Welcome shone in Mr. Ogilvie’s face in the gaslight on the platform as the train drew up, and the Popinjay in her cage was handed out, uttering, “Hic, haec, hoc. We’re all Mother Carey’s chicks.”

Therewith the mother and the two youngest of her chicks were handed to their fly, and driven, through raindrops and splashes flashing in the gas, to a door where the faithful Emma awaited them, and conveyed them to a room so bright and comfortable that Babie piteously exclaimed—

“Oh, Emma, you have left me nothing to do!”

Presently came Mr. Ogilvie to make sure that the party needed nothing. He was like a child hovering near, and constantly looking to assure himself of the reality of some precious acquisition.

Later in the evening, on his way from the night-school, he was at the door again to leave a parish magazine with a list of services that ought to have rejoiced Armine’s heart, if he had felt capable of enjoying anything at St. Cradocke’s, and at which Babie looked with some dismay, as if fearing that they would all be inflicted on her. He was in a placid, martyr-like state. He had made up his mind that the air was of the relaxing sort that disagreed with him, and no doubt would be fatal, though as he coughed rather less than more, he could hardly hope to edify Bobus by his death-bed, unless he could expedite matters by breaking a blood-vessel in saving someone’s life. On the whole, however, it was pleasanter to pity himself for vague possibilities than to apprehend the crisis as immediate. It was true that he was very forlorn. He missed the admiring petting by which Miss Parsons had fostered his morbid state; he missed the occupations she had given him, and he missed the luxurious habits of wealth far more than he knew. After his winters under genial skies, close to blue Mediterranean waves, English weather was trying; and, in contrast with southern scenery, people, and art, everything seemed ugly, homely, and vulgar in his eyes. Gorgeous Cathedrals with their High Masses and sweet Benedictions, their bannered processions and kneeling peasantry, rose in his memory as he beheld the half restored Church, the stiff, open seats, and the Philistine precision of the St. Cradocke’s Old Church congregation; and Anglicanism shared his distaste, in spite of the fascinations of the district Church.

He was languid and inert, partly from being confined to the house on days of doubtful character. He would not prepare any work for Bobus, who, with Jock, was to follow in ten days, he would not second Babie’s wish to get up a St. Cradocke’s number of the ‘Traveller’s Joy,’ to challenge a Madeira one; he did little but turn over a few books, say there was nothing to read, and exchange long letters with Miss Parsons.

“Armine,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “I never let my friends come into my parish without getting work out of them. I have a request to make you.”

“I’m afraid I am not equal to much,” said Armine, not graciously.

“This is not much. We have a lame boy here for the winter, son to a cabinet maker in London. His mind is set on being a pupil-teacher, and he is a clever, bright fellow, but his chance depends on his keeping up his work. I have been looking over his Latin and French, but I have not time to do so properly, and it would be a great kindness if you would undertake it.”

“Can’t he go to school?” said Armine, not graciously.

“It is much too far off. Now he is only round the corner here.”

“My going out is so irregular,” said Armine, not by any means as he would have accepted a behest of Petronella’s.

“He could often come here. Or perhaps the Infanta would fetch and carry. He is with an uncle, a fisherman, and the wife keeps a little shop. Stagg is the name. They are very respectable people, but of a lower stamp than this lad, and he is rather lost for want of companionship. The London doctors say his recovery depends on sea air for the winter, so here he is, and whatever you can do for him will be a real good work.”

“What is the name?” asked Mrs. Brownlow.

“Stagg. It is over a little grocery shop. You must ask for Percy Stagg.”

Perhaps Armine suspected the motive to be his own good, for he took a dislike to the idea at once.

“Percy Stagg!” he began, as soon as Mr. Ogilvie was gone. “What a detestable conjunction, just showing what the fellow must be. And to have him on my hands.”

“I thought you liked teaching?” said his mother.

“As if this would be like a Woodside boy!”

“Yes,” said Babie; “I don’t suppose he will carry onions and lollipops in his pockets, nor put cockchafers down on one’s book.”

“Babie, that was only Ted Stokes!”

“And I should think he might have rather cleaner hands, and not leave their traces on every book.”

“He’ll do worse!” said Armine. “He will be vulgarly stuck up, and excruciate me with every French word he attempts to pronounce.”

“But you’ll do it, Armie?” said his mother.

“Oh, yes, I will try if it be possible to make anything of him, when I am up to it.”

Armine was not “up to it” the next day, nor the next. The third was very fine, and with great resignation, he sauntered down to Mrs. Stagg’s.

Percy turned out to be a quiet, gentle, pale lad of fourteen, without cockney vivacity, and so shy that Armine grew shyer, did little but mark the errors in his French exercise, hear a bit of reading, and retreat, bemoaning the hopeless stupidity of his pupil.

A few days later Mr. Ogilvie asked the lame boy how he was getting on.

“Oh, sir,” brightening, “the lady is so kind. She does make it so plain in me.”

“The lady? Not the young gentleman?”

“The young gentleman has been here once, sir.”

“And his sister comes when he is not well?”

“No, sir, it is his mother, I think. A lady with white hair—the nicest lady I ever saw.”

“And she teaches you?”

“Oh yes, sir! I am preparing a fable in the Latin Delectus for her, and she gave me this French book. She does tell me such interesting facts about words, and about what she has seen abroad, sir! And she brought me this cushion for my knee.”

“Percy thinks there never was such a lady,” chimed in his aunt. “She is very good to him, and he is ever so much better in his spirits and his appetite since she has been coming to him. The young gentleman was haughty like, and couldn’t make nothing of him; but the lady—she’s so affable! She is one of a thousand!”

“I did not mean to impose a task on you,” said Mr. Ogilvie, next time he could speak to Mrs. Brownlow.

“Oh! I am only acting stop-gap till Armine rallies and takes to it,” she said. “The boy is delightful. It is very amusing to teach French to a mind of that age so thoroughly drilled in grammar.”

“A capital thing for Percy, but I thought at least you would have deputed the Infanta.”

“The Infanta was a little overdone with the style of thing at Woodside. She and Sydney Evelyn had a romance about good works, of which Miss Parsons completely disenchanted her—rather too much so, I fear.”

“Let her alone; she will recover,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “if only by seeing you do what I never intended.”

“I like it, teacher as I am by trade.”

So each day Armine imagined himself bound to the infliction of Percy Stagg, and compelled by headache, cough, or weather, to let his mother be his substitute.

“She is keeping him going on days when I am not equal to it,” he said to Mr. Ogilvie.

“Having thus given you one of my tasks,” said that gentleman, “let me ask whether I can help you in any of your studies?”

“I have been reading with Bobus, thank you.”

“And now?”

“I have not begun again, though, if my mother desires it, I shall.”

“So I should suppose; but I am sorry you do not take more interest in the matter.”

“Even if I live,” said Armine, “the hopes with which I once studied are over.”

“What hopes?”

The boy was drawn on by his sympathy to explain his plans for the perfection of church and charities at Woodside, where he would have worked as curate, and lavished all that wealth could supply in all institutions for its good and that of Kenminster. It was the vanished castle over which he and Miss Parsons had spent so many moans, and yet at the end of it all, Armine saw a sort of incredulous smile on his friend’s face.

“I don’t think it was impossible or unreasonable,” he said. “I could have been ordained as curate there, and my mother would have gladly given land, and means, and all.”

“I was not thinking of that, my boy. What struck me was how people put their trust in riches without knowing it.”

“Indeed I should have given up all wealth and luxury. I am not regretting that!” exclaimed Armine, in unconscious blindness.

“I did not say you were.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Armine, thinking he had not caught the words.

“I said people did not know how they put their trust in riches.”

“I never thought I did.”

“Only that you think nothing can be done without them.”

“I don’t see how it can.”

“Don’t you? Well, the longer I live the more cause I see to dread and distrust what is done easily by force of wealth. Of course when the money is there, and is given along with one’s self (as I know you intended), it is providential, but I verily believe it intensifies difficulties and temptations. Poverty is almost as beneficial a sieve of motives and stimulus to energy as persecution itself.”

“There are so many things one can’t do.”

“Perhaps the fit time is not come for their being done. Or you want more training for doing them. Remember that to bring one’s good desires to good effect, there is a how to be taken into account. I know of a place where the mere knowledge that there are unlimited means to bestow seems to produce ingratitude and captiousness for whatever is done. On the other hand, I have seen a far smaller gift, that has cost an effort, most warmly and touchingly received. Again, the power of at once acting leads to over-haste, want of consideration, domineering, expectation of adulation, impatience of counsel or criticism.”

“I suppose one does not know till one has tried,” said Armine, “but I should mind nothing from Mr. or Miss Parsons.”

“I did not allude to any special case, I only wanted to show you that riches do not by any means make doing good a simpler affair, but rather render it more difficult not to do an equal amount of harm.”

“Of course,” said Armine, “as this misfortune has happened, it is plain that we must submit, and I hope I am bowing to the disappointment.”

“By endeavouring to do your best for God with what is left you?”

“I hope so, but with my health there seems nothing left for me but unmurmuring resignation.”

Mr. Ogilvie was amused at Armine’s notion of unmurmuring resignation, but he added only, “Which would be much assisted by a little exertion.”

“I did exert myself at home, but it is all aimless now.”

“I should have thought you still equally bound to learn and labour to do your duty in Him and for Him. Will you think about what I have said?”

“Yes, Mr. Ogilvie, thank you. I know you mean it kindly, and no one can be expected to enter into my feeling of the uselessness of wasting my time over classical studies when I know I shall never be able to be ordained.”

“Are you sure you are not wasting it now?”

It was not possible to continue the subject. Mr. Ogilvie had failed in both his attempts to rouse Armine, and had to tell his mother, who had hoped much from this new influence. “I think,” he said, “that Armine is partly feeling the change from invalidism to ordinary health. He does not know it, poor fellow; but it is rather hard to give up being interesting.”

Caroline saw the truth of this when Armine showed himself absolutely nettled at his brothers, on their arrival, pronouncing that he looked much better—in fact quite jolly, an insult which he treated with Christian forgiveness.

Bobus had visited Belforest. His mother had never intended this, and still less that he should walk direct from the station to Kencroft, surprising the whole family at luncheon, and taking his seat among them quite naturally. Thereby he obtained all he had expected or hoped, for when the meal was over, he was able, though in the presence of all the family, to take Esther by both hands, and say in his resolute earnest voice, “Good-bye, my sweet and only love. You will wait for me, and by-and-by, when I have made you a home, and people see things differently, I shall come for you,” and therewith he pressed on her burning, blushing, drooping brow four kisses that felt like fire.

Her mother might fret and her father might fume, but they were as powerless as the parents of young Lochinvar’s bride, and the words of their protest were scarcely begun when he loosed the girl’s hands, and, turning to her mother, said, “Good-bye, Aunt Ellen. When we meet again, you will see things otherwise. I ask nothing till that time comes.”

This was not the part of his visit of which he told his mother, he only dwelt on a circumstance so opportune that he had almost been forgiven even by the Colonel. He had encountered Dr. Hermann, who had come down to make another attempt on the Gracious Lady, and had thus found himself in the presence of a very different person. An opening had offered itself in America, and he had come to try to obtain his wife’s fortune to take them out. The opportunity of making stringent terms had seemed to Bobus so excellent that he civilly invited Demetrius to dine and sleep, and sent off a note to beg his uncle to come and assist in a family compact. Colonel Brownlow, having happily resisted his impulse to burn the letter unread as an impertinent proposal for his daughter, found that it contained so sensible a scheme that he immediately conceived a higher opinion of his namesake than he had ever had before.

Thus Dr. Hermann found himself face to face with the very last members of the family he desired to meet, and had to make the best of the situation. Of secrets of the late Joseph Brownlow he said nothing, but based his application on the offer of a practice and lectureship he said he had received from New Orleans. He had evidently never credited that Mrs. Brownlow meant to resign the whole property without giving away among her children the accumulation of ready money in hand, and as he knew himself to be worth buying off, he reckoned upon Janet’s full share. He had taken Mrs. Brownlow’s own statements as polite refusals, and a lady’s romance until he found the uncle and nephew viewing the resignation of the whole as common honesty, and that she was actually gone. They would not give him her address, and prevented his coming in contact with the housekeeper, so that no more molestation might be possible, and meantime they offered him terms such as they thought she would ratify.

All that Joseph Brownlow had left was entirely in her power, and the amount was such that if she had died intestate, each of her six children would have been entitled to about £l600, exclusive of the house in London. Janet had no right to claim anything now or at her mother’s death, but the uncle and nephew knew that Mrs. Brownlow would not endure to leave her destitute, and they thought the deportation to America worth a considerable sacrifice. Therefore they proposed that on the actual bona fide departure, £500 should be paid down, the interest of the £1100 should be secured to her, and paid half-yearly through Mr. Wakefield, who was to draw up the agreement; but the final disposal of the sum was not to be promised, but to depend on Mrs. Brownlow’s will.

Such a present boon as £500 had made Hermann willing to agree to anything. Bobus had seen the lawyer in London, and with him concocted the agreement for signature, making the payments pass through the Wakefield office, the receipts being signed by Janet Hermann herself.

“Why must all payments go through the office?” asked Caroline.

“Because there’s no trusting that slippery Greek,” said Bobus.

“I should have liked my poor Janet to have been forced to communicate with me every half-year,” she sighed.

“What, when she has never chosen to write all this time?”

“Yes. It is very weak, but I can’t help it. It would be something only to see her name. I have never known where to write to her, or I would have done so.”

“O, very well,” said Bobus, “you had better invite them both to share the menage in Collingwood Street.”

“For shame, Bobus,” said Jock. “You have no right to say such things.”

“Only that all this might as well have been left undone if my mother is to rush on them to ask their pardon and beg them to receive her with open arms. I mean, mother,” he added with a different manner, “if you give one inch to that Greek, he will make it a mile, and as to Janet, if she can’t bring down her pride to write to you like a daughter, I wouldn’t give a rap for her receipt, and it might lead to intolerable pestering. Now you know she can’t starve on £50 a year besides her medical education. Wakefield will always know where she is, and you may be quite easy about her.”

Caroline gave way to her son’s reasoning, as he thought, but no sooner was she alone with Jock than she told him that he must take her to London to see Janet in her lodgings before the departure for the States.

He was at her service, and as they did not mean to sleep in town, they started at a preposterously early hour, with a certain mirth and gaiety at thus eloping together, as the mother’s spirits rose at the bare idea of seeing the first-born child for whom she had famished so long. Jock was such a perfect squire of dames, and so chivalrously charmed to be her escort, that her journey was delightful, nor did she grow sad till it was over. Then, she could not eat the food he would have had her take at the station, and he saw tears standing in her eyes as he sat beside her in the omnibus. When they were set down they walked swiftly and without a word to the lodgings.

Dr. and Mrs. Hermann had “left two days ago,” said the untidy girl, whose aspect, like that of the street and house, betokened that Janet was drinking of her bitter brewst.

“What shall we do, mother?” asked Jock. “You ought to rest. Will you go to Mrs. Acton or Mrs. Lucas, while I run down to Wakefield’s office and find out about them?”

“To Miss Ray’s, I think,” she said faintly. “Nita may know their plans. Here’s the address,” taking a little book from her pocket, and ruffling over the leaves, “you must find it. I can’t see. O, but I can walk!” as he hailed a cab, and helped her into it, finding the address and jumping after her, while she sank back in the corner.

Very small and shrunken did she look when he took her out at the door leading to rooms over a stationer’s shop. The sisters were somewhat better off than formerly, though good old Miss Ray was half ashamed of it, since it was chiefly owing to the liberal allowance from Mrs. Brownlow for the chaperonage in which she felt herself to have so sadly failed.

Jock saw his mother safe in the hands of the kind old lady, heard that the pair were really gone, and departed for his interview with Mr. Wakefield. No sooner had the papers been signed, and the £500 made over to them, than the Hermanns had hurried away a fortnight earlier than they had spoken of going. It was much like an escape from creditors, but the reason assigned was an invitation to lecture in New York.

So there was nothing for it but to put up with Miss Ray’s account of Janet, and even that was second-hand, for the gentle spirit of the good old lady had been so roused at the treachery of the stolen marriage that she had refused to see the couple, and when Nita had once brought them in, she had retired to her bedroom.

Nita was gone on a professional engagement into the country for a week. According to what she had told her sister, Demetrius and Janet were passionately attached, and his manner was only too endearing; but Miss Ray had disliked the subject so much that she had avoided it in a way she now regretted.

“Everything I have done has turned out wrong,” she said with tears running down her cheeks. “Even this! I would give anything to be able to tell you of poor Janet, and yet I thought my silence was for the best, for Nita and I could not mention her without quarrelling as we had never done before. O, Mrs. Brownlow, I can’t think how you have ever forgiven me.”

“I can forgive every one but myself,” said Caroline sadly. “If I had understood how to be a better mother, this would never have been.”

“You! the most affectionate and devoted.”

“Ah! but I see now it was only human love without the true moving spring, and so my poor child grew up without it, and these are the fruits.”

“But my dear, my dear, one can’t give these things. Poor Janet always was a headstrong girl, like my poor Nita. I know what you mean, and how one feels that if one had been better oneself,” said poor Miss Ray, ending in utter entanglement, but tender sympathy.

“She might have been a child of many prayers,” said the poor mother.

“Ah! but that she can still be,” said the old lady. “She will turn back again, my dear. Never fear. I don’t think I could die easy if I did not believe she would!”

Jock brought back word that the lawyer had been entirely unaware of the Hermanns’ departure, and thought it looked bad. He had seen them both, and his report was less brilliant than Nita’s. Indeed Jock kept back the details, for Mr. Wakefield had described Mrs. Hermann as much altered, thin, haggard, shabby, and anxious, and though her husband fawned upon her demonstratively before spectators, something in her eyes betokened a certain fear of him. He had also heard that Elvira was still making visits. There was a romance about her, which, in addition to her beauty and future wealth, made people think her a desirable guest. She was always more agreeable with strangers than in her own family; and as to the needful funds, she had her ample allowance; and no doubt her expectations secured her unlimited credit. Her conduct was another pang, but it was lost in the keener pain Janet had given.

As his mother could not bear to face any one else, Jock thought the sooner he could get her home the better, and all they did was to buy some of Armine’s favourite biscuits, and likewise to stop at Rivington’s, where she chose the two smallest and neatest Greek Testaments she could find.

They reached home three hours before they were expected, and she went up at once to her room and her bed, leaving Jock to make the explanations, and receive all Bobus’s indignation at having allowed her to knock herself up by such a foolish expedition.

Chill, fatigue, and, far more, grief after her long course of worry really did bring on a feverish attack, so unprecedented in her that it upset the whole family, and if Mr. Ogilvie had not been almost equally wretched himself, he would have been amused to see these three great sons wandering forlorn about the house like stray chicks who had lost their parent hen, and imagining her ten times worse than she really was.

Babie was really useful as a nurse, and had very little time to comfort them. And indeed they treated her as childish and trifling for assuring them that neither patient, maid, nor doctor thought the ailment at all serious. Bobus found some relief in laying the blame on Jock, but when Armine heard the illness ascribed to a long course of anxiety and harass, he was conscience-stricken, as he thought how often his perverse form of resignation had baffled her pleadings and added to her vexations. Words, impatiently heard at the moment, returned upon him, and compunction took its outward effect in crossness. It was all that Jock could do by his good-humoured banter and repartee to keep the peace between the other two who, when unchecked by regard to their mother and Babie, seemed bent on discussing everything on which they most disagreed.

Babie was a welcome messenger to Jock at least, when she brought word that mother hoped Armine would attend to Percy Stagg, and would take him the book she sent down for him. Her will was law in the present state of things, and Armine set forth in dutiful disgust; but he found the lad so really anxious about the lady, and so much brightened and improved, that he began to take an interest in him and promised a fresh lesson with alacrity.

His next step in obedience was to take out his books; but Bobus had no mind for them, and said it was too late. If Armine had really worked diligently all the autumn, he might have easily entered King’s College, London; but now he had thrown away his chance.

Mr. Ogilvie found him with his books on the table, plunged in utter despondency. “Your mother is not worse?” he asked in alarm.

“Oh no; she is very comfortable, and the doctor says she may get up to-morrow.”

“Then is it the Greek?” said Mr. Ogilvie, much relieved.

“Yes. Bobus says my rendering is perfectly ridiculous.”

“Are you preparing for him?”

“No. He is sick of me, and has no time to attend to me now.”

“Let me see—”

“Oh! Mr. Ogilvie,” said Armine, looking up with his ingenuous eyes. “I don’t deserve it. Besides, Bobus says it is of no use now. I’ve wasted too much time ever to get into King’s.”

“I should like to judge of that. Suppose I examined you—not now, but to-morrow morning. Meantime, how do you construe this chorus? It is a tough one.”

Armine winked out of his eyes the tears that had risen at the belief that he had really in his wilfulness lost the hope of fulfilling the higher aims of his life, and with a trembling voice translated the passage he had been hammering over. A word from Mr. Ogilvie gave him the clue, and when that stumbling-block was past, he acquitted himself well enough to warrant a little encouragement.

“Well done, Armine. We shall make a fair scholar of you, after all.”

“I don’t deserve you should be so kind. I see now what a fool I have been,” said Armine, his eyes filling again, with tears.

“I have no time to talk of that now,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “I only looked in to hear how your mother was. Bring down whatever books you have been getting up at twelve to-morrow; or if it is a wet day, I will come to you.”

Armine worked for this examination as eagerly as he had decorated for Miss Parsons, and in the face of the like sneers; for Bobus really believed it was all waste of time, and did not scruple to tell him so, and to laugh when he consulted Jock, whose acquirements lay more in the way of military mathematics and modern languages than of university requirements.

Perhaps the report that Armine was reading Livy with all his might was one of his mother’s best restoratives,—and still more that when he came to wish her good-night, he said, “Mother, I’ve been a wretched, self-sufficient brute all this time; I’m very sorry, and I’ll try to go on better.”

And when she came downstairs to be petted and made much of by all the four, she found that the true and original Armine had come back, instead of Petronella’s changeling. Indeed, the danger now was that he would overwork himself in his fervour, for Bobus’s continued ill-auguries only acted as a stimulus; nor were they silenced till she begged as a personal favour that he would not torment the boy.

Indeed her presence made life smooth and cheerful again to the young people; there were no more rubs of temper, and Bobus, whose departure was very near, showed himself softened. He was very fond of his mother, and greatly felt the leaving her. He assured her that it was all for her sake, and that he trusted to be able to lighten some of her burdens when his first expenses were over.

“And mother,” he said, on his last evening, “you will let me sometimes hear of my Esther?”

“Oh, Bobus, if you could only forget her!”

“Would you rob me of my great incentive—my sweet image of purity, who rouses and guards all that is best in me? My ‘loyalty to my future wife’ is your best hope for me, mother.”

“Oh, if she were but any one else! How can I encourage you in disobedience to your father and to hers?”

“You know what I think about that. When my Esther ventures to judge for herself, these prejudices will give way. She shall not be disobedient, but you will all perceive the uselessness of withholding my darling. Meanwhile, I only ask you to let me see her name from time to time. You won’t deny me that?”

“No, my dear, I cannot refuse you that, but you must not assume more than that I am sorry for you that your heart is set so hopelessly. Indeed, I see no sign of her caring for you. Do you?”

“Her heart is not opened yet, but it will.”

“Suppose it should do so to any one else?”

“She is a mere child; she has few opportunities; and if she had—well, I think it would recall to her what she only half understood. I am content to be patient—and, mother, you little know the good it does me to think of her and think of you. It is well for us men that all women are not like Janet.”

“Yet if you took away our faith, what would there be to hinder us from being like my poor Janet?”

“Heaven forbid that I should take away any one’s honest faith; above all, yours or Essie’s.”

“Except by showing that you think it just good enough for us.”

“How can I help it, any more than I can help that Belforest was left to Elvira? Wishes and belief are two different things.”

“Would you help it if you could?” she earnestly asked.

He hesitated. “I might wish to satisfy you, mother, and other good folks, but not to put myself in bondage to what has led blindfold to half the dastardly and cruel acts on this earth, beautiful dream though it be.”

“Ah, my boy, it is my shame and grief that it is not a beautiful reality to you.”

“You were too wise to bore us. You have only fancied that since you fell in with the Evelyns.”

“Ah, if I had only bred you up in the same spirit as the Evelyns!”

“It would not have answered. We are of different stuff. And after all, Janet and I are your only black sheep. Jock has his convictions in a strong, practical working order, as real to him as ever his drill and order-book were. Good old fellow, he strikes me a good deal more than all Ogilvie’s discussions.”

“Mr. Ogilvie has talked to you?”

“He has done his part both as cleric and your devoted servant, mother, and, I confess, made the best of his case, as an able man heartily convinced can do. Good night, mother.”

“One moment, Bobus, my dear; I want one promise from you, to your old Mother Carey. Call it a superstition and a charm if you will, but promise. Take this Greek Testament, keep it with you, and read a few verses every night. Promise me.”

“Dear mother, I am ready to promise. I have read those poems and letters several times in the original.”

“But you will do this for me, beginning again when you have finished? Promise.”

“I will, mother, since it comforts you,” said Bobus, in a tone that she knew might be trusted.

The other little book, with the like request, in urgent and tender entreaty, was made up into a parcel to be forwarded as soon as Mr. Wakefield should learn Janet Hermann’s address. It was all that the mother could do, except to pray that this living Sword of the Spirit might yet pierce its way to those closed hearts.

Nor was she quite happy about Barbara. Hitherto the girl had seemed, as it were, one with Armine, and had been led by his precocious piety into similar habits and aspirations, which had been fostered by her intercourse with Sydney and the sharing with her of many a blissful and romantic dream.

All this, however, was altered. Petronella had drawn Armine aside one way, and now that he was come back again, he did not find the same perfectly sympathetic sister as before. Bobus had not been without effect upon her, as the impersonation of common sense and antagonism to Miss Parsons. It had not shown at the time, for his domineering tone and his sneers always impelled her to stand up for her darling; but when he was “poor Bobus” gone into exile and bereft of his love, certain poisonous germs attached to his words began to grow. There was no absolute doubt—far from it—but there was an impatience of the weariness and solemnity of religion.

To enjoy Church privileges to the full, and do good works under Church direction, had in their wandering life been a dream of modern chivalry which she had shared with Sydney, much as they had talked of going on a crusade. And now she found these privileges very tedious, the good works onerous, and she viewed them somewhat as she might have regarded Coeur de Lion’s camp had she been set down in it. Armine would have gone on hearing nothing but “Remember the Holy Sepulchre,” but Barbara would soon have seen every folly and failure that spoiled the glory of the army—even though she might not question its destination—and would have been unfeignedly weary of its discipline.

So she hung back from the frequent Church ordinances of St. Cradocke’s, being allowed to do as she pleased about everything extra; she made fun of the peculiarities of the varieties of the genus Petronella who naturally hung about it, and adopted the popular tone about the curates, till Jock told her “not to be so commonplace.” Indeed both he and Armine had made friends with them, as he did with every one; and Armine’s enjoyment of the society of a new, young, bright deacon, who came at Christmas, perhaps accounted for a little of her soreness, and made Armine himself less observant that the two were growing apart.

Her mother saw it though, and being seconded by Jock, found it easier than of old to keep the tables free from sceptical and semi-sceptical literature; but this involved the loss of much that was clever, and there was no avoiding those envenomed shafts that people love to strew about, and which, for their seeming wit and sense, Babie always relished. She did not think—that was the chief charge; and she was still a joyous creature, even though chafing at the dulness of St. Cradocke’s.

“Gould and another versus Brownlow and another, to be heard on the 18th,” Mr. Wakefield writes. “So we must leave our peaceful harbour to face the world again!”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” cried Barbara. “I am fairly tingling to be in the thick of it again!”

“You ungrateful infant,” said Armine, “when this place has done every one so much good!”

“So does bed; but I feel as if it were six in the morning and I couldn’t get the shutters open!”

“I wonder if Mr. Ogilvie will think me fit to go in for matriculation for the next term?” said Armine.

“And I ought to go up for lectures,” said Jock, who had been reading hard all this time under directions from Dr. Medlicott. “I might go on before, and see that the house is put in order before you come home, mother.”

“Home! It sounds more like going home than ever going back to Belforest did!”

“And we’ll make it the very moral of the old times. We’ve got all the old things!”

“What do you know about the old times—baby that you are and were?” said Jock.

“The Drakes move to-morrow,” said his mother. “I must write to your aunt and Richards about sending the things from Belforest. We must have it at its best before Ali comes home.”

“All right!” said Babie. “You know our own things have only to go back into their places, and the Drake carpets go on. It will be such fun; as nice as the getting into the Folly!”

“Nice you call that?” said her mother. “All I remember is the disgrace we got into and the fright I was in! I wonder what the old home will bring us?”

“Life and spirit and action,” cried Babie. “Oh, I’m wearying for the sound of the wheels and the flow of people!”

“Oh, you little Cockney!”

“Of course. I was born one, and I am thankful for it! There’s nothing to do here.”

“Babie!” cried Armine, indignantly.

“Well, you and Jock have read a great deal, and he has plunged into night-schools.”

“And become a popular lecturer,” added Armine.

“And you and mother have cultivated Percy Stagg, and gone to Church a great deal—pour passer le temps.”

“Ah, you discontented mortal!” said her mother, rising to write her letters. “You have yet to learn that what is stagnation to some is rest to others.”

“Oh yes, mother, I know it was very good for you, but I’m heartily glad it is over. Sea and Ogre are all very well for once in a way, but they pall, especially in an east wind English fog!”

“My Babie, I hope you are not spoilt by all the excitements of our last few years,” said the mother. “You won’t find life in Collingwood Street much like life in Hyde Corner.”

“No, but it will be life, and that’s what I care for!”

No, Barbara, used to constant change, and eager for her schemes of helpfulness, could not be expected to enjoy the peacefulness of St. Cradocke’s as the others had done. To Armine, indeed, it had been the beginning of a new life of hope and vigour, and a casting off of the slough of morbid self-contemplation, induced by his invalid life, and fostered at Woodside. He had left off the romance of being early doomed, since his health had stood the trial of the English winter, and under Mr. Ogilvie’s bracing management, seconded by Jock’s energetic companionship, he had learnt to look to active service, and be ready to strive for it.

To Jock, the time had been a rest from the victory which had cost him so dear, and though the wounds still smarted, there had been nothing to call them into action; and he had fortified himself against the inevitable reminders he should meet with in London. He had been studying with all his might for the preliminary examination, and eagerness in so congenial a pursuit was rapidly growing on him, while conversations with Mr. Ogilvie had been equally pleasant to both, for the ex-schoolmaster thoroughly enjoyed hearing of the scientific world, and the young man was heartily glad of the higher light he was able to shed on his studies, and for being shown how to prevent the spiritual world from being obscured by the physical, and to deal with the difficulties that his brother’s materialism had raised for him. He had never lost, and trusted never to lose, hold of his anchor in the Rock; but he had not always known how to answer when called on to prove its existence and trace the cable. Thus the winter at St. Cradocke’s had been very valuable to him personally, and he had been willing to make return for the kindness for which he felt so grateful, by letting the Vicar employ him in the night-schools, lectures, and parish diversions—all in short for which a genial and sensible young layman is invaluable, when he can be caught.

And for their mother herself, she had been sheltered from agitation, and had gathered strength and calmness, though with her habitual want of self-consciousness she hardly knew it, and what she thanked her old friend for was what he had done for her sons, especially Armine. “He and I shall be grateful to you all the rest of our lives,” she said, with her bright eyes glistening.

David Ogilvie, in his deep, silent, life-long romance, felt that precious guerdons sometimes are won at an age which the young suppose to be past all feeling—guerdons the more precious and pure because unconnected with personal hopes or schemes. He still knew Caroline to be as entirely Joseph Brownlow’s own as when he had first perceived it, ten years ago, but all that was regretful jealousy was gone. His idealisation of her had raised and moulded his life, and now that she had grown into the reality of that ideal, he was content with the sunshine she had brought, and the joy of having done her a real service, little as she guessed at the devoted homage that prompted it.