Catherine wrote two long letters next morning—one to Brian, the other to Uncle Ross—to acquaint them with her new prospects. She concluded the letter to her uncle in this way:—

'I shall be sorry if my going to live at Redan Cottage displeases you, but I know you will be glad for me to do anything I can to serve my kind friend, Mrs. Arderne,—and remember, you promised not to quarrel seriously with

'Your affectionate niece,

'Catherine Carmichael.'

In the course of the same day she received his reply, brought down to her by a groom. Her uncle assured her of his esteem for Mrs. Arderne, and his unalterable affection for herself, and expressed satisfaction that the proposed change in her circumstances would be of pecuniary advantage to her. Redan Cottage was not so much as mentioned, nor was Uncle Jack nor Agatha.

Brian's reply, which was lengthy, greatly comforted Catherine. Not only did he thoroughly approve Mrs. Arderne's plan, but he sent such earnest sympathy, combined with encouragement, on the subject of the colonel's state of health, that his promised wife felt that she possessed in him a consoler upon whose perfect understanding and stable judgments she could always rely. And, in advising her to hope for success in her efforts to effect reconciliation, he alluded to 'your happy faith, which you have taught me to share.'

During the following days Uncle Jack and Mrs. Arderne, Agatha, and the children, met many times, and inaugurated friendships, greatly to Catherine's delight.

'That old man is a hero and a darling!' the vivacious little lady told her companion one evening, after they had spent some hours at Redan Cottage.

'Yet you once wanted me to give up his friendship, to refuse his offer, to practically behave as though I did not love him, and all for the sake of Uncle Ross's money!'

'Cath, don't throw my past folly in my face! I didn't know your uncle then, and I felt sure you were championing the one because he was the poorer,—out of a mingling of quixotic chivalry and obstinate pride.'

'What is your opinion of my poor little Agatha?'

'I don't like her—I've not advanced far enough in the study or practice of universal charity to feel sure that I love her, as we are told to love all men! As for loving her specially, as you seem to do, that is quite out of the question for me,—a thing far beyond the bounds of possibility.'

'She only shows you her outward self,—the bad manners and forgetfulness of others of a spoilt child; if she had shown you her heart, with all its pathetic longings, fears, and affections, all its contradictory beauty and ugliness, you would be just as fond of her as I am.'

'I can't think so. The only reason why I feel the least tenderness towards her is the fondness she shows for my babies.'

'The more you see of her the faster will grow that tenderness. She is one of the many girls who suffer countless deprivations on account of their unconciliatory manners, and who remain lonely and morbid because no one ever loves them well enough to gain their confidence.'

'But supposing there seems nothing worth loving?'

'That can't ever be—not to a person who sees God's handiwork—something, therefore, of God's own beauty—in every human face,' said Catherine.

Before the day came for Mrs. Arderne's departure from Beverbridge, she had become genuinely interested in Agatha, and much more friendly towards her. Ted and Toddie, with the impulsiveness of their youth, had forced their passage into Agatha's love. 'We only just wanted to be nice at first, 'cause we was sowwy for you, 'cause you can't get up,' Ted announced once; 'but now we weally loves 'oo.'

And after a speech of this description, delivered by a truthful, confiding, kissable urchin six years of age, and echoed by his more demure but equally kissable sister, what could Agatha's pride do but yield? She was always happy, even when suffering pain, if Ted and Toddie were playing about the room, running up to her couch every few minutes to ask her opinion or advice, or to bestow a 'weal good cuddle' upon her.

'Muvver, you've no idea how vewwy nice Ag'tha is,' declared Toddie.

Ted one evening determined to break the ice between his mother and Agatha, and proceeded to act upon his intention with his usual all-subduing bluntness.

'Ag'tha,' he announced, 'you like muvver, don't you? and muvver, you like Ag'tha, don't you? So s'pose you just kiss one anover an' be fwends ever afterwards?'

The kiss was given, laughingly; indeed, it could not well be refused. Agatha wondered if Ted were right, if Mrs. Arderne did really like her; and this thought made her manner gentle and timid, the consequence of which was that the child's surmise was proved accurate, even though it had been a mistake at first.

The time for the mother's departure arrived all too rapidly. She had superintended the fitting up of Ted and Toddie's nursery in Redan Cottage, had found out, with pride, that the little people were already beloved by all the household, and knew that they were certain to be quite happy with Catherine. Perhaps her heart suffered a few pangs because of her knowledge that they would have grieved far more, had it been Catherine who was obliged to leave them; but this reflection she resolutely put away from her, as one likely to encourage selfishness. After all, the fact was not strange. It was Catherine who had appealed to the souls of the babies, taken notice of their young emotions, studied their characters, helped and consoled them in their troubles; she, the mother, had petted them egregiously when they pleased her, and banished them without remorse when their prattle had tired her. By assiduously caring for their health, she had imagined that her duty had been fully done, but now, when it was too late, she realized that even small children should be taught to respect the justice of praise and blame, punishment and reward, and that they turn naturally with the greatest affection to those who appeal to their generosity. While Catherine had taught them 'Be good, or you will grieve your loving Father in heaven, who sees you every minute of the day and night, who is sorry when you are naughty, and glad when you are trying to please Him,' Mrs. Arderne had ruled by alternate bribes and threats, such as, 'If you are naughty, you shall not have that picture-book I promised you,' or, 'Do be good, Ted and Toddie, then you shall have those nice chocolates out of the cupboard.'

Often and often had Ted's spirit failed to be subdued by these means; he had been known to answer, 'Don't care! do wivout choc'lates'; but a few minutes' talk with Catherine had never been found to result in anything but meekness and repentance.

It was the old story—when worldly measures proved worthless, God's love produced wonders.

The day of farewells came at last, after a few days which had seemed to lag because they had been filled with sorrow. Mrs. Arderne was to start very early for London, so the parting with Ted and Toddie was a silent one. Bending over them where they lay happily asleep in their cots—Ted pouting and Toddie smiling seraphically—the mother would not waken them to gratify herself at their expense. 'It's best that they don't know,' she whispered, 'for they would cry, though you could soon comfort them.' Then she kissed the rosy cheeks, laid her hands on the golden head and the brown one, and let Catherine lead her out of the room.

'Oh, Cath, Cath, be good to them!'

'You know I will, dearest.'

'Don't let them forget me. Try to make them remember their mother's good points only, if she has any. I have not been the best of mothers, but it was through ignorance; and, please God, I'll learn all about Him, so that the children may not find me wanting in sympathy when I come home to them.'

'Pray for them night and morning, just when you feel sure they are saying their prayers and asking God to bless "muvver."'

'Oh, their dear little lisps! They won't be babies any longer when I see them again, my darlings!'

This was the worst parting; though the little woman clung to Catherine at the last moment in the railway carriage, and felt, as she owned, that she could scarcely bear to let her go, the mother's sorrow was naturally the stronger, as was proved by her last words.

'Be good to them, Cath, take care of them.'

As the girl returned alone to the villa, to superintend the removal of herself and the children to Redan Cottage and to part with the nurse, she was conscious of a feeling of dread at the responsibility she had adopted, as well as of a loneliness due to the loss of her friend; and it was only by means of prayer that she regained courage.

Not until Ted and Toddie were installed in their new home did Catherine break the news to them of their mother's departure.

'Oh, Carr, she's not gone'd?'

The pathetic cry, the startled look went straight to the girl's heart.

'Ted, she is coming back again!' she cried, clasping him to her breast, 'and you must try ever so hard to grow good, wise, and clever, that she may be really proud of her boy!'

Toddie sat down on the floor and began to weep, refusing utterly to be comforted until she had had her cry out, when she displayed healthy curiosity regarding her new doll's cradle, her mother's parting gift.

Ted had by far the more affectionate disposition, and grieved trebly as much as his sister, as Catherine had expected. He tried to hide his unhappiness, even from her, until night, when she found him sobbing pitifully in the dark, and had to spend a long while in endeavouring to soothe him.

At last he cried himself to sleep in her arms.

It was many days before the little fellow ceased to fret, and at one time Catherine began to fear for his health; but she and Agatha managed him so adroitly that he was surprised into laughing over a new game one evening, and after that laugh his spirits gradually returned to him.

'His mother will cry over the letter I have sent her, describing Ted's way of bearing his first big sorrow,' said Catherine to Agatha; 'but they will be tears that will do her heart good.'

Toddie was quite placid again by this time, and was becoming the idol of all but Agatha and Catherine, who could not help loving Ted best, though they tried to show no preference.

'Uncle Jack' was the tiny girl's favourite friend, and he spent most of his leisure in her company, which never failed to cheer him.

How greatly he was in need of cheering, Catherine now began to discover. She loved him so well that her power of character-reading was greatly aided in his case. When Agatha thought him merely tired, Catherine knew that he was dejected; when he was laughing aloud over his games with the children, Catherine saw the weary look in his eyes, detected a wistful cadence in his voice, and knew that he was thinking of the quarrel which was as a dark shadow over these years of his old age.

Morning and night, at family prayers, a petition was offered up for the reconciling of all family feuds, the forgiveness of injuries between friends, the health and happiness of relatives. And one day some time after Christmas the colonel turned to those around him, saying simply:—

'This is the anniversary of the day when I and my brother Ross quarrelled, when he told me we could live together no longer. Will you all pray silently for his welfare, here and hereafter, and for our reconciliation, if God in His mercy wills it? I know I have always prayed aloud for this before, in other years; but to-day—my courage fails me.'

'Catherine, if I should die suddenly,' he said when next alone with his niece, 'I trust to you to tell Ross I have never borne him any ill-will, and that I hope to meet him in the kingdom where all the secrets of men's hearts will be made plain, and where the God of love reigns for ever and ever.'

'I promise to bear your wish in mind, dearest uncle,' was her answer.

And she resolved that not another day should pass before she made one more attempt to soften her other uncle's heart and overrule his pride.