Bessie did not make any answer for a minute or two, but her eyes were a little dim as she heard Hatty sob.

“I must not break the bruised reed,” she said to herself. “Hatty’s world is a very little one; she is not strong enough to come out of herself, and take wider views; when she loves people, she loves them somehow in herself; she can’t understand the freedom of an affection that can be happy in the absence of its object. I am not like Hatty; but then our natures are different, and I must not judge her. What can I say that will help her?”

“Can’t you find anything to say to me, Bessie dear?”

“Plenty; but you must wait for it to come. I was just thinking for you—putting myself in your place, and trying to feel as you do.”

“Well!”

“I was getting very low down when you spoke; it was quite creepy among the shadows. ‘So this is how Hatty feels,’ I said to myself, and did not like it at all.”

“You would not like to be me, Bessie.”

“What an ungrammatical sentence! Poor little me! I should think not; I could not breathe freely in such a confined atmosphere. Why don’t you give it up and let yourself alone? I would not be only a bundle of fears and feelings if I were you.”

“Oh, it is easy to talk, but it is not quite so easy to be good.”

“I am not asking you to be good. We can’t make ourselves good, Hatty; that lies in different hands. But why don’t you look on your unhappy nature as your appointed cross, and just bear with yourself as much as you expect others to bear with you? Why not exercise the same patience as you expect to be shown to you?”

“I hardly understand you, Bessie. I ought to hate myself for my ill-temper and selfishness, ought I not?”

“It seems to me that there are two sorts of hatred, and only one of them is right. We all have two natures. Even an apostle could say, ‘Oh, wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’ Even St. Paul felt the two natures warring within him. How can you and I, then, expect to be exempt from this conflict?”“Don’t put yourself in the same category with me, Bessie. You have crushed your lower nature, if you ever had it.”

“Oh, hush!” replied her sister, quite shocked at this. “You can’t know what you are talking about.” And here her voice trembled a little, for no one was more conscious of her faults and shortcomings. Bessie could remember the time when the conflict had been very hard; when her standard of duty had been lower than that she held now; when she had been as careless and indifferent as many girls of her age, until Divine guidance had led her feet into better paths; and knowing this, in her humility she could be tolerant of others.

“You do not know what you are saying, Hatty, or you would not hurt me by such a speech; it is only your love for me that blinds you. What I want to tell you is this—that you must not be so impatient; you waste all your strength in saying hard things about yourself, instead of fighting your faults. Why don’t you say to yourself, ‘I am a poor, weak little creature, but my Creator knows that too, and he bears with me. I cannot rid myself of my tiresome nature; it sticks to me like a Nessus shirt‘—you know the old mythological story, Hatty—‘but it is my cross, a horrid spiky one, so I will carry it as patiently as I can. If it is not always light, I will grope my way through the shadows; but my one prayer and my one effort shall be to prevent other people suffering through me?’”

“Oh, Bessie, that is beautiful!”

“You will find nothing else will help you to fight your bogies; do try it, darling. Be merciful to your poor little self; ‘respect the possible angel in you,’ as Mr. Robertson said. You will get rid of all your faults and fancies one day, as your namesake did in the river. You won’t always be poor little Hatty, whose back aches, and who is so cross; there is no pain nor crossness in the lovely land where all things are new.”

“Oh, if we were only there now, Bessie, you and I, safe and happy!”

“I would rather wait till my time comes. I am young and strong enough to find life beautiful. Don’t be cowardly, Hatty; you want to drop behind in the march, before many a gray-haired old veteran. That is because you are weak and tired, and you fear the long journey; but you forget,” and here Bessie dropped her voice reverently, “that we don’t journey alone, any more than the children of Israel did in the wilderness. We also have our pillar of cloud to lead us by day, and our pillar of fire by night to give us light. Mother always said what a type of the Christian pilgrimage the story of the Israelites is; she made us go through it all with her, and I remember all she told me. Hark! I think I hear footsteps outside the window; the servants are coming in from church.”

“Wait a minute, Bessie, before you let them in. You have done me so much good; you always do. I will try not to mope and vex mother and Christine while you are away.” And Hatty threw her arms penitently round her sister’s neck.

Bessie returned her kisses warmly, and left the room with a light heart. Her Sunday evening had not been wasted if she had given the cup of cold water in the form of tender sympathy to one of Christ’s suffering little ones.

Bessie felt her words were not thrown away when she saw Hatty’s brave efforts to be cheerful the next day, and how she refrained from sharp speeches to Christine; she did not even give way when Bessie bade her good-bye.

“You will remember our Sunday talk, Hatty, dear.”

“I do remember it,” with a quivering lip, “and I am trying to march, Bessie.”

“All right, darling, and I shall soon be back, and we can keep step again. I will write you long letters, and bring you back some ferns and primrose roots,” and then Bessie waved her hand to them all, and jumped in the brougham, for her father was going to take her to the station.

It must be confessed that Bessie felt a trifle dull when the train moved off, and she left her father standing on the platform. With the exception of short visits to her relatives, that were looked on in the light of duties, she had never left home before. But this feeling soon wore off, and a pleasant sense of exhilaration, not unmixed with excitement followed, as the wide tracts of country opened before her delighted eyes, green meadows and hedgerows steeped in the pure sunlight. Bessie was to be met at the station by some friend of the Seftons, as the country-bred girl knew little about London, and though a short cab drive would deposit her at Charing Cross, it would be far pleasanter for her to have an escort. Mrs. Sefton had suggested Mrs. Sinclair, and Dr. Lambert had been much relieved by her thoughtfulness.

As the train drew up to the platform Bessie jumped out, and stood eagerly looking about her for the lady whom she expected to see, and she was much surprised when a gentlemanly looking man approached her, and lifting his hat, said, with a pleasant smile:

“I believe I am addressing Miss Lambert.”

“Yes, certainly; that is my name,” returned Bessie, in rather an embarrassed manner.

“Ah, that is all right, and I have made no mistake. Miss Lambert, my mother is so seriously indisposed that she was unable to meet you herself, but you must allow me to offer my services instead. Now I will look after your luggage, and then I will find you a cab. Will you come with me, please? The luggage is at the other end.”

“I am so sorry to trouble you,” returned Bessie. “I have only one box—a black one, with ‘E. L.’ on the cover.” And then she stood aside quietly, while Mr. Sinclair procured a porter and identified the box; and presently she found herself in a cab, with her escort seated opposite to her, questioning her politely about her journey, and pointing out different objects of interest on their way.

Bessie’s brief embarrassment had soon worn off; and she chatted to her new companion in her usual cheerful manner. She liked Mr. Sinclair’s appearance—he looked clever, and his manners were quiet and well bred. He did not seem young; Edna had told her that he was thirty but he looked quite five years older.

“I wonder how you recognized me so quickly?” Bessie observed presently.

“It was not very difficult to identify you,” he returned quietly. “I saw a young lady who seemed rather strange to her surroundings, and who was evidently, by her attitude, expecting some one. I could tell at once you were not a Londoner.”

“I am afraid I must have looked very countrified,” returned Bessie, in an amused tone.

“Pardon me, I meant no such invidious comparison. People from the country have an air of greater freshness about them, that is all. You live at Cliffe, do you not? I was never there, but it is rather an interesting place, is it not?”

“I think it a dear place,” returned Bessie enthusiastically; “but then it is my home, so I am not unprejudiced. It is very unlike other places. The streets are so steep, and some of the houses are built in such high, out-of-the-way nooks, you look up and see steps winding up the hill, and there is a big house perched up among the trees, and then another. You wonder how people care to climb up so many steps; but then, there is the view. I went over one of the houses one day, and from every window there was a perfect panorama. You could see miles away. Think what the sunsets must be from those windows!”

“You live lower down the hill, then?” with an air of polite interest.

“Yes, in such a quiet, secluded corner; but we are near the quarry woods, and there are such lovely walks. And then the bay; it is not the real open sea you know, but it is so pretty; and we sit on the rocks sometimes to watch the sunset. Oh, I should not like to live anywhere else!”

“Not in London, for example?”

“Oh, no, not for worlds! It is very amusing to watch the people, but one seems to have no room to breathe freely.”“We are pretty crowded, certainly,” returned Mr. Sinclair; “but some of us would not care to live anywhere else, and I confess I am one of those people. The country is all very well for a month or two, but to a Londoner it is a sort of stagnation. Men like myself prefer to be at the heart of things—to live close to the centre of activity. London is the nucleus of England; not only the seat of government, but the focus of intellect, of art, of culture, of all that makes life worth living; and please do not put me down as a cockney, Miss Lambert, if I confess that I love these crowded streets. I am a lawyer, you know, and human nature is my study.”

“I quite understand you,” returned Bessie, with the bright intelligence that was natural to her. She was beginning to think Edna a fortunate girl. “There must be more in her than I thought, or this clever man would not have chosen her,” she said to herself; for Bessie, in her girlish innocence, knew little of the law of opposites, or how an intellectual or scientific man will sometimes select for his life companion a woman of only ordinary intelligence, who will, nevertheless, adorn her husband’s home by her simple domestic virtues. A wife does not need to be a moral whetstone to sharpen her husband’s wits by the fireside, neither would it enhance his happiness to find her filling reams of foolscap paper with choice specimens of prose and poetry; intelligent sympathy with his work is all he demands, and a loving, restful companion, who will soothe his hours of depression, who is never too weary or self-absorbed to listen to the story of his successes or failures.

“I shall be down at The Grange in a week or two—that is, if my mother be better; and then I hope we shall renew our acquaintance,” were Mr. Sinclair’s parting words as he took leave of Bessie; and Bessie sincerely echoed this wish.

“He is the sort of a man father would like,” she thought, as the train moved slowly out of the station.

This was paying a great compliment to Mr. Sinclair, for Dr. Lambert was rather severe on the young men of the day. “I don’t know what has come to them,” he would remark irritably; “young men nowadays call their father ‘governor,’ and speak to him as though he were their equal in age. There is no respect shown to elders. A brainless young puppy will contradict a man twice his age, and there is not even the same courtesy shown to the weaker sex either. I have heard young men and young women—young ladies, I suppose I ought to say—who address each other in a ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ sort of manner, but what can you expect,” in a disgusted tone, “when the girls talk slang, and ape their young brothers? I think the ‘sweet madame’ of our great-grandmothers’ times preferable to these slipshod manners. I would rather see our girls live and die in single blessedness than marry one of those fellows.”

“Father, we don’t want to marry any one, unless he is as nice as you,” replied Christine, on overhearing this tirade, and Bessie had indorsed this speech.

It was rather late in the afternoon when Bessie reached her destination, and she was feeling somewhat weary and dusty as she stood on the platform beside her box. The little station was empty, but as Bessie was waiting to question the porter, a man-servant came up to her and touched his hat.

“Miss Sefton is outside with the pony-carriage,” he said civilly. “I will look after the luggage, ma’am—there is a cart waiting for it.”

“Oh, thank you!” returned Bessie, and she went quickly through the little waiting-room. A young man in knickerbockers, with a couple of large sporting dogs, was talking to the station-master, and looked after her as she passed; but Bessie did not notice him particularly; her eyes were fixed on the road, and on a pony-carriage drawn up under the trees. Miss Sefton waved her whip when she saw Bessie, and drove quickly up to the door. She looked prettier than ever in her dark-blue cambric and large shady hat.

“How do you do, Miss Lambert? I am delighted to see you again. How punctual you are. Jump in. Ford will look after your luggage. This is a very different meeting, is it not, from our last? No snow about, but a very hot sun for June. Where is your sunshade? You will want it. Yes, that is right; put it up—my hat shades me. Now then, Ford, are you ready? Go on, Jack. What are you about, Jill? Are not my ponies pretty, Miss Lambert? Richard gave them to me last birthday, but I am afraid I plagued him a good deal beforehand to provoke such unusual generosity. There is nothing like teasing when you want a thing.”

Bessie smiled, but remained silent; she was tired, and not quite inclined for repartee. They had turned into a long, lovely lane, so narrow that no vehicle could have passed them, and the thick hedgerows were full of pink and white briar roses and other wild flowers; on either side lay hop fields. Bessie uttered a delighted exclamation.

“Yes, I told you you would admire our Kentish lanes. They are pretty now, but in the winter they are not quite so pleasant. Well, did Mrs. Sinclair meet you, as she promised?”

“No, her son came instead; he said his mother was seriously indisposed, and unable to keep her engagement.”

“Neville met you. How extremely odd! How on earth did you discover each other? Were you very much embarrassed, Miss Lambert?”

“No; it was a little strange at first, but Mr. Sinclair was very kind and pleasant, and soon put me at my ease.”

“Oh, Neville always gets on with ladies; there is certainly no fault to find with him in that respect. His civility is natural to him; he is just as polite to an old woman with a market basket and a few apples tied up in a blue spotted handkerchief as he is to a lady whose dress has been made by Worth.”

“I call that true politeness,” returned Bessie warmly.

“There is not much of the precious commodity to be found in our days; the young men one meets in society are not cut after that pattern. And so Mrs. Sinclair is ailing again?”

“‘Seriously indisposed,’ was Mr. Sinclair’s expression; and he looked rather grave, I thought.”

“My dear creature, Neville always looks grave, as though he were engaged in a criminal investigation. He is a barrister, you see, and he troubles himself if his mother’s finger aches. The dear old lady is always ailing, more or less, but there is never much the matter—a creaking door; you know the sort; only Neville always makes the worst of it. Now, look here, Miss Lambert, that is what we call the village—just those few cottages and the inn; there is not even a church; we have to walk over to Melton, a mile and a half away. Isn’t that pond pretty, with the ducks on it? and there is a flock of geese. Now we have only to turn down this road and there is The Grange.” And as Miss Sefton pointed with her whip, Bessie saw the outlines of a large red house between the trees.

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