MATILDA’S faults and Leila’s fears seemed alike forgotten. They talked, and laughed, and ran races, till fatigue at last made a quieter mode of amusement desirable, even to Matilda. The arbour, which was in a sheltered spot at one end of the garden, was still almost in summer beauty,—the china-roses and many of the autumn flowers were yet in rich luxuriance, and the bright beams of the sun brought back the feeling of summer with all its gladness. As they seated themselves in the arbour, a robin flew down from a neighbouring tree, and timidly advanced within the entrance, then paused and seemed to fix its clear bright eye on Leila; she softly raised her hand, and pointed to her lips to enjoin silence; but Matilda made a sudden movement, and the next moment the robin was gone. Leila sighed.

“Are you sorry I frightened it away?” Matilda inquired.

“No,” Leila answered, cheerfully; “it was not that; you know the robin did not know us, it would have flown away the moment any of us had moved, and we could not have sat all day quite still; so never mind, Matilda, only it made me think——” she stopped and coloured.

“What did it make you think of? Do tell me.”

“It made me think that in the island the birds never were afraid of me; they never flew away, at least a great many of them did not; they knew me quite well there.”

“And you are wishing to be back to the island,” Matilda exclaimed, reproachfully, “because the birds know you there; and you would leave Selina and me, who know you, I am sure, far better than the birds, and love you better too; I am sure I wish that—that island——”

Selina placed her hands before Matilda’s mouth. “Hush, hush, Matilda, don’t say it. You are working yourself up to be angry; you will be sorry afterwards; indeed, you will be sorry now;” and she pointed to Leila, who stood covering her face with her hands, while the tears trickled down between her fingers.

Matilda flew to her; she tried to remove her hands, and kissed her repeatedly. “There, you see, I am off again, and worse than ever. Oh, this badness! will it never leave me? and, Cousin Leila, perhaps you will begin to hate me now!”

Leila removed her hands from her face, and hastily brushed away her tears; then, throwing her arms round Matilda’s neck, she said,—“Oh, Matilda! never, never say that again, for I love you very much.”

“You are so kind and good,” Matilda was beginning to say.

Leila stopped her. “No, Matilda, no; I am not good. I was not crying now because I was sorry about the island, but because I was angry at you for speaking of it in that way,—and now let me tell you all that is in my heart. I am happy here, quite, quite happy; I like living in the world exceedingly, I think the world is delightful, and the trials that papa spoke about I think are not coming to me, at least, not the great ones; for you know it is a little trial when you are angry with me, and I should bear it better, I know; but it is about the island I wished to speak,—I do not wish to go back to it to live. No, I could not leave—” she fixed her eyes fondly on Selina,—“nor you either, Matilda,” she added; “I could not leave you, I do love you very much, though sometimes you make me angry; but I love the island very much also. God placed me there when he snatched me from the dashing waves. It was my home, my happy home; I had my papa all to myself then; he used to call me his little friend, and he was such a friend to me, always keeping me right. You know I was alone there with my papa, and with God; and it was so much easier to be good there. I thought more of God in the island, for every thing seemed so full of his love, and all so beautiful. The island was God’s garden, the flowers always springing, so bright and beautiful, the trees so green, and nobody to take care of them but God; the birds always singing to Him, the fountain making that sweet sound, and the everlasting hills.—Oh! Matilda, it was comforting to live amongst God’s works, every thing to make me love Him, and nothing to make me forget; here I am happy, too happy sometimes, for it is a kind of happiness which makes me forget, and then afterwards comes the sorrow.”

“And what do you do then?” Matilda anxiously inquired.

“I often try to put it off, and I dash about, and try to be merry; but I am not merry; I get more sorrowful; then I remember that it is conscience that is speaking to me, and that papa says conscience is the voice of God, and if I do not listen, He will turn away from me; then I get frightened as well as sorrowful, and I go away by myself, sometimes into my room, sometimes into the garden, and there I think”—— She hesitated, then continued,—“I think of Jesus Christ, and of all he did for us, and how he loved little children, and took them in his arms, and blessed them: and I pray to Him in my heart to love me and to bless me also. Do you remember how he raised the little daughter of twelve years old from the dead? I always think how good she must have been after that, and how she must have loved Jesus Christ, and yet it should be the same with us; He keeps us alive every moment, and preserves us from every danger, and I forget Him often, though twice he has saved my life, in the stormy sea, you know, and from the frightful——” She stopped and shuddered.

“Don’t, don’t think of it,” Matilda exclaimed; “don’t work yourself up in that way, Leila.”

“But it does me good, Matilda, to think of it, and beside it was such a day of happiness also,”—and she looked fondly at Selina.

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean,” Matilda said, hastily; “and I am sure it was a day of happiness to me too; but we won’t think any more about it now, for I do tire a little if you speak too much about goodness; but what with you being so good, and Selina being so good, I surely shall get better in time; indeed, I am a little better already, I assure you I am—I am almost always sorry now when I do wrong.”

Selina looked up and smiled. “Yes, indeed, you are better, Matilda. I think there has been a great improvement in you since Leila came to stay with us, and now I hope that you will not take to Lydia Mildmay again so much, or allow her to have such influence over you as she used to have,—she did you no good.”

“Why do you always say that?” Matilda exclaimed, colouring violently; “I do wish, Selina, you would just tell me at once why you don’t like Lydia. I am sure it is very ungrateful in you, and I think that you need not be so sorry that she should praise me sometimes, she praises you also a great deal.”

“Yes,” Selina answered, “she does; but I don’t like her praise, and I would rather she did not.”

“And why do you not like her praise?”

“Because I cannot help thinking it is not sincere.”

“Now, Selina, that is too bad in you. Mamma often says, ‘Give me a proof of it, Matilda;’ so I say to you, give me a proof of it, Selina.”

“No, I cannot give you a proof of it now; some other time we will talk of it again. I wish to go to mamma now—I dare say I can help her to arrange something—you know there must be a great deal to arrange on our first coming home.”

“And let me go with you also,” Leila eagerly said; “for I dare say I could do some good. When we arrived in the cave, I remember I assisted papa to arrange a good deal. I unpacked the canteen, and put out all the cups and saucers, and helped nurse to arrange the pans, and when papa put up the shelves, I put the clothes upon them, and his boots and shoes all in a row; but in this country there is not so much to be done; I sometimes think it is stupid to have so many people making places for every thing, I used to like so much making plans and contrivances.”

“Well,” Matilda said, “if you are both going to be such busy bees, I will go to Alfred for a little; I see him down the middle walk, and we can romp together; for you know this is to be a holiday, mamma said so; so I need not work, unless I like it myself.” She was off in a moment.

“Why,” inquired Leila, as they entered the house together, “would you not give Matilda a proof of why you did not like Lydia?”

“Better not,” Selina answered; “it does not do with Matilda to talk to her too much on subjects she does not like; if I had gone on, in a few minutes more she would have been angry. Did you not observe how her colour was rising?”

“Yes, I did; and I am never very sure when I am talking to Matilda how she is to take it; she gets red very often,—but I need not wonder at that, for it is just the same with me—I am sure to get red very often too.”

“Yes,” Selina answered, “you do; you colour very often, but then it is not with anger.”

“You don’t know, Selina; you think that because you love me; but very often it is with anger,—not so much when papa tells me I am wrong, for he speaks so gently to me, and always seems so sorry himself, that it makes me very grieved, and I always wish to be better, and say to myself, that I will try never to displease him again; but it is quite another thing with Nurse. I often feel my cheeks get as hot as fire when she scolds me; but it is with anger then; for she sometimes teases the very life out of me. Not often though, for I know she loves me; but then she is always saying, ‘Oh! Miss Leila, you are a heartbreak to me; if you would but sit to your work like a rational being,—you are not to trust to Amy mending your things,—you know your papa says you are not. You are far too much taken up with your music and your histories; and what sort of a pocket-hole is that for a young lady to have?’ I am laughing now, Selina, while I am telling it to you; but though sometimes I can bear it pretty well, and try to please her by beginning to mend my pocket-hole as quick as possible, at other times I get quite into a passion, and can’t bear to put in a single stitch; but we must make haste now, or every thing will be put in order, and we shall have no work to do. I like that kind of work very much, don’t you, Selina?”