ROSE IN TROUBLE
AUTUMN had given place to winter, a wet, depressing winter with rain and westerly gales, and the flat country between W— and Oxford was flooded. There had been almost incessant rain for weeks now. And Mavis, as she sat at the little table by her bedroom window engaged in writing a letter to her mother, which she was taking great pains to spell correctly, considering every word, glanced at the leaden sky every now and again, in the hope of seeing a break in the clouds.
"I don't think we ever had such bad weather in London," she reflected. "But perhaps I didn't notice it so much there. What will happen, I wonder, if the floods go on increasing? We seem almost surrounded by water as it is."
By-and-by, Rose came to the door, wanting to know if her cousin had nearly finished her letter.
"Yes," Mavis replied, "I'm ending up now. Come in, Rosie."
So Rose came in. The two little girls had become very friendly by this time, for, though there was a difference of two years in their ages, in many ways Mavis appeared as old if not older than her cousin, no doubt because she had always been to a great extent in her mother's confidence. Rose had lived her twelve years in a home where she had had every comfort. Whilst Mavis had known times when she and her mother could not have told from what source the wherewithal was to come to provide them with the necessaries of life, and yet God had never allowed them to want, He had given them always sufficient for their needs.
"What is the matter, Rose?" said Mavis, as, having put away her writing materials, she turned her attention to her cousin, who stood at the window with an expression of gloom on her face.
"Nothing more than usual," Rose answered, in a tone which implied that she generally had much to bear. "Mother's been scolding me," she proceeded, as Mavis continued to look at her inquiringly. "She says she's most dissatisfied with the progress I'm making at school, that if I'm not careful you'll soon get ahead of me, and—and I can't help it, if you do. I try to learn, Mavis, but I'm so slow, and—oh, you mustn't think that I'm jealous of you, for I'm not!"
"Of course I don't think that, Rosie," Mavis replied, greatly distressed at the sight of her cousin's tearful eyes and quivering lips. "It wouldn't be true, if you did. I told mother that Miss Matthews said it was quite likely you would be raised into my class next term. I thought she'd be pleased; but, instead, she was angry with me, and called me a dunce. Perhaps I am a dunce," Rose admitted, with a sob. "If I am, I can't help it."
Mavis did not know what to say. She was aware that Rose learnt with difficulty, and that her mother was frequently impatient with her for being so slow, which seemed to her very unkind. And she had looked forward to being in the same class as her cousin, because she thought it would be pleasant for them to do their lessons together.
"Miss Matthews knows that I try to get on," Rose continued, in the same aggrieved tone. "She never complains of me, and I don't consider mother ought to have scolded me, just because I'm not so sharp as other girls. She doesn't worry Bob about his lessons like she does me. Bob's her favourite, and he can do nothing amiss. I declare I won't try to learn any more, for mother's sure to find fault with me, anyway! It's most unjust."
"I don't suppose Aunt Lizzie understands how hard you try to learn," Mavis said, putting her arms around Rose and kissing her flushed cheek. "Don't be unhappy about it, dear. You do your best, I'm sure."
"That's why I feel it's so hard mother should be cross with me, Mavis. I don't idle my time away, like some of the girls at school do, and—and she says I must, or I shouldn't be so backward." Rose brushed away an angry tear, and choked back a sob. "Let us talk of something else," she said. "You've been writing to Aunt Margaret, haven't you?"
"Yes. Aunt Lizzie said I might enclose a letter with one she has written. I wonder how long this rainy weather will last, Rosie."
"Father thinks we shall have a change soon, for the wind is getting more northerly; it's been due west for weeks. If we get frost now the floods are out, we shall have fine skating; you will like that, Mavis?"
"I can't skate," Mavis answered. "I never tried."
"Oh, we will soon teach you. I am looking forward to a long spell of frost, like we had last winter."
"Are you? We thought that frost was dreadful in London, because it made things so hard for the poor—they don't feel the wet so much as long as it's mild, but when it's cold and frosty, the distress is terrible. Last winter, not far from where we lived, a poor old woman was found dead on a doorstep; I couldn't sleep for nights afterwards for thinking of her."
"How shocking!" exclaimed Rose, in an awe-struck voice. "Had she no home?"
"No. There are hundreds and hundreds of people in London without homes. Mother knew a great many poor people, and it used to make her so sad when she couldn't help them. Often they'd come and tell her their troubles, because, you see, being poor herself, she could understand better than if she had been rich," Mavis explained, with a wisdom beyond her years.
"Were you, then, very poor, Mavis?" Rose inquired, wonderingly.
"Yes," nodded Mavis; "but we always had enough to eat, though sometimes it was only bread-and-butter. Once we couldn't pay our rent, and mother was in great trouble about that, but Miss Tompkins was very kind, and said she would willingly wait for it. And then, mother had a good engagement to nurse a rich old gentleman for a few weeks, so Miss Tompkins hadn't to wait long."
"Why didn't your mother write to father for some money, Mavis?" asked Rose. "I am sure he would have been very pleased to send her some."
"I am sure he would, too, now I know him. I don't know why she didn't write to him; perhaps she did not like to bother him, yes, that must have been it."
"Father says Aunt Margaret has been a wonderful woman to do as she has done, with no one to help her," remarked Rose.
"God helped her," said Mavis, simply; "mother says He helps all who trust in Him."
"You tell Him all your troubles, don't you, Mavis?" Rose asked. Then, as her cousin nodded assent, she said, "I don't mean only great troubles, but little ones?"
"Oh yes."
"Well, I don't. I just say my regular prayers twice a day, and that's all. I don't feel God's my Friend, like you do."
"Don't you? Oh, but you should. I'd tell Him everything, if I were you."
"What, that mother's vexed with me for being slow at school, for instance?"
"Yes. God knows you do your best, Rosie, if Aunt Lizzie doesn't. I'd ask Him to make her believe it, if I were you. Mother says when we've told God our trouble, we oughtn't to worry about it any more, but just leave it to Him, and He'll be sure to put it right."
"Do you really think that?"
"Of course I do. He has promised to bear our troubles, and you know it says in the Bible, 'there has not failed one word of all His good promise.' I'll show you the verse, if you like."
"It astonishes me that you should be so religious," Rose observed, after a few minutes' thought, "because you're such a merry little soul as a rule, always singing about the place and ready for any fun, and I thought religious people were generally very solemn."
"Oh, do you think so? Mother says religion ought to make people joyous and happy, and that it's mistrusting God to be gloomy and sad. That's why I've tried not to trouble about her leaving me; but sometimes I haven't been able to help crying when I've thought how far she's gone away, and then I've felt so bad about it afterwards."
At that moment heavy footsteps, easily recognizable as Mr. Grey's, were heard ascending the stairs, and a minute later came a knock at the door, and a voice outside called—
"Mavis, I've news for you, my dear."
"News?" Mavis sprang to the door and flung it open wide. "Oh, Uncle John," she cried, as she saw her uncle standing smiling at her, "do you mean that you have news of mother? But no, it cannot be that!"
"Yes, it is, child," Mr. Grey responded, "and good news, too. The 'Nineveh' has arrived at Sydney. Your mother's in first-rate health, and Miss Dawson is better. I've had a letter from Mr. Dawson, and he has had a cablegram from your mother. It seems, he promised her he would let us know as soon as he heard from her. It is very good news, isn't it?"
"Splendid!" cried Mavis, her face aglow with happiness. "How kind of Mr. Dawson to write to you, Uncle John! I never guessed we should get news so soon, did you?"
"Well, I thought it just possible," Mr. Grey admitted, "but I didn't say a word about it, for fear you should be disappointed. Mr. Dawson is evidently in high spirits, judging from the tone of his letter. And I don't believe your mother would raise his hopes about his daughter, if she had not good cause for doing so. The change of climate may really set up the poor young lady's health, after all, and I sincerely hope God may spare her life. Her father has my sympathy. I know how grieved I should feel if I had to send my little girl away from me, especially if she was ill."
And Mr. Grey smiled affectionately at Rose as he spoke.
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged and kissed him again and again, exclaiming the while—
"Oh, you dear father! You do love me, don't you, just as much as though I was clever?"
"Bless the child, yes," he replied, with his hearty laugh. "Why, Rosie, there are tears in your eyes. What's the meaning of that?"
She would not tell him, however, and he was wiser than to press the question.
Meanwhile, Mavis had gone in search of the other members of the household to impart her news to them. Her heart was singing with joy, and her aunt thought she had never seen a brighter, happier pair of eyes than those which peeped around the kitchen door to see if she was there.
"Such good news, Aunt Lizzie!" cried Mavis, and she proceeded to explain what it was.
"Thank God they have made the journey in safety!" exclaimed Jane, who had stopped in the midst of the important business of stove-cleaning when the little girl had appeared.
"I do thank Him," Mavis answered, softly.
"How relieved in mind Mr. Dawson must be!" exclaimed Mrs. John. She was rubbing the contents of the plate-basket with a piece of chamois leather, her usual task on a Saturday afternoon. "Poor man, I sympathize with him greatly," she continued, "especially as Miss Dawson is his only child. How grateful he will be to your mother, Mavis, if she brings him back her patient restored to health!"
"Mother will take good care of her," Mavis responded. "She's a capital nurse, every one who knows her says that; but only God can make Miss Dawson well."
"That's so," agreed Jane, with a nod, as she returned to her stove. "I don't believe that child ever forgets that God's above all," she remarked, as Mavis left the kitchen to look for Bob, to impart her news to him. "It's to be hoped she'll always remember it."
"She's a strange little thing," her mistress answered, "so very childish in some ways, and in others thoughtful beyond her years."
A GREAT GIFT
THE heavy rains had ceased, and there had been several nights of hard frost, which had covered the flooded meadows surrounding W— with a thick coating of ice.
"The ice will bear to-day," remarked Mr. Grey, one morning at breakfast. "I believe we're in for a spell of dry weather. You must look to your skates, children, for, if all's well, you'll get some skating now."
By the following morning—a Saturday—the ice was in splendid condition, and the young people of the village spent nearly the whole day on it, as well as many of their elders.
Mavis had been supplied with an old pair of skates which had belonged to Rose, who had bought a new pair the previous season. And during the morning, her uncle gave her, her first lesson in skating; but he was called away on business in the afternoon, and she was left to her own resources. She got on by herself fairly well, and managed to keep her feet unaided; but it was slow work, and she grew tired and cold long before her cousins were ready to leave the ice. By-and-by she divested herself of her skates, and declared to Rose her intention of going home.
image004
SHE WAS LEFT TO HER OWN RESOURCES.
"What, already?" cried Rose. "Why, how cold you look! I'm most beautifully warm. You don't want me to go with you, do you?" she asked.
"Oh no," Mavis replied, "certainly not. I don't think I've got on badly. But I can't skate fast enough to keep warm like you, and my feet are so cold, there's no feeling in them. Otherwise I should like to stay and look on."
Rose nodded, and skimmed away over the ice. Whilst Mavis left the meadow by the gateway, and turned into the road leading to the village, through which she had to pass on her way home, walking briskly to get herself warm.
It was a perfect winter afternoon. The sun was sinking rosily in the western sky, and the keen, frosty air was most invigorating. Mavis had enjoyed the day; but she sighed, and her pretty face grow grave as she thought of those to whom frost meant only added misery, and she felt glad that there were no extremely poor people in W—.
"I don't suppose there's any one in the place who hasn't enough to eat," she reflected. "For I heard uncle say last night that the villagers were very well looked after; they get coal-tickets, and they belong to blanket clubs, and they have good homes."
She had reached the village by this time, and was passing the post-office when the Vicar came out, followed by his dog. A smile lit up Mr. Moseley's kindly countenance as his eyes fell on the little girl.
"All alone?" he said. "How is that?"
"I got so very cold on the ice that I thought I'd go home," Mavis explained, as she patted Max. "I only began to learn to skate to-day, and I grew very tired."
"Naturally. You are warmer now?"
"Oh yes, thank you. I have been walking fast. Max is very pleased to see me, isn't he?"
"Very. He counts you as a friend, there is no doubt about that. I am glad to hear you have had good news of your mother. I saw your uncle a few days ago, and he mentioned that Mrs. Grey had arrived at Sydney safely."
"Oh yes. I shall be having a letter from her from Sydney before Christmas, I expect. Did uncle tell you that Miss Dawson is better, Mr. Moseley?"
"Miss Dawson is the young lady your mother is nursing, I suppose? No, your uncle did not tell me that; but I am very glad."
"She is such a pretty young lady, and so rich; but she is very delicate, though you wouldn't think it to look at her. I never saw her but once, and then she was very kind to me. She gave me a beautiful gold locket and chain for a keepsake. I had nothing of the kind before, and we got quite friendly, though we were only together for a little while. Isn't it odd how quickly one gets friendly with some people?"
He smiled and assented. They were walking in the direction of the vicarage, which Mavis had to pass on her way home.
"I think it's very strange," the little girl continued, knitting her brows thoughtfully. "Now, Rose and I are great friends, and, on the whole, I get on well with Bob, and I'm very fond of Uncle John; but, do you know—" she dropped her voice confidentially as she spoke—"I never can quite like Aunt Lizzie. I do hope it isn't very wrong of me."
"Why can't you like her?" the Vicar asked, looking surprised.
"I don't know," Mavis admitted, shaking her head.
"She's kind to you, I'm sure."
"Oh yes, yes!" The little girl grew red, and hesitated. "Please, Mr. Moseley, what is it to be superficial?" she asked, by-and-by. "Is it something one ought not to be?"
"To be superficial is to be all on the surface—shallow," he replied. "But why do you ask that?"
"Aunt Lizzie says I'm superficial," Mavis explained. "I heard her tell Uncle John so. But he said no, I was not. Indeed, I was not trying to listen," she proceeded quickly. "I was coming downstairs, and they were in the hall. I didn't know they were talking about me. Then it's nothing very bad if one is superficial, Mr. Moseley?"
"No," he answered, with an involuntary smile; "and it's nothing for you to trouble about. But I agree with your uncle. I think, perhaps, your aunt is mistaken; she probably does not understand you, and you evidently do not understand her. No doubt you will get to know each other better by-and-by. I am coming to see your aunt about you one day soon."
"About me?" Mavis exclaimed, questioningly.
"Yes. I am going to get up a concert—not just yet, during Christmas week—and invite all the villagers to attend. It will be held in the schoolroom, and I think you can help me, if your aunt will permit it."
"I!" cried the little girl in amazement. "What can I do?"
"You can sing. I have heard you on several occasions when you have been with your cousins in the woods, though you have not known I have been listening. Once I heard you sing a most beautiful version of the twenty-third psalm, and that is what I should like you to sing at my concert."
"Oh, Mr. Moseley, I don't think I could—before a lot of strange people!"
"Not if it gave them pleasure?" he inquired, with a smile.
"I should be so nervous," faltered the little girl.
"Perhaps, at first, but you would very soon get over that."
"But I have never learnt to sing properly—not with music, I mean. I couldn't sing with a piano; it would put me out."
"I should like you to sing without an accompaniment, as you have been accustomed. God has given you a groat gift, my dear, don't you think He expects you to use it for the benefit of others?"
"Do you think that?" Mavis asked earnestly.
"Certainly I do. The poet Longfellow says that God sent His singers upon earth—"
"'That they might touch the hearts of men,And bring them back to heaven again.'"
"Those lines recurred to my memory when I heard you sing that beautiful, comforting psalm."
Mavis' face broke into a sudden, radiant smile. In imagination, she heard Miss Dawson's well-remembered voice saying: "You have given me comfort, and reminded me that I am not setting out on a long journey without support from God." She knew the sick girl had referred to the words she had previously sung—
"The Lord is only my support, and He that doth me feed;How can I then lack anything whereof I stand in need?"
Had God indeed given her a great gift, expecting her to use it for the benefit of others? She had never thought of her voice in that light before; she had sung instinctively, like the bird after which she had been named.
"Mr. Moseley, I will sing at your concert gladly, if Aunt Lizzie will let me," she said, at length.
"Thank you, my dear. I felt sure you would. Well, I shall call at the Mill House shortly. You will soon run home from here?"
"Oh yes," assented Mavis.
They had reached the vicarage gate, and, having shaken hands with her companion, and put her arms around Max's neck and given him an affectionate hug, she hastened on. She felt very light-hearted, and hummed a little tune happily to herself as she tripped along. But her voice suddenly ceased as she neared the Mill House and caught sight of a man's figure ahead of her, clad in a ragged suit of clothes. A pang of pity shot through her sympathetic heart.
"I suppose he's a tramp or a beggar," she thought, "he looks dreadfully poor."
The man turned at the sound of her light footsteps, and looked at her. She saw his face was pinched and blue with the cold, and that it wore a very wretched, dispirited expression. As she caught up to him, he spoke.
"Have you a penny you could spare me, missie?" he said, in a voice which sounded weak, she thought. He was quite a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, but extremely thin.
"No, I haven't," she replied, regretfully. "Oh, I'm so sorry! You do look miserably cold."
"Aye, I'm cold," he agreed, with a short, bitter laugh, "cold and hungry, too."
"Hungry? Oh dear, how dreadful! Do you live here—at W— I mean?"
"No. I'm on the look-out for work—have been for weeks—but it's very scarce. I'm not a beggar from choice. I've been hanging around the mill in hopes of seeing the miller, thinking that he might give me a job. They told me in the village that he wanted a man to drive a waggon."
"I believe he does," said Mavis. "But he's not at home this afternoon. I live at the Mill House; Mr. Grey's my uncle. Go round to the back door, I'm sure my aunt will give you something to eat."
The man looked at her doubtfully, but he did as he was told.
Meanwhile Mavis passed through the wicket-gate, ran up the garden path, and entered the house by the front door. She found her aunt in the parlour, engaged in darning stockings, and immediately informed her that there was a poor starving man outside.
"Do give him some food, please, Aunt Lizzie, and let him warm himself by the kitchen fire," she said, pleadingly. "He wants to see Uncle John, to ask him if he can give him work. Mayn't he come in and wait? I have sent him around to the back door."
"Really, Mavis, you take too much upon yourself!" cried her aunt, irascibly. "I never encourage tramps; the workhouse is always open to them. I must send this man off at once."
"Aunt Lizzie, you don't mean it!" exclaimed Mavis, aghast. "Oh, you won't be so cruel! He is hungry, I am certain he is, and, oh, it will be unkind if you don't give him something to eat—if only a slice of bread!"
The little girl repented having spoken so hastily the moment after the words had passed her lips, and she hung her head and commenced a stammering apology. Her aunt did not stay to listen to it, however, but hurried to the kitchen. The man was already at the back door, and Jane was speaking to him.
"I dare say missus will give you a bit of bread and meat," she was remarking, as Mrs. John, closely followed by Mavis, entered the kitchen.
"How often have I warned you not to encourage tramps, Jane!" said her mistress, severely. "Go away, or I'll report you to the police for begging," she declared, imperatively motioning to the man to depart.
"The little lady thought you'd give me something to eat, ma'am," he said. "She told me to come."
"Yes, I did," asserted Mavis, nearly weeping. "Oh, Aunt Lizzie, don't, don't send him away hungry."
Mrs. John wavered. She looked scrutinizingly at the man, and saw he was evidently wretchedly cold and inadequately clothed, and her heart was stirred with pity. So she went into the larder and cut some bread and meat, which she gave him.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, his tone evincing real gratitude. But though he addressed the donor of the food, his glance went past her to Mavis. He was not allowed to say more, however, for at that moment the door was shut in his face, and he had no choice but to go away.
"I am never knowingly unkind to any one, Mavis," Mrs. John said, as she turned her attention to her little niece, who was furtively wiping her eyes, "and I am greatly astonished that you should have spoken to me in such an unbecoming manner."
"It was very wrong of me, and I'll never do so again, Aunt Lizzie," Mavis responded, in a tremulous voice. "But you didn't seem to understand that the poor man was really hungry. Won't you forgive me? I did not mean to be rude. I spoke without thinking."
"Yes, I forgive you. But never presume to dictate to me again. Why have you returned before the others?"
Mavis explained, and went on to repeat the conversation she had held with the Vicar, to which her aunt listened with an expression of disapproval on her countenance, afterwards remarking—
"You are too young, in my opinion, to sing in public. However, I will hear what Mr. Moseley has to say, and consult your uncle upon the matter. The idea of a child like you singing at a concert. It is preposterous to think of it!"
Mavis made no answer, for she saw Mrs. John was greatly displeased. She thought it was because of the manner in which she had addressed her in reference to the hungry stranger, and was quite unaware that, added to that, her aunt was jealous on her children's account. Truth to tell, Mrs. John was annoyed that the Vicar should seek to bring Mavis into notice. She would not admit, even to herself, that the little girl had a wonderfully beautiful voice.
LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS
THE miller's thrifty wife was not by any means a hard woman, but she lacked that quick sympathy for others which is generally the outcome of a vivid imagination joined to a kindly heart. She never realized the sorrows of her fellow-creatures without they were set plainly before her. And though she was in many ways much shrewder than her husband, she often made mistakes of which he would have been incapable.
She had been a worker all her life, and consequently entertained a great contempt for idlers. And she believed that if people worked they always got on well, for that had been her own experience. She had lived rather a narrow life, with few interests outside her own family.
Had it been otherwise, doubtless she would have known that sometimes God denies success—as the world counts success—to those who do their best and work their hardest. Thus it was, that rarely did any one come to her for help or sympathy, whilst many were the tales of woe which were poured into her husband's ears.
When Mavis had hastened to her aunt requesting food for a hungry man, Mrs. John had immediately jumped to the conclusion that he must be a professional beggar, and therefore a dangerous character. Her eyes had shown her the real misery of his condition, however, so she had fed him. But she had not been possessed of sufficient discernment to notice that he was not an ordinary mendicant, so that when her husband informed her, a few days later, at dinner-time, that he had engaged the man she had so unwillingly assisted, to drive one of his waggons, she was greatly astonished.
"You cannot mean it!" she explained. "Why, he was literally in rags! John, surely you are very unwise."
"That remains to be proved, my dear," responded her husband, gravely, "but I hope I am not. The man is accustomed to horses; he has been in the employ of a farmer living near Woodstock, and I see no reason why he should not suit me, if he keeps the promises he has made me to be honest and steady. His name is Richard Butt, and he's twenty-five years of age, and has a young wife, who is at present living with her parents at Woodstock."
"Then he doesn't support her? He has been out of work some time, I suppose? Why did he leave his last place?"
"Well, he got himself into trouble, my dear; he was very frank about it, and I have made inquiries, and find he told me the truth. Remember, children," Mr. Grey proceeded, addressing the three young folks, who were present and listening with great interest, "this is not to go beyond our own household, you are not to speak of it to outsiders."
"We will not!" they agreed eagerly.
"Well, he was caught poaching, and sent to prison for six weeks," Mr. Grey went on to explain. "No doubt he deserved his punishment. Of course, when he was released from jail, he found his master had filled his place and had no work for him. And his young wife, unable to pay the rent of their cottage, had been obliged to give it up and return to her own people. For several weeks now, he has been tramping the district for miles around in search of employment, without any success, ashamed to return to Woodstock, where he is well-known, to be a disgrace to his relations."
"On Saturday, he heard I wanted a waggoner, so he waited about the place till he could see me, which was on Monday. I believe he slept two nights in the cattle shed in Brimley meadow, and I'm certain he's been half starved."
"Oh, how terrible!" cried Rose.
Whilst Mavis, a little paler than usual, glanced at her aunt, who was listening with an impatient frown on her forehead.
"This cold, frosty weather, too!" exclaimed Bob. "To think of us all with plenty to eat, a fire to warm ourselves by, and comfortable beds to lie on, and some one close to our house in that old tumble-down shed!"
"You must look over my stock of clothes, Lizzie," said the miller, "and see if I can't spare the poor fellow a suit. You don't approve of my having engaged him to work for me, I see."
"How can I approve of your befriending a man of that class? Do you expect a poacher to be honest? He'll rob you for a certainty."
"I trust not; but if he does, I shall get rid of him at once. And at any rate, I shall have given him a chance to redeem his character. I've written to his late master, who informs me that Richard Butt is a strong, willing young fellow, and that he believes he took to poaching for the love of sport. I don't know about that, I'm sure; but I don't fancy he'll attempt anything of that kind again. Mind you, I'm not making excuses for him. As I've told him, a man who poaches a rabbit is as much a thief as a man who robs a poultry-yard, the principle is the same. But I can't help being sorry for him, and I wouldn't have it on my conscience for anything that I might have assisted a fellow-creature and hadn't done it. It's the right thing, I take it, to give a helping hand where one can."
"Perhaps God sent him to you on purpose, Uncle John," said Mavis; "because you could give him work, I mean."
"May be so, my dear," agreed the miller.
"When does he commence to work for you?" inquired his wife, still looking dubious.
"Next Monday. He has found lodgings in the village."
"How has he managed about money?"
"Well, I have advanced him a little," Mr. Grey admitted. "I offered to do so, and I believe he is very grateful to me."
"It is to be hoped he will keep faith with you, John," his wife remarked drily.
"You will look-out a suit of clothes for him, won't you, Lizzie?"
"I will, if he turns up on Monday as arranged. But it would not astonish me, if he does not. We shall see."
Richard Butt did keep faith with the kind man who had befriended him, however. And proved himself quite equal to the task he had undertaken, to drive the big waggon with its pair of fine horses.
Mrs. John duly presented him with a suit of her husband's clothes, and various other articles of clothing which she thought might be useful to him. And she took the opportunity to question him about his wife, whom he said he was going to send for as soon as he could make a home for her.
"She's been able to save a few bits of our furniture," he explained, "and if I give Mr. Grey satisfaction, and find he's willing to keep me on, I shall look-out for a cottage in the village. Meantime, my wife will stay with her parents, she's no expense to them, for she earns enough for herself by doing plain needlework."
The children, Mavis especially, took great interest in the new waggoner. And they were careful not to tell any one the circumstances which had brought him to the deplorable position he had been in when Mr. Grey had taken pity upon him. He had paid the penalty for his sin, and was starting life afresh.
The severe frost continued for more than a fortnight, and Mavis learnt to skate very nicely. Many happy hours did she spend with her cousins and her schoolfellows on the ice; and deeply regretful were the young people when a thaw set in, and weather-wise folks began to prophesy a mild Christmas.
Rose and Bob were looking forward to Christmas with much eagerness, for the season had always been a very happy one for them. But Mavis was anticipating the coming festival with very sober thoughts. Hitherto, she and her mother had been together at Christmas; now they were divided by thousands and thousands of miles of land and sea. She listened somewhat half-heartedly to her cousins' plans for making the most of the holidays, until Rose gave her a look of wonder and reproach, and said—
"What is the matter? You don't seem yourself, Mavis."
"I've been thinking of last Christmas, and that has made me rather sad," Mavis answered. "Mother and I were together then," she added, the tears rushing to her hazel eyes as she spoke.
"Oh!" cried Rose, comprehendingly, whilst Bob inquired—
"Did you have a lot of presents?"
"No; I only had two—a work-basket from mother, and a story-book from Miss Tompkins. But it was a lovely Christmas! Mother and I were so happy together! On Christmas Eve, it was fine, and we went out and had a good look at the shops. We enjoyed seeing all the pretty things, and thinking what we would buy, if we were rich. We spent Christmas Day quite by ourselves. In the morning, we went to the service at a little mission church where father used to preach sometimes—the people who go there are mostly poor people, some of them so poor that they wouldn't like to go and sit with those who are well-dressed. And in the afternoon, after dinner, we sat by the fire and talked, and never, never dreamed that we should be so far apart from each other when Christmas came again."
And Mavis heaved a deep sigh.
"Oh, you mustn't get sad," said Rose, earnestly. "I'm sure your mother wouldn't like you to be that. We want you to have a very happy Christmas. We shall break up at school about the twentieth of December, and then we shall be very busy at home, making mincemeat and puddings, and preparing our Christmas presents."
The time had arrived now when Mavis might expect her mother's first letter from Sydney. It was delivered one afternoon whilst she was at school, and given to her immediately on her return. She ran upstairs to her bedroom to enjoy it undisturbed, and her heart throbbed with happiness as she read that her mother was well, and that Miss Dawson was continuing to improve in health.
"You are constantly in my thoughts and prayers, little daughter,"Mrs. Grey had written, "and ever in my heart. God bless and keep you,my darling child. I enclose a money-order for a pound, for you to spendas you like; doubtless you will find it useful at Christmas."
"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Mavis, delighted beyond measure. "Now I shall be able to give presents to every one! A whole pound! I never had more than half a crown in my life before!"
She finished reading her mother's letter, then went back to the beginning, and read it right through to the end again before she looked into the envelope for the money-order. There it was safe enough, and a half-sheet of notepaper, on which were written a few lines in an unfamiliar handwriting—
"DEAR LITTLE MAVIS,""This is to wish you a very happy Christmas. I am really better, and I believe God is going to allow me to get well. Often I have been very low-spirited and sad since we left England, but when I have thought of the Good Shepherd, of whom you sang to me so sweetly, I have felt better. 'The Lord is only my support,' dear Mavis, and I am learning to trust in Him more and more. Your mother is so good to me, so patient, so kind; we have become great friends.""I have written to my father asking him to send you a present from London for me; you may expect to get it a few days before Christmas. It will be my Christmas-box to you, and please accept it with my love. Good-bye little song-bird. Some day I hope to hear you sing again. Don't forget—""LAURA DAWSON."
"That's not very likely," thought the little girl, "no, indeed. What can she be going to give me for a Christmas-box?"
"Rose, is that you?" she called out, as she heard light footsteps approaching the door.
"Oh, do come in and listen to all my news!"
Then, as Rose came in, her blue eyes fall of curiosity, she continued excitedly, "I've had such a dear, dear letter from mother, and she's sent me a pound for my very own, to spend as I like. You'll help me about getting Christmas presents for every one, won't you?"
"Of course I will," agreed her cousin. "How is Aunt Margaret?"
"Oh, very well; she has written so brightly. Miss Dawson is ever so much better, and I have had a little note from her. You shall hear what she says."
And Mavis read aloud the few lines Miss Dawson had sent her.
"I am wondering what the Christmas-box will be," she remarked afterwards.
"I expect it will be a nice present, and I hope it will be something you will like," said Rose. "By the way, I came up to tell you that Mr. Moseley has been here, and he has got mother to consent to your singing at his concert—it's not to be till New Year's Eve. Mother was against the idea at first, but father said he was certain Aunt Margaret would have no objection to it, and so she gave in. Mr. Moseley is very pleased, she says, and I think she's glad now that you're going to take part in the concert. We shall all go to hear you sing. I expect nearly every one in the village will be there. Shall you feel nervous?"
"I am afraid so, Rosie. I only hope I shall not break down."
"Oh, I don't fancy you'll do that. I envy you your voice, Mavis—at least, I don't envy it exactly, but I wish I had a talent of some sort. I'm so very stupid; I can't do anything to give people pleasure."
"Oh, Rosie, I am sure that is not true. Miss Matthews said the other day that you were the kindest girl in the school. I told Aunt Lizzie that; she was pleased, though she didn't say much. How can you be stupid, when you always manage to find out how to make people happier by doing little things to please them?"
"Oh, that's nothing," exclaimed Rose. The colour on her cheeks had deepened as she had listened to her cousin's words. "It would make me very unhappy to be unkind to any one," she added.
"I am certain it would."
"But I wish I had just one talent," Rose sighed. "If God had given me only one, I would have been content."
Mavis looked troubled for a minute; then her face brightened as she responded hopefully—
"I think you're sure to have one, Rosie, only you haven't found it out."
CHRISTMAS TIME
"THERE, now I have all my presents ready," Mavis declared in a satisfied tone, one morning a few days before Christmas, as she dropped great splashes of red sealing-wax on the small parcel she had already secured firmly with cord. "I do hope Miss Tompkins will like the handkerchief sachet I'm sending her."
"I should think she will be sure to like it," said Rose, who was standing looking out of the parlour window at the birds she had been feeding with bread-crumbs. "I wonder when Miss Dawson's Christmas-box will arrive, Mavis."
"Soon, I expect. I should not be surprised if it came at any time now, for it's getting very near Christmas, isn't it?"
The little girls' holidays had commenced two days before, and since then, they had been very busy preparing for Christmas. Mr. Grey had kindly driven them into Oxford, one afternoon, to make their various purchases, and but a shilling or so remained of Mavis' pound, the rest having been spent in presents which were hidden in the bottom of her trunk in her bedroom, to be kept secret from every one but Rose, until Christmas Day. For kind Miss Tompkins she had bought a pink silk handkerchief sachet with birds painted on it, and this, with a carefully-written note, she had packed in readiness to send off that evening.
"I wonder what mother is doing in the kitchen," remarked Rose, presently. "She said at breakfast she would have a leisureable day, as the puddings are boiled and the mincemeat is made, and we're to have a cold dinner. But I've heard her bustling about as though she's very busy. Let us go and see what she's doing."
Accordingly, the little girls repaired to the kitchen, where they found Mrs. John in the midst of packing a hamper with Christmas cheer.
"I dare say I'm very foolish to do this," she was remarking to Jane, who was watching her with a half-smile on her countenance, "but it's your master's wish, and I won't go against him in the matter. There'll be ten shillings' worth in this hamper, if a penny, what with that nice plump chicken, the pudding, a jar of mincemeat, a pound of tea, a pound of butter, and—well children?" she said inquiringly, as the little girls came forward.
"Who is that hamper for, mother?" asked Rose, her curiosity alive in a moment.
"For Richard Butt's wife," was the brief answer.
"Oh, how kind of you, Aunt Lizzie!" cried Mavis. "How pleased she will be, won't she?"
"It's to be hoped so, and I dare say she will. But the kindness is not mine, child, it's your uncle's. 'Fill in the corners of the hamper, Lizzie,' he said, and you see I'm doing it."
"I should like to be looking on when that hamper's opened," observed Jane, as her mistress placed down the cover and began to cord it. "It'll arrive as a blessing, I reckon. Butt was talking to me about his wife and child yesterday, and—"
"His child, Jane? I didn't know he had one," broke in Mrs. John, greatly astonished.
"The baby's only a fortnight old, ma'am. I didn't know there was one myself till yesterday."
"Is it a girl or a boy?"
"A boy, a fine healthy little chap, so Butt's mother-in-law has written to tell him."
"How he must wish to see the baby!" exclaimed Mrs. John, with a softening countenance.
"He's hoping to, before long, ma'am, for there'll be a cottage vacant in the village at Christmas, and he means to take it. Then, as soon as he possibly can, he's going to ask master to allow him a couple of days' holiday to fetch his wife and baby."
"He appears to have taken you into his confidence, Jane."
Jane nodded. The hamper was corded by this time, and all that remained to be done was to address a label.
Mrs. John glanced out of the window, then turned to Rose.
"There's Butt in the yard now; he's going into Oxford with the waggon presently, so he can send off the hamper himself from the station. Tell him I want him."
Rose went to do her mother's bidding, and a few minutes later returned, followed by Richard Butt, who had greatly improved in appearance since the afternoon he had begged from Mavis, and she had impulsively sent him around to the back door. Then he had looked ragged, cold, and dispirited; now he was comfortably clad, and held his head erect once more.
"What is your wife's address, Butt?" inquired Mrs. John.
"My wife's address, ma'am!" the man exclaimed, in amazement.
"Yes. This hamper is to go to her; it contains a chicken, and a pudding, and a few other things, and you're to send it off from Oxford. Here's the money to pay the carriage. Tell me the address."
He did so, and Mrs. John wrote it on the label, which she proceeded to affix to the hamper.
"Ma'am, I can never thank you properly," the young man stammered, quite overcome with gratitude and surprise. He looked at the shilling Mrs. John had given him, then at the hamper. "God bless you for your goodness!" he added fervently.
"It's your master's doing. It's nothing to do with me. There, take the hamper away with you. By-the-by, I hear you've a little son, Butt; I hope his father will be a good example to him."
The tone in which this was said was more cordial than the words, and Butt carried off the hamper with a radiant countenance.
"I think I never saw any one look more pleased," observed Jane. "Who comes now?" she exclaimed, as there was a loud knock at the back door.
She went to see, and reappeared bearing a large wooden box which she deposited on the kitchen table, saying—
"It's come by the railway van, and it's directed to you, Miss Mavis. There's nothing to pay, but you must please sign this book, to show it's been delivered safely."
"Oh, it's Miss Dawson's Christmas-box, for certain!" cried Rose.
Whilst Mavis, feeling very important and excited, signed the delivery book under Jane's directions.
"Oh, Mavis, open it quickly and see what's inside! Here's a knife to cut the cord."
"Not too fast, Rose," said her mother. "Better untie the knots, then the cord will come to use again—it's a good strong piece. Here, let me help," and she effected the task herself. "There, Mavis, now you can set to work and unpack."
Mavis lifted the lid of the box, her hands trembling with excitement, and drew out several packages, which, upon examination, proved to contain preserved fruits and sweetmeats in pretty boxes, such as she had often seen in the shops at Christmas-time, but had never dreamed of possessing. Then came a beautifully bound and illustrated story-book, and several new games, at the sight of which Rose expressed much gratification, and, last of all, a cardboard box, which, upon being opened, revealed to sight a seal-skin cap and a muff to match.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mavis, quite incapable of finding words in which to express her delight.
"Put on the cap, Miss Mavis," said Jane. "Let us see how you look in it."
So Mavis placed the cap on her curly head, and glanced from one to the other with the happiest of smiles on her pretty, flushed countenance.
"Yes, it suits you capitally," declared Jane. "Doesn't it, ma'am?" she questioned, turning to her mistress.
"Yes, indeed," agreed Mrs. John. "I think, Mavis, that you are a very fortunate little girl," she proceeded, as she took up and examined the muff. "It is real seal-skin, I see, and must have cost a pretty penny."
"There's Bob!" cried Rose, catching the sound of her brother's footsteps in the passage. "Come and see Mavis' Christmas-box," she said, as he opened the door and entered the kitchen. "Look at her seal-skin cap and muff, and all the rest of the presents she has had sent her."
"What will you do with them all, Mavis?" asked Bob, as he came to the table and stood with his hands behind his back, not liking to touch anything.
"We'll share all the sweeties, Bob," said Mavis; "of course we shall do that. I only want one box of preserved fruit for myself, to give to Mrs. Long, and the rest I should like Aunt Lizzie to put with the nice things she has bought for Christmas."
"Very well," Mrs. John agreed, pleased at the suggestion, "I will do so. You shall have some of the fruit on Christmas Day and the rest later on, or we shall be having all the good things at once. By the way, what makes you wish to give a present to Mrs. Long, Mavis?"
Mrs. Long was the stout, rosy-cheeked washerwoman Mavis had first seen on the day she had said good-bye to her mother. On subsequent occasions, the little girl had held conversations with her, but Mrs. John did not know that.
"She has been very kind to me, Aunt Lizzie," Mavis answered.
"Oh, I don't mean that she's done anything for me, you know," she continued, as she met her aunt's glance of surprise, "but she's spoken to me so nicely about mother that I quite love her. She says she knows what it is to be separated from some one, one loves very dearly, for her only daughter married and went to New Zealand, and her husband's dead, so that now she's all alone. I should like to give her a little present for Christmas, if you do not mind."
"Of course I do not mind, child. All these things are your own, to do as you like with."
"I want other people to enjoy them too," Mavis said earnestly. "I never had anything to give away before this Christmas."
She selected one of the prettiest of the boxes of preserved fruits, and, later in the day, she and her cousins called at Mrs. Long's cottage in the village and presented it to the kind-hearted washerwoman, who, needless to say, was exceedingly pleased.
What a happy Christmas that was, and yet how Mavis had dreaded it! It brought her nothing but joy from the moment she opened her eyes on Christmas morning till, wearied out, she closed them at night.
Afterwards, she wrote to her mother all about it, and told her how rich she was in presents, for, besides Miss Dawson's Christmas-box, she had received remembrances from every member of the household at the Mill House, and from Miss Tompkins too, as well as Christmas cards from several of her schoolfellows.
"I have so many friends now," she wrote, "and last Christmas I had so few. When we meet I shall have such a lot to tell you, dear mother. I can't write everything. I believe Aunt Lizzie has written and told you that I am to sing at a concert on New Year's Eve; I am to sing your favourite psalm. Mr. Moseley says my voice is a great gift. He is a very nice man, and has been very kind to me—I think there are a great many kind people in the world."
Mavis had never so much as hinted to her mother that she was not on such cordial terms with her aunt as with her other relations, for she could not explain why that was the case, and, lately, she had got on with her rather better. Mrs. John had been obliged to admit to herself that Mavis was not selfish, that she did not try to put herself before her cousins in any way, and that she was quick to show gratitude for a kindness, and to respond to affection. But what she did not understand in the child, was her capability of laying aside trouble.
"She has just the nature of a song-bird," she would think, when Mavis' voice, lilting some simple ditty, would fall upon her ears. "She's such a light-hearted little thing."
The concert, which was held in the village schoolroom on New Year's Eve, proved a very great success. The performers were all well-known inhabitants of the parish, in whom the audience—composed mostly of the labouring classes—took great interest.
Mavis' part of the programme did not come till nearly the conclusion of the concert, and when the Vicar took her by the hand and led her on the platform, she felt it would be quite impossible for her to keep her promise, and she was inclined to run away and hide. But, a moment later, she had overcome the impulse which had prompted her to go from her word, and looking above the many faces which were smiling up at her encouragingly, she summoned up her courage and commenced to sing. Her voice was rather tremulous at first, but it gained strength as it proceeded. She forgot the people watching her, forgot her fear of breaking down, and thought only of what she was singing, of "pastures green" and the Good Shepherd leading His flock by streams "which run most pleasantly." As her sweet, clear voice ceased, there was a murmur of gratification from the audience, which swelled into rounds of applause.
"Sing us something else, do, missie!" she heard some one shout from the back of the schoolroom, and, looking in the direction from whence the voice came, she recognized Richard Butt.
The rest took up the cry, and from all sides came the demand, "Sing us something else!"
"What else do you know, Mavis?" the Vicar hastened to inquire, when he saw she was willing to comply with the general request.
"I know some carols," she replied. "Shall I sing one of those?"
"Yes, do," he said, as he moved away.
She was not feeling in the least nervous now. Her heart throbbed with happiness, as she realized her capability of giving pleasure, and a brilliant colour glowed in her cheeks, whilst her hazel eyes shone brightly.
The carol she sang was one she had heard in the little mission church in London during the previous Christmas season, but it was new to her audience.
"'When shepherds were abiding,In Beth'lem's lonely field,They heard the joyful tidingsBy the heavenly host revealed.At first they were affrighted,But they soon forgot their fear,While the angel sang of Christmas,And proclaimed a bright new year.'"
That was the first verse; several others followed, concluding thus—
"'When he who came to BethlehemReturns to earth again,Ten thousand thousand angelsShall follow in His train:Then saints shall sing in triumph,Till heaven and earth shall hear;The year of His redeemed shall come,A bright immortal year.'"
The carol was as successful in pleasing as had been the psalm, and Mavis stepped from the platform and returned to her seat with the Mill House party, hearing commendatory remarks on all sides.
"Oh, Mavis," whispered Rose, "you sang beautifully, you did indeed!"
And she expressed the opinion of the whole room, including Mrs. John, who, for the first time, acknowledged that really Mavis owned a very sympathetic voice, and that the words she had sung had seemed to have come from her heart.
SICKNESS AT THE MILL HOUSE
"OH, Mavis! Oh, Bob! Mother's very ill! Oh, isn't it dreadful? The doctor's going to send a hospital nurse to take care of her, for he says she'll be ill for weeks, if—if she recovers!" And Rose finished her sentence with a burst of tears.
The scene was the parlour at the Mill House one afternoon during the first week of the new year. Rose had crept quietly into the room with a scared look on her face, having overheard a conversation between her father and the village doctor, the latter of whom had been called in to prescribe for Mrs. John, who had been ailing since the night of the concert, when she had taken a chill.
No one had thought her seriously ill until that morning, when she had declared herself too unwell to rise, and had been unable to touch the breakfast which her little daughter had carried upstairs to her. Then it was that her husband had become alarmed, and the doctor had been sent for. The medical man's face had worn a grave expression as he had left the sick-room, and he had immediately informed Mr. Grey that his wife was seriously ill with pneumonia, the result of a neglected cold.
"If she recovers?" echoed Bob, questioningly. "What do you mean, Rose? It's only a cold that mother has, isn't it?"
"No, it's something much worse than that—pneumonia. Mrs. Long's husband died from pneumonia." And poor Rose's tears and sobs increased at the remembrance.
"Oh, don't cry so dreadfully, Rosie," implored Mavis. "People often recover from pneumonia, indeed they do! Mother has nursed several pneumonia patients since I can remember, and not one of them died. You mustn't think Aunt Lizzie won't recover."
"But she's very ill—the doctor said so," returned Rose, nevertheless checking her sobs, and regarding Mavis with an expression of dawning hope in her blue eyes. "He said she would require most careful nursing, and he couldn't tell how it would go with her."
"Doctors never can tell," said Mavis, sagely. "Mother says they can only do their best, and leave the result to God. Poor Aunt Lizzie! How sorry I am she should be so ill!"
"The doctor says we are not to go into her room again," sighed Rose. "I heard him say to father, 'Don't let the children into her room to worry her; she must be kept very quiet.'"
"As though we would worry her!" cried Bob, in much indignation. He felt inclined to follow his sister's example and burst into tears. But he manfully, though with much difficulty, retained his composure.
Before night, a trained nurse from a nursing institution at Oxford was installed at the Mill House, and took possession of the sick-room. And during the anxious days which followed, the miller's wife approached very near the valley of the shadow of death, so that those who loved her went in fear and trembling, and stole about the house with noiseless footsteps and hushed voices.
But at length, a day arrived when the patient was pronounced to have taken a turn for the better. And after that, she continued to progress favourably until, one never-to-be-forgotten morning, the doctor pronounced her life out of danger.
"We shall be allowed to see her soon now, father, shan't we?" Rose inquired eagerly, after she had heard the good news from her father's lips.
"I hope so, my dear," he answered. "It will not be long before she will be asking for you, if I'm not mistaken. But she's been too ill to notice anything or any one. You won't forget to thank God for His goodness in sparing your mother's precious life, will you, Rosie?"
"No, indeed, father," she responded, earnestly. "We prayed—Bob, and Mavis, and I—that God would make dear mother well again, and you see He is going to do it. I felt so—so helpless and despairing, and there was only God who could do anything, and so—and so—"
"And so you were driven to Him for help and consolation? Ah, that's the way with many folks! They forget Him when things go smooth, but they're glad to turn to Him when their path in life is rough. But His love never fails. You found Him a true Friend, eh, my Rose?"
"Yes, father, I did. Mavis said I should; she said I must remember that Jesus Himself said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,' and that I must trust in Him. And I tried not to be afraid. I couldn't do anything but pray; and after a while I began to feel that God really did hear my prayers, and I don't believe He'll ever seem quite so far off again."
Mr. Grey had guessed rightly in thinking his wife would soon desire to see her children, for the day following the one on which the doctor had pronounced her life out of danger, she asked for them, and they were allowed into the sick-room long enough for each to kiss her and be assured, in a weak whisper from her own lips, that she was really better.
The next day, they saw her again for a longer time, but she did not inquire for Mavis, a fact which hurt the little girl, though she did not say so, and strengthened her previous impression that her aunt did not like her.
Before very long, Rose was allowed in and out of the sick-room as she pleased, and was several times left in charge of the invalid. She proved herself to be so helpful and reliable that, on one occasion, the nurse complimented her upon those points, and she subsequently sought her cousin in unusually high spirits.
"Mavis, what do you think?" she cried, in great excitement. "Nurse says she is sure I have a real talent for nursing! Fancy that! But for mother's illness, I should never have found it out, should I? Oh, I'm so glad to know that I really have a talent for something, after all!"
Meanwhile, Mrs. John was gaining strength daily. Although she had not expressed a wish to see Mavis, she thought of her a good deal, and she missed the sound of her voice about the house.
"Where is Mavis?" she asked Rose, at length. Then, on being informed that the little girl was downstairs in the parlour, she inquired, "How is it I never hear her singing now?"
"Oh, mother, she would not sing now you are ill," Rose replied.
"She would not disturb me—I think I should like to hear her. It must be a privation to her not to sing."
"I don't think she has felt much like singing lately. We've all been so troubled about you—Mavis too. Oh, I don't know how I could have borne it whilst you were so dreadfully ill, if it had not been for Mavis!"
"What do you mean, Rose?"
"She kept up my heart about you, mother. And she's been so good to us all—helping Jane with the housework, lending Bob her games and keeping him amused, and doing everything she could to cheer us up. Wouldn't you like to see her?"
"Yes," assented Mrs. John, "to-morrow, perhaps."
So the following day found Mavis by her aunt's bedside, looking with sympathetic eyes at the wan face on the pillow.
"I'm so glad you're so much better, Aunt Lizzie," she whispered softly. "You'll soon get strong now."
"I hope so, Mavis. My illness has spoiled your holidays, I fear. You must have had a very dull time."
"A very sad, anxious time," Mavis said gravely; "but never mind—that's past."
"And you will soon forget it," her aunt remarked, with a faint smile.
"Oh no, Aunt Lizzie, I'm not likely to do that! But I'd so much rather look forward to your being well again. We were all so wretched when you were so terribly ill, and now God has made us happy and glad. Why, I feel I could sing for joy!"
"I think you rarely find difficulty in doing that, Mavis; you are so light-hearted."
"Not always, Aunt Lizzie; but I do try to be."
"Why?" Mrs. John inquired, in surprise.
"Because Jesus said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,'" Mavis answered, seriously. "I try not to be troubled or afraid," she continued; "but it's very, very hard not to be sometimes. I found that when mother went away; nothing seemed to matter much when we were together, but after she'd gone—oh, then it was different. I felt my heart would break, it ached so badly, but—are you sure I am not tiring you, Aunt Lizzie?"
"No; I like to hear you talk. Go on—tell me all you felt when your mother went away."
Mavis complied. She would have opened her heart to her aunt before, if she had ever had the least encouragement to make her her confidante. By-and-by, she became aware that there were tears in the sunken eyes which were watching the varying expressions of her countenance, and she ceased speaking abruptly.
"You must have been very lonely and sad, child," Mrs. John said. "I never realized you felt the parting from your mother so much. I wish I had known; but I thought—"
She paused, and did not explain what she had thought. She was beginning to understand that she had misjudged Mavis, and the knowledge that she had done so humiliated her, whilst she was conscious that she had allowed her jealous heart to prejudice her against the child. "I might have been kinder to you, my dear," she admitted, with a sigh.
"Oh, Aunt Lizzie, you have always been kind to me," Mavis said gratefully, unaware that Mrs. John's conscience was reminding her not so much of actions as of thoughts.
"I don't know what I have said to make you cry," she added, as a tear ran down her aunt's pale cheek. She wiped the tear away with her handkerchief as she spoke, and kissed the invalid. She had never felt greatly drawn towards her before, always having been a little in awe of her, but at that moment the barrier of misunderstanding which had stood between them was swept aside.
"I have not heard you singing lately," Mrs. John remarked, by-and-by. "Rose tells me you have been fearful of disturbing me. You need not be now, for I believe it will cheer me greatly to hear you singing again. Our song-bird has been silent long enough."
Mavis smiled, and kissed her once more, and shortly after that, the nurse, who had been absent, returned, and confidential conversation was at an end.
The young people had been back to school for several weeks before the mistress of the Mill House was about again, and it was some time before she was well enough to undertake her accustomed duties. But with the lengthening days, she gained strength more rapidly, and the doctor said she needed only the spring sunshine to make her well.
In the meanwhile, Mavis continued to receive cheering news from her mother, who wrote every mail. Miss Dawson was much better, and there was now every reason to hope that she would return to England completely restored to health. But when that would be, Mrs. Grey had not yet said, though in one letter she had remarked that perhaps it would be sooner than Mavis expected. The little girl's heart had thrilled with happiness when she had read that.
Almost the first news Mrs. John was told when she was about again after her illness, was that Richard Butt, who had taken a cottage in the village, had been allowed a few days' holiday, and the loan of a waggon, on which he had conveyed his household furniture and his wife and baby from Woodstock to their new home.
"They're comfortably settled in now, ma'am," said Jane, who had explained all this to her mistress. "I've been to see them. Mrs. Butt seems a nice, well-mannered young woman, and the child's as fine a baby as you ever saw in your life."
"Yes," joined in Rose. "And father's very pleased with Butt, because he's so careful of the horses, and he hasn't had the least cause of complaint against him yet. Aren't you glad to know that, mother?"
"Butt thinks a great deal of father," Bob said, eagerly, "and no wonder! He told me he was almost despairing when father gave him work. He said father was one of the few people who wouldn't hit a man when he's down. I know what he means, don't you, mother?"
"Yes," was the brief assent.
"So do I," said Mavis. "I think the Good Samaritan in the parable must have been very like Uncle John."
There was one piece of news which Rose had refrained from mentioning to her mother as yet, and that was that she and Mavis were now in the same class at school. She dreaded telling her this, and it was a decided relief when she learnt that it was not necessary for her to do so, as Mavis had forestalled her.
Mavis had also told her aunt, how greatly Rose was troubled on account of her slowness in learning, and how really painstaking she was, and this, coupled with Miss Matthews' report that Rose was patient and industrious and always desirous of doing her best, caused Mrs. John to reflect that she had been a little hard on her daughter.
"Although she's not quick like her cousin, she has many good qualities," she thought to herself. "God does not endow us all with gifts alike, and I have been unwise to make comparisons between the children."
So she spoke kindly and encouragingly upon the matter to Rose, who exclaimed, with a ring of glad surprise in her voice—
"Oh, mother, I so feared you would be angry with me for allowing Mavis to catch up to me in her lessons! Indeed, indeed, I have done my best. I know I'm slow and stupid in many ways; but God has given me one talent, and, now I know that, I don't mind. Nurse said I had a real talent for nursing, so I mean to be a nurse when I grow up. Mavis will be a great singer, I expect, but I shall be quite content to be a nurse."
Mrs. John made no response, but she pressed a warm kiss on Rose's lips, and her little daughter saw she was pleased, and added ingenuously—
"I asked God to make you understand I'd done my best, and He has."