As soon as their lodger had been removed, Mrs. Coates told her husband what he had said about Mrs. Waring. "And to think," she exclaimed, "that he should talk like that about his very own wife! I didn't tell you before 'cause I knew it 'ud rile you so."

"I should think so," Jim cried out, "the good-for-nothing fellow. I should have been tempted to have picked him up and carried him straight off to the workhouse whether he wanted to go or whether he didn't."

"Do you suppose Mrs. Waring knows how he's talked about her?"

"No; shouldn't think so."

"If she did, do you suppose she would have taken him home?"

"Yes; that would make no difference to her. She's got too big a heart to hold spite against any one."

"Did you know that she nursed Topsy Scarves for six weeks when she had the smallpox?"

Jim shook his head. "No, but it's just like her if she did."

"She did. Topsy wouldn't let no one else touch her, but she was like a lamb with Mrs. Waring; so Mrs. Waring stayed six weeks and let her business get on as well as it could without her. And when Mrs. Scarves wanted to thank her, she said she wasn't to, for it had been a real happy time for her. Mrs. Scarves says she did everything for Topsy, and wasn't frightened a wee bit. I told you Mrs. Bessie Jones offered to get Mr. Wood,—no, Mr. Waring,—into Warley Hospital. Do you think she knew who he was?"

"Did she see him?"

"No, she only heard him cough."

"I wish to goodness she'd succeeded, and that it shouldn't have been in our house the Little Missis got such a blow! My! it was a staggerer for her when she heard him cough! I never saw any one look as she did! I wish we could help her in some way or other, that I do. I wonder God lets such a good woman like she is have so much trouble."

"Perhaps it's trouble that's made her good," wisely remarked Mrs. Coates.

"Perhaps so, it does some people."

As soon as Ralph was safely in bed Janie was despatched for a doctor. His appearance alarmed Phebe more than ever. The cough was incessant, and occasionally thin streaks of blood were seen on the handkerchief.

"I wish you'd get me a red handkerchief," he said, in an irritable voice.

"A red handkerchief! Why? I haven't got one."

"Yes, a red handkerchief. And if you don't possess such a thing, you could get one, couldn't you? I shouldn't see that blood if I had a red handkerchief."

"I did not know exactly what you meant. I'll get you one at once out of the shop." It was the same old Ralph, always wanting to cover up trouble, never able to fairly and boldly face consequences.

The doctor pronounced him in a dangerous condition, promised to send something at once to ease the cough, and in the morning would examine him more thoroughly. "But I am afraid he is not long for this world, Mrs. Waring," he said, as he bade her good-night; "he has had a very hard life lately, that is very evident."

Yes, she saw it all; Ralph had come back with a wrecked life—had come home to die!—the man who had gone forth to win a fortune to lay at her feet. How bitterly disappointed he must be! This thought gave an added tenderness to her voice, and made her still more patient. All the night long she watched by his side. Sometimes he slept a little, but when awake lay gloomily staring at the wall. He never uttered a word of tenderness or pleasure at being home. Only once did he refer to the past, and then it was to rip open the old wound.

"You've been very successful, Phebe."

"Yes; God has greatly helped me."

"No doubt; but still it was I who started you. I left you a good business, and in addition"—he had to pause to cough—"and in addition I had trained you well, so, after all, the success is mine as much as yours."

How could she contradict him? If he found comfort in this thought would it not be cruel to put forward any doubts? So after a pause she answered: "Yes."

"You don't seem very sure about it," with as much "snap" in the words as his breath would allow.

"I should not be where I am now, but for you," she answered gently, and that answer seemed to please him.

Then in a little while: "I must see the books in the morning. I shall soon be able to pick up the threads. There's a country branch, isn't there?"

"Two."

"Ah, that's good; I gave you that idea." Another fit of coughing. "I shall soon be all right; it's only an extra cold I've got. I'll soon be able to take the reins, and then——" But he was too weak to finish the sentence.

Early in the morning Phebe went to break the news to Jack. He was sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes. She sat down by his side putting her arm round his neck, bringing his sunny head to nestle on her shoulder.

"Jack, darling, I've something very particular to tell you."

"Have you, mummy? What is it? Has Janie got a sweetheart?"

"No, it is something very serious. You must not joke."

"Is it?"—lifting his head to look at her. "Are you in trouble? Who's been hurting you?" in his impetuous way.

"No one. Jack, your father has come home."

"Father!—come home!" in a bewildered voice. "Father come home! I say," and he began to get excited, "I must get up at once. Then he wasn't dead after all?"

"Stay a bit, Jack; he is very ill—and very poor." She knew the dreams the lad had cherished, of how his father would return, of the grand treasures he was to bring his boy.

"Poor!" he exclaimed; "then why didn't he write and tell you so? Why did he leave us all this time!"

"Jack," she answered gently, "I expect it was because he was so disappointed at not finding the fortune," and then she told him all the story of how she had found Ralph.

"Has he asked after me?"

"No, not yet. You see he is very ill."

"Not asked after me! And been here all night!" He was rather glad to have this fresh reason for anger.

"You must not take any notice of that. Remember how ill he is. Sick people cannot be expected to be thoughtful. Get dressed now, and then come and tell him you are glad he has come home."

"But I'm not glad—and I don't want to see him."

"Jack!"

"No, I don't; and I won't see him," bursting into angry tears. "What's the good of a father like that! To stay away from us and never write us a letter, and only come back 'cause he's ill!"

"It was I who brought him back, you must remember."

"What will all the fellows say! I've told them——"

"Never mind all that. You can tell them your father has had disappointments, and they will be sorry for him."

"Not they, they'll sneer. Oh, mummy, I am so wretched!"

She tried to soothe him, but the angry spirit had got hold of him too much. "Come and see him, there's a dear Jack. You will be sorry for him when you see how ill he is."

"No, I won't. He's been cruel to you—cruel!"

"Jack," standing straight up and speaking very firmly, "I am grieved, deeply grieved, at your unloving spirit. You had better get dressed and go at once to your aunt's and remain there till you have a more forgiving spirit. How could I tell your father that you refuse to see him!"

It was the first time there had been a cloud between them. Each felt it keenly. Phebe went away with a heavy heart. The burden had more than doubled during that quarter of an hour. How gladly she would have entered the Golden Gate just then! It seemed as if now both husband and son had failed her. Entering the sick-room her eyes fell on the silver star, and the old motto came again to mind: "We rely on Thee." "I do," she murmured, "God is with me; He is working all things right."

"Nanna," exclaimed Jack, when he got downstairs, "I can't find my cap." His eyes were too full of tears to see it.

"Well, you don't want your cap before you have your breakfast."

"I don't want any breakfast."

"Don't want any breakfast! What nonsense! Where are you off to?"

"To aunty's; mummy said I must go at once."

"Mummy did not mean you to go without your breakfast. Of course she will want your aunty to know quickly of your father's return; but there's not so much hurry you cannot have your breakfast."

He had been trying hard to keep back the tears, but could not succeed. "Oh, it's not that," he exclaimed. "Mummy is displeased with me, and is sending me away."

"Jack," said Nanna, putting her hands on his shoulders and trying to look into his eyes, "do you mean to say you are going to desert your mother just at one of the darkest moments of her life?"

"I don't want to go—she sent me away," freeing himself from her detaining hands.

Arriving at his aunt's he was obliged to tell her the whole of the story. She felt inclined to share the boy's anger and resentment in the first moment of excitement, but, afterwards viewing the matter from the mother's standpoint, her words were very similar to Nanna's.

"No doubt you are disappointed, but didn't it strike you your mother must be disappointed, too? I think you've done wrong, Jack, not to stand by her and make things as easy as you could for her."

Poor little Jack! Everybody seemed against him!

"What did Mrs. Colston say to you?" the aunt continued.

"Just what you do," he answered, and then sighed deeply.

"Ah! I thought she would. Your mother must be as disappointed in you as you are in your father, and I'm sure Mrs. Colston would say we disappointed God as much as we disappoint one another."

In less than an hour love for his mother had overcome all pride, disappointment and anger, and he was back home again.

Nanna met him with a smile. "Well done, Jack; you've scored a victory, I can tell it by your face. Mummy will be delighted! Jack, dear, it will do your heart good to see her loving patience. She makes me think of God. Her patience and love are just like what His must be—only, of course, His are bigger. I tell you what you must do when you go upstairs. Don't make any note of your father's funny ways; take notice only of how your mother's trying to win him——"

"Should I go upstairs now?"

"No, your father's dozing. Sit down and have some breakfast. I don't suppose you ate much while your burden was on you. Jack, have you ever heard of St. Bernard's Hospice?"

"Yes, I've seen a picture of it."

"The monks go out with their dogs in the winter to see if they can come across anybody perishing in the snow. They are love-missionaries. I think this house is a hospice just now. Your mummy's found a poor perishing soul, and she's brought it home to get it ready for heaven."

"Is father going to die?"

"Yes; I'm afraid he's not long for this world—the doctor says about a week; so you and I have got to do all we can to help mummy."

"What can I do?"

"A lot. Do what mummy does; show all the love you can."

It was not until Ralph had finished his breakfast that he asked: "And how are the children?"

"There's only one left down here."

"Which one?"

"The boy."

"Well, it's a comfort it's the boy. I expect Washington is a fine lad by now!"

"Washington!"—the name slipped out involuntarily, it sounded so strange.

"Yes, Washington; that's the lad's name, and the one I mean to call him by. You can fetch me up the books now."

Going downstairs she caught sight of Jack.

"Mummy," exclaimed the lad, rushing towards her, "I'm so sorry I disappointed you! I couldn't stop away from you. I'll do what you want me to do, and I'll stand by you through thick and thin, that I will. You'll see if I won't," and the bargain was sealed with a hug and a kiss.

He was received back without one word of reproach. "Jack, if your father calls you by your other name you must not express any surprise. I can get along fine now you are with me."

This little rift in the home-music had puzzled as well as troubled Phebe, but all at once it struck her that God perhaps meant her to see a parable in it, and that was how it was to work good for her. "Perhaps Ralph got away from God as Jack went away from me, because things weren't as he wanted them. But he'll get back again to God, as Jack has got back to me." And the parable comforted her, and inspired her. For God can take even the wayward doings of a petted child to teach His lessons and do His work.

Jack made his way upstairs at once. "Good-morning, father," he said in his cheeriest tone, "it must be nice for you to be home again."

"Yes, nicer for me than you, I suppose"—the words were snappish, but Ralph looked at the boy with a kind of look which plainly said: "You will do."

The business books were brought, but he was far too weak to master them: "I'll attend to them when I'm stronger," he said.

But each new day found him weaker.

If ever a man lived in an atmosphere of love Ralph Waring did. How much of the old love had revived it would be difficult to say, if even any had. But it was a love which was willing to forego self to the utmost, and what love could be richer, more Christlike, than that?

It was a true testing-time to Phebe. It was not easy to relinquish every thread of work in which she had been so deeply interested, and it was harder still, after being her own mistress so long, to submit patiently to that dictatorial voice! It was as though the Great Gardener had taken His cherished plant on to a bleak moorland to see how its blossoms would thrive where the winds blew all around it.

All the town soon knew of Ralph Waring's return, and many were the comments on it. Some said it was "mighty good of Phebe to take the rascal back again," and showed how loving her heart was. Others said it showed that Ralph still loved her in spite of her having driven him from home, and that he could not die in peace away from her.

It was not till the last day came that there was any proof that love had conquered. The doctor's prophecy had not come true, for he had lingered week after week, and even on this last day there seemed no change, except in manner and voice.

"Phebe," the tone was even stronger than usual, but quite startling in its tenderness, "my life has been a failure. I see it all so plainly now."

"This part may have been so, dear; but you must remember this is not all." She had a great longing to soothe and comfort him, but the moments were too precious and solemn to allow her to cover up the truth, however much she might be tempted.

"Yes, but the future must be a good deal according to what the past has been."

"Yes, maybe; but I love to think that out of all our tangles God can produce a beautiful design if we turn to Him with all our hearts."

Ralph sighed heavily. "It has been self all along with me. It was a good thing God did not let me succeed. How I have fought against my failure, what it has cost me to be here receiving all your kindness, knowing all about your success, you can never tell—never!" and for the first time in all her life Phebe saw tears rolling down his face.

"Poor Ralph! I am grieved for you, dear!"

"I know you are," taking hold of her hand and kissing it. "It has cost me a struggle to acknowledge that God has led me right. If I had been other than a bankrupt soul He could not have had mercy on me. He was obliged to bring me low. But I thank Him for it. You do forgive me the wrong I did you?" and he looked so wistfully at her.

"Of course I do, a hundred times over," and she stooped to kiss him, her hot tears mingling with his.

"Dear Phebe——" But strength had gone. With one hand clasping Phebe, and the other his boy, and with Nanna gently wiping the cold sweat from his brow, he passed to the other land. His last words were: "Phebe, come with—me!" But he had started on a journey he was obliged this time to take without her.