasia was a "sensible" girl, and he liked her for being sensible. That was all. He felt nothing more than a general approval, a general wish to be polite and kind to an unfortunate guest. But apparently that was by no means all, so far as Robert Wells was concerned.

So much the better, thought Howard. Everybody had long said that Mr. Wells ought to marry; and he had shown himself reprehensibly slow in following this wise advice. His position as a medical man was good, and it promised to be better, and his patients liked him: but year after year he remained wifeless. Possibly he had once wanted a wife whom he could not get, and the failure might have left him indisposed to try again.

He could quite well afford to marry. If he chose to fall in love with the penniless daughter of the Manager of a country Branch Bank, there was no reason whatever why he should not ask her to be his wife. He was not entirely dependent upon his profession, and he had no near relatives dependent upon him. This was Howard's view of the matter. And he watched the doctor's growing absorption in Euphrasia Mackenzie with amused interest, saying nothing to anybody. Had he suggested such a notion to his mother, she would doubtless have exerted all her faculties to put a spoke in the wheel.

The dullest period of Euphrasia's imprisonment was now over. Long hours of enforced thought had been good for her, as many things are good for us, not at the time enjoyable; and all her life she would be the better in character for that trying experience. Now, however, she was kept well supplied with books, and she was able to enjoy them. The knee had steadily improved, although she was still forbidden to walk more than a few steps, and the doctor had thus far declined to hear any mention of a journey. Euphrasia saw signs of growing impatience in her "friend," and even Mrs. Johnston's politeness failed to conceal entirely a measure of the same.

One budget of letters had arrived from home, nearly a week old when despatched, as notified by an outside inscription; and further letters failed again to come. But at least she knew that nothing was seriously wrong with her father.

The services of a certain fine gentleman belowstairs were not required for the wheeling of Euphrasia's couch from room to room, since the doctor himself always undertook that office during his morning visit. And in the afternoon, earlier or later, Howard was unusually to the fore.

Euphrasia was not permitted to protest. It was "only a pleasure" with them both.

Were these daily visits from the doctor an absolute necessity? Euphrasia had her doubts on that score. He looked at the knee every day, and asked questions, but little could be done beyond ordering continued rest. He almost invariably stayed for a chat, sometimes as long as twenty minutes or half-an-hour; and Euphrasia would have felt very dull without these cheery visits. She had learnt quite to look forward to them through the twenty-four hours. If only they would not all have to be paid for! There was the rub. Euphrasia's heart sometimes went down to a low level, at the thought of the future "bill" in connection with the state of home finances.

Was it truly needful that he should examine the knee so often? If not, kind though his attentions might be, Euphrasia could not feel that she would be right to let things continue thus. She debated much with herself, and several times resolved to put out a most delicate feeler of one kind or another, to discover whether, perhaps, twice a week might not be sufficient. But Euphrasia was not gifted in the art of putting out delicate feelers, and when it came to the point, she always failed to say anything at all. He was so pleasant, and it would be so "horrid" to hurt his feelings.

So she decided finally that the utmost she could do was to hasten her departure. Now that her month was almost ended, matters might be pressed to a point. It had been a long month, very long—except the last few days. She would be glad to get away—yes, certainly, very glad indeed to feel herself no longer an unwelcome burden on her friend's hospitality. Yes, certainly, very glad, repeated Euphrasia with emphasis, just because she was aware of an opposite sensation below.

One strong regret was asserting itself, and would not be put down; one real pain, in the thought of parting from Mr. Wells. He had not been only the doctor to her: he had been a friend in a season of trouble. Looking back upon the past month, she saw his figure more prominently than any other. The prominence of any figure in one's surroundings depends, after all, mainly upon one's own interest in that figure.

Would she ever see him again? Would she never see him again? The question was unwelcome, and it haunted her. Never again, through all her life! A second visit to the Johnston lay beyond all bounds of probability. She had no other friends in Clifton. West Norton was an unlikely place for anybody to visit; and in their little home, they seldom entertained friends from a distance. Why should he and she ever meet again? He had done his duty as doctor, perhaps a good deal more than his bare duty because he was kind-hearted, and because she had been lonely and uncomfortable. And she was merely his patient, a "case" to be dismissed when done with, and thought about no more.

Still, she had to leave, and her duty was to go so soon as she might. The odd part of the matter was that, after all her earlier impatience, now the time for departure was near, she did not want to go. She had told herself that she would be glad, but in her heart she knew she would not be glad. Notwithstanding all the unpleasantness of giving trouble to comparative strangers, notwithstanding Letitia's coldness, and Mrs. Johnston's hardly-veiled impatience, she would have given much to feel herself compelled to stay another month. Euphrasia's very consciousness of this reluctance made her the more determined to bring about a decision.

"I think I ought to write home now, and tell them about my knee," she said abruptly, after much previous consideration. "And fix the day for going."

To which, Mr. Wells responded by a deliberate—"Ah!"

"This is Thursday. Could not I say Saturday?"

"You are in a great hurry to run away from us all."

"Oh, I should not like to stay a day longer than I must!" The words came back to herself with an ungracious sound in them; and she saw the doctor biting his moustache. "Please don't think I am not grateful; I really am. I have been such a bother all this time, and you have been so kind to me. But it wouldn't be right to put off any longer. I ought to get home as soon as possible. And—" hurriedly, under a sudden impulse to use her opportunity, knowing that Mrs. Johnston would be back immediately—"and, if you don't mind, I think before I go, I ought just to know how much—I mean, if you could tell me, so that I can tell my father—and then he would send to you as soon as—if you don't mind—"

Euphrasia fell into a hopeless bungle, blushing more and more, while Mr. Wells looked so intensely grave that she feared she must have said exactly the wrong thing in her inexperience. "I think you know what I mean," she faltered, but he made no sign of comprehension. "You have been so often, and—and—of course—of course there must be—owing—" the last word being hardly audible.

"Much too often, under the circumstances, if things were as you suppose."

"But you know—but you must—but I could not—it would not be right,—"

"Nothing else could be right, or possible. My cousins ought to have explained. Mrs. Johnston undertook to do so. I am one of the family; and you must please to regard my visits in that light. Nothing else is possible."

"I didn't know,—I mean, I couldn't, of course—" Euphrasia came to another bungle, actually trembling. That he was pained at something she could see; she did not exactly divine what. Why should he care at all? "Please forgive me for asking you, but indeed I do not think it is right."

"It is a matter of course. I am only sorry that you could suppose anything else to be possible," said Mr. Wells coldly.

Mrs. Johnston's step could be heard returning. She always came up with the doctor, and very often used the opportunity of being "up" to attend to certain household matters in a neighbouring room, since nothing would induce her nephew to be as quick about the knee as she desired. But here she came, and no more could be said.

Robert Wells bade an abrupt good-bye this day, not remaining for his usual chat.

Euphrasia felt bewildered. Had she seriously offended him?

CHAPTER XIV

SOMETHING WRONG

MR. WELLS was not entirely himself next morning, when he appeared for his inevitable call, hardly "offended" in the strict sense of the word, but overwhelmingly grave and punctiliously polite. Instead of wheeling Euphrasia, as usual, into the next room, he allowed her to walk there, with help from his arm. And then remarked—

"You are getting on well. We did not fix your day for going home. You wish to be off as early as possible."

Mrs. Johnston, overhearing this, took herself off with great celerity, to escape the need of pressing for a longer stay.

Euphrasia's glance was apologetic, almost to the extent of begging pardon. "I ought to go."

"To-morrow is too soon. Monday, if you like. I should have preferred another week's delay, as a measure of precaution, but it is not essential. To keep you here against your will is hardly fair."

"Oh, but it is not—" Euphrasia stopped.

And he went on, as if he had not heard.

"On Monday I have to travel in your direction, and, if you do not object, I can escort you part of the way. The change of trains you could hardly manage alone. I will see you through that, and into your own train, after which you will only have to sit still until you get to West Norton. Somebody must meet you there. It will not do for you to depend upon yourself. A slight strain now would throw you back for weeks."

"How good you are!" she said gratefully.

He put a slip of paper into her hand with unmoved countenance. "The trains are written down, so you can tell your father when to meet you."

"But it will be a trouble—"

"Not in the least." He spoke distantly still. "I have to go on business. This letter was lying on the hall table."

"Oh, thank you. From my mother!"

Mr. Wells made an unusually rapid exit, and Euphrasia lay musing with the unopened envelope in her hand. "I must have said something to vex him yesterday, but what could it have been? He has not been like this before. How could I guess that he meant it all as a friend? Nobody told me; and it would have been such a cool thing to take for granted! I don't think he ought to be annoyed—if he is annoyed! I am not sure; it is almost more like being pained or disappointed."

For ten minutes the letter in her hand was forgotten, then she turned to it with a start of recollection—"Oh, how stupid! What is the use of bothering myself? If he does misunderstand, I can't do anything to alter it. Fancy forgetting to open my letter!"

Within was a blotted scrawl from Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Your father seems to think," she wrote, "that there is no need to tell you what has happened until you come home. But I really do not see the use of putting off, and he says I am to do just as I like. You will be coming back soon now, I suppose, and then of course you would have to know."

Was this the dreaded failure and loss of all, which Euphrasia had so dwelt upon during the first weeks of her imprisonment?

She had not thought much of the matter lately, her mind having been full of other subjects; and the forgetfulness occurred to her as curious, even while she eagerly glanced on to see what was wrong.

"Only think—is it not terrible?—the Landors have lost nearly everything that they have! Positively almost everything! All Mrs. Landor's money is gone, and the estate must be sold, and nothing will be left. I never understand business affairs properly, but the Company has failed in which her money was first made—at least, in which her father's money was made, which comes to the same thing. And now it is all gone in one smash. She has had difficulties the last few years—so we are told now—though nobody knew, except of course her husband. But things might have come right in time, if it had not been for this failure, which takes everybody by surprise, the Landors themselves as much as anybody. They will have nothing left, beyond Mr. Landor's stipend of £85 a year. Fancy having to live on that, after what Mrs. Landor has always been accustomed to!

"Nothing could be more sad. I have cried half the time since first I heard what had happened. Mrs. Landor is very cheerful, but she doesn't in the least know what it all means. How should she? She has never wanted anything that she could not get. I cannot imagine what they are to do. It is not like young people beginning life, but at their age, it is melancholy!

"Your father is a great deal better since this has happened. It seems odd, but having to think so much about the Landors has quite roused him up and made a different man of him. Dr. North said yesterday to me that really there is not much amiss with him, if only he could believe it! A change somewhere might do him good because it would mean something fresh to think about, but this trouble of the Landors seems to have had the same effect: if only it will last."

In answer to the above, Euphrasia, wrote, after long cogitation:—

"DEAR MOTHER—I can hardly believe what you have told me about Mr. and Mrs. Landor; it is so very dreadful! I am not writing to them now, because I hope to see them so soon. This is just a line to say that I am arranging to come home on Monday.

"I did not tell you before that I had a fall down several steps, the very day that I came here, and hurt my knee. It was not worth while to make you all anxious, and nothing could be done except to keep the knee perfectly still. The doctor says it will be all right in time, if I am careful for a while, and it is a great deal better already, only I am not allowed to use it much yet. He is—the doctor, I mean—a cousin of the Johnstons, so his visits will be no expense to us, as he has only come as a friend. I did not know this till a day or two ago, and I have been rather afraid about the bill.

"Part of the time here was rather dull because I have been able to go nowhere. I shall be so glad to see you all again. Mrs. Johnston is kind, but I have found Letitia much less of a friend than I expected. I would not have stayed so long only I could not travel till Mr. Wells gave me leave.

"I am enclosing a paper of trains for Monday. Mr. Wells has to go that way, as it happens, and he will see me into my train at the Junction. He has been very good and kind to me. I do hope you will know him some day.

"Would my father or somebody meet me at our station because I shall want a little help in getting out of the train? Please give love to everybody, and believe me ever,—Your affectionate child,

"EUPHRASIA."

"I knew it! I was sure something was wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie, on receipt of this letter. "She has not been like herself all through. Poor dear child!—just hiding from us how bad she was! I hope it does not mean a lame knee for life. That sort of injury is so troublesome."

"I trust not, indeed, my dear!"

"Of course, the doctor would say the best he could to her, but I know what knees are! Well, I felt perfectly sure all along that things were not right; and you see it has been just as I expected!"

Colin Mackenzie might have assured his wife that she usually did feel sure of things not being "right," and that he did not find her by any means an invariably true prophetess. But he wisely forbore from so useless an effort.

"It may be that things have been more 'right' than they seem," he suggested, mindful of his visit to the Rectory. "I do not think we can always judge. Euphrasia has shown a brave spirit, dear child!—saying nothing about it all these weeks! I will meet her at the Junction and bring her home. She cannot be fit for travelling alone. That old doctor must be an uncommonly kind man!"

Only, as we know, the doctor was by no means old!

CHAPTER XV

"WILL YOU?"

MONDAY came, and Euphrasia went through her good-byes with no particular distress, so far as Mrs. Johnston and Letitia were concerned. She had not quite so soon to bid farewell to Mr. Wells; and something in her heart whispered that this would not be so light a matter. But she tried to put aside the thought. Time enough when the moment should arrive.

Mrs. Johnston had looked dubious when the scheme of Euphrasia's "escort" was propounded to her. Yet after all it was only a matter of some forty minutes together in the train, and Euphrasia was such an uninteresting girl, and Robert, though not very far over thirty, might have passed for nearer forty. And Mrs. Johnston was extremely desirous to get Euphrasia safely off her premises. And if she raised difficulties, there was no knowing what amount of delays might be the result. So she left matters to arrange themselves.

And when a line came from Mr. Mackenzie stating that he would be at the Junction, she wished she had not been so complaisant. No doubt Mr. Mackenzie would have agreed with equal readiness to come the whole distance to Clifton—"which would have been so much more correct!" she complained to Letitia. But it was then too late for any re-shaping of plans.

Mr. Wells was grave still, and disposed to silence, albeit studiously attentive to his fellow-traveller's needs. He had not once relaxed since the Thursday interview. And Euphrasia was still puzzled whether to count that he had been displeased, or only pained, by aught that she had said—and if either, by what? Puzzled though she might be, however, a certain womanly reticence withheld her from making any attempt at explanation or apology.

Mr. Wells gave to Euphrasia a "Graphic" and occupied himself with the "Times." He seemed disposed to make a very limited use of this last opportunity for intercourse. Once and again he looked up to enquire briefly, "Quite comfortable?"

And receiving her assent, he returned to his leading articles.

Other passengers were in the same compartment. Indeed, he had chosen a somewhat full carriage at starting, but one after another vanished at successive stations. And no new ones filled the vacant places.

The last of their companions got out at the last station before West Norton. Only a few minutes more! Yet still the doctor read on, or, at all events, he pretended to do so.

Suddenly he stopped, folded his paper neatly into a minute compass, put it into his bag, and glanced across at Euphrasia, with the remark—

"Nearly there!"

"Yes!" A sense of the coming "good-bye" assailed Euphrasia, and a lump came into her throat. This would not do! She held it down fiercely.

The doctor looked her over with a calmly critical air of medical observation.

"Getting done up with your journey?"

"No, thanks!" Euphrasia spoke gruffly. Anything rather than to have him see what she felt, if he did not feel the same; and evidently he did not.

"We shall be at the Junction in five minutes or so. You say your father will be there. I shall give you over to him."

"And have done with you!" occurred to Euphrasia, as an appropriate conclusion.

He had spoken in an odd cut-and-dried tone, but something made Euphrasia raise her eyes, and she saw that the face belied the voice. A curious pitying gentleness had crept into it, and he leant forward to pull straight the light rug over her knees—a needless attention, since they were just on the point of arriving. Euphrasia found herself disposed to tremble.

Five minutes more!—less than five minutes!—and then, perhaps, never in life to meet again. Never, after a whole month of daily intercourse. True, the month's intercourse might have meant absolutely nothing to either of them; and in the majority of cases it would have meant nothing, being purely a case of professional intercourse. But—it 'had' meant more to her. Euphrasia knew now—she had not known before—to some extent how things were.

Less than five minutes! So much the better, for fear she might betray herself. And yet—if it had but been one more half-hour!

"Not in pain, I hope?" came in a voice of grave concern.

Euphrasia looked up again, quite involuntarily, to meet his gaze of kind enquiry. To her utter horror, she found her eyes suddenly full; nay, worse than full, actually overflowing. Two great drops fell, clear and visible, despite all she could do. Euphrasia felt as if she could gladly have sunk into the floor of the compartment.

"Ah, I was afraid that the journey might be rather too much for you," said Mr. Wells, with no appearance of surprise. "You are not strong yet. Never mind; a good rest by-and-by will put it all right." He bent forward, and continued—"Do you think that some day I might venture to find my way to your home? I have your West Norton address."

The reserve on which Euphrasia was wont to pride herself scarcely served in the present emergency. It was impossible that the doctor should fail to see the change in her face. "Oh do!" she said eagerly. "Oh do!" Then alarmed at her own delight—"I am sure—quite sure—they would all be so glad. My father—"

"Your father would not object?"

"O no, indeed!"

"And would you be, perhaps, just a slight degree pleased too—yourself?"

The train was slackening outside the station, not yet at the platform. A minute or two remained. Euphrasia could only say shyly—"O yes!" Adding after a pause—"You have been so good to me."

"Do you think you could let me go on being 'good' to you?" Robert had not intended to say more at present. In fact, he had very nearly come to a settled conclusion never to say anything more at all because Miss Mackenzie so evidently regarded him from nothing more nor less than the professional point of view. But her sudden and unmistakable distress put a new face on matters, and severely shook his resolution. Suppose, after all, that he were mistaken—that she did care? "I almost thought, last week, that your one wish was to see nothing more of any of us!"

"Oh, how could—" Euphrasia broke off in confusion.

"How could I think so? People misread one another sometimes. Perhaps I fancied you would have understood better—have seen intuitively how things really were!" Robert Wells looked out of the window, but the train remained motionless.

Half-a-minute passed in silence. Then an impulse seized him, too strong to be restrained, and he spoke again:—

"Euphrasia, could you make up your mind to be a doctor's wife? Will you be mine?"

Euphrasia almost gasped for breath. The utmost for which she had definitely craved was that some day they might meet again, that this parting should not be a parting for always. She had wanted him still for a friend. But—to be his wife! Did he mean it? Had she grasped his words in their true sense?

The train began to move.

"We are just there," said Wells, gently. "I don't want to hurry you. Shall I come to West Norton for an answer in two or three days? That would give you time?"

"O no!" Euphrasia, crimson and confused, hardly knew what she said.

"No!" The doctor's face fell. He might be excused for not understanding.

"I only mean—Oh, I don't mean—I do not want time—I only—"

"You only do not quite know your own mind. I have taken you too much by surprise."

Euphrasia pulled herself together, with a resolute effort, and looked up at him once more, her eyes full of a happy light. "Yes, I 'do' know," she said. "And I mean—if my father is willing—"

"If he is willing—"

"I mean—Yes!"

Not more than twenty seconds remained to them, but of those twenty Robert Wells made the best possible use.

Then the train drew up, and Mr. Mackenzie's face appeared in the window.

"Euphrasia, my dear! Welcome home! Better, child? Why, I never saw you look so well! Such a colour! So your friend, the old doctor, did not come after all."

"Father,—'this' is Mr. Wells!" murmured Euphrasia, unable to meet his gaze.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW "CARE" MAY BE CARRIED

"SO here is the fruit of your month's absence, little Eyebright! To come back 'an engaged young person!' And not a hint of it to any of us beforehand!" Mrs. Landor spoke in her cheeriest tones, not in the least like one bearing a heavy burden.

This was the earliest meeting of the two. Robert Wells had so far altered his plans as to go direct to West Norton for three nights, sleeping at the Inn, but spending two long days with the Mackenzies.

Mrs. Mackenzie would not soon forget that startling moment when her husband had first walked in, with an excited whisper—"Euphrasia and Mr. Wells, my dear! A most nice young fellow! And he wants our little Eyebright!"

The manner of the "wanting" was left to conjecture, but Mrs. Mackenzie hardly needed to ask an explanation of the term. Her answer was a dismayed exclamation—"But, Colin! Why, Colin! Nobody knows anything in the world about him!"

Robert Wells was, however, a man to be rapidly known when he chose to open himself out; and on this occasion, he naturally did choose. All went well for his wishes; everybody was charmed with him. And before he left the place, full consent to the engagement had been accorded.

Euphrasia "could hardly believe in her own happiness," as the saying goes. In point of fact, she did believe in it very thoroughly, and felt supremely joyous. Her whole being expanded; and the face which most people counted plain had never been so nearly pretty.

Mr. Mackenzie thought it more than pretty, with so tender a gleam in the gray eyes; and what Robert Wells thought is hardly worth while to enquire.

She had to remain indoors, to rest the knee after its journey. And nothing would content Mr. Mackenzie short of conducting his future son-in-law round the place, to visit their most intimate friends. Euphrasia might have murmured at being necessarily left behind, but she was far too happy for her serenity to be so easily upset. She was only delighted with her father's satisfaction in Robert.

Now the doctor was gone, but only for a time. He would soon run over again, for a peep at his "Eyebright!" He had adopted with readiness the home pet name. And in no long time, the wedding would have to be discussed, Robert having intimated pretty plainly that so far as his voice in the matter was concerned, he was in no mind for a long delay. Meanwhile, he had invited Colin Mackenzie to spend two or three weeks with him in Clifton by way of needed change, and for the purpose of their becoming more fully acquainted.

When he had vanished, and not before, Mrs. Landor appeared, for a good chat with Euphrasia.

"I want the child to tell me all about it," she said.

And they were left alone together.

"So here is the fruit of your month's absence, little Eyebright!" she repeated. "And not a word to any of us beforehand!"

"How could I?" asked Euphrasia, blushing. "I didn't know—really. I only knew—just that I liked him very much. And he only spoke in the very last moment."

"Three seconds before the train got in! Yes, I heard. A most original mode of proceeding! If your answer had been a 'No,' he could have decamped instantaneously, and never been heard of more!"

"He went to see you." Euphrasia spoke wistfully.

"He did; and I liked him—so far as one can tell in a quarter of an hour. I am not often mistaken in first impressions. Perhaps I might even like him very much indeed, if I knew him very well indeed."

"It seems almost too much happiness to be true!"

"Ah,—I wouldn't say that. It springs from a false idea. Nothing is ever too great happiness to be true. We are made for happiness. God loves us so well that He would fain have us always happy. Only we do not always use the happiness rightly, and so we cannot always be trusted with an abundant supply of it."

"I hope I shall use this rightly. Oh, I hope I shall. Robert is so good and kind."

"That is right. You ought to feel so. Now tell me all about him, child."

Euphrasia obeyed to the best of her power, and at least she succeeded in showing the completeness of her own trust in Robert Wells.

"But doesn't it seem—" she asked, "doesn't it almost seem as if I were rewarded for being naughty? I did not half think that I was right to go to Clifton at all; and yet I went. Was that right? And yet, if I had not gone, I should never have known Robert!"

"You cannot say that. He and you might have met elsewhere."

"But still—"

"Do you remember that verse in the Prayer Book version of the Psalms—'He will not be always chiding'? I would not, if I were you, get into a way of expecting God to be 'always chiding.' He does not chide except when it is really needful. If you did what was wrong, then probably you have had your punishment—your required discipline—in the accident and the dull days following, not to speak of the disappointment in your friend, from whom you had expected so much. Some of that time was rather hard to bear, was it not? And perhaps you did bear it patiently; and then in love and kindness, this joy was brought to you, out of your very discipline. One sees that sort of thing so often with those who love and trust Him!"

"And I have not said one word about your trouble," Euphrasia presently observed. "But indeed I have been thinking about you a great deal. I am so very very sorry!"

"People waste far too much pity upon us. Life has plenty of happiness still, without wealth. I don't say that the loss of money is not in any sense a trial. Of course, it is meant to be that, but I 'do' say I would not have things otherwise, if this is God's will for us!"

"Only it seems so hard—"

"Not hard! To some extent trying, but we have to expect trials. Things may turn out better than we at present venture to hope. If not, we shall be provided for,—one way or another. No one ever yet trusted God, and found Him to fail. And we do trust Him."

She passed her hand softly over Euphrasia's, a smile on her face.

"I am not boasting. A child does not boast of trusting his mother's love and care! He trusts because he knows what she is, because he cannot help it! It is no matter for boasting, but only for delight . . . Curious that I should have had for years a kind of longing to be allowed more opportunity for trust. Where one loves much, one likes to be able to show the love by action. And I have always been so amply provided for—never the smallest chance of unsupplied needs—never any loophole for wants being supplied straight from above. Room enough for trust and dependence in spiritual matters, but not as to everyday needs. It has always seemed to me that probably I couldn't be trusted with that. I have often thought how beautiful it must be to sit, like Elijah, waiting for the ravens, perfectly sure that they could never fail to come. Of course, I do not mean, sitting idly, not doing one's utmost; only when one's utmost is done, and the needs are not supplied, 'then' to wait for Divine action."

"Ravens!"

"Modern ravens would not wear black feathers, child. They come just as straight from God. But I have feared presumption in having such thoughts, and I have not allowed myself to wish. Now that this has come quite independently of anything we could do, it 'does' seem that to wait on them for daily bread may be very sweet—always knowing that He can never by any possibility fail His children."

"Ought everybody to feel so?"

"I do not think the same lessons are given to all. People are differently constituted, for one matter, and they have to be put into different classes in the Divine training-school. The same teaching is not adapted for all characters—perhaps could not be learnt by all. But such thoughts help me, till we can see our way. At present we cannot. To live in a house the size of this Rectory, on £85 a year, with all the Parish claims in addition, seems an utter impossibility. But then, if we saw at once exactly how to manage, we should not need to trust and wait."

"And you don't even feel anxious?"

"I think—not what you mean by 'anxious.' I 'see' the difficulties and the uncertainties. But the coming guidance is so very sure, that one cannot feel bowed down by it. Trust does not mean not realising. My dear child, why should we be anxious? It will be all right one way or another—whether we stay here, or go elsewhere."

*****

One little drawback Euphrasia saw in her bright future, which otherwise seemed cloudless, and that was the fact of a home near the Johnstons. Could she have chosen, she would undoubtedly have preferred almost any other place than Clifton. But choice did not exist. She waited, with some trepidation, the first intimation of Robert having been to Royal York Crescent. And when it came, her fears proved to have been needless.

Mrs. Johnston would beforehand have done all in her power to have prevented so "imprudent a match," had she foreseen it. Now, however, that the thing was inevitable, she was far too wise a woman of the world to show ineffectual disgust. Her letter of congratulation to Euphrasia, if not entirely sincere, was at least as to its phraseology all that it ought to have been.

Three months' delay Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie begged that they might have a little taste of their eldest child at home, before she left them altogether. And then the wedding came off.

On that very same day, tidings were received that Mrs. Landor's property having sold unexpectedly well, and certain other matters having reached a better consummation than had been feared, enough would be saved from the wreck to ensure an income of over £250 per annum, in addition to the Rector's small stipend.

"It will not be quite like waiting for the ravens now!" murmured Euphrasia, as she clung to her friend in the very moment of parting—when she was no longer Euphrasia Mackenzie, but Euphrasia Wells.

"I have often noticed in life," Mrs. Landor said placidly, "that when some trouble is held out to us, if we say at once—'even so!'—then it is taken away, or perhaps lessened . . . Always! No, not always; only now and then! . . . Waiting for ravens! No, indeed. We shall be positively rich, in comparison with what we have been expecting."

"You did not 'wish' for the other! You are not disappointed?"

"Disappointed to have greater ease! My dear child, what I want is not to choose—to be willing either way. And now you are off! I have no right to keep you here. Let me hear soon, Little Eyebright. And do not be afraid to feel 'too happy!'"

THE END

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Table of Contents

Little Eyebright

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

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