The summer had waned away; the autumn tints were already on the trees, and the light of the September afternoon was growing feeble and uncertain, as a dainty little figure scrambled out of the low carriage that had drawn up before the neatest and most ideal of English cottage homes. Lady Eleanor More stood at the garden wicket to receive her friend, and behind her in the doorway was to be seen a tidy, white-capped little old woman.
"So we have got you at last, Elsie; and here is the prison where you are to be confined at hard labour, and this is your gaoler, Mrs. Nugent. How do you like it all?"
Elsie was delighted, and could find no words in which to thank her kind patron. Everything was charming, and everything had been arranged with that thoughtful consideration which nothing but real affection produce.
The old man and woman with whom Elsie was to be lodged, for the present at least, were established pensioners of the Waterham family. They had known and sorrowed for Elsie's mother, who had stayed with them for a few weeks after her unfortunate marriage. Thus the orphan felt almost at home, and was rejoiced to find that a little room had been set apart for her private and special use.
Nor was it designed that Elsie should become a mere dependent. Fortunately enough a vacancy had recently occurred (by marriage) in the mistress-ship of a small school situated close to the gate of Burnham Park, and almost opposite Nugent's cottage. This was the sphere of labour for which Elsie was destined. The school was a neat, well-cared-for place—the special hobby of Lady Eleanor, who seldom let a day pass when at home without visiting it. Here Elsie Damer at once commenced her labours. The children were bright and clean, and had evidently been carefully taught by her predecessor. Miss Damer was also a welcome acquisition to the village choir; and those were among the happiest moments of her life when she let her rich, clear voice ascend in songs of praise to the throne of Him who had guided her all her journey through, while her dear friend and second mother presided at the organ.
Elsie's only care was about Jim. She had seen him in Belfast looking worn and anxious. His letters had never been complaining, nor were his words so then; yet he could not conceal the fact that his position was by no means satisfactory. But this cloud too was soon to be cleared away. The earl had been favourably impressed with the lad, and was highly amused when he heard from his daughter a somewhat toned down version of the foolish conduct which had resulted in his resigning his situation. In the course of a year after Elsie's establishment at Burnham, a post of some responsibility in the earl's rent office became vacant, in which we find Jim shortly afterwards comfortably installed.
And here ends our tale. Elsie Damer's life is after all only beginning, and doubtless she will have her trials and sorrows. Not for ever can she be the young girl living in that sweet rose-covered cottage. Indeed, before we lose sight of Elsie, there is rumour of a coming change. Mrs. Nugent said, "It's a shame to take you from us, Missie, but every one likes a spot of their own, I suppose; I know I did in my time." And Robert Everley, the head-gamekeeper's strapping son, who was settled now in one of the home farms of Burnham, blushed and looked apologetic as the earl hailed him one day, "Hey, Bob! what's this I hear about you, lad? I wonder what Lady Eleanor will say to it, stealing her godchild from her."
"I couldn't help it, your lordship," replied the embarrassed Bob.
"Well, all I say is you are a lucky fellow, and Elsie might have done worse too."
But whatever lies before our Elsie, she has deep stored within her that hidden peace that the world knoweth not, and which can smooth over, as with holy oil, the roughest and most sudden-rising of life's stormy waves. The discipline of the past had moulded and set, without unduly hardening, the lines of her simple, cheerful character. Looking back to the earliest dawn of her recollection, she believed herself able to trace a golden thread through all. The ideal of calm beauty and purity which the child's vivid imagination had developed out of the dim memory of her drowned mother's face had been her good angel, and had led her, by sweet, insensible gradations, up to Him of whose glory all earthly beauties are but the far-off reflection. From first to last she had lived in the consciousness of the Unseen Presence, and no words better expressed her simple faith for the present and for the future than those of her favourite hymn—
"The King of Love my Shepherd is,Whose goodness faileth never,I nothing lack if I am HisAnd He is mine for ever.****"And so, through all the length of days,Thy goodness faileth never;Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praiseWithin Thy house for ever."
THE END.