Mr. Dallas's visits became frequent. He talked of a great variety of things, but never failed to bring the colonel's mind to the subject of Esther's want of education. Indirectly or directly, somehow, he presented to the colonel's mind that one idea: that his daughter was going without the advantages she needed and ought to have. It was true, and the colonel could not easily dispose of the thought which his friend so persistently held up before him. Waters wear away stones, as we know to a proverb; and so it befell in this case, and Mr. Dallas knew it must. The colonel began to grow uneasy. He often reasserted that he would never leave Seaforth; he began to think about it, nevertheless.

'What should I do with this place?' he asked one evening when the subject was up.

'What do you wish to do with it?'

'I wish to live in it as long as I live anywhere,' said the colonel, sighing; 'but you say—and perhaps you are right—that I ought to be somewhere else for my child's sake. In that case, what could I do with my place here?'

'I ask again, what do you wish to do with it? Would you let it?'

'No,' said the colonel, sighing again; 'if I go I must sell. My means will not allow me to do otherwise.'

'I will buy it of you, if you wish to sell.'

'You! What would you do with the property?'

'Keep it for you, against a time when you may wish to buy it back. But indeed it would come very conveniently for me. I should like to have it, for my own purposes. I will give you its utmost value.'

The colonel pondered, not glad, perhaps, to have difficulties cleared out of his way. Mr. Dallas waited, too keen to press his point unduly.

'I should have to go and reconnoitre,' the former said presently. 'I must not give up one home till I have another ready. I never thought to leave Seaforth. Where do you say this place is that Mrs. Dallas recommends?'

'In New York. The school is said to be particularly good and thorough, and conducted by an English lady; which would be a recommendation to me, as I suppose it is to you.'

'I should have to find a house in the neighbourhood,' said the colonel, musing.

Mr. Dallas said no more, and waited.

'I must go and see what I can find,' the colonel repeated. 'Perhaps Mrs. Dallas will be so good as to give me the address of the school in question.'

Mrs. Dallas did more than that. She gave letters to friends, and addresses of more than one school teacher: and the end was, Colonel Gainsborough set off on a search. The search was successful. He was satisfied with the testimonials he received respecting one of the institutions and respecting its head; he was directed by some of Mr. Dallas's business friends to various houses that might suit him for a residence; and among them made his choice, and even made his bargain, and came home with the business settled.

Esther had spent the days of his absence in a very doubtful mood, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry, to hope or to fear. Seaforth was the only home she had ever known; she did not like the thought of leaving it; but she knew by this time as well as Mr. Dallas knew that she needed more advantages of education than Seaforth could give her. On the whole, she hoped.

The colonel was absent several days. There was no telegraphing in those times, and so the day of his return could not be notified; but when a week had passed, Esther began to look for him. It was the first time he had ever been away from her, and so, of course, it was the first coming home. Esther felt it deserved some sort of celebration. The stage arrived towards evening, she knew.

'I think maybe he will be here to-night, Barker,' she said. 'What is there we could have for supper that papa likes particularly?'

'Indeed, Miss Esther, the colonel favours nothing more than another, as
I know. His toast and tea, that is all he cares for nights, mostly.'

'Toast and tea!' said Esther disparagingly.

'It's the most he cares for, as I know,' the housekeeper repeated. 'There's them quails Mr. Dallas sent over; they's nice and fat, and to be sure quails had ought to be eaten immediate. I can roast two or three of 'em, if you're pleased to order it; but the colonel, it's my opinion he won't care what you have. The gentlemen learns it so in the army, I'm thinkin'. The colonel never did give himself no care about what he had for dinner, nor for no other time.'

Esther knew that; however, she ordered the quails, and watched eagerly for her father. He came, too, that same evening. But the quails hardly got their deserts, nor Esther neither, for that matter. The colonel seemed to be unregardful of the one as much as of the other. He gave his child a sufficiently kind greeting, indeed, when he first came in; but then he took his usual seat on the sofa, without his usual book, and sat as if lost in thought. Tea was served immediately, and I suppose the colonel had had a thin dinner, for he consumed a quail and a half; yet satisfactory as this was in itself, Esther could not see that her father knew what he was eating. And after tea he still neglected his book, and sat brooding, with his head leaning on his hand. He had not said one word to his daughter concerning the success or non-success of his mission; and eager as she was, it was not in accordance with the way she had been brought up that she should question him. She asked him nothing further than about his own health and condition, and the length and character of his journey; which questions were shortly disposed of, and then the colonel sat there with his head in his hand, doing nothing that he was wont to do. Esther feared something was troubling him, and could not bear to leave him to himself. She came near softly, and very softly let her finger-tips touch her father's brow and temples, and stroke back the hair from them. She ventured no more.

Perhaps Colonel Gainsborough could not bear so much. Perhaps he was reminded of the only other fingers which had had a right since his boyhood to touch him so. Yet he would not repel the gentle hand, and to avoid doing that he did another very uncommon thing; he drew Esther down into his arms and put her on his knee, leaning his head against her shoulder. It was exceeding pleasant to the girl, as a touch of sympathy and confidence; however, for that night the confidence went no further; the colonel said nothing at all. He was in truth overcome with the sadness of leaving his home and his habits and the place of his wife's grave. As he re-entered Seaforth and entered his house, this sadness had come over him; he could not shake it off; indeed, he did not try; he gave him self up to it, and forgot Esther, or rather forgot what he owed her. And Esther, who had done what she could, sat still on her father's knee till she was weary, and wished he would release her. Yet perhaps, she thought, it was a pleasure to him to have her there, and she would not move or speak. So they remained until it was past Esther's bedtime.

'I think I will go now, papa,' she said. 'It is getting late.'

He kissed her and let her go.

But next morning the colonel was himself again,—himself as if he had never been away, only he had his news to tell; and he told it in orderly business fashion.

'I have taken a house, Esther,' he said; 'and now I wish to get moved as soon as possible. You must tell Barker, and help her.'

'Certainly, papa. Whereabouts is the house you have taken?'

'On York Island. It is about a mile out of the city, on the bank of the river; a very pretty situation.'

'Which river, papa?'

'The Hudson.'

'And am I to go to school?'

'Of course. That is the purpose of the movement. You are to enter Miss Fairbairn's school in New York. It is the best there, by all I can gather.'

'Thank you, papa. Then it is not near our new house?'

'No. You will have to drive there and back. I have made arrangements for that.'

'Won't that cost a good deal, papa?'

'Not so much as to live in the city would cost. And we are accustomed to the country; it will be pleasanter.'

'Oh, much pleasanter! What will be done with this house, papa?'

'Mr. Dallas takes it and the place off my hands.'

Esther did not like that; why, she could not possibly have told. For, to be sure, what could be better?

'Will he buy it?'

'Yes, he buys it.'

Again a little pause. Then—'What will become of the furniture and everything, papa?'

'That must be packed to go. The house I have taken is empty. We shall want all we have got.'

Esther's eye went round the room. Everything to be packed! She stood like a young general, surveying her battlefield.

'Then, papa, you never mean to come back to Seaforth again?'

The colonel sighed. 'Yes, when I die, Esther. I wish my bones to be laid here.'

He said no more. Having made his communications, he took up his book; his manner evidently saying to Esther that in what came next he had no particular share. But could it be that he was leaving it all to her inexperience? Was it to be her work, and depend on her wisdom?

'Papa, you said we were to move soon; do you wish me to arrange with
Barker about it?'

'Yes, my dear, yes; tell her, and arrange with her. I wish to make the change as early as possible, before the weather becomes unfavourable; and I wish you to get to school immediately. It cannot be too soon, tell Barker.'

So he was going to leave it all to her! On ordinary occasions he was wont to consider Esther a child still; now it was convenient to suppose her a woman. He did not put it so to himself; it is some men's way. Esther went slowly to the kitchen, and informed Barker of what was before her.

'An' it's mor'n the middle of October,' was the housekeeper's comment.

'That's very good time,' said Esther.

'You're right, Miss Esther, and so it is, if we was all ready this minute. All ain't done when you are moved, Miss Esther; there's the other house to settle; and it'll take a good bit o' work before we get so far as to that.'

'Papa wants us to be as quick as we can.'

'We'll be as quick as two pair o' hands is able for, I'll warrant; but that ain't as if we was a dozen. There's every indiwiddle thing to put up, Miss Esther, from our chairs to our beds; and books, and china, and all I'll go at the china fust of all, and to-day.'

'And what can I do, Barker?'

'I don' know, Miss Esther. You hain't no experience; and experience is somethin' you can't buy in the shops—even if there was any shops here to speak of. But Christopher and me, we'll manage it, I'll warrant. The colonel's quite right. This ain't no place for you no longer. We'll see and get moved as quick as we can, Miss Esther.'

Without experience, however, it was found that Esther's share of the next weeks of work was a very important one. She packed up the clothes and the books; and she did it 'real uncommon,' the housekeeper said; but that was the least part. She kept her father comfortable, letting none of the confusion and as little as possible of the dust come into the room where he was. She stood in the gap when Barker was in the thick of some job, and herself prepared her father's soup or got his tea. Thoughtful, quiet, diligent, her head, young as it was, proved often a very useful help to Barker's experience; and something about her smooth composure was a stay to the tired nerves of her subordinates. Though Christopher Bounder really had no nerves, yet he felt the influence I speak of.

'Ain't our Miss Esther growed to be a stunner, though!' he remarked more than once.

'I'm sure I don't rightly know what you mean, Christopher,' his sister answered.

'Well, I tell you she's an uncommon handsome young lady, Sarah. An' she has the real way with her; the real thing, she has.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'I'll wager a cucumber you can tell,' said Christopher, shutting up his eyes slyly. 'There ain't no flesh and blood round in these parts like that;—no mor'n a cabbage ain't like a camellia. An' that don't tell it. She's that dainty and sweet as a camellia never was—not as ever I see; and she has that fine, soft way with her, that is like the touch of a feather, and yet ain't soft neither if you come to go agin it. I tell you what, Sarah, that shows blood, that does,' concluded Christopher with a competent air. 'Our young lady, she's the real thing. You and me, now, we couldn't be like that if we was to die for it. That's blood, that is.'

'I don't know,' said the housekeeper. 'She is sweet, uncommon; and she is gentle enough, and she has a will of her own, too; but I don't know—she didn't use for to be just so.'

''Cause she's growin' up to years,' said the gardener. 'La, Sally, folks is like vegetables, uncommon; you must let 'em drop their rough leaves, before you can see what they're goin' to be.'

'There warn't never no rough leaves nor rough anything about Miss
Esther. I can't say as I knows what you mean, Christopher.'

'A woman needn't to know everything,' responded her brother with superiority; 'and the natural world, to be sure, ain't your department, Sarah. You're good for a great deal where you be.'