At the same moment Constance Channing was traversing the Boundaries, on her way to Lady Augusta Yorke’s, where she had, some days since, commenced her duties. It took her scarcely two minutes to get there, for the houses were almost within view of each other. Constance would willingly have commenced the daily routine at an earlier hour. Lady Augusta freely confessed that to come earlier would be useless, for she could not get her daughters up. Strictly speaking, Lady Augusta did not personally try to get them up, for she generally lay in bed herself.

“That is one of the habits I must alter in the children,” thought Constance.

She entered, took off her things in the room appropriated to her, and passed into the schoolroom. It was empty, though the children ought to have been there, preparing their lessons. Fanny came running in, her hair in curl-papers, some bread and butter in her hand.

“Carry has not finished her breakfast, Miss Channing,” quoth she. “She was lazy this morning!”

“I think some one else was lazy also,” said Constance, gently drawing the child to her. “Why did you come down half-dressed, my dear?”

“I am quite dressed,” responded Fanny. “My frock’s on, and so is my pinafore.”

“And these?” said Constance, touching the curl-papers.

“Oh, Martha got up late, and said she had no time to take them out. It will keep in curl all the better, Miss Channing; and perhaps I am going to the missionary meeting with mamma.”

Constance rang the bell. Martha, who was the only maid kept, except the cook, appeared in answer to it. Lady Augusta was wont to say that she had too much expense with her boys to keep many servants; and the argument was a true one.

“Be so kind as to take the papers out of Miss Fanny’s hair. And let it be done in future, Martha, before she comes to me.”

Gently as the words were spoken, there was no mistaking that the tone was one of authority, and not to be trifled with. Martha withdrew with the child. And, just then, Caroline came in, full of eagerness.

“Miss Channing, mamma says she shall take one of us to the missionary meeting, whichever you choose to fix upon. Mind you fix upon me! What does that little chit, Fanny, want at a missionary meeting? She is too young to go.”

“It is expected to be a very interesting meeting,” observed Constance, making no reply to Miss Caroline’s special request. “A gentleman who has lived for some years amongst the poor heathens is to give a history of his personal experiences. Some of the anecdotes are beautiful.”

“Who told you they were?” asked Caroline.

“Mr. Yorke,” replied Constance, a pretty blush rising to her cheek. “He knows the lecturer well. You would be pleased to hear them.”

“It is not for that I wish to go,” said Caroline. “I think meetings, where there’s nothing but talking, are the dullest things in the world. If I were to listen, it would send me to sleep.”

“Then why do you wish so much to attend this one?”

“Because I shall wear my new dress. I have not had it on yet. It rained last Sunday, and mamma would not let me put it on for college. I was in such a passion.”

Constance wondered where she should begin. There was so much to do; so much to alter in so many ways. To set to work abruptly would never answer. It must be commenced gradually, almost imperceptibly, little by little.

“Caroline, do you know that you have disobeyed me?”

“In what way, Miss Channing?”

“Did I not request you to have that exercise written out?”

“I know,” said Caroline, with some contrition. “I intended to write it out this morning before you came; but somehow I lay in bed.”

“If I were to come to you every morning at seven o’clock, would you undertake to get up and be ready for me?” asked Constance.

Caroline drew a long face. She did not speak.

“My dear, you are fifteen.”

“Well?” responded Caroline.

“And you must not feel hurt if I tell you that I should think no other young lady of that age and in your position is half so deficient as you are. Deficient in many ways, Caroline: in goodness, in thoughtfulness, and in other desirable qualities; and greatly so in education. Annabel, who is a year younger than you, is twice as advanced.”

“Annabel says you worry her into learning.”

“Annabel is fond of talking nonsense; but she is a good, loving child at heart. You would be surprised at the little trouble she really gives me while she makes a show of giving me a great deal. I have so much to teach you, Caroline—to your mind and heart, as well as to your intellect—that I feel the hours as at present arranged, will be insufficient for me. My dear, when you grow up to womanhood, I am sure you will wish to be loving and loved.”

Caroline burst into tears. “I should do better if mamma were not so cross with me, Miss Channing. I always do anything that William Yorke asks me; and I will do anything for you.”

Constance kissed her. “Then will you begin by rising early, and being ready for me at seven?”

“Yes, I will,” answered Caroline. “But Martha must be sure to call me. Are you going to the meeting this afternoon?”

“Of course not,” said Constance. “My time now belongs to you.”

“But I think mamma wishes you to go with us. She said something about it.”

“Does she? I should very much like to go.”

Lady Augusta came in and proffered the invitation to Constance to accompany them. Constance then spoke of giving the children the extra two hours, from seven to nine: it was really necessary, she said, if she was to do her duty by them.

“How very conscientious you are!” laughed Lady Augusta, her tone savouring of ridicule.

Constance coloured almost to tears with her emotion. “I am responsible to One always, Lady Augusta. I may not make mine only eye-service.”

“You will never put up with our scrambling breakfast, Miss Channing. The boys are so unruly; and I do not get up to it half my time.”

“I will return home to breakfast. I should prefer to do so. And I will be here again at ten.”

“Whatever time do you get up?”

“Not very early,” answered Constance. “Hitherto I have risen at seven, summer and winter. Dressing and reading takes me just an hour; for the other hour I find plenty of occupation. We do not breakfast until nine, on account of Tom and Charley. I shall rise at six now, and come here at seven.”

“Very well,” said Lady Augusta. “I suppose this will only apply to the summer months. One of the girls shall go with us to-day; whichever deserves it best.”

“You are not leaving one of them at home to make room for me, I hope, Lady Augusta?”

“Not at all,” answered Lady Augusta. “I never chaperon two children to a crowded meeting. People might say they took up the room of grown-up persons.”

“You will let me go—not Caroline, Miss Channing?” pleaded Fanny, when her mother had quitted them.

“No,” said Caroline, sharply; “Miss Channing will fix upon me.”

“I shall obey Lady Augusta, and decide upon the one who shall best merit it,” smiled Constance. “It will be only right to do so.”

“Suppose we are both good, and merit it equally?” suggested Fanny.

“Then, my dear little girl, you must not be disappointed if, in that case, I give the privilege to Caroline, as being the elder of the two. But I will make it up to you in some other way.”

Alas for poor Caroline’s resolution! For a short time, an hour or so, she did strive to do her best; but then good resolutions were forgotten, and idleness followed. Not only idleness, temper also. Never had she been so troublesome to Constance as on this day; she even forgot herself so far as to be insolent. Fanny was taken to the meeting—you saw her in the carriage when Lady Augusta drove to Mr. Galloway’s office, and persuaded Hamish to join them—Caroline was left at home, in a state of open rebellion, with the lessons to learn which she had not learnt in the day.

“How shall you get on with them, Constance?” the Rev. William Yorke inquired of her that same evening. “Have the weeds destroyed the good seed?”

“Not quite destroyed it,” replied Constance, though she sighed sadly as she spoke, as if nearly losing heart for the task she had undertaken. “There is so much ill to undo. Caroline is the worst; the weeds, with her, have had longer time to get ahead. I think, perhaps, if I could keep her wholly with me for a twelvemonth or so, watching over her constantly, a great deal might be effected.”

“If that anticipated living would fall in, which seems very far away in the clouds, and you were wholly mine, we might have Caroline with us for a time,” laughed Mr. Yorke.

Constance laughed too. “Do not be impatient, or it will seem to be further off still. It will come, William.”

They had been speaking in an undertone, standing together at a window, apart from the rest. Mr. Channing was lying on his sofa underneath the other window, and now spoke to Mr. Yorke.

“You had a treat, I hear, at the meeting to-day?”

“We had, indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Yorke, advancing to take a seat near him. “It is not often we have the privilege of listening to so eloquent a speaker as Dr. Lamb. His experience is great, and his whole heart was in his subject. I should like to bring him here to call upon you.”

“I should be pleased to receive him,” replied Mr. Channing.

“I think it is possible that his experience in another line may be of service to you,” continued Mr. Yorke. “You are aware that ill health drove him home?”

“I have heard so.”

“His complaint was rheumatism, very much, as I fancy, the same sort of rheumatism that afflicts you. He told me he came to Europe with very little hope: he feared his complaint had become chronic and incurable. But he has been restored in a wonderful manner, and is in sound health again.”

“And what remedies did he use?” eagerly asked Mr. Channing.

“A three months’ residence at some medicinal springs in Germany. Nothing else. When I say nothing else, of course I must imply that he was under medical treatment there. It is the very thing, you see, sir, that has been ordered for you.”

“Ay!” sighed Mr. Channing, feeling how very faint appeared to be the hope that he should have the opportunity of trying it.

“I was mentioning your case to him,” observed Mr. Yorke. “He said he had no doubt the baths would do you equal good. He is a doctor, you know. I will bring him here to talk it over with you.”

At that moment Mr. Galloway entered: the subject was continued. Mr. Yorke and Mr. Galloway were eloquent on it, telling Mr. Channing that he must go to Germany, as a point of duty. The Channings themselves were silent; they could not see the way at all clear. When Mr. Yorke was leaving, he beckoned Constance and Arthur into the hall.

“Mr. Channing must go,” he whispered to them. “Think of all that is at stake! Renewed health, exertion, happiness! Arthur, you did not urge it by a single word.”

Arthur did not feel hopeful; indeed his heart sank within him the whole time that they were talking. Hamish and his difficulties were the dark shadow; though he could not tell this to Mr. Yorke. Were Mr. Channing to go abroad, and the arrest of Hamish to follow upon it, the post they held, and its emoluments, might be taken from them at once and for ever.

“Dr. Lamb says the cost was so trifling as scarcely to be credited,” continued Mr. Yorke in a tone of remonstrance. “Arthur, don’t you care to help—to save him?”

“I would move heaven and earth to save my father!” impulsively spoke Arthur, stung by the implied reproof. “I should not care what labour it cost me to procure the money, so that I succeeded.”

“We all would,” said Constance; “you must know we would, William. From Hamish downwards.”

“Who is that, making free with Hamish’s name?” demanded that gentleman himself, entering the house with a free step and merry countenance. “Did you think I was lost? I was seduced into joining your missionary-meeting people, and have had to stop late at the office, to make up for it.”

“We have been talking about papa, Hamish,” said Constance. “Fresh hope seems to arise daily that those German baths would restore him to health. They cured Dr. Lamb.”

“I say, Hamish, that the money must be found for it somehow,” added Mr. Yorke.

“Found! of course it shall be found,” cried gay Hamish. “I intend to be a chief contributor to it myself.” But his joking words and careless manner jarred at that moment upon the spirit both of Arthur and Constance Channing.

Why? Could there have been any unconscious foreshadowing of evil to come?