The Project Gutenberg eBook of The secret of Oaklands, by M. Marding Kelly

The question came in sharp tones of distress from a young girl who at that moment entered the breakfast-room. Quickly she sprang to her father's side and began chafing his cold hands, as she gazed with fear-stricken eyes into the beloved face before her.

Cyril Woodford made no response, but sat as if stunned, staring with apparently unseeing eyes at the newspaper before him, which his nerveless fingers had just dropped. His face was ashen, and there was a nervous twitching about his lips as he tried to moisten them with his tongue.

"Father dear, speak—tell me why you look like this! Has something terrible happened?"

No answer came in words, but with a shaking finger the man pointed to the heading of a column in the newspaper in front of him.

For a few seconds Margaret Woodford looked at the words with a puzzled expression wrinkling her brows, then something of the trouble involved dawned upon her mind.

"Sampson's has failed, I see—does—does it mean you have lost some money, dear?" she asked a little hesitatingly.

"All—all," he said huskily, while a shiver shook his frame as though he were attacked with ague.

There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then, rising from her cramped position at his side, she said gently:

But, ignoring this remark, she rang and gave her order, and in a few minutes a fresh cup of the fragrant beverage was poured out and brought to him.

"Drink it, just to please me," she said coaxingly, "you are so cold; and presently you will explain it all to me, won't you?"

For a minute or two longer her father sat silent, then hastily drained the cup before him, rose a little uncertainly, and went out of the room, leaving his breakfast still untasted.

His daughter remained seated, mechanically eating a finger of toast, and deep in painful thought.

She could not, of course, grasp the enormity of this thing, but that it meant serious trouble was evident. She had never seen her father disturbed like this before, and those last words of his, repeated so despairingly, had been enough to fill her with vague alarm. It surely could not mean the giving up of their beautiful home? Why, the Abbey House had been in their family for generations, and every stone of it was precious to her. And she knew only too well how her father loved it.

The Woodfords of the Abbey House were well known in the county, and the thought that strangers might one day occupy it had never hitherto suggested itself to anyone's mind.

Margaret started slightly as the idea for the first time presented itself to her now.

She gazed with tear-dimmed eyes at the beautiful grassy terraces, and the grand old cedar-tree rearing its head in front of the dining-room windows and sweeping the lawn with its graceful branches. It all looked so peaceful outside in the morning sunlight, as though nothing could disturb the calm serenity of the place.

Alas! for appearances—how poor an index they often are to the stern realities of life!

Mr. Woodford scarcely saw his daughter any more that day; he remained in the library until quite late in the afternoon, refusing admittance to everyone, spending his time in writing letters, and sorting papers in his desk with nervous fingers.

At last Margaret could bear the suspense no longer, and persisted in knocking at the door until he responded to her entreaties to come in.

"There is something very wrong with the master to-day," said old John, the man-servant, as he addressed his fellow-servants. "Something very wrong," and he shook his head dolorously as he spoke.

"Yes—that there is, and no mistake," answered cook, "and as for Miss Margaret, she looks as white as a sheet; just because the master wouldn't come in to lunch she must needs go without."

"I wonder what it means. It's something as come by post upset them, because things seemed all right when the master came down this morning; he looked as cheerful as could be, and when I set eyes on him half an hour later, I never saw anyone look worse."

But cook's explanations, or ideas, were cut short by the violent ringing of the library bell, not once, but two or three times, peremptorily.

"My! listen to that now, be quick, John! Good gracious, I never heard a bell tugged in that way before!"

John forgot he was getting on in years as he hurried breathless up the stairs; he felt already a presentiment of trouble, but he was not prepared for what he found.

"Why—what—what's the matter, miss?" he exclaimed, as he opened the library door and hurried to his master's side.

"I don't know!—-oh, I don't know! but father is very ill—send for the doctor, John, quick—let George take the grey mare!"

John was shocked by what he saw, but he was a sensible man who knew how to keep his head in an emergency. Without further hesitation he hurried back to the servants' hall even faster than he had left it, and quietly issued his orders to the groom.

"Ride hard!—the master's very ill if I'm not much mistaken;" and not waiting to answer any of the questions which were rained upon him, he at once returned to his young mistress.

The time seemed interminable while the two watched by the master of the house, longing and praying in the silence of their hearts for the medical man's arrival.

At last the welcome approach of his gig sounded on the carriage drive, and in a few moments more Dr. Crane was in the room—quiet, calm, issuing his orders clearly and decidedly, and bringing with him a sense of comfort to the frightened girl.

When the patient was at last in bed, and John installed to watch beside him, the doctor called Margaret aside and placed an arm-chair for her.

In a few words Miss Woodford described the day's occurrences, and explained that while her father was talking to her that evening in the library, he suddenly cried out as though in great pain and put his hand to the back of his neck, then he seemed to lose consciousness.

"What is it, doctor?" Her sweet grey eyes looked anxiously into his, as she asked the question.

"A stroke?" repeated Margaret. "Does it mean then—that ... that he is too ill to—to recover?" And her voice trembled as she spoke.

"Oh, I do not say that at all," answered Dr. Crane; "he may, of course, get over this quite well, but in that case he will probably not be quite the same man again that he was before it happened. Perhaps," he continued, "you do not know that your father has consulted me more than once during the last year with regard to his health?"

"I am sorry to say so; but he has not been robust for some time; his heart is not what I should like it to be—but there, I am frightening you, and I hope unnecessarily; so far as I can see, there is no reason for serious alarm to-night. Be brave, child; if there is to be illness in the house, you will want all your strength; husband it now by having a good meal and going to bed early, and try to sleep. I shall send the district nurse in to sit up with Mr. Woodford, and you can wire to town to-morrow for a permanent one—at least—you can do that if—if it is necessary," he added hesitatingly, for as he was speaking the remembrance of a hint of monetary difficulties in a recent conversation with Mr. Woodford recurred unpleasantly to his mind.

To think of his old friends, the inmates of the Abbey House, being threatened with poverty seemed almost too extraordinary to be true. Surely there must be a mistake somewhere!

The kind doctor shook off the unpleasant doubt, and, pressing the girl's hand warmly, bade her farewell, with a last promise to call later and not forget to send the nurse.

When he had gone, Margaret stole softly into her father's room, and gazed silently at the still figure upon the bed.

The patient was breathing a little unevenly, but his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be sleeping.

Reassured by her father's peaceful attitude, his daughter went downstairs and did her best to do as Dr. Crane had told her. For she was sensible enough to realise that if there was trouble to be faced in the unknown future, giving way at the outset would be both foolish and cowardly.

After all, she was a Woodford, and with the courage of her race she knew she must meet difficulties with a stiff lip.

But it was a relief when Nurse Somers arrived, with her cheerful air of confidence and reliability, and took charge of the sick-room.

The next few days were like a dream to Margaret; she seemed to live in another world. Her father rallied from this first attack, and was sufficiently recovered to spend some hours with his lawyer. Then his mind seemed to grow dull, and he talked feebly and childishly of the old happy days when his wife was alive and his daughter a little child—the sunbeam and plaything of the house.

A few days of weakness followed, then came the night when the spirit took its flight from earth's habitation, quietly and silently, in answer to God's summons, and fled to that sorrowless land where all is joy and peace, and rest. And in the dawn of the morning the watchers saw only the hush of death's release for the master; "God's finger touched him, and he slept."

Margaret did not break down; the sorrow seemed too much to bear, too much to understand at first. She felt numb with grief; her cold apathy disturbed the kind nurse, who stayed until the funeral should be over.

"I wish she would cry," she remarked to the doctor; "this terrible calm is unnatural, and a fearful strain."

"Yes—yes—poor child, the reaction will, I am afraid, be all the greater," he answered sympathetically; "but youth is bound to recover."

But it was not until the day of the funeral that Margaret fully realised her loss, when she knelt by her window alone, the pale moon looking down upon her from the clear cold sky. Then the greatness of her bereavement came over her, and she felt, in all the sadness of realisation, the desolation of her future.

Her dear, dear father was taken from her, the one being she loved in all the world, the one who had been everything to her since she had lost her mother, her darling companion as well as parent. And as though to mock at her grief she had learned that day for the first time from the lawyer's lips that she was penniless. Owing to the great bank failure, her father's money had melted away into thin air; and her home, the dear old Abbey House, must pass into other hands, and be sold at once to meet the demands of her father's creditors.

To-night was hers—to-night she could wander through the rooms, and take a last farewell walk round the gardens and park, and touch as she had touched the friend of her childhood, the fine old cedar which had silently watched many generations of Woodfords seated under its sheltering boughs. With tender, lingering fingers she had pressed the smooth trunk, and then broken a tiny piece of the beautiful evergreen, and put it among her own personal treasures. It was that which lay in her hand now, and upon which the fast-falling tears dropped, as she said good-bye to the happiness of the old home, so soon to pass into the possession of strangers. She covered her face, while silent sobs shook her, in the sorrow of those moments.

Presently she grew calm again, and, gazing through the window of her room at those bright worlds which canopy our earth above, her lips moved, and her voice whispered to the One Who knew all her trouble and understood: "Father in Heaven, help me, Thy child, to do Thy will wherever Thou seest fit to send me."

There was no outward answer to that prayer, but the answer was speeding to her then, and strength to prepare her for the difficult days to come.

CHAPTER II

OAKLANDS

"Oh, I wish the train would be quick," said a small child, addressing an old man-servant who stood rather anxiously guarding her, as she stamped impatiently up and down upon the platform. "What makes it so long, James? I want to see her—because I shall know directly if she's nice; if she isn't, I'll be naughty every day, and make her just as unhappy as ever I can, and then she'll go away like all the others have. I told daddy so this morning."

"I expect you'll like her, miss," answered the man, with a grim smile, as he gazed with affectionate amusement at the spoilt child in front of him.

"Yes, I shall—look! there's the train coming, the signal has gone down, now let's see, James, who can find her first; I feel sure she'll be horrid, and have an ugly old bonnet on."

The train steamed into the station, puffing and snorting vehemently as it came to a standstill, and in a few minutes the carriages had emptied themselves of their passengers.

The old man-servant and little Ellice Medhurst scanned carefully each possible looking person who alighted, to see if they answered to their ideas of the expected governess they had come to meet.

She had sent no description of herself, she had not thought of it, and in fact her employer had forgotten her intention to send to the station, until that afternoon Miss Woodford's future pupil, with a wilfulness which characterised her, had insisted upon going herself to meet her, not from politeness, but curiosity. What sort of person she was likely to expect she had not waited to inquire, but telling James he was to come with her—"Mamma said so"—she set off with him in the little pony-carriage to fetch the new governess to Oaklands.

The journey had seemed long to Margaret Woodford, as, occupied with her sad thoughts, she gazed out of the carriage windows, taking only a languid interest in the stations she passed.

She was still feeling the terrible shock of her father's death and failure, and the loss of the dear old home.

This venture into the great unknown world was a great trial, and it required all her courage to face it as bravely as she was doing.

Her heart glowed with gratitude towards Mrs. Crane, as she thought of her parting words: "Remember, you are not to stay if you are not happy, but to come back to us, and we will look for something else for you."

Happy! She didn't expect to be that, but she would try to be content and to do her duty; she was sure the promise was hers, "I will be with thee in all places whithersoever thou goest." God knew the way that she took, and He would direct her path. That was the one great fact which sustained Margaret Woodford's courage as she faced the world alone for the first time in her life.

She had started for London that morning from her old home in the North, and travelled by the 4.15 from town, and now in the fading afternoon light she caught her first glimpse of the garden of England, as the train steamed past country lanes, cherry orchards, and hop grounds rising into renewed life as the season advanced.

The only other occupants of her carriage appeared to be two farmers—at least she judged they were of that persuasion, by the agricultural topics of conversation which seemed to engross them. Her interest was aroused by their eagerness and enthusiasm; one of them, drawing out of his pocket a little square parcel, hastily untied the string, and, handing it to his companion, said:

"'Taste that, and tell me what you think of it. I can assure you I never grew a finer sample."

Margaret expected to see something eatable, and was more than surprised to witness the man bury his nose in the parcel and, after drawing a deep breath, gasp.

"Beautiful—beautiful, and if it wasn't for this foreign competition eating our very pockets, you'd be making a fine price now on these last years. I think you did right to hold them up. What we are coming to, I don't know; trade is being driven out of the country, and there's nothing but ruin staring most of us in the face. Fortunately, I was in the swim when one got £20 per pocket; but now, well—they are not worth growing; I've grubbed up several acres this season."

There the conversation got quite beyond Margaret's comprehension, as further technicalities in connection with the hop trade were discussed, with summer fruit prices.

Already she felt in a new world, and a sense of loneliness oppressed her. Her thoughts passed from the subjects of her companions' discussion to her own troubles, and a nervous unrest as to whether she was getting near her destination.

The stoppings at small stations seemed frequent, and at each one she gazed anxiously at the names written on the boards and seats upon the platforms.

Her obvious nervousness presently attracted the attention of one of her travelling companions.

"Can I assist you?" he asked her politely, as he saw her struggling to get some of her property down from the rack. "I suppose you are getting out here?" The train was slowing up as he spoke.

"Thank you very much," she answered, as the bundle of wraps was deposited on the seat opposite, then continued anxiously, "I don't know if this is my destination."

"Oh, that is a little farther on; four more stations, and then yours," he answered.

After a little pause her companion continued, "I know Steynham very well, and most of the people who live there; can I direct you further?"

"Thank you, I'm afraid not. I get out at that station, but I shall be met there, I expect. I am going on higher up the country beyond Wychcliff, to a place called Oaklands—a Mr. Medhurst's."

"Oaklands—Medhurst," repeated her interlocutor with a slight start, which she did not fail to catch.

"Do you know anything about it—about them?" she asked somewhat timidly, for the man's tone and expression as he repeated the words had filled her with a vague disquiet.

"No—oh—no, I've never been there, never met Mr. Medhurst," he answered, somewhat hesitatingly.

He offered no further remark, and remained apparently buried in his newspaper until the train drew up, and he and his companion prepared to get out. As they alighted, he turned to Margaret Woodford.

"The next station is yours," and, lifting his hat, passed down the platform out of her sight.

"Do you know anything of the place she's going to?" asked his friend, as they descended the steps.

"Not exactly, but I'm sure I've heard no good of it; there's some sort of mystery, or scandal attached to it, I believe, and folks say the youngsters are terrors. I am sorry that is the girl's destination; she's young and pretty—evidently a lady, I should say, and looks as if she's had trouble. But there, one can't pick up strangers' burdens, we've plenty of anxieties of our own just now." And the subject of Margaret Woodford and her possible sorrows and difficulties passed from their minds as they emerged through the station door, jumped into the gigs awaiting them, and drove away to their homes.

In a few minutes more the train reached Steynham. The girl gazed up and down the platform, feeling more friendless than ever now she no longer heard the kindly voice of her fellow-traveller. She felt she would have been glad if she could have had his companionship until she was safely under the care of her employers.

This tall, elegant-looking girl getting out at Steynham did not pass unnoticed; her high-bred air and softly modulated voice quickly attracted the attention of the railway officials, who gathered round her as she stood, the one solitary passenger, beside her box.

"No, there is no vehicle here, and none in sight, miss. Who were you expecting?"

The question was put with a desire to render assistance, for the Steynham porters knew all the surrounding gentry, and a good deal about them too, if village gossip was to be relied upon.

"I am expecting someone to meet me from Mr. Medhurst's—Oaklands is the address, near Wychcliff."

"Near Wychcliff—Oaklands!" repeated one or two of the officials. "Don't know it, miss—don't know the name."

"I'll ask the station-master," said the first speaker, and, hurrying to the ticket-office, he soon returned with a fresh authority.

"Certainly," he replied, "and I fancy a pony-trap from there met the earlier down-train; a man-servant and a little girl came and watched the passengers alight, and then drove off again."

"Oh, that is it then! They must have made some mistake in the time of the train. Now, what can I do? Is this place far away?" asked Margaret, somewhat anxiously.

For a few moments nervous fear assailed her, and then she said bravely, "Can you get me a cab?"

"I'll see, miss," one of the porters answered civilly. "You come into the waiting-room, and I'll go and fetch Mr. Cramp."

"Oh, he's the man that has the fly. If it isn't out, it'll be here in half an hour."

Half an hour! Her heart died at the prospect, as she followed her luggage down the platform into the stuffy little waiting-room. The window was closed, and it looked as if it ought to have a poster up with "TO LET" on the door.

"The station is more comfortable, I think," said the porter, taking a considering look at the elegant figure in front of him, as, setting down her bags a moment, he turned to her and motioned to the bench by the entrance door.

"I won't be long, miss," he continued encouragingly. "I'll just give these to the booking-clerk to look after, and I'll be back in no time."

In a few moments more she had the satisfaction of seeing him start out briskly, and pass through the white station gates.

Wearily she gazed out of the window. It was a warm day, in early summer, and the scene before her was not wholly dispiriting. A straight road from the station led up to the village; on the left was a squarely built house with the words "Coffee Tavern" written upon it in large letters; then came a few cottages. The road was sheltered at places by some fine old elms, and on the right hand she saw something that made almost a thrill of hope pass through her, as she drank in the sight and breath of its beauty.

Spring had long since awakened the sleeping trees, rich life-giving sap had risen, and the sun coaxed them into opening their eyes to the new season. The orchard upon which Margaret was now gazing showed her a wealth of promise, as the gleam of fruit clusters shining through the green foliage caught her eye.

The outlook on the opposite side of the station, which she could just see through another window, was the exact counterpart of that near to where she was sitting, and presented a view prosaic enough, which needed some conjuring of the mind to suggest any ideas of romance.

Margaret tried to be interested, but her thoughts were trailing back to the dear old home surroundings when she heard the rumble of a cab. A few minutes later a one-horse vehicle drew up at the door, and her friend the porter jumped down, as she rose with alacrity and went to meet him.

"It's all right, miss, he knows Wychcliff, and says he can find 'Oaklands' when he gets there—it's an old farm that has stood empty for some time."

Steynham, quiet enough in the spring-time, but showing much more life as the fruit and hop seasons come round, was soon left behind, and the gradual ascent to Wychcliff was begun—a long drive through two or three villages, and then a steep climb up a narrow, grass-grown road, to the hills beyond. There was only room for one vehicle at a time, and Margaret was startled by suddenly hearing the driver calling at the top of his voice, "Hie—back—there!—back!" and the old cab came to a sudden standstill with a violent jerk. A sharp altercation ensued between the two Jehus, which sounded decidedly uncomplimentary; then her vehicle was jerked backwards down the hill, nearly overturning as it ran up on to the bank.

Miss Woodford was used to horses, and not easily frightened, so she sat tight, preferring the chance of an upset to getting out on to this unknown, narrow road, and in the darkness trying to find standing-room in the hedge. It was not a pleasant experience, as those who have driven up, or down Wychcliff hill in the evening can testify. Here and there at long intervals there are wider spaces cut back into the adjacent fields to allow vehicles to pass. Fortunately, one was near, and after much jolting and noise, with a good deal of argument on the part of the drivers, and a last shout from Cramp, whose temper was now up, of "'Nother time I'll see you back yer old caërt before I stop my currage for such as yew!"—and the cab crawled on again.

Would it ever end? she wondered, and the remembrance of that dark, lonely drive, with night settling down around her, never quite faded from her mind, although she little knew then the fears and doubts that were to await her later.

By dint of inquiry at a solitary cottage, which was passed at the top of the hill, they discovered the whereabouts of Oaklands Farm.

In the gloom Margaret could not see what her future home was like, the darkness being increased by the thick trees which surrounded it, only leaving just room for the cab to draw up before the front door.

She got out and paid her fare, as the man set down her box on the step, and then, after violently ringing the bell, climbed back to his seat.

"Seems pretty lonely," he remarked, as he gathered up the reins; "not much of a place for a young lady like you."

"Look here," he continued, "if you want to get away whoam any time, yew jest write to Mr. Cramp, Cab Driver, Steynham, and I'll come for yer, miss—see?"

Tears rose in the back of Margaret's eyes at the mention of the word home. She thanked the kindly old man, who was always liked by his "fares," but she did not explain her destitute condition to him.

He waited, after setting her box on the step, until the door opened, and looked backward as he drove away to see she had entered. Then he vanished into the darkness.

As the door opened, Margaret was agreeably impressed by the bright glow of the hall into which she entered. The man-servant who appeared was civilly polite; the dark oak furniture and rich red carpet and walls, artistically decorated, gave a sense of warmth and comfort to the tired girl. Then she was startled by hearing a shrill voice screaming over the banisters:

"So you are here at last, and I can't even come and look at you, because I'm supposed to be in bed. It is a shame! I want——"

"Go back, Miss Ellice, now," said James reprovingly; "the master will hear you."

"Who cares!" said the elf, leaning still further over the balustrade until she was in danger of falling.

At that moment the dining-room door opened, and the child, in spite of her boasting, disappeared, as a tall, dark, well-set-up man appeared.

"Yes. I'm afraid I'm very late, but I had a difficulty in finding a conveyance at the station. I hope I've not caused any inconvenience."

"Indeed no; the fault is ours. I must apologise. We sent a trap to meet you, but unfortunately Mrs. Medhurst made a mistake about the train—we have only just found it out. I'm sorry you've had the trouble of finding your way here alone."

"Ah, here's Betsy," he added, addressing an elderly woman who at that moment made her appearance in the hall. "Will you take Miss Woodford upstairs at once," he said, "and then," turning to Margaret, "we shall be ready for dinner, when I can introduce you to my wife; your little charge is in bed, and asleep by this time, I expect."

This last was received with a grim smile by old James, as the young governess followed the woman to her bedroom.

A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, which was pleasant, for the early summer nights were still cold. Margaret glanced around her room with pleasure. The subdued green carpet, cream-tinted walls, and shelf of goblin blue china all expressed a thoughtful kindness and artistic taste.

As she laid her toilet requisites on the old Chippendale table, Margaret's heart gave a throb of thankfulness that her environment was so tasteful and pleasant. There surely could be nothing to fear here? Mr. Medhurst was evidently a gentleman, while the servants she had seen were of the good class so often regretted in this century. Her future pupil might prove a handful, but that part of her life had to be tested.

She felt she was travel-stained, but she did not wish to keep dinner waiting, so, refreshed with a wash, and smoothing her hair which, in spite of much brushing, would ripple in natural, careless waves over her forehead, she prepared to descend.

Betsy was outside waiting, and in another moment threw open the dining-room door, and announced "Miss Woodford."

There was a rustle of silk, a subtle scent of violet perfume, and a tall, graceful woman rose from the table to receive her.

Mrs. Medhurst spoke a little languidly as she welcomed the governess, giving her hand a slight pressure as she said kindly, "I am so glad you have come! You will excuse our beginning; we had almost given up expecting you, but my husband has told me of my stupid mistake."

Margaret was a little disconcerted, as she took the seat offered to her, to find her hostess in full evening-dress, the rich yellow velvet throwing up the beauty of her dark eyes and olive-tinted skin. A collar of diamonds flashed rainbow hues upon her white neck.

The conversation flagged, but from time to time Mrs. Medhurst appealed to Margaret in her soft modulated voice.

She was a beautiful woman, exquisitely dressed, as though she might be going to a dinner-party; the servants and appointments of the house, so far as Margaret could judge, seemed all perfect in their way.

Miss Woodford of Woodford Abbey knew how things ought to be done, and she was pleasantly surprised at her surroundings. But the thought would present itself, why were these people living in this lonely out-of-the-way place? It seemed so utterly incongruous, considering their style. The girl tried to smother the thought, and, being young, and withal hungry, was able to enjoy the meal in spite of the sense of strangeness which pervaded the place.

"Will you come into the drawing-room with me?" said the hostess, as she gave the signal to rise from the table.

Miss Woodford was glad the invitation had been given, as she was not quite sure how much she was to be received into the family, or exactly what her position was to be.

The drawing-room was a dream of cosiness, comfort, and taste. The chairs and couch were of the easiest, the dove-coloured walls, against which stood some handsome cabinets of old china, the rich pile carpet where one's feet sank softly, gave a feeling of rest and luxury which reminded Margaret of her boudoir at Woodford Abbey.

Mrs. Medhurst sat sipping her coffee and lazily fanning herself at intervals, until, presently, Margaret inquired if she might ask her a few questions as to her future duties.

"Yes, certainly. I don't think I have much to tell you," she answered, "except I should like you to have breakfast in the dining-room, and lunch with Ellice in the school-room, and dine with us in the evening. We are so quiet here, we shall be glad of your society then. I am having the rest cure," she said, with a strange little laugh, "and although I am much better than I was, it really is almost too quiet at times."

"I have been dreadfully weak. I'm gradually gaining strength now, but I can't stand Ellice's high spirits, and so I pass her on to you. Manage her as you like."

"I will do my best," said Margaret. "You know I have had no experience, but I love children, and always have got on with them."

"Oh, yes. I expect she'll be good with you; you are young, and will be able to enter into her pleasures better than I can—my poor head is unable to bear much."

"Teach her just as you like. She's a fearful little ignoramus, I'm afraid; she's made up of oddments. Anything she can pick up from the cottagers, or from her father, she retains with ease, but knowledge she ought to have acquired she is quite deficient in, I imagine. I'm afraid you'll be horrified at her ignorance."

Margaret rose and placed a cushion at Mrs. Medhurst's back, as she noticed she fidgeted restlessly in her chair.

"Thank you—thank you; that's heaps nicer. How kind of you to notice!" and the sweet smile that accompanied the words transfigured the otherwise cold look of the speaker's beautiful face.

Mr. Medhurst came into the room soon after, and the conversation became more general. Several times he glanced anxiously at his wife, and then he crossed to Miss Woodford:

"Mrs. Medhurst has not been very well to-day, and one thing she enjoys more than anything else is music; we are so shut off from it here. Would it tire you too much to sing, or play?"

"I haven't unpacked my box, but I can remember some of Mendelssohn's short things, if that will do?" answered Margaret readily.

The piano was one of Brinsmead's best, and the musician soon lost herself in the joy of her themes. Her touch was exquisite, and she seemed to pour her whole soul into the expression she produced from her fingers. She went from "The Bees' Wedding," thrilling with its busy revellings, into quieter grooves, until gently there stole through the room the subtle exquisiteness of No. 1 of "Songs Without Words."

There was a hush over the room as she rose from the piano, and for a moment she feared she had not given pleasure. Then she caught the grave glance of appreciation of her host as, offering her a seat, he said quietly, "Thank you."

Mrs. Medhurst did not speak, but as she rose to say good night, Margaret noticed something like the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

The girl was very tired when she went to bed, and the sun was streaming in at her window before she awoke the following morning.

She sat up and looked round her room with a puzzled air, wondering vaguely for a few moments where she was. Then the remembrance of all that had happened returned, and, looking at her watch, she discovered with dismay it was nine o'clock. She dressed hurriedly, and came downstairs, feeling anxious as to what would be thought of her unpunctuality if breakfast should be over. No one last night had remembered to tell her what hour it would be, and she had forgotten to ask.

"Oh no, miss; Miss Ellice is in the garden, and has not breakfasted yet. You're all right," he answered, a little patronisingly.

The dining-room looked delightful in the morning light; the casement windows were thrown wide open, and roses peeped a welcome into the room.

"She always takes hers upstairs, and the master has it with her when she's had a bad night," he answered.

The interrogative tone of her voice brought no response from the man-servant who waited.

"I can't say, miss. I wouldn't advise you to wait for her; she's off in the woods somewhere, and there's no knowing when she'll come back. Betsy will keep something hot for her."

"Oh. I see"—and the new governess realised something of the difficulty of her position as she sat down—"I won't delay any longer then."

She had not quite finished when she heard a child's laugh, and the door was flung open,-and a sharp little voice exclaimed:

"There you are; I thought I'd find you here. Good morning, Miss—oh, what's your name?"

"Good morning. I'm Miss Woodford, and you—you are my pupil Ellice, aren't you?" said the new governess, with a smile.

"Oh, that's rather nice; it's nothing like mine. Isn't it stupid I can't call you by it? Mamma said I was to say Miss Woodford when I spoke to you."

"Yes, of course, because you are a lady, you see, and ladies always behave politely—they can't help it."

"Oh—yes—I—see," answered the child, drawling the words out in surprised tones.

Here was a puzzle. This new governess seemed to think she couldn't behave rudely—because—because she was a lady! It was awkward; she hadn't thought of it like that before. It looked as if the fun was going to be spoilt. A puzzled expression of disappointment clouded her face for a moment, but in an instant it lighted with an illuminating flash, as a thought rushed to her mind. "I wonder what she'll think on Saturday?"

She was an interesting looking child, but she had none of her mother's beauty, the brilliant brunette which had so struck Miss Woodford. Ellice was a fairy-looking little creature, with dancing blue eyes, tiny features, and tumbled ringlets. She certainly looked like an elf from the woods as she stood with the front of her dress caught up in one hand, and filled with wild roses, tufts of yellow vetch, scabious, bundles of dainty milkmaids which she had dragged from the nettle-beds, regardless of their stings, and sweet clumps of wild parsley—all in mingled profusion, while she carelessly swung a straw hat by a broken elastic, the blue ribbon of which was stained with cherry juice that matched the dye on her fingers.

"You have spoilt your hat trimming," said Miss Woodford, taking the article (which evidently received little respect) from the small owner.

"I did that jumping under the trees to get at the waterloos. I had a feast, but ever so many tumbled on to me."

"I'm not very hungry. James—James," shrilled the child, "bring me some cake and milk—and be quick!"

"Then, I won't! Get that cake—swish!" and she swung her skirts round, scattering her flowers in all directions.

"Stay," said Miss Woodford firmly, "did I understand Mr. Medhurst said Miss Ellice was to have an egg for breakfast?"

"Then she isn't hungry, and had better wait until lunch," answered the new governess.

James's eyes grew round with astonishment. Two governesses had been tried before, but they had both departed in a week, utterly defeated by the small person who now stood between them, her eyes blazing defiance.

"I don't care what you say, I will have cake; I'll go and ask Betsy." With this the small figure flew to the kitchen, demanding attention to her wants in a storm of passionate cries.

"Yes, yes, missy, I'll get the tin down. Don't make such a fuss, dearie, you'll disturb your poor mamma," entreated cook persuasively.

"Miss Ellice is not to have any cake, Betsy," said Miss Woodford's voice decidedly.

The woman turned round to find the new governess standing by her side. She looked her amazement, and then dropped her hands from the cupboard:

The colour rushed to Ellice's face, words seemed to fail her for a moment, then, with a stamp of her foot, the child turned and fled out of the kitchen and disappeared down the drive, and was lost in the adjacent woods.

"There you have it, miss. You'll never be able to manage her, I'm afraid; she's just too much for all the governesses what comes."

"Anyway I must try, mustn't I, Betsy?" answered Margaret, adding, "It's my duty. Poor little thing, she does need someone to help her," finished Margaret, as she turned back into the hall.

"Someone to help her!—umph. She's a bit different from the others. James, think she'll do?" asked his wife, amazement in her voice.

"I—don't—know—I give it a week," answered the man grimly. "Saturday is the test."

Miss Woodford went up to her room, and sat down by the open window with, it must be admitted, a little feeling of despair in her heart. She could see rocks ahead, and she had had no experience, and surely the task here was going to be a big one. A great homesickness came over her; she felt the lump rising in her throat and almost choking her. This was to be her home now, and already the one being in whom she had felt an interest, and from whom she had hoped to win affection, had rushed from her with hatred in her heart and a malignant expression of passionate dislike disfiguring her face.

Presently Margaret roused herself and commenced unpacking her box. Beyond her clothes she had brought one or two personal treasures: the bit of the old cedar-tree; a water-colour drawing of the Abbey House, which she promptly hung up upon the wall, where an unused nail remained driven in. Her ivory toilet ware, with her name "Margaret" traced in gold across the backs of the brushes and mirror, and a beautiful dressing-case of the same lovely ware, which contained a family heirloom in the shape of a ruby necklace, the stones of which flashed their fire in the sun's rays, as now she lifted the lid. She took it out for a moment; the gems streamed from her fingers, held together by tiny links of gold.

She had a memory of her mother with that very chain about her neck, and she, a child, begging for it, and the laughing voice saying, "Not now, darling, but it will be yours when I am gone." How lightly the words had been spoken, and how soon had the separation come! Much as she treasured the jewels, the stones felt cold in her hand to-day as she gathered them up and replaced them in the case.

Her things disposed of, she drew a chair to the open window and sat down. The lilt of the birds' songs fell sweetly upon her ears; her thoughts became a reverie over the past, an expression of pain lurked in the depths of her eyes—and they were eyes full of womanly tenderness, and yet capable of expressing undeveloped strength.

Presently her fingers touched the book which lay upon the table near her. With quick impulse she drew it towards her, an unspoken petition rising in her heart: "Lord, give me a message from Thee."

She opened the book at random, and her glance fell upon these words: "I rose and did the king's business." She glanced back and read, as she had often read before, of the solemn vision granted to the prophet when he was shown something of the trouble to come in the latter days, the distress of nations before the Kingdom of the Lord should be established upon the earth. In his grief he fainted, the burden of the vision causing sickness to come upon him; then he braced himself, and she read: "I, Daniel, rose, and did the king's business." The duty just there—the work to be carried on.

The words acted like a tonic. A vision of the coming years of loneliness and difficulty had dismayed her, and yet here—surely work for the King of kings lay all around; the greater the difficulty, the more insistent the call. For a moment her head sank upon her hands, and her heart was lifted up to Him Who ever waits to pour out a sufficient supply of strength to His people, to meet every need.

Margaret Woodford believed this, and for that day at least she laid her burden straight at her Saviour's feet, and rose calm and determined to face the future bravely, and do the work nearest, to which she had been called.

Meanwhile Ellice, a storm of passion raging in her heart, rushed into the woods, pushing the tangled branches fiercely apart until she came to the fairy glade, a moss-grown path where the trees parted in a glorious avenue and the sunlight stole through in shafts of golden light, and fell tenderly upon the child. She flung herself down under a venerable oak, the trunk of which, cleft by some old-world storm, formed a hiding-place where she had often before sheltered on rainy mornings, and whispered her secrets to the woods.

Short, gasping sobs almost choked her as she lay upon the ground. The squirrels scampered in the branches overhead and, clinging to the rugged trunk of the great Forest King, crept down to the foot and peeped shyly at her, waiting wonderingly for her call, and the food she so often temptingly offered them. Her sobbing breaths of distress presently ceased, she raised a tear-stained face, and brushed away the tell-tale signs of distress. A hard, sullen expression swept all the beauty from her countenance; she looked what her brother would have said, "real ugly," as she pursed up her lips and stared aimlessly at the beauty around her.

The horrid pangs of hunger would make themselves felt, and she wished now she had not come away in such a hurry; even an egg would have been preferable to this hunger. If she could be certain of not meeting that hateful governess, she would steal back to the house. She had almost made up her mind to make the attempt, when she was startled by a footstep in the glade, and a voice calling her by name. She set her teeth hard, and drew back further into the shelter of the oak.

Miss Woodford, who was evidently bent on searching for her charge, receiving no answer to her calls, presently sat down upon the mossy ground at the foot of the very tree where Ellice was hidden. Opening a basket of sandwiches and jam-puffs, she commenced her lunch, while the child, all unknown to her, kept watch, struggling with her pride as she saw the tempting viands gradually disappearing before her eyes.

The trees tossed their branches in a light breeze which whispered among the leaves; the day grew hotter. Margaret felt tired as she rested her head against the oak bark where she leaned. This picnic with her young charge had been arranged in her own mind, with a hope of friendship and understanding, as a happy result. As presently she rose to shake the crumbs from her lap, a voice from somewhere muttered, "She is a pig to eat it all up."

Margaret Woodford paused, in a thoughtful, listening attitude; then she turned, and her eyes roved about the tree where she stood. She took a few steps round the trunk till she espied the cavity and the gleam of muslin embroidery from the child's dress which escaped at the opening, as she pressed her back against the inside of her castle to avoid being seen.

"What a jolly little place!" remarked Margaret, as she caught sight of the child. "I wish I'd found this before, we might have had lunch on the doorstep of your domain. I've just finished mine. Where will you have yours?"

"No—look, I've kept some. You surely didn't think I'd been greedy enough to finish the lot," and, raising a serviette which lay at the top of the basket, Ellice's eyes saw a vision of food which made her mouth water. She capitulated at once, slid down to the ground in a hurry, and attacked the contents with avidity. In a very few minutes nothing but crumbs remained, and an empty lemonade bottle.

There was a moment's hesitation, for of all things Ellice loved better than another, it was to listen to story-telling. An eager expression spread over her face for a moment, then it darkened again.

"I'm going home," she muttered, and, jumping up, she ran lightly down the avenue a little way, then, turning into a denser side-path, vanished.

"Defeated," said Margaret Woodford to herself, with rather a sad little laugh. "Ah, well, I must try again. I'm on the King's service, I must never forget that, and victory is of the Lord—of course, that applies in every case."

It was not a very cheerful outlook for the young governess, but she was determined to win through if possible.

She did not see her charge again that day. Upon inquiring for her after her return from the woods, she was informed she was taking tea with her mother, and would not be down again that evening.

Mr. Medhurst returned later, and she managed to get a short interview with him, and to obtain a more definite knowledge as to what her supervision and powers with regard to her pupil might mean. She noticed a worried expression come into his eyes as she broached the subject.

"Miss Woodford, I am afraid I must admit my little girl has been spoilt," he answered. "You understand my wife is not strong—and—well, there it is——" and he spread his hands deprecatingly as he spoke.

"Does it mean I am to have full control?" asked Margaret—"I mean in this way," she added. "My pupil had no lessons to-day; she ran away to the woods this morning because I could not allow her to eat cake instead of her breakfast, and——"

"Oh, I'm glad if you intervened in that matter! I have forbidden that," he answered quickly.

"Never mind, you succeed if you get your way. Go on as you have begun, Miss Woodford; I cannot suggest anything to you, but"—lowering his voice—-"if you can win my child and gain control over her, I shall be more than grateful."

His manner was earnest, but Margaret felt there was reservation when he paused and suddenly changed the conversation. The little she had gathered strengthened her in her purpose. There was evidently trouble in this house which could not be fully explained.

She went to bed that night puzzled, but determined to try and do her duty whatever the future might mean to her.

Ellice was like a different child at breakfast the following morning. She appeared bubbling over with amiability and good spirits, and even the presence of her governess at the breakfast-table brought no frowns or sulky looks. Margaret's proposal to take some lesson-books to the woods was acceded to with apparent delight.

"Oh, do let's, Miss Woodford!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands with joy; in fact, the suggestion was so novel, she forgot for a little she was at enmity with her governess. The call of the woods was so strong within her.

With a luncheon-basket and armed with paper and pencils, governess and pupil set out with enthusiasm for a beginning in the path of knowledge. They found the old haunt in the oak, and sat down to work.

After a grind at reading and arithmetic, Miss Woodford electrified her pupil by the remark, "Now, shall we talk about the trees?"

"Yes, let me think what this old oak has to say to us about himself; shut your eyes and listen, and I will tell you something of his story."

"I've lived such a long, long life," whispered the oak, "but although I'm getting very old, I can remember the days when I was young—more than two thousand years ago"—(Ellice stirred as if to interrupt, but the slight pressure of Margaret's fingers on her arm made her relapse, and she breathlessly listened to this wonderful statement)—"yes, more than two thousand years ago," insisted the oak, "I was planted just here—a young sapling I was, strong and sturdy, but small and tender, and had not much knowledge of the world then. But that has all opened up in the centuries I've lived, and I've seen wonderful changes, I can tell you.

"There are not many of us left now, but it's been handed down to me from my forefathers that, right back to the times of the ancient Britons, there was a grove of us oaks in this very spot. Those were the times when we were thought a mighty lot of by the poor heathen who dwelt in this country then; they didn't know anything about the true God, and so they worshipped in their blindness the sun and the moon and the stars and gods of their own creation. Beside that, they counted all of us oak trees sacred. I don't know why that was, but of course they couldn't help seeing we were the finest-looking trees in all the forest, so they took care of us and blessed us, and even the mistletoe (the seed of which sometimes drops upon us from a bird's mouth and takes root and makes its home on our boughs), even that the Druid priests used to revere, and only allow it to be cut with a golden knife at their sacrificial feasts.

"But though they were considerate for us, they were very cruel to their enemies, and often poor captives were brought out and judged in the open courts in the woods, and offered as sacrifices in our beautiful shady oak groves. Stories have been handed down through past generations of those poor people who suffered; but happier times have come since. Folks here don't worship their cruel gods Woden and Thor now, though they seem to keep them in remembrance by still using Thursday and Wednesday in their week's list of days, which names mean, as I understand it, Thor's day and Woden's day.

"I'm very glad those heathen times are over here, and that the people who come and rest in my trunk, or sit at my feet, know about the wonderful true God Who created everything for His glory; not only the boys and girls, but in His Book it says, 'The trees of the Lord are full of sap,' and I like that—trees of the Lord; it shows we belong to Him. He doesn't forget us, either, for He waters us with the rain which we suck up into our roots, and drink into our leaves, through the tiny mouths with which we breathe the beautiful forest breezes, and by the warm yellow sun the great God sends the colour flushing into all our veins, and into all the outer skin of the bark that covers us. Through our pores, which widen in the hot weather, the sweet air rushes, and gives us fresh life and growth, and under the tiny air-bags are the canals where the sap runs and rises in the spring, right from the very roots, travelling over our branches until it fills even our leaves, and makes us able to put forth new growth and life.

"Yes, God is the gardener of the forest, summer and winter, year in and year out. He gives us all the power we need. When the time of singing birds comes, then a whisper and hum runs through the whole of the forest, and all the big tree world wakes from sleep. Everyone is drowsy at first—some seem almost dead—but gradually we open our eyes and cover our naked limbs, and get out our summer dress, and shake our leafy garments in the sunshine, while the forest folk build new homes in our branches and utter their thoughts of praise." The oak paused.

"Not now, dear; it's later than I thought," glancing at her wrist-watch—"and besides, it seems to be getting dark; I think a storm is coming. We must hurry home."

"Oh, you are nasty!" muttered the child, her bright face clouding over, and the former spirit of antagonism returning.

However, she said no more, perhaps because she saw it was useless. She had at last come upon someone whose will was as strong, or stronger than her own. Well, she could afford to wait until the afternoon, when she would be reinforced. An unpleasant smile curled her lips as she remembered again with glee that to-day was Saturday: the absorption of the story-telling had meant a short obliteration of that fact, but it suddenly returned with added force.

The two had a smart run at the finish of their walk, for the storm burst above them suddenly. There was a vivid flash of lightning, followed instantly by a crash that rolled and echoed through the forest, waking a hundred voices in its depths; then down came the rain, in a perfect deluge.

As they entered the front door later, wet through, they encountered Mr. Medhurst just discarding his mackintosh.

"Yes, we are soaked," answered Miss Woodford. "Come, Ellice, hurry and get changed."

"Go at once, child! Don't stand and talk about it; do as you are told, girlie"—and Margaret gently took the little girl's arm, and led her towards the stairs.

Her father was about to hang up his mackintosh; he paused; then as governess and pupil went to their rooms, a smile of quiet satisfaction touched his lips, as he hung the garment upon the peg, and turned and entered the dining-room.

A quarter of an hour later there was a violent ring at the front-door bell, then a noisy stampede as someone entered with a good deal of clatter, and some eager questioning of James, as the man shut out the swish of rain and wind which with the newcomer rushed into the hall.

"I suppose you are referring to the governess, Master Bob?" said James gravely, but with a slightly suppressed smile flickering in his eyes.

"Anyway, it means a little fun," continued the boy. "She won't be here long, that's pretty certain," and he commenced to whistle an airy tune as he made to enter the dining-room.

"Stop that noise, and sit down quietly," said his father irritably. "You are late as usual, I see." Further remark was cut short by Ellice rushing into the room and boisterously greeting her brother, followed more gently by Margaret, who paused in astonishment at the sight of the boy of whose existence she had not even heard.

"We've brought our luncheon home to-day, we didn't stay to eat it in the woods, and the tarts are all sloppy," exclaimed Ellice, lying glibly. "You can have them. Bob," anxious to shock Margaret, her voice shrill with excitement.

"This is my son, Miss Woodford. You see the specimen he is," said Mr. Medhurst, by way of introduction. "I wonder if you remember the advice of an old sage, 'When you see a boy, beat him, because he has either just done something wrong, is doing it, or just going to do it.' Now I've told you this young man's character in one sentence."

The boy's bright face clouded, and Margaret felt what a tactless mistake the introduction had been, and wondered at the denseness and unkindness of the remarks.

"I don't believe in very bad boys—I never came across any, and if I did, I shouldn't ask others for their character, Mr. Medhurst," she replied; "I should judge them for myself."

"Wait till you know this one better, Miss Woodford," he answered; and then, turning to Bob: "How about your report," he continued; "did you bring it home?"

"No, no, daddy; wait till he's done something more," interposed Ellice, dancing round her father, and grasping his arm persuasively.

"You think it won't be long before the trouble comes, eh?" he asked, pinching her cheek gently. His small daughter always seemed able to disarm his wrath.

"All right, old lady, I understand," he answered, smiling; then, turning to Margaret, "Women's wiles, Miss Woodford. Well, you are let off this time, young man," turning to his son; "you can thank your sister for it," and with this he left them.

For a few moments silence prevailed, and then Ellice, catching hold of her brother's arm, whispered:

Margaret refrained from following them, to avoid hearing their confidences, and still bewildered by the discovery of this new addition to the family, which might mean further problems for herself, with a little sigh of relief picked up a book and made her way to a quiet cosy seat in the drawing-room.

CHAPTER III

TRIALS

Ellice Medhurst was full of mystery and excitement as she dragged Bob towards the staircase, anxious to escape observation, leading him to the seclusion of the schoolroom, where they could talk undisturbedly of the new inmate of Oaklands, who had arrived there since Bob's last week-end at home.

"Oh, I say, I do detest her," said Ellice, as she sprang on to the table, placing her feet upon a chair and her face in her hands supported by her arms, her elbows resting upon her knees.

"She looks pretty decent," remarked Bob; "she is a sight better than the one who has just gone. I say, what a shock I gave her, didn't I? She howled like a hyena."

A shout of laughter rippled from his small sister as a memory, mutually considered humorous, roused this expression of mirth.

"I can see her now dancing about, and shrieking, 'Help!—Help!—Burglars!' as if she was being killed," continued Bob, spluttering with amusement.

"And when—you—came—and offered to call father," put in Ellice—"saying, 'What's all this? Whatever is the matter?' I just rushed back into my room and buried my head in the pillows for fear she'd hear me laughing, and guess. Just fancy, Bob, if she had? Wouldn't daddy have been angry?" And as she finished, a more sober expression came upon her face as she pictured unpleasant possibilities.

"If you don't act the little idiot by laughing, no one will guess," answered the boy.

"Of course I do. I don't mean to have a governess at all; I said I wouldn't, and I won't."

"Well, you are a bit of a fool. Nice dunce you'll be when you grow up," came the brotherly response.

"I shan't," flashed Ellice. "I can read all right, and when I get older I'll just study, myself. What's the use of all the silly old arithmetic and stuff?"

"As if I should. Come on; let's fix things," and, creeping softly out on to the landing, and reconnoitring on the staircase, the two stole up to Miss Woodford's room.

Ellice kept guard outside, while Bob evidently fixed matters to their mutual satisfaction. It only took a few moments, and the culprits were back again in their own quarters, their plans duly arranged.

Ellice was wild with delight at the prospect of anticipated fun, as she called it; but in the back of Bob's head there was a little sense of doubt and discomfort.

"She seemed so jolly decent," he muttered to himself; "I hope she won't be awfully frightened. I think you are a little beast to do it to her, Ellice."

"Oh, you don't know her like I do! She was horrid to me, and I'll just pay her out," replied the child.

With this the conspirators went down, ready to behave in an exemplary fashion at tea-time, to disarm suspicion.

Margaret was tired that night in spite of her rest in the afternoon; it was a heavy, slumbrous day, thunder still threatened, and the atmosphere seemed waiting for the refreshment of a cool breeze which might, it was hoped, spring up in the night. It seemed too hot to sleep, and it was quite a long time before Morpheus closed Margaret's lids, and led her into the land of dreams.

It was still dark when she was roused into semi-consciousness by something which at first her senses hardly grasped, then, as full wakefulness came to her, she became cognisant of a soft scraping noise in her room, as if someone might be in her vicinity. She was startled for a few moments, and her heart quickened its beating, as now, fully alert, she listened intently, anxious to discover the reason of the unusual sounds.

This house had held many surprises for her, and she was not quite satisfied in her own mind as to the kind of post she had accepted; but Margaret Woodford was no coward, and therefore she never dreamt of screaming, or getting into a panic, although the noise, which continued at intervals, seemed to come from the ground near her, and each moment to become more distinct.

Suddenly her tension ceased; she had caught the sound of muffled voices outside her room, and in an instant she realised the circumstances. Perhaps her face at that moment would have surprised the culprits outside if they could have seen the hot indignation which surged into it. She waited a little until it died down and she felt calmer, and then, as quietly and stealthily as the enemy, she crept out of bed, and, without lighting the gas, donned her dressing-gown, and, ignoring further preparation, flung the door wide open!

There was the instant flight of a small figure in white, and then Bob, who was stooping down to the floor jerking a string, the end of which issued from under the rug on the landing—Bob, with all the blood in his body seeming to be rushing to his head, rose to his feet.

"Oh, you've tied that to a can under my bed, I suppose?" said Miss Woodford witheringly—"hoping to frighten me? And this is the way you treat lady visitors to your home? And you call yourself a gentleman, I presume?" The tones were scathing—how scathing Margaret scarcely realised herself. "And with childish tricks of this kind," she continued, "you encourage your silly little sister in insubordination."

The door of Ellice's room stood open, and she was listening to every word—"silly little sister." She writhed as she heard the epithet applied to herself; she had felt so clever and important just before, and now she dived under the clothes, cringing with mortification. The sarcastic contempt in Miss Woodford's voice was far worse than the severest punishment Bob had ever endured, and he felt covered with confusion and disgust at his invidious position.

"Go—go to your bedroom at once," finished Margaret, "and see that you don't cause any further trouble."

At this moment Mr. Medhurst opened his door, and inquired if anything was the matter. "Now I shall get it," thought Bob to himself; but he was mistaken. Margaret had spoken in low tones up to now, being most anxious the master of the house should not be disturbed. She was fighting her own battle in her own way, and did not need any court of appeal at present.

"Bob and I both heard a slight noise, Mr. Medhurst," she answered. "But it seems quiet enough now. I don't think there is anything the matter really."

"Cats, perhaps," he answered, smiling; "they do come up these stairs at night sometimes. You are not nervous, I hope, Miss Woodford?"

"Not in the least," she answered. "I think we can all go to bed again satisfied."

"Ah, that's sensible," he replied, adding, as he was in the act of closing his door, "I am glad you came down to reassure Miss Woodford, Bob. I expect you remembered Miss Warner was alarmed in the same way."

Margaret stole a glance at the boy, but he would not raise his eyes to hers, but instead he turned swiftly and fled up to his room. She smiled to herself as she closed her door, then with a little sigh of weariness returned to her slumbers.

CHAPTER IV

INFLUENCE

Sunday dawned fair and sweet. A sharp shower during the night had freshened the garden and watered the parched ground, which had drunk the moisture up greedily, carrying it down to the roots of the grass and already bringing back the resurrection colour to the brown dried blades in the meadows.

Breakfast passed away without incident. Beyond the usual morning greeting, the young people remained very quiet, and gave only monosyllabic answers to Margaret's attempts at conversation.

Ellice was doubtful as to the consequences of last night's escapade; it was one sign of triumph for the new governess that the child was already growing uneasy, uncertain of herself. She had an affectionate nature really, and it cost her something to steel her heart so persistently against this certainly interesting looking girl who had come to teach her. If Ellice had spoken the truth, she could have owned what she would not admit to herself, that she was longing to make friends, and to get a chance of hearing more stories; but having vaunted the fact to James and Betsy that she never meant to have a governess, the cost to her pride prevented her from giving in.

Miss Woodford guessed her attitude of mind, and was determined to wait patiently, although she had been tempted more than once to resign the post; but—and there was always that but—if this was the chosen work to which she was called, there must be no truckling with a faint heart. No looking back after once having put her hand to the plough, however heavy the furrows might prove, or long and dreary the appointed task.

Bob ate his breakfast in the greatest discomfort; he was really burning with a sense of shame, and making up his mind to an unpleasant duty.

The meal over, Margaret left the house and wandered out into the garden. It was a dear old-fashioned place, with grassy paths bowered with pergolas of roses. Great hedges of tangerine and amethyst pea-blooms filled the air with sweetness. Hollyhocks leaned their tall stems against the ancient garden wall, the old brickwork—a dream of subdued colour—forming a rich background to the brilliant hues of the flowers.

Margaret drank it all in with a breath of delight. The place was rife with roses raising their heads in the sunshine, cooled by the dew-drops glistening on their petals. Zinneas in all shades, and geraniums in massed pinks and scarlet, lined the borders, with gleams of orange eschscholtzia and dainty violas all stretching upward to the golden glory of the sky, while around them fluttered the butterflies, and to Margaret's ears came the sweet hot sound of the song of the humming bees and the murmur of insects talking in the grass.

The girl herself gave just the needed touch of human life to intensify the charm of the scene as she stood looking down at the wealth of flowers. One thought filled her mind with a thrill of praise to the Giver of all good, "How can anyone see these wonders of creation, and catch the sweet fragrance of roses, and doubt God's love, I wonder? Every flower that blooms proves that."

Unconsciously the thought filling her heart had been spoken aloud, and Bob, coming softly down the grassy path, approaching her unheard, caught the words and paused a moment, his attention drawn for the first time in his life to the beauty of nature, and the love message it brings.

"I—I'm awfully sorry about last night—I want you—to—know," he said hesitatingly, his face crimson with shame. "Will you try to—to forget it?" he stammered.

"Well, for the future remember you are a gentleman, Bob, and that 'manners makyth man,' and you will find it easier to behave as one. And shall we make up our minds to be friends?" she added, holding out her hand with a winning smile. "Come, what do you say?"

"Rather!" answered the boy, and then, breaking away, rushed with lightning speed to the house.

Later in the day Margaret came upon the young people uninterestedly turning over the leaves of story-books, weary of themselves and each other, and not on speaking terms. She had appeared upon the scene at the close of a heated argument, in which Ellice considered Bob had turned traitor by taking up the cudgels on Margaret's behalf.

When he left her so hurriedly in the morning, Margaret hoped she had gained ground with him; but she little knew that the interview meant a big victory, and that Bob Medhurst's allegiance was won for all time.

"I have a proposal. What do you say to taking our tea to the woods, and then I'll tell you a story, if you like?"

"Oh, yes—yes," exclaimed Ellice, full of animation at once, and forgetful of all her former animosity.

In a few minutes everything was prepared, and the three set off for Wychfield Glade.

It was a perfect afternoon, and Margaret's heart felt lighter as they followed the mossy path which led through the forest to the avenue. Bob's manner showed a subtle change:

"Please let me carry that for you, Miss Woodford," he said shyly, holding out his hand for the tea-basket.

The boy coloured slightly. After all, he was his father's son, and knew the attitude of a young savage was unworthy of him, and the role not really satisfactory to himself, although he was not aware that one of the commands of God given in His Word is "Be courteous."

It was quite good fun hunting for wood and arranging a gipsy fire to boil the kettle.

"Oh, bother! we don't want a Sunday one. Miss Warner tried to make us read a Bible chapter when she was here. We wouldn't, so she read one out loud, and then asked us questions. We didn't answer, did we, Bob?"

"No," replied Bob shortly, but he didn't look at Miss Woodford as he made the admission.

"Oh, it was dry," continued Ellice, "and we didn't understand it. You are not going to do anything like that, are you?" and the child's voice sounded a little entreatingly as she put the question.

"No," Margaret answered, with a smile. "I want to tell you a little bit about the life of a boy whom we read of in the Bible; there is nothing dry in the whole of his history, at least I don't think so. You can tell me what you think afterwards, if you like."

Ellice seemed satisfied with this, and with a good grace settled down to listen. Bob showed no sign either way as to whether he was interested or not.

The hush of the forest was all about them, the wind whispered in the branches of the trees, insects chirped gaily in the undergrowth, and birds and squirrels held busy conclave around their homesteads, but there was nothing to interrupt Margaret Woodford as she began her Sunday talk.

"At an old country house in Kent, when it was under repair, and the workmen were putting down a new floor, in one of the top rooms, underneath the worn-out boards, they found a letter dated 1600, one that had been written to those who lived there centuries before. The letter was so discoloured with age, that although the men who unearthed it stopped their work and stood looking at it for some time, they were disappointed to find they were unable to read any of its contents. But they could not help wondering who wrote it, and what it was all about.

"Now in your home you have got some much older letters than that one. They were written to a young man nearly 2,000 years ago, and you can decipher every word of them, and know where they were sent from, and to whom they were written, and a great deal in connection with the writer. They are such interesting letters that I want to tell you something about them, and then you can read them for yourselves.

"Nearly two thousand years ago there lived in a village in Asia Minor, called Lystra, an old Jewish woman named Lois, and living with her was her daughter Eunice, and her husband who was a Greek, and probably therefore a heathen; and also their little son, a boy named Timothy, and this boy was the one who had those wonderful old letters you have got at home, written to him, all those long, long years ago. You will find them in your Bible; they are called the First and Second Book of Timothy.

"Now, in God's Word we are told something of what kind of a boy Timothy was, and I think if you and I had known him then, we should have been able to say, 'He's not a bad sort,' because he grew up to be a very brave man, and a brave man generally means a plucky boy, doesn't it? We all of us despise cowards, don't we? And so I think we should have liked Timothy."

Bob nodded assent, and even Ellice was interested, although the story was a Sunday one!

"Timothy's home was in a town in the country of Lycaonia," continued Margaret. "The district round it is rather desolate and bare of trees, and as it was not a very big place, I expect it was fairly quiet.

"Timothy would be busy learning lessons in those days, and, among other things, he was taught by his grandmother and his mother the stories in the Old Testament, a great part of which Jewish boys had to learn by heart. One day a great excitement happened in the village, a missionary travelling through the country stopped at Lystra to preach the Gospel, which means good news, that Jesus Christ, the Son of God (Who had lately been put to death at Jerusalem), was their God and Saviour, Who had died and risen from the dead, and gone back to Heaven, and would forgive all their sins, and help them to live for Him, and afterwards receive them into His glory.

"That was good news, and if Lois and Eunice went to hear that Gospel preaching, as I think they did, I know they must have enjoyed it, for we also know that later they both became Christians. The missionary, who came to preach at Lystra, was really the Great Apostle, St. Paul.

"We can picture the boy Timothy standing among the crowd, probably listening to this new teacher, when presently St. Paul caught the earnest eyes of a poor lame man gazing at him, with an expression which seemed to convey to him that he believed all he was saying, and could trust the power of this Great God Whom he preached—the Lord Jesus. And Paul, 'perceiving he had faith to be healed, said with a loud voice, "Stand upright on thy feet." And he leaped and walked.' (Acts. xiv. 9-10.)

"Then the poor, ignorant people, when they saw what was done, cried out, 'The gods are come down to us in the likeness of men.' And Barnabas, who was with St. Paul, and was the elder of the two men, they called Jupiter, and the Great Apostle by the name of Jupiter's son, Mercurius—you know, of course, there are no real gods of those names, only the One true God we worship.

"But these poor heathen did not know that, so their priest brought garlands to crown the Apostles, and oxen to sacrifice to them, and St. Paul and Barnabas were dreadfully distressed, and rent their clothes (a thing Eastern people used to do to show their distress), and ran among them, exclaiming, 'Sirs, why do ye these things? We also are men of like passions with you, and preach unto you that ye should turn from these vanities unto the living God, Which made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and all things that are therein: Who in times past suffered all nations to walk in their own ways. Nevertheless He left not Himself without witness, in that He did good, and gave us rain from heaven, and fruitful seasons, filling our hearts with food and gladness.'

"'And with these sayings scarce restrained they the people, that they had not done sacrifice unto them.' (Acts xiv. 15-18.)

"What a commotion there must have been in the village, the people crying out that the gods had come down from the sky to speak to them, and rushing to help the priest to drive the animal to sacrifice, and bring the garlands to crown the missionaries. Perhaps the boy Timothy saw all this. I think he must have, as it happened near his home, and if so, how interested he would be when St. Paul explained to them about the One true God Timothy had read about in the old Jewish law books—the Old Testament, which had taught him, that 'God made the heaven and earth, the sea and all that therein is.' And if Timothy listened on those other days when St. Paul preached, he must have learned too that the Great God he knew, was Jesus Christ, Who had died on Calvary, and would save him from his sins and help him to lead a Christian life.

"There was something else which happened at Lystra a few days after the Gospel preaching: some men came to the village from Antioch and stirred up the people of Lystra against St. Paul, and persuaded them so strongly against him, that they took up stones and tried to stone him to death. When St. Paul was writing to the Corinthian people long after, and telling them about his life and its sorrows, he said, 'Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned.' (2 Cor. xi. 25.) And that was the time we have just been talking about.

"We can imagine Timothy rushing into the house and crying out, 'Oh, mother, mother, they are stoning the great preacher to death!' and possibly his grandmother and Eunice running back with him to learn all that was happening.

"We know that St. Paul became unconscious, and was dragged out of the city and left by his enemies for dead. But presently the disciples—the Christians who loved him—saw him recover consciousness, and he was able to stand up, and went into the city, and the next day left the town with Barnabas, and went to Derbe. But only for a little while, for he soon returned again to Lystra, and visited the Christians there, talking to them and persuading them to try and be very brave. I think it was no doubt that then Timothy gave up his heart to Jesus Christ, and decided to become his faithful soldier and servant to his life's end.

"I said just now that Timothy was a plucky boy; I'll tell you why I think so. It is not pleasant to be laughed at for our religion, is it? We need a little courage when that happens; but think what it meant to Timothy to be a Christian. He not only risked being made fun of by other Jewish boys in Lystra, but he stood a chance of being put to death by the heathen, the worshippers of Jupiter, who lived in the same town with himself.

"When he was a little older, he joined St. Paul, and went with him on some of his preaching-tours, and was ordained a minister of the Gospel, and was arrested in Rome and made a prisoner just because he was a believer in Jesus Christ. We read in the Bible about his release from prison.

"Later he came to Ephesus, and was made Bishop of that great city while he was still a young man, and in St. Paul's first letter to him he writes and tells him how to manage his congregation; and to tell all the children to be good to their fathers and mothers, and as they get older to try and return some of the care they have received from them, by helping them all they can. He says, 'Let the children show kindness at home, and requite their parents, for that is good and acceptable with God.'

"And then he tells Timothy what he is to be like himself: how he is to show the world—that is, all in his own home, all in his congregations, all in that great heathen city—that he is really and truly a follower of Jesus Christ. He says, 'Let no man despise thy youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word, conversation, charity, spirit, faith, purity.' Six things, you see, in which Timothy could prove his Christianity; six things God wanted of him; six things God expects of us if we are His soldiers and servants. It's no use our saying we love Him, unless we prove it to Him by our lives. I want you two, Bob and Ellice, to think about that for yourselves. Will you love the Lord Jesus Christ?—will you have Him for your King?"

The two appealed to so directly made no answer, but although there was silence, the question had gone home.

"If so," continued Margaret, "prove you are in earnest, for God says, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments.'"

There was silence for a little. Ellice moved uneasily, but Bob sat gazing thoughtfully down the avenue, a new expression of seriousness on his merry face. He was a schoolboy, and not keen on pi talk, but this was different from anything he had heard before. Miss Woodford again took up the thread of the story.

"Now, how was Timothy to prove the reality of his religion in Truth? He was to speak the truth, be honest and honourable in all he said; that was what it meant. Think of that next time you are tempted to tell a lie—will you? God despises lies, He hates them, He calls them an abomination—which is a big strong word, isn't it?

"I know a boy who knew he could not be found out if he told a lie as to the time he had spent preparing his lessons, saying he had given an hour's study to them, because his master would accept his word whatever he said; but if he admitted he had only given ten minutes to it, he would be punished. Yet that boy, when he was asked, 'Did you give half an hour to this lesson as I told you?' answered, 'No, sir.'

"The punishment followed, but when it was over, the boy was happy with a clear conscience—far happier than if he had lied.

"That boy wasn't a prig—a namby-pamby sort; he was a thorough-going, sporting Christian, the same sort as Timothy must have been. The sort God wants.

"We are to be examples of Christians in all we say. Are we always? We fail by exaggerating things sometimes, don't we? Perhaps we declare we hate people when we only don't like them much."

"I know another boy," went on Margaret, "who, when his school-fellows were talking nasty talk, not only wouldn't join in, but said to the others, 'Shut up, we won't have anything of that sort here,' and by his influence stopped it. Even if he hadn't succeeded, in trying he was doing what God wanted, wasn't he?"

"Isn't it a rule in all bands of the Boy Scouts, or at least in some, that everyone should do a kind action, at least once a day?"

"In the paper some time ago, I read, a Boy Scout saw the wind blow over a whole bale of goods outside a draper's shop, and immediately, to fulfil his duty—not to get a tip—he crossed the road, set to work to pick everything up, put it straight, and then went happily on his way. That boy was obeying God's command of love.

"We are also to prove our Christianity by Our Faith. A little girl told her clergyman she knew she was a Christian, because she had asked the Lord Jesus to blot out all her sins, and to give her a new heart and save her. The minister asked her, 'How do you know Jesus heard you and saved you?' She answered, 'Because He has promised to do it in the Bible, and I am sure He cannot break His promise.' In that answer she showed she had faith, she believed in God, and what He would do for her.

"There is one more thing mentioned in Timothy's letter which God wants of us. We are to be Christians, in purity.

"Not only are we not to say impure, or nasty words, but we are not to do nasty things. God is always watching, never forget it, and He says 'Be ye holy, even as I am holy.' And if we think how pure God is, Who cannot sin, we shall see how pure He wants us to try to be, and He will certainly give us strength to resist all such temptations it we ask Him.

"I have read of a boy who was being tempted to sin. His persecutor said, 'I will beat you to death if you do not give up this religion which makes you refuse to do wrong.' The boy answered, 'I would rather be beaten to death than offend the Lord Jesus.'

"The brave answer made his persecutor release him, and not only that, but he began to think there must be some great strength about these Christians that they are able to resist evil. Get your Bibles out to-night, and read for yourselves 1 Timothy iv. 11, 12, a bit of Timothy's old letter, and remember God has sent it to you both, not only to tell you about him, but how to grow like him, and be a good follower of the King of kings."

"History answers 'yes,' for years after, when he was at Ephesus, a very wicked city, where the inhabitants were given up to idolatry, superstition, and sin, one day when he was preaching to a great crowd, they set upon him in their heathen fury and killed him. So you see this brave man, who must always have lived in danger of losing his life, this plucky boy, died a martyr's death—and so gave up his life for the Saviour he had loved so long."

The story was finished, and no one spoke for a little while. Ellice moved away to gather wild flowers, and Bob busied himself throwing acorns at the birds. Presently he said quietly:

"I should have liked to have known that chap, Miss Woodford; seems a pity he's dead."

"And yet alive, Bob, for evermore. Perhaps you will know him in that other life—choose the same King?" she said softly. "Think what an interesting world the next life means, and the number of Old Testament people, as well as New Testament ones, we shall meet—and, above all, Bob, live in the company of the Lord Himself."

"Umph!—I can fancy them all marching singing up to the throne, but I don't think I—shall—ever get in; I shall never be fit."

The boy's voice was husky as he said these words, then he turned over and lay face downwards on the ground.

"If we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness," said Margaret. "You see, He has promised, and He never fails us, though we often disappoint Him—ask Him for yourself"; and with this Margaret went to join Ellice, just pleading silently in her own heart that the Holy Spirit of God would plant and water the seed she had tried to sow, and cause it to spring up into everlasting life.

Half an hour later, when she and Ellice returned with a basket full of wild flowers and fern roots, there was no trace of seriousness about Bob; he just seemed overflowing with fun. Margaret wondered; but she knew how to leave all results with God.

The tea was a merry one—once only Ellice tried to be disobedient. To her utter surprise Bob said sharply: "Shut up, and do what you are told, and don't worry Miss Woodford."

Sheer astonishment held Ellice silent. It looked as if her best supporter was quite going over to the enemy!

From her bedroom window Mrs. Medhurst watched the trio, when they started out to the woods, with an air of surprise.

"Do look, Gordon!" she exclaimed; "Miss Woodford has gone down the drive with Ellice, and Bob has actually gone with them."

"I think I can congratulate you on your choice of a governess this time, Lucille; it really looks as if she'll stay"—and he laughed as he spoke. "Perhaps our youngsters are not much worse than other people's after all," he continued. "You spoil Bob, and I suppose we both spoil Ellice; let's hope Miss Woodford will counteract the mischief."

"Hard, am I? There seems a good deal of necessity, I think; but there, I confess I don't understand boys."

"I wish I was strong; I would love to have taken them out with me like that," said Mrs. Medhurst; she spoke wistfully, with a far-away look of unrest in her dark eyes.

"The garden has done well, hasn't it?" he said. "I did just what you suggested, dear, simply massed all the brightest colours together, and, as you say, Nature seems to be her own best artist, and makes them blend perfectly. You must come with me this evening and see what the rain has done. Now have a rest until tea-time."

He arranged his wife's cushions with deft fingers as of a nurse, and Mrs. Medhurst lay down again upon her couch, while her husband resumed his reading.

CHAPTER V

THE GREAT FIGHT

Margaret was quite sorry when Bob departed on Monday morning to school, for although nothing further was said to assure her, his attitude towards her was evidently changed, and she believed she was now upon a friendly footing with the boy, and at least one of the difficulties of Oaklands was partially overcome.

The days that intervened before his return upon the following Saturday were not of the happiest. She determined to insist upon her charge having special hours for study, and for recreation, and this meant a struggle of wills. Ellice had hitherto had her own way entirely, and any curtailing of that met strenuous opposition.

Monday morning was a lesson in patience to Margaret. Ellice came willingly to the schoolroom, and condescended (for that was her attitude) to give her mind to lessons for about half an hour. For that length of time she seemed docility itself. Bob's words as to her ignorance had rankled in her mind; the child was full of pride, and the idea of possibly being looked down upon as an ignoramus later on was a detestable thought. But half an hour every morning, she had determined, would be sufficient for her concentration.

She worked busily and happily at first, and showed an intelligence which pleased her teacher; then she grew a little restless, and cast furtive glances at the clock. Margaret noticed the slackening of attention, but made no remark. An hour and a half she thought would be sufficient for the first week's morning's work: with such an undisciplined pupil it might be wise to go slowly.

"It's ten, Miss Woodford. I've done enough for this morning. I don't want to do any more."

"Oh, you've only just begun!" said Margaret quietly. "You started at half-past nine; at eleven we will put the lessons away, and go into the woods, or orchard, as you like."

Jumping up from her seat, the child made for the door. But her governess was too quick for her. Margaret had been fully on the alert for a possible attempted escape, and in a moment she intercepted the flight.

"I am sorry, Ellice, but you cannot go yet," she said firmly. "Sit down, child, and make the best of it; only an hour more, and you will be free."

For the second time in her life astonishment bereft Ellice of speech for a few seconds, then her indignation vented itself in words as she stamped her feet in her rage.

"I hate you!—I hate you! I will go out when I want to!' she stormed, tears of passion shining in her eyes, and sobs half choking her.

"Stop that noise at once, Ellice," said Miss Woodford. "I am ashamed of you. Sit down, and understand you will remain here for one hour longer as I said; but unless you obey me now, it will be two."

With an abandonment of temper the little girl flung herself into a chair, throwing her arms across the table and hiding her tear-scorched face in her hands. There was still the sound of suppressed, gasping sobs, which gradually died down into silence. It almost appeared that, wearied out with her own temper, she had fallen asleep.

No sound now disturbed the quiet of the schoolroom, but the tick-tock of the clock on the mantelshelf. Margaret remained silent, apparently reading. Presently she glanced up at the time, laid her book down, and, rising quietly, went and stood by her pupil. Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes as she looked down upon the child whose uncontrolled temper meant such misery to herself.

"Girlie," she said softly, "it is almost eleven, but before you go, I want to ask you to forgive me for being, as you think, unkind and nasty. Listen, Ellice. When your mother engaged me to come here as your governess, she offered me a salary in exchange for giving so many hours a day to teaching you. I agreed to her wishes, and I should not be honourable if I took her money and did not fulfil my promise to do the very best I could for you—can you understand that?"

"But I don't want to be taught," muttered the child; "I can teach myself when I am older."

"If you were allowed to do as you wish, you would find presently, when you were growing up, you would be despised by all the other girls of education, because of your ignorance; you would be behind them probably in everything. I don't think you would like that. From what I have seen of you, I believe you would want to be first rather than last. Isn't that so?"

"Can't you see, child, I want to help you? But you must be willing, and try too if we are to succeed. How proud your dear father will be if his daughter grows up bright and intelligent, and is able to be a companion to him some day! He cares ever so much about that; he has told me so."

"There is something else he cares about; he wants you to grow up sweet and gentle, and to get over these selfish ways—do you know, trying to please and help others always makes people happier than trying to please themselves. You do it, and see. It just makes people love you. Then there is one other thing I want to say; you are very fond of flowers. I know you look at the garden when you go out, and bury your face in the sweetness of the lavender bed, and smell the fragrance of the roses. Just think how God loved you when He made the flowers so sweet to please you—and gave you your garden and the woods and everything nice you love best. You remember the hymn you sing sometimes:

"All things—and for you—and in His word to us He sends you this message—this morning: 'Study to show yourself a workman approved of God.' He has done so much for us, dear—He has given us every good thing we possess. He came to this earth to die for us—to win our love and our allegiance, and He asks us to show our gratitude by making a life-study of how to prove our love to Him, as good workmen. He wants our best. Ellice, shall we both make up our minds to try to give Him that always, to fight against our tempers, our selfishness; to do even the dry lessons as well as we can, to please Him? I have to try too—all the grown-up people who love Him have to fight this battle with self. It is difficult sometimes, and we often fail, but God has promised to give us His Holy Spirit, to enable us to be brave and strong to do good, if we ask Him."

Margaret paused a moment as she gently stroked the child's bowed head with her hand. Then:

"Ask Him now, darling, to help you all your life to be a workman approved of God."

Again there was silence. The old clock ticked those precious moments away, but at the same time registered a child's desire for a nobler life.

The lesson-time was over as the hour struck. Lesson books had not, after all, played a great part in the morning's work; but was not something learned of greater worth?

"Off you go," said Margaret brightly, and, pressing a light kiss upon the tumbled curls, she turned and went out quietly, leaving her charge to her own devices.

When they afterwards met at luncheon, all traces of the storm were past, and Ellice chatted responsively to the governess she had intended earlier to hate for ever and ever.

CHAPTER VI

OLD FRIENDS

Nothing was allowed to disturb Dr. Crane during his breakfast-time; his wife took her meal in silence, while he studied his letters and newspaper. This morning was no exception to the general rule, but suddenly he laid down his correspondence, and said abruptly:

"To tell you the truth, I've never felt quite satisfied about her going to that post she accepted. I really owed it to her father to find out what kind of people her employers were."

"Well, dear, she didn't give you much chance of doing that. You remember she answered the advertisement, and got the situation through an agency, and we knew nothing about it until everything was settled."

"Yes, but I still feel I ought to have made a point of inquiring personally. Does she seem happy?"

"I don't know about happy—I should imagine not very; one can hardly expect that, perhaps—but she mentions the people are kind, and the country lovely. It is evident she is leading a quiet life; her employers for some reason seem to wish to live in retirement."

"Now, I wonder why? I don't quite like that fact," said the Doctor, a little testily.

"Why, John, surely you are unreasonably suspicious; the child is evidently in a comfortable home, and I think must be interested in her work, or she would not have stayed so long. I made her promise to come away to us at once if she found anything wrong—in fact I asked her here for the holidays in August."

"Oh, I'm glad you did that!" he interposed in more satisfied tones. "And what does she say?"

"I think she fears it would be painful to see the old home again so soon; she says she has been asked to stay where she is, and she would rather remain, and in fact she does not need rest yet."

"I hope it is all right then," answered Dr. Crane. "Ask her in your next to tell you everything unreservedly about the people, and if she is quite content? Seems strange Woodford's daughter should be out in the world like this, doesn't it?" he finished musingly.

"Yes—and how different it might have been if Jack—had—lived," said Mrs. Crane sadly.

"Our hopes were certainly shattered in more ways than one," he assented, with a sigh; "but, old lady, we wouldn't have it otherwise, would we? God called him for the service of his country, and when a man answers that call in His Name, all must be well. You miss the boy, I know—and well—so do I, more than I can say; but we are getting on, and it will be a grand homecoming when he stands, as we know he will stand, with outstretched hands to welcome us on the other side. I expect we shall be glad then he went over there first; what do you say, old dear?" he finished gently, and coming round to where Mrs. Crane sat, the tears slowly coursing down her cheeks, he stooped and kissed her forehead.

"Thank you, John," she answered. "I forget sometimes the joy that is coming, the waiting seems so long, and yet it's a lovely thought, the King may come into the air any day bringing our darling with Him. There is nothing necessary to be fulfilled before that event, is there?"

"No, I think not; scripture gives us nothing, but we must wait patiently, and be content with God's time and choice."

"'At midnight, eve, or morning,
We may hear the victory song.
Filling the heavens above us,
From Redemption's white-robed throng.'"

"I wish there were more stricken hearts comforted with the Thessalonian promises," he answered thoughtfully. "I am amazed at the numbers of people I come across in my profession who are apparently content to live their life as if it were the fulfilment of all hopes and ambitions, and not merely a pilgrimage here, an incident in eternity; but there, I must be off to the surgery," he concluded, suddenly changing the subject as the clock struck nine. As he was closing the door, he called out hurriedly:

"My old friend Hatherley is coming down here in August to spend his holiday with us."

Then gathering up her correspondence, she went to interview cook. A thought was in her mind to write Margaret a long motherly letter of sympathy, giving her all the home news of interest she could think of, and especially the Doctor's message.

CHAPTER VII

BOB IN TROUBLE

Weeks drifted into months, and Margaret, much to the satisfaction of the inmates of Oaklands, was still at her post. Mrs. Crane had written and invited her to spend the summer holiday with her in August, but the thought of seeing the Abbey House again seemed more than she could bear just then, and so her old friend's invitation had been refused, and Margaret stayed on in the new environment, each day becoming more necessary in the home of her employers. Another letter had arrived from Mrs. Crane this morning, which yet remained to be answered when she felt there was more news to write about.

The one big fight to gain ascendancy over her pupil had been worth while. It is true Ellice did not give up her opposition without some further struggle, but her wilfulness never again carried her so far. Lesson-time became more pleasant both to governess and pupil, and gradually all thought of direct disobedience passed, sulky silence presently giving way to an interested co-operation.

Mr. Medhurst was not unobservant as to the friendship springing up between Margaret and his small daughter, and was well pleased with the way things were going. His wife spent most of her time in her own room, although she was not a confirmed invalid. She did not give herself much chance of knowing or understanding her children's characters, but she could not help noticing a subtle change in Ellice.

Summer days were quickly passing away, the plentiful green brambles which grew so luxuriantly on the common had ripened into a rich berry harvest; the dainty gossamer houses of the spiders glistened on the hedgerows, the tiny ropes of which caught Margaret Woodford's face as she walked quickly across the spongy turf to the woods. She brushed the irritating threads aside, an anxious expression clouding the usual brightness of her countenance.

She had come away from the house this morning perturbed in spirit, and more worried than she liked to admit to herself. She had not waited to find her pupil, but was wanting to be alone and have time to think quietly. That something serious had happened was easy to see from the trouble discernible in her face. She had had a wakeful night, and a not too pleasant interview with Mrs. Medhurst this morning.

The evening before she had gone up to bed early and sat reading for some time in the quiet retreat of her room—Mr. Medhurst had not returned from town, Mrs. Medhurst had dinner upstairs, and Ellice was in bed. It was Wednesday, and Bob would not be home until the week-end, the September term having just begun.

Upon putting down her book, Margaret had gone to the dressing-table and opened her small jewel-box to put away the brooch she was wearing. For a few moments she had stood still, gazing helplessly at the case before her, astonishment depicted upon her countenance, her expression gradually changing to consternation, as she grasped the unpleasant fact that her beautiful ruby necklace—her mother's chain of rare jewels—the heirloom which had descended to her—was missing.

Then, with fingers that trembled a little, she had turned the box upside down and shaken out her other jewellery upon the table, although it was obvious the chain was not there. She remembered having taken it out the previous day, and carelessly left it lying on the dressing-table. Hastily she opened the chest of drawers and swept the contents aside, hoping to find it had been placed in safe custody by Betsy. Then she had stood up, looking down upon the disorder she had created among her possessions, her breath coming a little gaspingly as she murmured to herself:

"It is gone—stolen——" And a thought, so ugly, so disconcerting, had rushed unbidden to her mind, making her heart beat unpleasantly at the mere suggestion which came as a flash of illumination, to be followed by a cloud of doubt, which enveloped her mind and filled her with untold misery.

She had come to this house a stranger, she had been kindly treated, and had grown fond of the young people who had entered into her life. The household had appeared a strange one, and things had puzzled her. Now something of bitterness sounded in her voice as she spoke her thoughts aloud.

"I trusted them—I trusted them all," and now—the fact could not be doubted, it had to be faced, and faced bravely, she had been robbed, it seemed, by someone in this house who must be a thief. And yet—Could she think it of any of them? The very suspicion sent the hot blood surging to her face—she had felt shamed by the idea of doubting her friends—for they had now become that to her. Even Betsy, the old and valued servant, had lately been ready to do anything for her, and James, too, did many little things which added to her comfort.

She was miserable and upset when she lay down to rest; she did not suspect anyone particularly, and yet the horrid fact that the jewels were gone could not be got over.

Margaret awoke the following morning with a headache; much of the night had been spent in restless, wakeful tossing. Not until the sun was shedding its soft beams through her lattice window did she fall into a troubled sleep.

Immediately after breakfast she asked to see Mrs. Medhurst, and poured out the story of her loss into sympathetic ears.

"My dear Miss Woodford, no wonder you are upset," she said. "Your beautiful necklace you showed me one day—you remember—gone? I can scarcely believe it. I can assure you there are no thieves in this house—at least I have every reason to believe Betsy and James to be above suspicion, they have been so many years in our service, and we have so trusted them—but of course one can never say one is perfectly sure. I suppose you have searched everywhere? Could it have fallen behind the dressing-chest?"

"No, I have looked; I don't think I have left a corner unsearched," answered Margaret. "I have not mentioned the matter to Betsy; I thought it better to speak to you first; I should not like to offend or hurt her, or James, by letting them imagine for a moment I suspected them."

"Quite right, my dear; I think the bare questioning would upset them; and my husband will be deeply concerned; I almost think I would say nothing about it to him just at present, he is not very well, and I am certain it would worry him. I quite expect you will find it somewhere. The children would not steal. Ellice might have looked at it, but beyond that——" and Mrs. Medhurst shrugged her shoulders expressively, denoting the impossibility of her child being implicated in the loss. "My little girl is troublesome, Miss Woodford, I admit it, but—not a thief," she added coldly, with a quick glance at Margaret's face, and a note of almost challenge in her voice.

"Oh, no—no, Mrs. Medhurst, I do not think little Ellice has had anything to do with it," answered Margaret. "She has come into my room sometimes with me, and looked at my things, but I am quite sure she would not dream of taking anything—please do not suppose I imagine it for a moment?"

"Ah, well, let us leave the matter for a little, and both of us keep our eyes open; at present I can see no explanation, but I have no doubt you will find your necklace. I should not mention the matter to the child, but have another good search. Ellice can be very troublesome, and she may have hidden it; if so, she must be punished."

Margaret could get no further definite help or suggestion from Mrs. Medhurst—in fact the above conversation had given her an uneasy sense of discomfort; it seemed as if her hostess, although she had sympathised, almost doubted her loss, and considered her personal carelessness was alone responsible.

This morning, as she made her way across the fields, she felt homesick, and almost wished she had never accepted her present post. Mrs. Crane had written more than once to ask if she was happy, and if everything was satisfactory in connection with this household. In fact, now she thought things over, it appeared as if some possibility of her environment not being satisfactory lurked in the minds of her old friends. In her last letter Mrs. Crane had said, "Be sure, my dear child, to tell me exactly all your views, and just what this situation means? Are the Medhursts the right kind of people? Your previous communications are rather vague; give us your full confidence—you know how dear you are to us. The Doctor wants especially to hear if you are quite content in every way with your surroundings; if not, be sure and come away to us at once."

Margaret had smiled when she had first read the above. Mrs. Crane's evident anxiety about her had seemed quite unnecessary at the moment; but now, in the light of her loss, she wondered if her old friends could possibly have heard anything disquieting about Oaklands.

"I won't answer that letter just yet," she murmured to herself. "What would they think if they knew? But oh, how I wish I could ask their advice!" She walked on unheeding the glory of the trees flushed with harlequin tints, and the rare sweetness of the fresh, hill-cooled breeze which swept over the common, dying into stillness and warmth as she entered the shelter of the woods. She presently sat down by the old oak, and, opening the book she had brought with her, tried to lose herself in the troubles of the heroine of Stepping Heavenwards, where the daily round and common task is so naturally described by an author who realised how truly these things furnish all we need to provide a battleground for those of us fighting the fight of faith, on our way towards home.

A rustle in the brushwood near presently roused Margaret's attention, and to her utter surprise Bob's face peered through the wooded density, and in another moment he had pushed his way into the open and flung himself at Margaret's feet.

"You, Bob!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "Why—where do you come from? This is only Friday—you are not due until to-morrow."

There was no answer. The boy had thrown himself face downward upon the mossy turf, and buried his face in his hands.

Margaret waited for a little, then, realising this meant something of moment to the boy, said gently:

A sound like a smothered groan fell from the boy's lips, then, bending her head, she caught the words:

"Yes, I guessed so. Can't I help you?" she added, the rare sympathy of her voice reaching his ear.

The boy rolled over, and sat up, and something she saw in his face filled her with a nameless anxiety.

"Tell me all about it. I—-I shall understand," she said kindly. "However bad it is, don't be afraid."

"Miss Woodford, I'm often in trouble, as you know," he said, a little bitterly. "I can stand a licking all right, but—but my father never seems to think—to think I try. He never believes in me; he's told me I'm a rotter so—often. He's fond of Ellice—but sometimes I think he hates me——"

"Oh, no—no, don't say or think that for a moment," broke in Margaret, a great pity tugging at her heart. "He doesn't quite understand, that is all. You must go on trying, Bob, however hard it is. You will win his regard yet—I am sure—sure."

"He will never forgive me for this. He won't listen to explanations. I got in a rage about something this morning—I can't tell you what for—a boy said something, and I knocked him down. I had a cricket stump in my hand—and—I hurled it at him. I think for the moment I was mad with indignation; I don't quite know what happened for a minute. I think I was blind with rage. I just rushed away afterwards to the edge of the field to get alone. Later a prefect came and told me the Headmaster wanted me. He gave me this note to deliver to my father, and sent me home with it. He said—I'd hurt—the boy—he'd been unconscious. He asked me to explain what I did it for—but—I couldn't."

"Yes—I think he would have understood; he's just—but I felt I couldn't. I would not repeat the boy's words—I should have got mad again."

"Poor Bob, I am sorry, dear! Now what can you do? You have a note there, you say. Your father comes home early to-day; let's go at once and tell him—tell him everything and get it over; perhaps he will understand."

"No—he won't, because I can't tell him; if I could, he would, because my father is a gentleman."

Something that sounded like pride echoed in the boy's voice—pride of the right sort—pride that spoke of a secret admiration for the man who yet had never troubled to fathom the depths of his boy's heart.

Margaret felt a hope for better things spring up within her as she noted it. Oh, if only she could bring these two together in a great bond of friendship! The wife and mother seemed a little more aloof, her half Spanish nationality a little bridge always to be crossed, where national character and custom might be at variance. But the boy and the man were essentially English; the strong control evident in both, with a reserve which hid, as she felt sure, hearts of gold.

"Miss Woodford, I would rather—rather run away than face my father with this." The boy spoke a little desperately, and the fingers which held the Headmaster's note trembled as he thrust it back into his pocket.

"Bob, I know you are no coward," said Margaret gently; "to run from a difficult post is coward's work. You won't do it, I know. You are trying to be a servant of Christ; isn't that so?"

"Think a moment of what the Captain of your salvation did for you—when the suffering of Calvary had to be endured, and the agony of the cross lay before Him. It says, speaking of Him, He set His face like a flint. He could have escaped that last journey to Jerusalem, have gone back to the glory of His Heavenly Father's home, but for your sake He chose to suffer and to die. Bob, His message to you at this moment seems to me to be some words I read in His Book this morning: 'Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.' The Holy Spirit, Who filled the heart and life of the Saviour, can come upon you, and make you brave and strong. Ask Him now."

Pressing the boy's hand, Margaret moved a little away, and as she gazed upwards to the blue sky gleaming through the branches overhead, she lifted up a silent petition to the great Friend of all mankind. Her own burden lightened as she laid that of another pilgrim at the feet of Christ.

"Yes, it's late," she answered, neither looking at the boy's face, nor appearing conscious of an apparent change of atmosphere from the excitement of distress to normality. But the quiet, even tones of the boy's voice gave her confidence.

It did not take long to reach home; lunch was just being laid. James paused in astonishment as he saw the two enter the hall, but a look from Margaret silenced the words on his lips.

"In the library, miss," answered James, and moved on to his duties in the dining-room.

"Bob wants to speak to you, Mr. Medhurst," she said, by way of explanation, and then moved to the window, leaving the boy facing his father. She caught the quick look of surprise deepening into a swift survey of the boy's form as if to ascertain if there had been an accident and he was unhurt. Margaret realised the unspoken anxiety, although it was but momentary. The man was evidently not indifferent to his son's welfare. That cursory glance gave her hope, but even she was scarcely prepared for the sudden change of aspect which now swept over him, his countenance visibly darkening as he said:

"What do you want?" and the icy coldness was enough to estrange any young heart anxious to unburden itself.

A shiver ran down the boy's back as he heard it, for a moment his courage failed, and he stood staring at the stern face in front of him, his own white with the tensity of the moment. Then he pulled himself together, "Endure hardness as a good soldier"—the words rushed to his brain. He raised his head a little more as if to cast away fear with disdain, then, taking out of his pocket the Headmaster's note, he handed it to his father.

"Dr. Armstrong sent me home—and told me to give you that," he said, in a low but clear voice.

Something of a sneer lurked on his father's lips as he took it, then, as he read the contents, his brow contracted with a heavy frown. Fear, deadly fear, came to Margaret as she heard his voice, of, it seemed, concentrated wrath as, with a wave of his hand, he said:

The boy turned white and hopeless, but Margaret, with real terror in her heart, sprang forward:

"Mr. Medhurst, please—please excuse me speaking in Bob's behalf, but I am sure, if you knew all the circumstances in this trouble, you would find it in your heart to forgive him," she pleaded.

Mr. Medhurst was too much of a gentleman not to be courteous to a woman, though he could scarcely brook interference.

"You are the counsel for the defence, I perceive, Miss Woodford, but I'm afraid you have no case; perhaps you don't understand my son—my son in blind passion has struck a schoolfellow with a cricket stump and injured him, apparently without provocation, as far as the Headmaster has been able to ascertain."

"And do you believe that, Mr. Medhurst—believe it of your son? You don't know Bob fully yet. Your son could never behave like that; to him, a schoolboy, it would not be cricket, would it?"

"That's the gist of the matter, perhaps," he answered; "he is my son, and I expect a decent spirit from him."

"Then let him explain the circumstances, Mr. Medhurst; don't punish him until you have heard everything—it is only justice."

"Quite true. Can you deny these facts?" asked Mr. Medhurst, tapping the Headmaster's statement, and now addressing Bob, who, at Margaret's intervention, had paused near the door.

"There you are, Miss Woodford, I have followed your advice," said Mr. Medhurst, with a short sarcastic laugh. "You see, the boy has no excuse worthy of consideration; he's ashamed to bring it forward."

"Yes—I am—that's true," broke in Bob. "Don't bother, Miss Woodford; I know I can't escape."

"Bob, you can—you must," Margaret insisted. "Whatever it is, tell your father; trust him, trust him with the full story, and he will understand—I know he will," she said eagerly.

Even Gordon Medhurst was moved by the girl's confidence. Was it possible she was right, and this son of his was not the wastrel he feared and believed?

"I struck the boy Johnson in a passion because—because he said, I ought to be turned out of the eleven because—because——

"Because my father was a—a gaol bird; then—I hit him—I hit him hard—and I didn't care how hard."

There was a breathless pause which could almost be felt. Margaret was afraid the others would hear the loud thumping of her heart as the long moments passed. Then in a voice from which it sounded as if all feeling had passed, Mr. Medhurst said quietly:

"Did you believe the boy's statement?" asked Mr. Medhurst, still in that dull, toneless voice of indifference.

"Believe him, father!" The light of indignant scorn flamed into the boy's eyes and rang in his voice: "Believe him, believe that of my father!"

Mr. Medhurst suddenly leaned forward, a new expression in his face, an interested alertness in his voice.

"You knocked him out, evidently. I don't suppose he'll offend again, though I fancy his father may object. This may mean a doctor's bill, but never mind that, I expect there is no serious damage. You had better stay at home until Monday, and meanwhile I will write to Dr. Armstrong. And another time, keep your temper, my son, and treat such remarks with the cold contempt they deserve. I think we must be better friends in the future, eh?" he added. The kindly smile which lit his face as he spoke these last words transfigured it; tears glistened in the boy's eyes.

Margaret left the room hurriedly, a great hope and joy tugging at her heart; for the first time since she came to Oaklands she had seen an expression of affection pass between father and son.

CHAPTER VIII

DISCOVERY

It was a month now since Margaret's necklace had disappeared, and she had almost given up hope of its recovery. Mrs. Medhurst still advised her to continue the search, but to refrain from troubling Mr. Medhurst, as he had so many business worries, and would, she felt sure, be upset by the loss.

"Of course, it is wiser to keep the matter from the children; they can know nothing about it. I have always trusted Betsy and James, they are such old servants, and nothing of the kind has ever happened before. I have questioned them, dear Miss Woodford. We must both watch and wait; still, somehow I feel sure you will recover the jewels. I still think you must have mislaid them. I feel so worried about your loss, I believe I could find it." So she had argued.

Margaret smiled at the suggestion of her having put the necklace away and overlooked it. She had searched her boxes more than once, and turned out all her drawers, and now, anxious to soothe Mrs. Medhurst's anxiety, she promised to go over them all again.

It was Monday evening, Ellice was in bed, and Mr. Medhurst had not yet returned from a day in town, and Margaret (deciding it would be very comfortable to take a book and read in her own domain) went upstairs determined to have an extra rest. She passed Mrs. Medhurst's room on her way, and as she did so a slight sound attracted her attention.

To her amazement she saw the flash of an electric light, and then caught sight of a figure bending over the dressing-table and evidently gazing intently at something she held in her left hand, while with the right she concentrated the beam from her torch upon the object of interest.

Margaret stood silently watching for a few moments, petrified with astonishment as she perceived what it was the light was concentrated upon.

There was no mistaking her employer's beautiful figure. The door was wide open, and the girl was unnoticed by the occupant of the room, who was apparently so absorbed she did not notice the light tread as Margaret suddenly advanced to her side. The room was partly drowned in shadow, but a bright beam of moonlight lit up the two, the one so unconscious of the other's presence. Then a sharp cry burst involuntarily from Margaret's lips as she darted forward and caught Mrs. Medhurst's wrist in a firm grasp.

"You—you!" she exclaimed, almost a ring of anguish in the indignant tones of her voice.

A startled exclamation broke from her employer, as the lost necklace fell from her nerveless fingers.

"You—you the thief, Mrs. Medhurst? Oh, I could never have dreamed it possible!" said Margaret agitatedly. "You—who pretended such sympathy, and help! No wonder you said you believed you could find it." The last words were bitter in their reproach.

Mrs. Medhurst had somewhat recovered herself, although she clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. Then she stepped back a pace and drew herself up to her full height, and, forcing indignation into her voice, answered haughtily:

"I think you must be mad! How dare you accuse me of such things! I will send you out of my house at a moment's notice if you repeat here, or to anyone else, your absurd accusations."

Margaret was almost stunned by the answer; she felt herself falling into an awkward position, although the certainty still dwelt in her mind that in this superbly elegant woman before her she had discovered the thief she had been looking for.

"If you did not take the necklace, Mrs. Medhurst, can you tell me how it comes to be in your possession?" she asked quietly.

Meanwhile another figure had come softly up the stairs, and now stood in the doorway, a silent listener to the conversation.

"I can easily answer that question," answered Mrs. Medhurst, with a short, contemptuous laugh. "I went out into the garden a few moments ago to get a little cool air, it has been so stifling to-day, and as I walked down the drive I saw something which looked bright in the moonlight. I picked it up, and discovered it was your lost property. I meant to give it you in the morning; you had better take it now." With this she stooped and gathered the gemmed chain into her hands, and held it out to Margaret with a little cold smile.

Margaret took it with shaking fingers, the ready words of gratitude which would ordinarily have sprung from her heart at its restoration seemed frozen upon her lips. There was a moment's tense silence when each looked into the eyes of the other, and then, almost unconsciously, the glances of both, as if by intuition, turned towards the door.

There stood the master of the house, his face drawn and white, an expression of silent misery on his countenance, as he looked steadily at his wife. A start—and a smothered groan escaped her.

In a flash the woman's whole demeanour changed; with a cry almost like that of a tortured animal, she sank down at Margaret's feet.

"Oh—I've broken—my promise. I couldn't help it—— I—I—-was so tempted," she moaned. "It was—so—lovely—I just wanted to have it—to look at sometimes—— Gordon—Gordon, forgive me!—it shall—be the last time—I promise——"

"Get up," he answered sternly, giving her his hand—and, helping her to rise, he led her to a couch, where she buried her head in the cushions, smothering the sobs which shook her frame.

"Miss Woodford, you now know the tragedy of our lives," he said bitterly. "We place ourselves in your hands; we have no right to ask your mercy. Perhaps you would—like—to—send for the police," he added slowly.

"But—why—you? It has nothing to do with you, Mr. Medhurst!" she replied, in amazement.

"I shall give myself up, and admit the theft to whoever may offer an arrest," he answered.

"No, Miss Woodford—of course you cannot. I will explain: My wife has made a similar mistake before, and I have served some months in a world behind the scenes. You must understand," he continued, almost fiercely, "I am ready to serve again." Then, turning towards Mrs. Medhurst, he said, "Hush—hush, Lucille; you will be ill if you excite yourself so."

All his sternness had vanished, lost in an infinite pity as he bent over his wife's couch.

"Gordon—you shan't suffer again. Tell her to go and give information—I will be here, and I will admit I took it. Tell her to go—go quickly——"

Slowly great tears welled up into Margaret Woodford's eyes, as she saw and heard the true nature of the secret of Oaklands, and understood.

The quiet man stood out in heroic light, and yet to him how small a matter the punishment inflicted by the law to the daily dread—the covering of the old fault—and the daily, hourly strain to prevent a further fall. Yet here it was in all its hideousness, displayed to Margaret Woodford—the one outside element who had been received into a stricken house.

For a moment emotion held her silent, and then, with quick steps, she moved across the room, and sank down by Mrs. Medhurst's couch.

"Don't—don't cry—you poor—poor woman! You have restored my property," she said gently—the tears rolling unbidden down her sweet face. "Dear Mrs. Medhurst, how you must have suffered—and to think you thought I would ever say anything. Oh, I can't bear to dwell upon it! You must let me help you in your trouble—and the necklace? Of course you liked to look at it—everyone does—and you may take it whenever you like, and keep it all your life, if you wish—I shall never ask for it——"

"You would do that for me—a thief?" gasped Mrs. Medhurst, starting up from her pillows, and gazing with amazement at the girl before her.

"Yes, yes—indeed I would—I offer it freely: don't doubt me. You have all been sweet and good to me—do you think I forget? If there is a secret to be kept at Oaklands, remember I am a member of this household now—you welcomed me into your home—and the mystery can remain always unsolved by the outside world, so far as I am concerned."

There was silence in the room for a few minutes; Margaret still knelt by Mrs. Medhurst's couch, gently chafing her hands, while the other cried quietly with an abandonment of grief difficult to overcome.

Presently Margaret rose and gently released the cold hands she held, and turned to leave the room.

Mr. Medhurst's voice arrested her footsteps. As she reached the door, he took one stride towards her, and held out his hand: "We can never, never thank you sufficiently for your generous attitude of mind, Miss Woodford. I don't understand why you spare us?"

"Mr. Medhurst, the reason is, we are all answerable to the same Master," she answered gently, as she accepted his hand.

"One Who gave us this command for all time and all ages, 'Bear ye one another's burdens and so fulfil the law of Christ,'" she replied.

"It is an order of the King of kings sent to me by His servant, and I love to try and obey it—because——"

Mrs. Medhurst's sobs had ceased now, and except for the ticking of the clock, there was silence in the room. Then:

"I wish I could say those words; a practical faith such as yours must mean the peace of God which passeth understanding, of which I have heard, but never experienced," Mr. Medhurst said sadly.

"Those who seek always find, if they seek with all their hearts—and oh, Mr. Medhurst, in all the big troubles of life, as well as the small ones, that peace is always a reality to us when we trust; we only get faithless when we look down at the difficulties, instead of up to Him Who never fails. Good night," she finished—a little hurriedly, almost afraid she had said too much. Turning swiftly, she vanished into the darkened passage, and went to her room. She was a good deal shaken by all she had just been through, and a feeling of exhaustion followed the excitement. She understood now the nature of Mrs. Medhurst's failing, and the loyalty of her husband who had borne the burden of his wife's disgrace. The reason for their life's seclusion in this quiet little place was fully explained. Society, and his old friends, had broken with the man who had endured imprisonment, and the wretched woman who had been pitied, and yet shunned by the set who once were proud to associate with her, had willingly left them to drift into obscurity.

Fortunately the children were young in those first days of trouble, and their father was most anxious the shadow should not fall upon them if it could be prevented. His son he intended sending abroad when he was older, and his little daughter might be guarded for many years in her own home. Her education had always been a difficulty, for her mother's lassitude and spoiling had nearly wrecked the charm of a naturally generous and affectionate disposition. Father and son had always been antagonistic. The strain and sorrow of Mr. Medhurst's life had caused an irritability at times which had dulled any sympathy and understanding he might have felt for Robert.

To this strange household Margaret Woodford believed she had been sent upon a work of ministry for the King Whom she acknowledged as the Overlord of her life.

As she sat now in her room, thinking of all the difficulties of her present situation, an intense longing to be faithful arose in her heart. It was a wonderful thought, that for service she had been selected to serve just here—chosen—and called—it was almost as if the King had said, speaking of this particular post: "Who will go for us?" and she had answered, "Here am I, send me."

For a moment she sank upon her knees, and an unspoken prayer arose to the Throne of God: "Give me wisdom and strength by the power of Thy Holy Spirit to be faithful." She knew the way might yet be difficult, and there would no doubt be many future trials to bear, but with a quick transition of thought the hymn lines, so simple in their direction to God's people, flashed into her mind:

"Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed?
To do the will of Jesus, this is rest."

and in the calmness engendered by that thought, she lay down to sleep that night, content to leave all to the guidance of Him Who is not only the Everlasting Father—and Prince of Peace; but the Mighty God—and Counsellor.

CHAPTER IX

A BOND OF UNION

In spite of weariness, human frailty, and, sometimes, lack of faith, Margaret's ministry for the King Whom she loved was a real one. She was conscious of unworthiness, and had a sensitive dread of being considered one who talked religion, and posed as a religious person. She knew only too well that she herself was among the sinners who have all fallen short of the glory of God; but she believed in the greatness of the Saviour's redeeming power, and His willingness to accept as His servants all who turn in repentance to Him. Frances Ridley Havergal's lines just expressed her need, and the faith He asks of all of us:

"Jesus, I will trust Thee,
Trust without a doubt,
Whosoever cometh
Thou wilt not cast out."

She could never have quite said when she first believed that. Gradually the knowledge of God's love had come to her; from His own Word rather than from any other source she had found the truth as it is in Jesus. He Who had stood before the great Galilean crowds of men, boys, women, and young girls, and cried, "Come unto Me all ye that are weary and are heavy laden," so calling all the world to find their happiness in Him—had called her—and as a young schoolgirl she had responded to that call, giving Him back the answer He asked: "Jesus, I will trust Thee, help me by Thy Holy Spirit to be Thy faithful servant."

She needed no priest to intervene, but, like the woman who met the Lord by the well of Samaria, she found her Saviour alone, and He spoke through His Word to her heart. The natural and only outcome of that meeting of sinner and Saviour was a desire to henceforth live to His honour, and again, like the Samaritan, she felt the desire to tell others of the God Who had won her love by His own.

Someone had asked her once to explain what was the difference between the professing Christian and the kind, good-living man or woman who did not profess faith in Christ.

"To me it is like this," she had answered. "Before I became His servant, when I did wrong I did not particularly care unless it brought trouble to me personally, but after, when I consciously sinned, I was miserable, because I felt and knew I had dishonoured Christ. As we read of Peter, after his denial of his Master, he went out and wept bitterly—that last word 'bitterly' shows the meaning, I think; his tears were not for his own trouble, but they were tears—bitter tears of shame and regret that he had failed towards the One Who had loved and trusted him."

Margaret's explanation had silenced the critic. The true followers of Christ repent their failures, while their grief is often hidden from the eyes of man. But the Lord lifts up the fallen and gives strength for the needs of the battle, not only for to-day, but until the warfare is over, and then the servant of God enters into the presence of his King, and in His righteousness is presented faultless before His Father's Throne.

It is just a wonderful religion—glorious, all-satisfying to the inner cravings of every restless heart—so Margaret Woodford had found it, and her little work of gratitude and returned love just went on day by day, like the stone which is cast into still waters, and causes the ripples to extend and overlap until they come to the edge of the surface, and touch the land. Thus the little words, little actions, done for Christ's sake will pass on and on until they find their consummation in eternity, in that country from which comes the promise, "I will not forget your work and labour of love which ye have showed for My Name's sake."

And this message of love and mercy Margaret carried in different ways to all the inmates of Oaklands, even into the seclusion of Mrs. Medhurst's life.

It was not an easy matter to approach the latter, but, finding her one day in an abandonment of grief, Margaret knelt down by her side, and with real sympathy just drew her towards the secret of eternal rest.

Mrs. Medhurst had listened to all she said and had not been offended, and from that day onwards it became a little added work to spend half an hour, or sometimes an hour, in reading and talking to her employer of the things she loved.

"And you can forgive me? Forgive what I did, and come to me like this!" had been Lucille Medhurst's astonished cry. "Miss Woodford, if ever I can believe as you do, it will be because I see your religion is a reality," she had said.

"It will be by the power of the Holy Spirit, Mrs. Medhurst," was Margaret's answer, "for we cannot come unto God except by Him, and He draws all who are willing."

"Miss Woodford, may I show you something?" said Bob, as he entered the schoolroom one day at the close of a cold winter's afternoon and found Margaret and Ellice busy working, sitting by a lovely log fire which spluttered and sent out lively sparks as the flame travelled up the chimney.

"Oh, I say, it is jolly warm here!" exclaimed the boy, as he flung himself down by the hearth. "I am tired, I can tell you. It's a big trudge up the hill after the train gets in."

"Oh, yes—don't I know? I remember my first drive here. Shall I ever forget it?" laughed Margaret. "I wondered whenever I was coming to the end; it seemed a tremendous distance in the dark. But never mind that, you said you had something to show us——"

"This," answered Bob, drawing from his pocket a triangle design worked in silks within which a unicorn ramped, a Latin motto pressing its feet.

"Oh, Bob, your colours! How splendid! I am glad—and First Eleven too! Won't your father be proud of you?"

"Don't mention it to him, please," said the boy, colouring. "He thinks me such a rotter at work, and he may be vexed—and think I waste my time at games——"

"You have no eyes, old boy, or you wouldn't say that. Didn't you ever notice your father reading the cricket news in the summer? Don't make any mistake, I'm nearly sure he's a sportsman, and don't you doubt for a moment but he'll appreciate your success. A boy doesn't get his first 'eleven' colours without some trouble, perseverance, and grit. Just show this to Mr. Medhurst, and see if I am not right?"

At that moment there was a tread of footsteps outside the room, and then a knock, followed by the opening of the door.

"May I come in, Miss Woodford?" said Mr. Medhurst, as he entered. "You sound lively in here."

"Hush!" interposed Margaret, shaking her head at the eager child, who immediately stopped short in her sentence with, "Oh, I am not to tell."

"Bob's got, what?" asked Mr. Medhurst, turning to his son, with interested face, from which the thunder-clouds of old days were absent.

"Only this, father," he said awkwardly, placing it in Mr. Medhurst's outstretched hand.

"What—colours! Yours? First Eleven? Well done, Bob! I am pleased! I congratulate you; it's something worth having—reminds me, too, of old days," he finished, with a laugh.

"Well, little lady, I suppose I did; was School Captain one season; if I remember rightly, just missed my blue at the 'Varsity by a bit of bad luck."

The two, father and son, in many ways so much alike, forgot all their old reticence towards each other, and were soon deep in the stories of old triumphs of the field, henceforth bound together by a great sympathetic bond never to be broken.

Margaret sat and listened with a double interest, watching life-barriers broken down, barriers which had so nearly wrecked the happiness of a home.

CHAPTER X

FIRE

Margaret seemed to have found her niche in the little parish of Wychcliff, where she had come as a stranger in the first days of her great sorrow. Oaklands had now gradually become a second home. The dread secret she shared with her employers was jealously guarded, but often in the solitude of her room it would stare her in the face, and bring a cloud of depression over an otherwise happy day.

The better understanding between Bob and his father, which had begun with the school trouble, had been a great relief to her mind: the domestic atmosphere of the whole house had been brighter and more congenial since that day. But words spoken then, and not much heeded at the time, had often recurred to her mind afterwards, at first with a sense of shock.

Bob's schoolfellow had said he was the son of a gaol-bird. This announcement, coming so quickly after the loss of her necklace, had presented an ugly possibility, and at first she had not been able to shake off the misery of doubt concerning her host, and yet when she had looked at his face, and studied his personality, she had been ashamed of the wretched suspicion which had dared to lift its ugly head. In her heart of hearts she had not really doubted him—there was something indefinite in this man which breathed a hidden nobility of character. Margaret had felt she could only hope, and pray that the mystery might some day be fully explained to the world. Mrs. Medhurst had not again alluded to their confidences in regard to the loss, and Margaret felt she did not like to bring the subject up again, for fear of causing sadness. Then the unpleasant incident in connection with Bob, in spite of all her efforts to forget it, worried her more than she cared to admit to herself, for although she understood in a measure the truth concerning her employer, she felt all was not quite clear.

Ellice's moods were still variable, and at times the patience of her governess was sorely tried. A ramble in the woods and "tree-stories," as she called them, often drove the stormy clouds away, and gradually a real affection sprang up in the child's heart for the teacher who could be firm and, in spite of provocation, could keep her temper.

It was a great asset—that keeping calm. There was never a scene of violence, for Margaret did not need the use of hot, angry words to stem the torrent of passionate outbursts which even now sometimes fell from the child's lips. At such times Ellice was transformed from a charming, affectionate little person into a spoilt, unpleasant, and objectionable child.

But if her temper was bad, her repentance was real; she would just fling herself into Margaret's arms after a storm, and exclaim, "Oh, Miss Woodford, I was nasty!—I hate myself! I don't know what makes me so horrid—I seem as if I can't be good." And just because the battle was great, Margaret's sympathy went out to her charge, and gently, gradually she led her to fight daily against the second self which troubled her, and also to pray for strength in the battle.

Ellice would sometimes begin her tantrums (they could be called nothing else), and suddenly remember—yes, remember—with a pang of remorse for her defection, God's own word, "Better is he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city." In an instant she would rush away to the window, and, clenching her hands tight, and fixing her eyes upon the sky, she would send a cry from her heart to the Throne for victory. It was a silent cry.

Margaret guessed the greatness of the fight as she watched the little girl's battling for control, her figure tense with emotion. But God, Who reads the secrets of every heart, heard the unbreathed words, "You—you Who love me, now while I am bad, help me not to say the nasty words, and to conquer"; a child's prayer, but how precious! Slowly but surely her character was strengthened, and the sweetness of disposition predominated over the wilful selfishness which had formerly held full sway.

It was at this period of her life that something occurred to break up the quiet serenity of Oaklands. The place was very isolated. The parish boasted a tiny church, one of the very smallest in England, standing on the edge of the woods, and encircled by about a dozen cottages, the older inhabitants of which had never left their native hills or seen the railway. A state of things marvellous indeed in this century of movement, but none the less true. Oaklands was the only house of any standing in the neighbourhood.

The vicar of Steynham came once on Sunday and held a service in the church; beyond that, visitors rarely found their way to this little old-world hamlet, where Time had swept away most of the traces of a former civilisation which in past days had dwelt in the vicinity of the great forest. Nothing but a waterless moat and a ruined wall remained to mark the spot where a bishop's palace had once been. The Elizabethan residence bearing its name Oaklands, redolent of the forest district in which it stood, was quaint and picturesque. Its leaded windows, gables, and oak-panelled frontage, with massive beams running across the ceilings of the rooms, and handsome wainscotings to the walls, gave it a quaint, old-world air.

The farm was such a poor one, that when the last tenant had died, the place had remained empty and out of repair for a long time, and it was through an advertisement that the Medhursts had first heard of it and had decided, in their search for a home far from the madding crowd, to do it up and live there in strict retirement.

Margaret awoke one morning to a sense of oppression which at first seemed to cloud all her faculties. A great lethargy pervaded her whole being; then an unpleasant difficulty in breathing caused her to struggle, and she awoke. Panting with the effort, she became conscious of a suffocating sense of smoke choking her mouth and nostrils. Margaret Woodford was always resourceful, and as the fact impressed itself upon her mind that there was danger and difficulty, with an almost superhuman effort she roused herself sufficiently to slide out of bed and stagger to the door. As she opened it, she was met by an increased density of smoke which, with the draught from the staircase window, poured into her apartment. But a rush of sweet fresh air from a landing window revived her, and, crossing to Mr. Medhurst's room, she rapped at the door, saying in a low voice, "Can I speak to you, please?" Quietly he responded, but as he opened the door her news was understood instantly.

"I will fetch Ellice, and call Betsy," Margaret said, and, without waiting for any answer, she entered Ellice's room and, speaking reassuringly to her, picked her up in her strong young arms and carried her out on to the landing and down the stairs to the drawing-room, which seemed free from all taint of fire.

"Stay there; don't move, child—I shall be back in a moment." With this she ran again up the smoke-laden staircase to the second landing and Betsy's apartment.

Mr. Medhurst meanwhile was experiencing difficulty in arousing his wife; he knew her heart was not strong, and was anxious not to alarm her more than was necessary.

Unfortunately Betsy had been awakened by hearing the unusual sounds of movement in the house, and as Margaret came up the staircase to her room, she opened her door, to be met by the increasing volume of smoke.

With senseless panic she threw up her arms and shrieked wildly, "Fire!—Fire!" The wild cry rang through the house, and in a moment Mrs. Medhurst was all too effectively aroused:

"My child!—my child! Save her!—save her!" she cried, as, clutching her husband's arm, she emerged on to the landing.

"She is safe, Mrs. Medhurst—downstairs; let me help you," said Margaret gently, going to her further support; but in a moment Mrs. Medhurst staggered back against her husband in a fainting condition. A moment more, and James came to his master's aid, and between them they carried her downstairs.

"It is all right, child, your mother feels faint; now be useful—put a cushion nicely for her," said Margaret's quiet voice, as the terrified child met them at the entrance.

Margaret and Betsy set about restoring Mrs. Medhurst while the master ran to the cottages nearest for assistance. More quickly than in ordinary times it would have seemed possible, the men arrived with pails of water brought from the horse-pond. No fire-engine was available nearer than six miles, and a grave danger which has come to many an isolated farmhouse now threatened Oaklands.

The smoke was issuing in volumes from a cupboard in the pantry, but no sign of flame came from there. Quickly Mr. Medhurst ran his hands over the surrounding walls, only to find they were unaffected.

And James was right. The picturesque oak beam which crossed the kitchen chimney was, in the structure of the house carried down at the back of the old range, and this had evidently become ignited. Why it had endured its torturing position so long without kindling, no one can say. Now, as Mr. Medhurst ran his hand over the walls circling the mantelshelf, he came upon a spot which was red hot.

"There it is!" he exclaimed, and with a few blows of a pickaxe a man tore an opening in the brickwork, quickly to discover fire raging fiercely where the old beam was fully alight. Pails of water, and an old garden syringe (which was the only thing in the nature of a hose to be found) soon did their extinguishing work, and presently the scent of charred wood and a broken wall were the only signs of the grave danger which had threatened Oaklands.

"God's mercy it didn't brak out airly in the neight," muttered a thoughtful helper; "the ould place would a ben burnt to a cinder."

The results of the fire were not so happily over as the inmates thought. From that day Mrs. Medhurst's strength seemed to fail her, and Mr. Medhurst and Margaret both saw the coming change which was to completely alter the life of everyone of the household.

It was in the glory of August days of sunshine that Mrs. Medhurst grew daily weaker. Although sickness had taken away her almost royal beauty, and left her outwardly little resemblance to the handsome woman who had first welcomed Margaret into her home, there was now a sweet expression upon the patient face of the invalid. Sorrow had touched her deeply, but in the trouble she had turned to One of Whom it is said, "He knows what lies in the darkness." And into the darkness of a thraldom, the chains which she of herself could not break, He Who alone can set the devil's captives free, had broken the fetters which had bound her.

"God knows what a temptation I have had at times, Miss Woodford," she had whispered, finding relief at last in pouring her story into sympathetic ears. "Jewels attracted me so by their luxurious beauty. I stole some beads when I was a little child, and later a watch with pearl initials, and later still other small things I hid, and was afraid to wear—and for years I deceived my friends. Then my father found out I had something which a friend staying at my home accused me of taking—and—and—he turned me out—and it was when I was trying to earn my living I met my husband first. I never told him my weakness for fear he would turn from me, and I had no strength from Him you tell me of—He Who is mighty to save——"

"And forgive," whispered Margaret gently. The tears came into Lucille Medhurst's eyes.

"Yes, I know now. You have shown me His love, and I can go to Him without fear."

"It is not all my story—but—I have told Him—my Saviour—and the burden is gone."

"I will do anything I can," said Margaret, with tears of pity, as she lightly pressed the patient's hands.

Mrs. Medhurst closed her eyes, and an expression of relief fell upon her face. Gently and peacefully she passed into the new land of God's Love, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.

CHAPTER XI

AN OLD CRIME

With a thoughtful air Horace Hatherley put down the newspaper, where he had been studying the column of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and with an expression of abstraction gazed out into the garden in front of him, deep in retrospect.

"What's the problem, Hatherley?" asked the newcomer, pausing by his chair as he spoke.

"A name here" (indicating the newspaper upon his knee) "has brought back old days, and a dramatic episode to my mind."

"This is in confidence," he said seriously—"there is something I should like to share with you; as I said, a name long unheard, as far as I am concerned, has caught my eye, and brought back an old doubt to my mind."

"You may trust me," said Dr. Crane, sitting down, and pulling his pipe out of his pocket, which he lighted with a taper ignited at the glowing fire in front of him.

"I see here," began Horace Hatherley, "the death of Lucille Medhurst"—picking up the paper again and pointing to the announcement as he spoke.

"Slightly—I met her first upon her wedding day. He—her husband—was—my—friend."

"Then you know something of him now? Excuse me asking, but Margaret Woodford from the Abbey House here, went to that man's home as governess when her father died—he failed, you may remember?"

"What do you know of them? As a matter of fact, I've been a little worried," continued Dr. Crane, "that my old friend Woodford's daughter went to their house: whispers have reached me of some mystery attaching to the place. It certainly seems an out-of-the-way spot for a man, whom I believe is a gentleman of means, to live in."

"Yes—he's wealthy, but there is a reason—but remember, Crane—I repeat it, if I divulge to you Medhurst's story, I do it in confidence. He was my friend—and I am his friend while I have breath."

"I quite understand, and will fully respect the confidence whatever it is," answered Dr. Crane. The last words—"I am his friend"—and the warm tone of the speaker's voice, had done a good deal to reassure the listener.

"Medhurst was at school and college with me, one of the best and straightest chaps one could ever meet, and we were closely in touch with one another after our 'Varsity days. Then he went abroad for a few years, travelling for the sole purpose of seeing the world—money, of course, being no object. We corresponded at first, and then it dropped, and I lost sight of him, until he surprised me one day by writing to announce his approaching marriage with a girl, half Spanish by birth, whom he had met abroad, and who was staying with friends in town at that moment.

"Well, to make a long story short, I was invited to the wedding, which shortly after took place, and in fact to be Gordon's best man. It was then I saw Lucille Don Rosa for the first time, and I was not surprised at my friend's infatuation, for she was a very beautiful girl, but with a proud cold beauty and a detached air which made me wonder even then if my friend had made a mistake in his choice.

"However, time passed, and I saw little of them; they lived in a society whirl, and I was, as you know, a hardworking student scarcely in their swim. Then quite suddenly tragedy closed their door of happiness. Lady Crosby held a big reception, they were among the guests, and I, probably through their influence, received an invitation.

"The thing wasn't in my line, but I decided to accept. There was a big crowd, and a Miss Vandevor, an American heiress, was present, wearing a very famous ruby necklace. Of course detectives mingled with the crowd. Before the evening was half over all exits were closed, and it was announced that Miss Vandevor's necklace had been stolen—unclasped from her throat in the crush.

"The suggestion was then made that we men should turn out our pockets—and, Crane, I can tell you this, during those moments I received the biggest shock of my life, for Medhurst, before any detective approached him, took the gems from his pocket, and in a dead kind of voice said, 'I see it's hopeless to escape, so I admit I was tempted.' He laid the necklace in the owner's lap, and then stood motionless, facing the crowd almost with a defiant expression it seemed to be, although he was white to his lips.

"His wife fainted dead away, and was carried from the room. I was stunned for the moment, then I moved to his side, and expostulated.

"'My dear old chap,' I said, 'you don't know what you are saying; there's a mistake somewhere—some thief present has evidently dropped the thing into your pocket.' It was an illuminating thought, and I turned to the public and made the suggestion loudly. 'Surely someone has seen this done,' I added, with great assurance. 'No, I took it—I coveted its possession, and I am ready to bear the consequences,' was his answer."

Dr. Hatherley paused, then continued: "Well, the whole horrible story was repeated at the trial, although I urged a plea should be put forward for sudden aberration of the brain, in my confidence as to my friend's innocence; of course no one heeded me, and he was convicted and—and—suffered—a—nine months'—sentence."

Horace Hatherley's voice shook as he finished, and for a little neither of the men spoke, then he resumed: "Mrs. Medhurst was practically ignored by her so-called friends, and vanished, I know not where—probably to this out-of-the-way place you mention. No one seemed to remember her after the first whirl of excitement was over, and as to the husband, his memory seemed to be blotted out by most of those who had known him.

"But I say this, Crane, I am as confident to-day, as I was at his trial, that in some way there was a miscarriage of justice, and somewhere in the world may live the man or woman he was screening. It seems hardly just to suggest it, but the thought will come sometimes—could it have been his wife? And yet, poor lady, I have no reason for doubting her. Seeing her death announced made the whole thing come back to my mind with revivified force."

"It's a wonderfully sad and yet interesting story," he remarked; "I will of course keep it to myself, but had I known this earlier, I should certainly have tried to save Margaret Woodford from going to employers with this shadow over them."

"Oh, you needn't worry," said his friend, a little testily, "or I shall be sorry I told you; you may take it from me, any woman would be safe under the care of such a chivalrous gentleman as Gordon Medhurst. There is a mistake somewhere; I hope in some way—God's way, perhaps—his name will be cleared."

It was some weeks later that Dr. Hatherley noticed another announcement in his morning paper which brought a fervent "Thank God!" to his lips as he read it. It was headed:

"Through her lawyers the late Lucille Medhurst wishes it to be known that she alone was responsible for the loss of Miss Vandevor's necklace ten years ago; her husband, who suffered the full penalty of the law, was wholly innocent. Her full confession is in our hands."

"I always knew he was innocent," said his friend, laying the paper down with a sigh of relief.

CHAPTER XII

HAPPINESS

The tragedy of Mrs. Medhurst's death had wrought many changes. Ellice had been sent away to a boarding-school at Margaret's suggestion, and she herself had gone to live with Mrs. Crane as companion—but, as that lady put it in her letter, "more as a daughter of the house than a dependent, dear—the daughter I have always wanted to take care of us in our old age."

Mr. Medhurst went abroad for a few years, and then something new and unexpected happened which changed the lives of all the inmates of Oaklands.

Under the old oak tree a girl sat, her head buried in her hands in an abandonment of grief: it was Ellice Medhurst, no longer the little child who had in earlier years fled to the woods to soothe her childish griefs, but a tall girl of fifteen, merging into womanhood. Near her stood a young man looking down upon her with rather a puzzled countenance, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.

"Because it won't be anything to you—you will be off to college directly," she answered, "and I shall be left with her. I won't bear it, Bob—I can't. I know I shall hate her—and father will—will never think of me—now," she ended with a sob.

"Look here, Sis," said her brother, after a slight pause, "I think it's mean of you to take up this attitude. Here's father coming home to-day, and because he's chosen to marry again, you are putting yourself out, and making up your mind to be as beastly as you can to her—his wife, I mean. I know you—you can be nasty when you like—at least you used to be," he corrected. "You've been jolly decent lately; now you are going to spoil it all by being mean."

"To father, of course," was the emphatic answer—at Ellice's amazed repetition of the words. "You are going to spoil all his happiness by taking up this role of being injured. Dad will, of course, want you to like her—the message in his letter is plain enough, 'I hope you will do your best to give us both a welcome'—and all I can say is, whatever you do, I mean to go home and receive them. Come on, Sis, pull yourself together! It doesn't say much for your love for dad, if you set out to cause him trouble like this, and spoil his happiness. Be nice; very likely she won't be half bad. I expect she dreads seeing us quite as much as we dread seeing her. What's the honour of keeping smiling only when things are pleasant? Come on—get over it. I'm off; it's nearly time they arrived."

There was silence for a moment, and Bob stood fidgeting by his sister, then in half-disgusted tones he said:

"I can't wait any longer for you; if you won't come—you won't." And with a quick stride he turned and made his way down the avenue towards home.

For a few minutes longer the struggle for victory went on in Ellice Medhurst's heart, then suddenly she jumped up with the muttered words, "I'll try; Bob must be right." She ran lightly down the path after him, and caught him up at the edge of the wood.

"Well done, young 'un!" he answered. "Come on, we must run, or we shall be late."

"Here they come!" shouted Bob, as two figures turned into the drive—a smothered exclamation escaped him as he rushed to the front door.

Ellice did not follow immediately, her knees were shaking, and she felt strung up to such a pitch of mental excitement she hardly felt capable of following Bob at first. Then suddenly she heard her father's voice saying, "Where's Ellice?" The reaction came immediately; she flew to the door, and threw herself blindly into her father's arms with a smothered sob.

"Why, ladybird, what is it?" he said, stroking her hair gently. "Look—have you no word of welcome for my wife?"

The girl started, raising her head, and looked wonderingly into the sweet face of her old governess. Then the great fact dawned upon her mind—Margaret Woodford, whom she loved, was the new stepmother she had dreaded.

"You?—You?" she exclaimed, clasping the hands extended towards her. "Oh, how lovely!"

"I think you can see the reward of other years now, can't you?" whispered her husband, and Margaret did see, and was wondrously content.

Two months passed quickly away—two months of unalloyed happiness to Margaret in her new life.

It was her birthday, and she stood looking out upon the frost-clothed lawn glistening in a bath of winter sunshine, waiting for the others to come down to breakfast. It was November—cold, still, and bright.

Presently she felt her husband's hand upon her shoulder, and heard his voice saying:

"Many happy returns! Here is my double present for your wedding and your birthday," and he placed an important looking envelope in her hands.

At first Margaret gazed at the packet uncomprehendingly, then the nature of the gift became clear.

"The Abbey House!" she exclaimed. "You have bought the Abbey—House—Gordon?"

"Yes, the late owners are going abroad and wanted to sell, and at last I have got what I have been hoping to have the opportunity of purchasing for some time. We will go there to live, dear, as soon as you like."

"Oh, I don't know how to thank you!—it is beyond my wildest dreams," answered Margaret. "I so loved the place. But, Gordon (the brightness fading a little from her face), how will Ellice like leaving Oaklands? She is just as attached to it as I was to the old home."

"I know," answered Mr. Medhurst; "we will keep it, dear, and come out here in the summer months. Betsy and James can remain in charge."

"That will be splendid, and please us all," she answered quietly, adding, as if to herself, "I sometimes wonder why God has been so bountiful to me."

We leave Margaret Woodford, while yet the ministry of life is unfinished, and her future and that of her loved ones an unwritten page, knowing that for her and all God's servants, the promise remains unshakable—"I will be with thee all the days. When thou passest through the waters, they shall not overflow thee."

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