Constance Channing proceeded to her duties as usual at Lady Augusta Yorke’s. She drew her veil over her face, only to traverse the very short way that conveyed her thither, for the sense of shame was strong upon her; not shame for Arthur, but for Hamish. It had half broken Constance’s heart.

There are times in our every-day lives when all things seem to wear a depressing aspect, turn which way we will. They were wearing it that day to Constance. Apart from home troubles, she felt particularly discouraged in the educational task she had undertaken. You heard the promise made to her by Caroline Yorke, to be up and ready for her every morning at seven. Caroline kept it for two mornings and then failed. This morning and the previous morning Constance had been there at seven, and returned home without seeing either of the children. Both were ready for her when she entered now.

“How am I to deal with you?” she said to Caroline, in a sad but affectionate tone. “I do not wish to force you to obey me; I would prefer that you should do it cheerfully.”

“It is tiresome to get up early,” responded Caroline. “I can’t wake when Martha comes.”

“Whether Martha goes to you at seven, or at eight, or at nine, she has the same trouble to get you up.”

“I don’t see any good in getting up early,” cried Caroline.

“Do you see any good in acquiring good habits, instead of bad ones?” asked Constance.

“But, Miss Channing, why need we learn to get up early? We are ladies. It’s only the poor who need get up at unreasonable hours—those who have their living to earn.”

“Is it only the poor who are accountable to God for waste of time, Caroline?”

Caroline paused. She did not like to give up her argument. “It’s so very low-lived to get up with the sun. I don’t think real ladies ever do it.”

“You think ‘real ladies’ wait until the sun has been up a few hours and warmed the earth for them?”

“Y—es,” said Caroline. But it was not spoken very readily, for she had a suspicion that Miss Channing was laughing at her.

“May I ask where you have acquired your notions of ‘real ladies,’ Caroline?”

Caroline pouted. “Don’t you call Colonel Jolliffe’s daughters ladies, Miss Channing?”

“Yes—in position.”

“That’s where we went yesterday, you know. Mary Jolliffe says she never gets up until half-past eight, and that it is not lady-like to get up earlier. Real ladies don’t, Miss Channing.”

“My dear, shall I relate to you an anecdote that I have heard?”

“Oh, yes!” replied Caroline, her listless mood changing to animation; anecdotes, or anything of that desultory kind, being far more acceptable to the young lady than lessons.

“Before I begin, will you tell me whether you condescend to admit that our good Queen is a ‘real lady’?”

“Oh, Miss Channing, now you are laughing at me! As if any one, in all England, could be so great a lady as the Queen.”

“Very good. When she was a little girl, a child of her own age, the daughter of one of the nobility, was brought to Kensington Palace to spend the day with her. In talking together, the Princess Victoria mentioned something she had seen when out of doors that morning at seven o’clock. ‘At seven o’clock!’ exclaimed the young visitor; ‘how early that is to be abroad! I never get out of bed until eight. Is there any use in rising so early?’ The Duchess of Kent, who was present, took up the answer: ‘My daughter may be called to fill the throne of England when she shall be grown up; therefore, it is especially necessary that she should learn the full value of time.’ You see, Caroline, the princess was not allowed to waste her mornings in bed, although she was destined to be the first lady in the land. We may be thankful to her admirable mother for making her in that, as in many other things, a pattern to us.”

“Is it a true anecdote, Miss Channing?”

“It was related to my mother, many years ago, by a lady who was, at that time, very much at Kensington Palace. I think there is little doubt of its truth. One fact we all know, Caroline: the Queen retains her early habits, and implants them in her children. What do you suppose would be her Majesty’s surprise, were one of her daughters—say, the Princess Helena, or the Princess Louise—to decline to rise early for their morning studies with their governess, Miss Hildyard, on the plea that it was not ‘lady-like’?”

Caroline’s objection appeared to be melting away under her. “But it is a dreadful plague,” she grumbled, “to be obliged to get up from one’s nice warm bed, for the sake of some horrid old lessons!”

“You spoke of ‘the poor’—those who ‘have their living to earn’—as the only class who need rise early,” resumed Constance. “Put that notion away from you at once and for ever, Caroline; there cannot be a more false one. The higher we go in the scale of life, the more onerous become our duties in this world, and the greater is our responsibility to God. He to whom five talents were intrusted, did not make them other five by wasting his days in idleness. Oh, Caroline!—Fanny, come closer and listen to me—your time and opportunities for good must be used—not abused or wasted.”

“I will try and get up,” said Caroline, repentantly. “I wish mamma had trained me to it when I was a child, as the Duchess of Kent trained the princess! I might have learned to like it by this time.”

“Long before this,” said Constance. “Do you remember the good old saying, ‘Do what you ought, that you may do what you like’? Habit is second nature. Were I told that I might lie in bed every morning until nine or ten o’clock, as a great favour, I should consider it a great punishment.”

“But I have not been trained to get up, Miss Channing; and it is nothing short of punishment to me to do so.”

“The punishment of self-denial we all have to bear, Caroline. But I can tell you what will take away half its sting.”

“What?” asked Caroline, eagerly.

Constance bent towards her. “Jesus Christ said, ‘If any will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.’ When once we learn HOW to take it up cheerfully, bravely, for His sake, looking to Him to be helped, the sting is gone. ‘No cross, no crown,’ you know, my children.”

“No cross, no crown!” Constance had sufficient cross to carry just then. In the course of the morning Lady Augusta came into the room boisterously, her manner indicative of great surprise.

“Miss Channing, what is this tale, about your brother’s having been arrested for stealing that missing bank-note? Some visitors have just called in upon me, and they say the town is ringing with the news.”

It was one of the first of Constance Channing’s bitter pills; they were to be her portion for many a day. Her heart fluttered, her cheek varied, and her answer to Lady Augusta Yorke was low and timid.

“It is true that he was arrested yesterday on suspicion.”

“What a shocking thing! Is he in prison?”

“Oh no.”

“Did he take the note?”

The question pained Constance worse than all. “He did not take it,” she replied, in a clear, soft tone. “To those who know Arthur well, it would be impossible to think so.”

“But he was before the magistrates yesterday, I hear, and is going up again to-day.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“And Roland could not open his lips to tell me of this when I came home last night!” grumbled my lady. “We were late, and he was the only one up; Gerald and Tod were in bed. I shall ask him why he did not. But, Miss Channing, this must be a dreadful blow for you all?”

“It would be far worse, Lady Augusta, if we believed him guilty,” she replied from her aching heart.

“Oh, dear! I hope he is not guilty!” continued my lady, displaying as little delicacy of feeling as she could well do. “It would be quite a dangerous thing, you know, for my Roland to be in the same office.”

“Be at ease, Lady Augusta,” returned Constance, with a tinge of irony she could not wholly suppress. “Your son will incur no harm from the companionship of Arthur.”

“What does Hamish say?—handsome Hamish! He does not deserve that such a blow should come to him.”

Constance felt her colour deepen. She bent her face over the exercise she was correcting.

“Is he likely to be cleared of the charge?” perseveringly resumed Lady Augusta.

“Not by actual proof, I fear,” answered Constance, pressing her hand upon her brow as she remembered that he could only be proved innocent by another’s being proved guilty. “The note seems to have been lost in so very mysterious a manner, that positive proof of his innocence will be difficult.”

“Well, it is a dreadful thing!” concluded Lady Augusta.

Meanwhile, at the very moment her ladyship was speaking, the magistrates were in the town-hall in full conclave—the case before them. The news had spread—had excited interest far and wide; the bench was crowded, and the court was one dense sea of heads.

Arthur appeared, escorted by his brother Hamish and by Roland Yorke. Roland was in high feather, throwing his haughty glances everywhere, for he had an inkling of what was to be the termination of the affair, and did not conceal his triumph. Mr. Galloway also was of their party.

Mr. Galloway was the first witness put forth by Mr. Butterby. The latter gentleman was in high feather also, believing he saw his way clear to a triumphant conviction. Mr. Galloway was questioned; and for some minutes it all went on swimmingly.

“On the afternoon of the loss, before you closed your letter, who were in your office?”

“My clerks—Roland Yorke and Arthur Channing.”

“They saw the letter, I believe?”

“They did.”

“And the bank-note?”

“Most probably.”

“It was the prisoner, Arthur Channing, who fetched the bank-note from your private room to the other? Did he see you put it into the letter?”

“I cannot say.”

A halt. “But he was in full possession of his eyes just then?”

“No doubt he was.”

“Then what should hinder his seeing you put the note into the letter?”

“I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.”

The magistrates pricked up their ears. Mr. Butterby pricked up his, and looked at the witness.

“What do you say?”

“I will not swear that I put the bank-note inside the letter,” deliberately repeated Mr. Galloway.

“Not swear that you put the bank-note into the letter? What is it that you mean?”

“The meaning is plain enough,” replied Mr. Galloway, calmly. “Must I repeat it for the third time? I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.”

“But your instructions to me were that you did put the note into the letter,” cried Mr. Butterby, interrupting the examination.

“I will not swear it,” reiterated the witness.

“Then there’s an end of the case!” exclaimed the magistrates’ clerk, in some choler. “What on earth was the time of the bench taken up for in bringing it here?”

And there was an end of the case—at any rate for the present—for nothing more satisfactory could be got out of Mr. Galloway.

“I have been checkmated,” ejaculated the angry Butterby.

They walked back arm-in-arm to Mr. Galloway’s, Roland and Arthur. Hamish went the other way, to his own office, and Mr. Galloway lingered somewhere behind. Jenkins—truehearted Jenkins, in the black handkerchief still—was doubly respectful to Arthur, and rose to welcome him; a faint hectic of pleasure illumining his face at the termination of the charge.

“Who said our office was going to be put down for a thief’s!” uttered Roland. “Old Galloway’s a trump! Here’s your place, Arthur.”

Arthur did not take it. He had seen from the window the approach of Mr. Galloway, and delicacy prevented his assuming his old post until bade to do so. Mr. Galloway came in, and motioned him into his own room.

“Arthur Channing,” he said, “I have acted leniently in this unpleasant matter, for your father’s sake; but, from my very heart, I believe you to be guilty.”

“I thank you, sir,” Arthur said, “for that and all other kindness. I am not as guilty as you think me. Do you wish me to leave?”

“If you can give me no better assurance of your innocence—if you can give me no explanation of the peculiar and most unsatisfactory manner in which you have met the charge—yes. To retain you here would be unjust to my own interests, and unfair as regards Jenkins and Roland Yorke.”

To give this explanation was impossible; neither dared Arthur assert more emphatically his innocence. Once convince Mr. Galloway that he was not the guilty party, and that gentleman would forthwith issue fresh instructions to Butterby for the further investigation of the affair: of this Arthur felt convinced. He could only be silent and remain under the stigma.

“Then—I had better—you would wish me, perhaps—to go at once?” hesitated Arthur.

“Yes,” shortly replied Mr. Galloway.

He spoke a word of farewell, which Mr. Galloway replied to by a nod, and went into the front office. There he began to collect together certain trifles that belonged to him.

“What’s that for?” asked Roland Yorke.

“I am going,” he replied.

“Going!” roared Roland, jumping to his feet, and dashing down his pen full of ink, with little regard to the deed he was copying. “Galloway has never turned you off!”

“Yes, he has.”

“Then I’ll go too!” thundered Roland, who, truth to say, had flown into an uncontrollable passion, startling Jenkins and arousing Mr. Galloway. “I’ll not stop in a place where that sort of injustice goes on! He’ll be turning me out next! Catch me stopping for it!”

“Are you taken crazy, Mr. Roland Yorke?”

The question proceeded from his master, who came forth to make it. Roland turned to him, his temper unsubdued, and his colour rising.

“Channing never took the money, sir! It is not just to turn him away.”

“Did you help him to take it, pray, that you identify yourself with the affair so persistently and violently?” demanded Mr. Galloway, in a cynical tone. And Roland answered with a hot and haughty word.

“If you cannot attend to your business a little better, you will get your dismissal from me; you won’t require to dismiss yourself,” said Mr. Galloway. “Sit down, sir, and go on with your work.”

“And that’s all the thanks a fellow gets for taking up a cause of oppression!” muttered Mr. Roland Yorke, as he sullenly resumed his place at the desk. “This is a precious world to live in!”