The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA song-birdThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A song-birdAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: Alfred PearseRelease date: December 1, 2023 [eBook #72274]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1908*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SONG-BIRD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: A song-birdAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: Alfred PearseRelease date: December 1, 2023 [eBook #72274]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1908
Title: A song-bird
Author: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: Alfred Pearse
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Illustrator: Alfred Pearse
Release date: December 1, 2023 [eBook #72274]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1908
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SONG-BIRD ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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"YOU ARE NOT AFRAID OF MY DOG?"
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
Author of "Angel's Brother," "Little Maid Marigold,""The Bottom of the Bread Pan," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED PEARSE
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD E.C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. MAVIS AND HER MOTHER
II. CONCERNING MISS DAWSON
III. THE ARRIVAL AT THE MILL HOUSE
IV. MRS. GREY'S DEPARTURE
V. PETTY JEALOUSY
VI. ROSE IN TROUBLE
VII. A GREAT GIFT
VIII. LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS
IX. CHRISTMAS TIME
X. SICKNESS AT THE MILL HOUSE
XI. HAPPY DAYS
A SONG-BIRD
MAVIS AND HER MOTHER
"THERE, I've finished. How the days are drawing in, to be sure! I declare it's getting dark already, though it's only six o'clock."
The scene was an upstairs sitting-room in a dingy London lodging-house, on a September evening. And the speaker—Mrs. Grey—rose from her seat at the table as she spoke, and laid aside her writing materials with an air of relief, afterwards placing the letter, over the composition of which she had spent fully half an hour, on the mantelpiece. She then took an easy-chair by the window, whilst the other occupant of the room—her little daughter, Mavis, who had been watching the passers-by in the street—settled herself on a stool at her feet.
"Now we can have a nice chat, mother," Mavis said. "I've been longing to talk, but I haven't liked to disturb you. You've been writing a very particular letter, haven't you?"
"Yes, dear; but how did you guess that?"
"You looked so grave, and, I thought, sad. There's nothing very much amiss, is there, mother? Are you worrying because you haven't had any nursing to do lately? We've money left to go on with, haven't we?"
Mavis was a pretty little girl of ten years, with beautiful hazel eyes, and a quantity of soft brown hair which curled naturally and could never be kept tidy. Her expression was one of great anxiety, as she looked up into her mother's face and waited for her response.
Mrs. Grey did not answer immediately. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a self-reliant manner, and a countenance which inspired trust. She had been left a widow several years previously, since when she had had a hard battle to fight. For her husband, who had held a curacy in the East End of London, had had no private means, and at his death she had found herself nearly penniless.
Before her marriage, however, she had been fully qualified as a nurse, so she had taken up her old profession again, and had earned sufficient by private nursing to support herself and her child. Of late, she had been out of work, and things had looked dark altogether; but she owned a brave heart and was not easily cast down. So that it had been with awe as well as with surprise, that Mavis had observed her shedding tears over the letter she had been writing.
"As a matter of fact, we've very little money left," Mrs. Grey admitted, at length. "But I'm not troubled about that now, for I have been asked and have engaged to nurse a rich young lady who is threatened with consumption, and—and it is likely to be a long engagement."
"Oh, mother! You said you felt sure God would provide for us, and you were right. Who is the young lady? Does she live near here? Will you be away at night? How shall you manage?"
On previous occasions, when Mrs. Grey had been absent, Mavis had boarded with the lodging-house keeper, Miss Tompkins. And she thought very likely it would be arranged for her to do so again. She would have no objection to raise to the plan, for Miss Tompkins, a kind-hearted, elderly spinster, who had seen better days, was a great favourite of hers.
"I-I hardly know," Mrs. Grey answered, somewhat hesitatingly. "I don't like the idea of being separated from you, child, but I feel it must be."
"Oh, I shall be all right, mother!" Mavis declared, reassuringly.
"You don't understand, dear; I must explain. Miss Dawson—the young lady I have engaged to nurse—is the only child of a very rich man, and I do not think my duties will be arduous, but—but I shall have to go abroad with her—to Australia."
"To Australia!" echoed Mavis, aghast, the colour fading from her 'cheeks, a look of dismay in her hazel eyes. "Why, Australia's ever so far away—right at the other side of the world!"
"Yes. I shall be gone months, perhaps even a year or longer, it will depend upon the patient."
"Oh, mother," gasped Mavis, "you don't mean it! Say you don't."
"But I do mean it, my dear. I am to have a splendid salary, and shall be able to provide for you well during my absence. It would have been madness to have refused this post. Suppose nothing else offered? Then we should be face to face with want, and with the winter coming on, too. Don't look at me so reproachfully, Mavis."
"Mother, how can you leave me?" cried the little girl. "I don't mind living with Miss Tompkins for a few weeks, but for months, perhaps years—" She completed the sentence with a sob.
"It is not my intention to leave you with Miss Tompkins, my dear. I am thinking of sending you to your father's relations, if they will have you, and I expect they will. You know you've an uncle and aunt living at W—, near Oxford, and they have children about your age, a girl and a boy. Wouldn't you like to know them? I've written to your uncle to-night. You remember him, don't you? He came to your father's funeral, and once afterwards, he called to see us, when he was in town on business."
"Yes," replied Mavis, dolefully. She had a somewhat hazy remembrance of a tall, stout man, with stooping shoulders, who had presented her with a big box of chocolates. She had the box still, it was one of her few treasures.
"He is a miller at W—, and is a very prosperous man, I believe. I have written to ask him to take you into his home, and I am sure he will. Come, my dear, don't cry. We ought to be very, very thankful that I have succeeded in obtaining such a good post."
In spite of her brave words, there were tears in Mrs. Grey's own eyes as she spoke. Her little daughter leaned against her knees and wept heart-brokenly, and she smoothed her tangled brown locks with a gentle, caressing hand.
Mavis knew by experience, that when her mother had quite made up her mind that a certain course of action was right, she would certainly pursue it. So by-and-by, she dried her eyes and tried to compose herself, but her heart was dreadfully sore. Mrs. Grey went on to explain that Miss Dawson was very young—only seventeen—and that the doctors hoped the long voyage and a few months' sojourn in Australia might do much for her health.
"I am very, very sorry for her, for she is terribly delicate," she said, pityingly. "She is motherless, too, poor girl! Her father has business engagements to keep him in England, or he would make the trip to Australia with her, himself. She will be completely in my charge, so mine will be a responsible position. It is very sad to see one so young, so weak and ill. Don't you feel sorry for her, Mavis?"
"Yes, of course I do," Mavis answered.
Then she added, with a touch of jealousy in her tone, "She will have you all to herself; but you won't forget your own little girl, will you?"
"Do you think that is likely?" Mrs. Grey asked, seriously.
"No, mother, indeed I don't," Mavis replied, feeling rather ashamed of herself; "but it is so very hard that we should be parted."
"It does appear so, dear; but, depend upon it, God knows best. You don't realize how worried I've been lately, wondering how we should manage, if I didn't get an engagement soon. Of course, I ought not to have felt like that. I ought to have remembered that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' And now it seems to me, that this work is the answer to my prayers, and that therefore it is the work God wishes me to do. It has come like light in darkness, and I want you to rejoice with me. Come, little song-bird, it grieves me to look at your gloomy face; let me see you smile."
Mavis tried to obey, but it was a sorry attempt. Her dead father had chosen her somewhat fanciful name, and it suited her well. For she was the possessor of a voice as sweet and clear as the bird—the song-thrush—after which she had been named. She was a healthy, bright, happy child who had never had a real trouble in her life till now. She remembered her father quite well, but he had died when she had been too young to realize her loss. She had certainly cried when, on inquiring for him, she had been told he had gone a long journey to a far country. But she had soon dried her eyes, and been consoled by the assurance that if she was a good girl, she would go to him some day.
Mavis had never thought much about her relatives. She knew her mother was an orphan who had been brought up at a charitable institution. And she had frequently heard her remark that she did not think she had any one near akin to her in the world, and that, but for her husband's brother, who wrote to her very kindly from time to time, there was no one to whom she could go for assistance or advice.
Now, as she sat at her mother's feet and tried to reconcile herself to the parting which seemed inevitable, the little girl reflected that it would be rather nice to have companions of her own age, and that it would be pleasant to live in the country. By-and-by, she looked up with a smile, and her mother saw that she meant to make the best of things.
"That's right, my dear," Mrs. Grey said cordially, "you're my sensible little daughter again, I see. We shall not be separated quite yet—"
"When will it be, mother?" Mavis broke in.
"In about a fortnight, I think. Mr. Dawson asked me if I could be ready by then, and I told him I could. Of course, if your uncle and aunt decline to have you at W—, I must arrange for you to remain with Miss Tompkins, but I would rather leave you with relatives. I've never been to W—, but I believe it's a very pretty place; the nearest railway-station is Oxford. Perhaps I may take you to W— myself."
"Oh, mother, I hope you will."
"We shall see."
Mrs. Grey rose as she spoke, lit the gas, and pulled down the blind. Then she took up the letter she had written, and remarked, "It may as well go to-night. I will put on my bonnet and cloak and post it. You may come with me, if you like, Mavis, and we will have a look at the shops."
"Oh yes," Mavis agreed, readily.
Accordingly, mother and daughter went out together. Mrs. Grey posted her letter at the first pillar-box they passed. And a few minutes later, they turned from the dingy street in which their home was situated, into a wider thoroughfare lined on either side with fine shops, brilliantly illuminated with electric light.
Mavis amused herself, for a while, by pointing out to her mother the various articles she would like to buy, and it did not trouble her that she could not purchase any of them, for she was a contented little soul who had never fretted at poverty. But by-and-by, she grew silent, and her interest in her surroundings commenced to flag.
"Shall we go home, now?" suggested Mrs. Grey, thinking the child was getting tired.
"Yes, if you like, mother," Mavis answered, in a dispirited tone.
She did not explain that she had become suddenly depressed by the thought that she and her mother might never thus gaze into the shop windows together again. Who could tell what might happen in the months to come? Her mother might be shipwrecked and drowned. Oh, there were scores of accidents which might happen to prevent her return. A panic of fear, such as she had never experienced before, had taken possession of her. But she kept her self-control until she went to bed and her mother came to kiss her good night. Then, as she felt the clasp of her mother's loving arms, she broke into tears and wailed piteously.
"Oh, don't, don't leave me! Don't go to Australia! What shall I do without you? Oh, mother, I've only you—only you! Oh, I feel so frightened!"
"Hush, hush, dear," Mrs. Grey whispered tenderly, as she pressed the little quivering form to her breast. "You must not be frightened. You must trust in God, and never forget that if I am far away from you, He will be always near—caring for you, protecting you, and loving you all the time. Jesus said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.' Often we can't help being troubled and fearful, but if we had more faith in our Saviour, we should never be either. The thought of separation is as distressing to me as it is to you, Mavis, but I believe God has willed it for the good of both of us. Won't you try to believe it, too?"
"Indeed I will try," Mavis returned, checking her sobs. "I want to be brave, for I know it hurts you to see me like this, mother. But, oh, I never once dreamed you would go away from me—so far, far away, right to the other side of the world!"
CONCERNING MISS DAWSON
MRS. GREY received a letter from her brother-in-law by return of post, in which, as she had anticipated would be the case, he expressed his willingness to make a home for Mavis for as long as she should need it.
"My wife bids me say she will do her best for your little girl," he wrote, "and I am sure she will not be lonely with Rose and Bob for playfellows. Bob goes to the village school; but Rose attends a private school for girls, kept by a Miss Matthews, and I suggest that Mavis should accompany her. Why not come and spend a few days with Mavis at W— before you leave England? It would give us much pleasure to welcome you to the Mill House."
"I should like to go," Mrs. Grey said, smiling at her little daughter, to whom she had been reading extracts from her brother-in-law's letter, "and I will try to manage it. I think I must go and see Miss Dawson to-day, and ascertain if her father has decided by which vessel she is to travel. Would you like to accompany me—to Camden Square, I mean, where the Dawsons live?"
"Indeed I should, mother," Mavis answered.
"I have told Miss Dawson about you, and she expressed a desire to see you. I think she will like to talk to you, Mavis, and you must try not to be shy with her, for she is little more than a child herself. She is exceedingly low-spirited at the prospect of leaving her father, to whom she is most devotedly attached."
"She's very rich, didn't you say, mother?" said Mavis.
"Rich as far as money goes, but she cannot enjoy life, like most girls of her age, because she is in such poor health."
"I suppose she'll get well, won't she?"
"I cannot say, my dear. God alone knows that."
Mavis' interest in Miss Dawson was increasing, and she was now all eagerness to see her. She and her mother started for Camden Square shortly after their midday dinner, but it was nearly four o'clock by the time they reached their destination.
Never before had the little girl been in such a luxuriously furnished house as Mr. Dawson's, and she made good use of her eyes as she crossed the hall in the wake of the servant who ushered her mother and herself into a large, lofty drawing-room. How soft was the thick velvet pile carpet, with its pattern of moss and pale pink rosebuds! It was almost too handsome to step on, Mavis thought, and she looked at her boots anxiously, to make sure they were not muddy.
"Oh, mother, this is a lovely room," she whispered as the servant, who had informed them that her master was not at home, but that he was expected shortly, went to tell Miss Dawson of their arrival; "but if it was mine I should be afraid to use it, I am sure. It is far, far handsomer than Miss Tompkins' front drawing-room."
Miss Tompkins' front drawing-room, which that worthy lady let at half a guinea a week, had hitherto been Mavis' idea of what a drawing-room should be, but now she relegated it to a second place in her estimation.
In a very short while, the servant returned, and said that Miss Dawson was ready to receive them, and they were shown upstairs. The servant drew back a heavy crimson plush curtain hanging before a door which she opened, and announced—"Mrs. Grey, if you please, Miss Laura."
"I'm so glad to see you've brought your little girl with you, Mrs. Grey," said a soft musical voice. "How do you do? It's rather chilly, isn't it? At least, I find it so."
Mavis looked at the speaker with an interest she did not strive to conceal. Miss Dawson lay on a sofa, but she certainly did not appear ill to an inexperienced observer, for there was a beautiful flush in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were extremely brilliant. Mrs. Grey would not permit her to rise, but drew a chair near to her sofa, and, having duly introduced Mavis to her, questioned her concerning her health.
"Oh, I don't believe I'm half so bad as the doctors try to make out," the young girl declared, "and I wouldn't consent to go to Australia but for father. He was so unhappy when, at first, I refused to go. And you, you poor little thing," she proceeded, turning her attention to Mavis, "you greatly dislike the idea of parting from your mother, do you not?"
"Yes," Mavis was obliged to admit.
"How you must hate me, because I'm going to be the cause of your separation! But, since the doctors are bent on exiling me from England, I'm glad your mother is going with me, because—Oh, come in!" she cried, as there was a tap at the door.
It was the servant who had shown Mavis and her mother upstairs, come to say that Mr. Dawson had returned, and would like to see Mrs. Grey.
"There, now everything will be settled," Miss Dawson remarked, as Mrs. Grey left the room. "I consider you and I are companions in misfortune, in one way, for you are to be separated from your mother and I from my father. It's a great nuisance my lungs are so delicate."
"I am very sorry," Mavis said gently.
"But I won't believe that I am very bad; sometimes I don't feel ill at all. Where are you going to live whilst your mother is away?"
Mavis told her, adding that she did not know her aunt and cousins, and that she would miss her mother dreadfully. Her brown eyes filled with tears as she spoke.
"Poor little thing!" murmured Miss Dawson, in a tone of such deep sympathy, that the tears overflowed and ran down her companion's cheeks. "I have no doubt you begrudge your mother to me," she continued, after a brief pause, "but please do try not to. I really am ill, you know, though I like to pretend I'm not sometimes, and—by the way, you have not told me your name?"
"It is Mavis."
"Mavis?"
"Yes. My father chose it for me. A mavis is a thrush—a bird which sings."
"And do you sing?" Miss Dawson inquired, with a smile.
"Yes," Mavis replied, drying her eyes and smiling too. "I used to sing when I was quite a little girl."
Miss Dawson laughed; but the laugh brought on a fit of coughing which lasted several minutes. When it had passed, she seemed quite exhausted, and lay back on the sofa with her eyes shut, panting. Mavis was rather frightened, and wished her mother would return, but presently Miss Dawson opened her eyes and smiled at her, remarking apologetically—
"I hope I have not alarmed you; this wretched cough takes all my strength away. There, I'm all right again. I wish you would sing to me."
"Do you mean now?" Mavis inquired, dubiously.
"Yes, unless you would rather not."
The little girl coloured nervously; but she feared to appear disobliging, so she sang one or two simple ditties very prettily. Miss Dawson was charmed, and Mavis felt gratified at being able to give her pleasure.
"You have a very sweet voice," Miss Dawson said by-and-by, at the conclusion of the last song. "Do—please do sing something more."
"I'm afraid I don't know any more songs," Mavis replied, "but I will sing a hymn, if you like. I know! I will give you mother's favourite psalm."
She commenced forthwith to sing an old version of the twenty-third psalm—
"The Lord is only my support, and He that doth me feed;How can I then lack anything whereof I stand in need?In pastures green He feedeth me, where I do safely lie;And after leads me to the streams which run most pleasantly.""And when I find myself near lost, then doth He me home take;Conducting me in His right paths, e'en for His own Name's sake.And though I were e'en at death's door, yet would I fear no ill;For both Thy rod and shepherd's crook afford me comfort still.""Thou hast my table richly spread in presence of my foe,Thou hast my head with balm refresht, my cup doth overflow—"
Mavis stopped suddenly, for, much to her consternation, she saw that Miss Dawson was struggling to subdue an emotion which threatened to overpower her, and that her blue eyes were swimming in tears. There was silence for a few minutes.
"I am very foolish," the sick girl said, at length, in a tremulous tone, "and you mustn't think I don't like your singing, for I do, especially that psalm, it's—it's so comforting—"
"And when I find myself near lost, then doth He me home take."
"I shall think of that when I'm ever so far away from England, and—and I shall try to fear no ill, and remember that the Good Shepherd is with me. I am so glad you came with your mother to-day, Mavis; I would not have missed knowing you for a great deal. You must come to see me again."
Mavis, immensely flattered, flushed rosy red. After that, they talked quite confidentially, until Mrs. Grey re-entered the room. Miss Dawson told her in what manner Mavis had been entertaining her, and that her company had done her a vast deal of good.
"I must see more of her," she declared.
Then, with a sudden change of tone, she asked anxiously, "What has been decided?"
"That we are to sail from Plymouth, by the 'Nineveh,' on Thursday week," Mrs. Grey replied. "So we have only a short while in which to make our final arrangements. I am afraid I shall have no opportunity of bringing Mavis to see you again."
"Oh, mother!" cried Mavis, regretfully.
"I am sorry," said Miss Dawson, with a disappointed sigh. She took a fine gold chain, from which was suspended a little heart-shaped locket, from her neck as she spoke and called Mavis to her. "There, dear," she said, as she clasped the chain around the little girl's neck, "I give you that as a keepsake, for I want you to remember me, and—pray for me. You need not mind taking it, for I bought it with my own money."
"Oh!" cried Mavis, delightedly. "Oh, how kind of you! Mother, may I have it? Yes. Oh, thank you, thank you!" She threw her arms around Miss Dawson's neck and kissed her warmly. "I shall never forget you," she proceeded, her voice very earnest; "and I will pray for you, be very sure of that. I hope you will soon get quite, quite well, and come home again. Mother will take great care of you; she really is a capital nurse. Oh, she is ready to go, and I must say good-bye."
"Good-bye," Miss Dawson said, with a bright smile. "We shall meet again some day. I am glad you like the locket and chain."
"How I wish I had something to give you!" Mavis exclaimed.
"You have given me a great deal," Miss Dawson replied, in a low tone.
Then, as Mavis regarded her with wondering, questioning eyes, she said, "You have given me comfort, and reminded me that I am not setting out on a long journey without support from God. I shall remember that, I hope, now, and I'd nearly forgotten it. Good-bye, Mavis—little song-bird."
"Good-bye," Mavis responded, quite huskily.
She was surprised that she should feel so sad at saying good-bye to one who had been a stranger to her a short hour before; but it was so, and her eyes were dim with unshed tears as she followed her mother out of the room. In the hall, they met Mr. Dawson—a gentleman with rather an anxious-looking face—who spoke to Mavis very kindly and accompanied them to the door, where his private carriage was waiting to take them home.
"Remember Thursday week," he said impressively, as he closed the carriage door upon Mrs. Grey and Mavis.
Then he stood back, and the carriage moved off.
"Oh, mother!" cried Mavis. "Thursday week! And it's Tuesday now! Oh, it will be dreadfully soon!"
THE ARRIVAL AT THE MILL HOUSE
IT was a fine afternoon at the end of September, on one of those golden days which frequently come when summer is ended, and the Mill House at W— was looking its best. It was an old stone house, close to the river, with lattice windows, around which creepers, now gorgeous with autumn's brilliant colouring, crept and twined whilst over the porch, which faced the southwest, clambered a monthly rose, on which a few pink blossoms bloomed, though it was so late in the season. Before the house was a well-kept plot of grass, surrounded by flower-beds and intersected by the path which led to the wicket-gate in the privet hedge which separated the garden from the high-road. And at the back of the house was a large yard, and a kitchen-garden reaching to the river's brink.
The mill wheel was silent on this perfect autumn afternoon, as it usually was on Saturday afternoons, and everything was very still within the house, where all was in apple-pie order. For visitors were expected, and a substantial meal was awaiting them in the parlour. Whilst in the kitchen, the kettle was singing merrily, and Jane, the capable middle-aged maid-of-all-work, in a spotless gown and clean cap and apron, was moving noiselessly about, duster in hand, in search of a speck of dust which might have escaped her notice.
"Everything's as clean as a new pin, and so it ought to be, seeing how I've slaved this day," she mused, her eyes wandering over the well-scrubbed table, the various shining tin and copper articles on the mantelpiece, and resting at length on the tall brass-faced clock which stood near the door. "Half-past four!" she exclaimed. "They ought to be here by this time."
She opened the door as she spoke, and walked along a dark, narrow passage which led her into a stone-paved hall, flooded with sunshine which found entrance through a window at the right of the front door. Outside the front door, beneath the porch, stood a very little woman—the Mistress of the Mill House—shading her eyes with her hand, as she looked for the expected approach of a vehicle on the road which stretched before the house and led to Oxford.
"Are they coming, ma'am?" Jane inquired, as she crossed the hall and joined her mistress.
"The gig is not in sight yet," replied Mrs. Grey—or Mrs. John Grey, as we must call her, to distinguish her from Mavis' mother. In fact, she was generally known as Mrs. John.
"The children are outside the gate; they are as excited as they usually are when we expect any one. I wonder what our visitors will be like. I don't think Mrs. Grey can have much heart, or she wouldn't have accepted this engagement to go to Australia. I know I could not endure to be parted from my children—and she has only one child. John has asked her to visit us on several occasions, but she has always found an excuse—generally that of work—for declining our invitations. Now she wants to make use of us, she can came to see us fast enough."
Mrs. John spoke in an aggrieved tone. She was a fair-haired, blue-eyed little woman, who had held the post of useful help to a neighbouring farmer's wife previous to her marriage. She owned rather a sharp tongue and a jealous temper, but she was an affectionate wife and mother, and her husband and children loved her dearly. And it was she who, by her thrifty ways and good management, had helped to make the miller the well-to-do man he was to-day. Her unreserved manner of speaking to her servant was to be accounted for by the fact that Jane had lived at the Mill House before Mr. Grey had married, in his parents' lifetime, and was regarded more as a friend than a dependent.
"I expect Mrs. Grey hasn't had opportunities for visiting," Jane said thoughtfully. "She must have had to work very hard since her husband's death."
"He ought not to have been a clergyman," observed Mrs. John. "Gentlemen with private means can afford to do as they please, but he came of working stock. How much wiser it would have been, if he had been brought up to some business!"
"I don't know about that, ma'am," Jane responded. "Christ's disciples came from working stock, anyway. Master Rupert was just the man to be a clergyman, his heart was in his work."
"He should not have married, to leave his wife and child unprovided for."
"He could not foresee his life would be cut short as it was, ma'am. I've always wondered why God took him—but, there, He knows best, and all things will be made plain to us some day. Isn't that the gig I see in the distance?"
At that moment the wicket-gate swung open, and a little girl, blue-eyed and fair-haired like her mother, ran up the garden path, crying excitedly—
"They're coming! They'll be here in a few minutes now! Do come to the gate to meet them, mother, and you, too, Jane."
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ALL THE HOUSEHOLD THERE TO MEET THEM.
They willingly complied, so that when the gig, in which were seated Mr. Grey and his sister-in-law, with Mavis between them, drew up before the Mill House, the strangers were gratified to find all the household there to meet them.
The miller was the first to get down from the conveyance. He was a tall, stout man, whose stooping shoulders proclaimed his trade, for they looked as though they were accustomed to bear heavy burdens such as sacks of flour. He had a loud, hearty voice, and his plain, somewhat heavy countenance, usually wore an expression of great kindliness. Having lifted Mavis from the gig, he helped his sister-in-law to alight, and then, addressing her by her Christian name—Margaret—he commenced a round of introductions.
"Margaret, let me introduce you to my wife—Lizzie. Lizzie, this is poor Rupert's wife, and here's his little girl, who's his living image. Rose and Bob, come here and speak to your aunt and cousin. Yes, that's right, Rose, kiss Mavis and make her welcome."
"And here's Jane! You've heard of Jane, haven't you, Margaret? Yes, I thought Rupert must have spoken of her to you; he and Jane were always good friends. Now go into the house, all of you—I'm sure the travellers must want their tea—and I'll be in as soon as I have taken out the horse. The luggage is coming by the carrier."
The miller's wife led the way into the house with Mrs. Grey, whilst the children followed with Jane, who told Mavis she ought to feel at home at the Mill House because her father and grandfather had been born there. The visitors were taken upstairs by their hostess, to the room which was to belong to Mavis.
"I thought you would like to occupy the same bedroom," said Mrs. John, glancing from mother to daughter, "more especially as you are to be parted so soon."
"Very, very soon!" sighed Mavis, mournfully.
"What a pretty room this is!" exclaimed mother, looking around with an appreciative smile. "I like that old-fashioned mahogany bed, and the window-seat; and how nice to be able to indulge in a white counterpane and white curtains! In London, in the part where we have been living, they would be drab in no time. It is very kind of you to spare Mavis such a beautiful room."
"Yes, indeed," Mavis said earnestly; "I shall put my desk on that table by the window, and there I shall write my letters to you, mother, and—" Her voice faltered, and the sentence ended in an involuntary sob.
"I hope you will be happy with us, I'm sure," said Mrs. John, her heart touched by the little girl's emotion. "You must call me 'Aunt Lizzie,'" she added.
"Yes, Aunt Lizzie," Mavis replied, her face brightening. "Oh," she cried, as her gaze wandered out of the window, "what a lovely view!"
It was, indeed. For in the distance lay Oxford in the mellow autumn sunshine. The spires and towers of the grand old university town standing out against a background of pale-blue sky. Whilst nearer was a green stretch of meadow-lands through which the river made its way.
"Yes, it is very lovely," her mother agreed. Then, as their hostess left the room, she continued, "I am so very glad I could come with you, for now I shall be able to picture everything as it really is. It seems a dear old house, and I am sure we have been given a hearty welcome. Now let us be quick and remove the traces of our journey; your aunt said tea would be ready in a few minutes."
Mavis was a trifle shy with her cousins at first, and greatly disappointed them, after tea, by saying that she would prefer to remain with her mother in the parlour to going into the garden with them. Bob, who was her junior by a year, regarded her rather scornfully; but Rose, being older, was better able to understand her cousin's feelings, and whispered to her brother—
"Never mind, Bobbie, she'll like to play with us when her mother's gone; of course she wants to stay with Aunt Margaret now. Wouldn't you want to stay with mother if she was going away next week for months and months?"
So Mavis remained with her mother till bedtime. She was in exceedingly low spirits, and on retiring to rest, she bedewed her pillow with tears before she fell asleep. She slept well, however; and when she was awakened by her mother's kiss, she opened her eyes to find another fine day had dawned.
That was a never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, and, oh, how very quickly to two of the inmates of the Mill House it slipped away! To Mavis and Mrs. Grey, the hours seemed to fly. They attended the services in the village church in the morning and evening, and the little girl, as she knelt between her mother and aunt at the latter service, felt that her heart must surely break, for it was aching so painfully. And when the Vicar ascended the pulpit to preach, she was glad that the light from the oil lamps with which the church was lit was so inferior, because she did not want any one to notice the misery which she was sure was depicted on her face.
The Vicar, Mr. Moseley, was quite an old man, and Mavis had heard her uncle tell her mother at dinner-time that he had had a very troublous life, that his best years had been spent in hard work in the metropolis, and that he had been presented with the living of W— five years previously. In a corner of the yard outside the church, he had laid his wife quite lately. She had been his faithful helpmeet for more than forty years, and yet there was no sign of trouble on his face as Mavis saw it by the light of the wax candles in the pulpit, but rather was its expression one of contentment. In a voice which, without being loud, was deep and distinct, he gave out his text—
"Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you:not as the world giveth, give I unto you.Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."
It was a sermon about loneliness. The words of his text, the preacher reminded his congregation, were the words with which Jesus had consoled His disciples after He had told them He was going to leave them. He had promised them the Comforter, the Holy Ghost, even the Spirit of truth, to abide with them for ever. Jesus had not left the world comfortless, He had left His peace, not such peace as the world gives, it was something higher, mightier than that, something all-satisfying, for its root was faith in God. They were not to be troubled, neither were they to be afraid.
Mavis listened with rapt attention as the Vicar proceeded in such simple language that she found no difficulty in following him. It seemed to her that he was preaching to her alone, for all he said fitted in with her mood. Perhaps God had told him what to say, she reflected; yes, she was sure He had. She slipped her hand into her mother's and kept it there, and the sigh she gave at the conclusion of the sermon was one of contentment. Then the Vicar gave out the number of a hymn, which was a favourite of hers, and she joined in singing it heartily.
"'Saviour, again to Thy dear Name we raiseWith one accord our parting hymn of praise;We stand to bless Thee ere our worship cease;Then, lowly kneeling, wait Thy word of peace.'"
Many a one in the congregation turned to look at the little girl with the beautiful voice which rang out so clearly and unfalteringly. And her aunt wondered that the child should have the heart to sing with such evident enjoyment on the eve of separation from her mother, as though she had not a trouble in the world.
MRS. GREY'S DEPARTURE
MRS. GREY was to leave the Mill House soon after breakfast on Monday morning. Accordingly, she arose at daybreak, and was fully dressed and had packed her travelling-bag before Mavis awoke. She was standing by the window looking out, when the little girl opened her eyes, and, seeing her there, addressed her.
"Good morning, mother. Have I overslept myself?"
"No, dear," Mrs. Grey answered. She crossed to the bedside and kissed Mavis as she spoke. "Get up now, though," she proceeded. "I want to have a talk with you before breakfast. We shall have no time together afterwards."
Mavis jumped out of bed at once. And, whilst she was dressing, her mother told her that it had been arranged for her to accompany Rose to school, and that she was to go to-morrow.
"To-morrow!" Mavis echoed. "Oh, I am sorry for that! It is such lovely weather, and the country looks so beautiful, and it's so nice in the garden, and—"
"And, in short, you consider you ought to have a holiday before you commence work," said Mrs. Grey, smiling.
She did not agree with her little daughter, for she knew it would be better for her mind to be fully occupied during the first days of their separation.
"You will have a whole holiday every Saturday," she went on to explain. "And your school hours are not long—from half-past nine to twelve o'clock in the morning, and from two to four o'clock in the afternoon. I am sure Rose does not look overworked."
"No," agreed Mavis. "I think I shall like Rose, mother."
"I am glad of that. She and her brother seem nice children. Your aunt has promised to write to me frequently, Mavis; I believe she will be very kind to you. And your uncle—"
"Oh, I love Uncle John already!" Mavis broke in. "He has promised to take me for some drives, and Rose says he's certain to, for he always keeps his word. What is that noise I hear, mother?"
"The mill wheel. You will soon grow accustomed to the sound. Do you know that this used to be your father's bedroom? Yes, so your uncle said. Think how often your father must have looked across those meadows to Oxford! Ah, I shall picture this view when I am far away, and be glad that I was able to leave you in your father's home."
Mavis had finished dressing by this time, and was standing by her mother's side, her mother's arm around her shoulder.
"You will be a good girl during my absence, I know," Mrs. Grey remarked by-and-by. "Do your best at school, and always obey your aunt, will you not?"
"Of course, mother," Mavis replied. "I hope you will not be gone very long, though. Perhaps Miss Dawson will got well quickly."
"I trust she will."
"I wish I had something to give her in return for the locket and chain she gave me, mother, or that there was something I could do to show her how grateful I am."
"You can pray for her, my dear, as she asked you. If you and I, who are well and strong, dread separation, what must she, who is weak and ill, feel about leaving her father? She knows it is not unlikely that she will never see him again in this world. It is very sad for her."
"She will have you, mother," Mavis said, with a little sob.
"Yes; but I am merely a stranger to her. You will miss me dreadfully, I know, darling, but your sense of loneliness will not equal Miss Dawson's."
"I am glad, yes, I am really glad you are going with her—glad for her sake, you know."
"It pleases me to hear you say that. Come, dear, let us kneel down and say our prayers together, and ask God's blessing."
Accordingly, mother and daughter knelt side by side and poured out their hearts to God. The tears rose to Mavis' eyes, but she resolutely blinked them away and would not let them overflow, for she was most anxious not to distress her mother more than she could help.
Shortly after they had arisen from their knees, the breakfast-bell rang, and they went downstairs. Mavis perceived that every one was looking at her very sympathetically, and no remarks were made when her appetite failed her and she left her breakfast almost untasted on her plate.
As soon as the meal was over, Rose and Bob said good-bye to their aunt, and betook themselves to school. And not long afterwards, Mr. Grey strolled out into the yard to order the horse to be put in the gig to convoy his sister-in-law to Oxford.
It had been previously arranged that Mavis was to say good-bye to her mother at the Mill House. She would have liked to accompany her to the railway-station, but Mrs. Grey herself had negatived that idea.
We will not linger over the moments of farewell when the mother and daughter clung to each other in grief too deep for words. The last good-bye kisses were exchanged, and Mrs. Grey took her place in the gig by her brother-in-law's side, whilst Mavis, between her aunt and Jane, stood outside the wicket-gate, struggling to keep calm.
"Good-bye," Mrs. John said. "We shall hear from you before you sail."
"Good-bye, ma'am," said Jane. "God bless you!"
"Good-bye, mother, dear, dear mother!" cried Mavis, trying to smile.
Then, as the gig moved off, she waved her hand, and continued to do so till it was out of sight. After that, she found it impossible to keep her composure any longer, and burst into a flood of tears. Her aunt and Jane were both very kind and sympathetic, but she begged them to let her be by herself. And, running into the house, she sought refuge in her own room, where she sobbed out her grief undisturbed for some time. By-and-by, however, Jane arrived, duster in hand. And Mavis, who had now passed the first keen pangs of sorrow, bathed her tear-stained face, and inquired where she would find her aunt.
"She's downstairs, miss; you'll find her either in the kitchen or the back garden. Monday's always a busy day with us, for it's washing-day. A woman from the village, Mrs. Long, comes to wash. She's worked for Mrs. John for years."
"You mean Aunt Lizzie when you speak of Mrs. John, don't you, Jane?"
"Yes; most folks call her Mrs. John, for master's mother was living when he married. Your mother is Mrs. Grey now, you know, for your father was the elder son. He might have had the mill, if he had liked, but he preferred to be a clergyman. I knew both your father and your uncle when they were boys. I lived here as servant when they were growing up, so you see I've been with the family a great many years."
Mavis went downstairs and found her way to the kitchen, beyond which was a big scullery, and outside that a wash-house, where a stout, rosy-cheeked woman was hard at work at a wash-tub, up to elbows in soapsuds, and enveloped in a cloud of steam.
"Good morning, missie," she said to Mavis, smiling at her good-temperedly, and with sympathy in her glance; for she knew the little girl's mother had left that morning, and guessed that was the cause of her sorrowful face.
"Good morning," Mavis replied, returning her smile.
She went out into the kitchen-garden, where she found her aunt hanging various garments on the clothes lines, which extended the whole length of the garden.
"Do let me help you, Aunt Lizzie," she said. "Isn't there something I can do?"
"You might spread these handkerchiefs on the hedge to bleach, they're Bob's. See what a dreadful colour they are, and no wonder, for I caught him dusting his boots with one of them and cleaning his slate with another! Boys make no end of work."
Mavis did as she was desired.
But her aunt had nothing more for her to do, so she found her way out of the garden by a gate in the hedge into the meadow beyond, and strolled along the bank of the river.
She was still within sight of the house, when she was startled by a big, black, formidable-looking dog, which came up and sniffed at her more out of curiosity—as she was quick enough to discern—than with any idea of intimidating her. Mavis was unaccustomed to dogs, but she was no coward, so she extended her hand to the great animal and spoke to him, whereupon he was so overcome with her condescension that he quite lost his head, and circled around her in delight, whilst she laughed heartily.
"Well, little maiden!"
Mavis turned at the sound of an amused voice addressing her, and found herself face to face with the Vicar. She recognized his elderly, clean-shaven countenance, with its sweet-tempered mouth and clear grey eyes, immediately.
"You are not afraid of my dog, I perceive," he proceeded, with a smile. "You need not be, for he is very quiet. His name is Max. I do not know you, do I?" he asked doubtfully, as he saw recognition in her glance.
"Oh no!" she responded, quickly.
"I think you must be the miller's little niece," he said, after a minute's reflection, during which he had noticed the traces of recent tears on her face. "Mr. Grey told me he expected you, and explained the circumstances under which you were to be left with him. Is your mother gone?"
"She went this morning, not long ago," Mavis replied, with quivering lips. "But she does not sail till Thursday. She is going ever so far away—to Australia—and I shan't see her for months and months," she added, mournfully.
"Meanwhile, I hope you will be very happy at the Mill House with your relatives. Come here, Max."
The dog obeyed his master's call, and allowed Mavis to pat his great head, after which, he licked her hand, and she felt she had made a friend.
"He is a Newfoundland," Mr. Moseley said, "and he will fetch anything out of the water. See!"
He picked up a stone, showed it to the dog, and flung it into the river. Max dived after it immediately, and presently, reappearing, swam ashore and laid the same stone at his master's feet. Mavis was delighted, and the performance was repeated several times for her benefit.
"What a clever dog he is!" she cried, enthusiastically. "Aren't you very fond of him?"
"Yes," the Vicar replied, "Max and I are great friends; we understand each other. How do you think you will like life in the country?" he inquired.
"I should like it, if mother was here, but I don't think I can be happy anywhere without her," was the doleful response.
"Oh yes, you can," he said decidedly; "you must try to be happy; that is the duty of every one. Life is hard for most of us at some time or other; it brings pain and separation. But we ought not to become gloomy and sad. If there were no partings, there would be no happy meetings. What is your name, my dear?"
"Mavis Grey."
"Mavis is a very pretty name. A little girl with that name should be as happy as a bird!"
Mavis smiled. She thought she would like to tell him how much she had enjoyed his sermon last night. And, after a brief hesitation, she did so.
He appeared greatly pleased.
"It was just as though you knew how lonely I was feeling," she said eagerly, "just as though you were preaching to me. I shall remember all you said—always, I hope. I'm not going to let my heart be troubled—not more than I can help. And I'm going to try not to be afraid, though there are so many things which might happen to mother!"
"There are many things which might happen to all of us. But we must trust ourselves and those we love to our Father in Heaven." Mr. Moseley paused for a minute, then proceeded, "I did not know my sermon last night was appropriate to any one in particular, but God knew, we may be sure of that."
"Did He tell you what to say?" Mavis inquired. "Oh," she cried, as her companion assented, "I was certain He did."
Mavis lingered a short while longer in conversation with her new acquaintance. Then she remembered that her aunt might be wondering where she was, and, having said good-bye to Mr. Moseley and bestowed a farewell pat on Max, she retraced her footsteps the way she had come. Her drooping spirits were reviving, for her talk with the Vicar had done her good. She looked up into the clear, blue sky overhead, and a glow of happiness crept into her heart. Then she glanced across the sweep of meadow-lands, and began to sing in a soft undertone—
"The Lord is only my support, and He that doth me feed;How can I then lack anything whereof I stand in need?In pastures green He feedeth me, where I do safely lie;And after leads me to the streams which run most pleasantly."
Meanwhile, Mr. Grey had returned from Oxford, and was in the kitchen-garden talking to his wife, who had brought out another basket of clothes. He was telling her, that he had seen his sister-in-law off from the railway-station, and was inquiring what had become of Mavis, when the little girl appeared at the garden gate.
"Why, she's singing!" he exclaimed, in surprise.
"I don't understand her," his wife replied, looking puzzled. "She seemed very cut up after her mother had gone, and wept most bitterly, but I think her feelings must be all on the surface—they can't go very deep."
At that moment Mavis caught sight of them. Her voice suddenly ceased, and she ran up to her uncle, to learn that her mother had really gone.
"What was that you were singing, Mavis?" he inquired, curiously.
"The twenty-third psalm, Uncle John," she answered; "seeing the green meadows put me in mind of it."
Then, observing he looked bewildered, she continued eagerly, "Don't you understand? 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.'"
"Oh, now I follow your train of thought," he replied, with a smile, glancing at his wife. "Fancy a child like you thinking of that!"
PETTY JEALOUSY
THE morning following Mrs. Grey's departure from the Mill House, Mavis accompanied Rose to school. Their way led past the church and the vicarage, and through the village. And as they went, Mavis looked about her with interested eyes, admiring the picturesque creeper-covered cottages with their trim gardens and thatched roofs.
"They seem to sell everything here," she remarked, with an amused smile, as she paused before the one shop of the place, which was also the post-office, "groceries, brushes, notepaper, and medicines too, I declare!"
"We must not dawdle," said Rose, as her cousin lingered, peering into the shop window, "or we shall be late, and that won't do.'
"Would Miss Matthews be angry?" inquired Mavis. "Is she very strict?"
"Yes," nodded Rose; "mother says it's right she should be. If we were late, she would keep us in after twelve o'clock, and most likely give us each an imposition—though perhaps you would go unpunished, as it is your first day. You have never been to school before, have you?"
"Never. Mother taught me to read and write. And then a young lady, a governess who lodged at the same house that we did, used to teach me in the evenings. How many girls are there at Miss Matthews' school?"
"About a dozen—most of them are boarders. Here we are. You see it takes us quite a quarter of an hour to walk to school."
Miss Matthews' house was at the far end of the village. It was a modern red-brick villa with bow windows, over the under-blinds of one of which Mavis saw the heads of several girls. Rose led the way into the house by a side door. And, having shown her cousin where to leave her hat and jacket on one of a row of pegs in the passage, piloted her to the schoolroom, and introduced her to her schoolfellows. A few minutes later, Miss Matthews herself appeared upon the scene, followed by a young governess called Miss Forbes.
"So this is my new pupil," observed Miss Matthews, her eyes scrutinizing Mavis very kindly as she shook hands with her. "You are called Mavis, I hear," she proceeded; "it is an uncommon name and a very pretty one."
Miss Matthews was a dark, middle-aged woman with a plain, clever face, and Mavis' first impression of her was that she was very ugly, but the moment a smile lit up her countenance, she decided that she was really quite good-looking.
By-and-by, the new pupil was handed over to the governess, who classed her with several little girls varying from ten to twelve years of age. And so her school life began.
It was soon discovered that though Mavis' education had been carried on in a somewhat desultory fashion, she was by no means backward. She owned an excellent memory, and was quick to learn, taking after her father, as her uncle remarked when Rose told him how easily her cousin mastered her lessons.
"She has inherited Rupert's clever brain," he said to his wife. "You can look in her face and see she's as sharp as a needle. I hope she'll brisk up our Rose, who's one of the slow, plodding sort—like myself," he added, with a laugh.
This speech did not please his hearer, though she recognized its truth. Rose had many excellent qualities, but she was not in the least clever, as far as book-learning was concerned, and found lessons great drudgery.
Mavis was very soon on the best of terms with all the inmates of the Mill House, with the exception of her aunt, whom she found it impossible to like as well as the others, though she could not have told why she did not feel at home with her, if she had been asked for a reason. The fact was, Mrs. John failed to understand Mavis, who was naturally of a light-hearted, joyous disposition, and she was confirmed in her impression, as time went on, that the child's nature was a superficial one. When, on the morning subsequent to the day on which the 'Nineveh' had sailed from Plymouth, Mavis had received a farewell letter from her mother, over which she had shed tears, she had had her aunt's full sympathy. But when, a few hours later, she had returned from school with Rose, apparently in good spirits, her aunt had privately dubbed her a heartless little thing, being quite unaware of the brave fight the child had made against depression.
"I advise you not to make too much of Mavis," Mrs. John remarked to her husband on one occasion, after he had taken the little girl for a drive. "You will spoil her if you're not careful."
"Oh, nonsense, my dear," he replied; "there's small danger of my doing that. She's had few pleasures in her life, poor child, and our young folks have had a great many. Bob wanted to accompany me to-day—he said it was his turn—but I told him he must give up his place in the gig to his cousin."
"That was hard on the boy, John."
"Not at all. I don't see it."
But Bob himself considered that it had been very hard, for he was unaccustomed to self-sacrifice, and he liked nothing so well as driving with his father. So when, after tea, Mavis commenced telling him and Rose of the delightful time she had had, he listened in somewhat sullen silence.
"It was so kind of Uncle John to take me to Oxford," Mavis said happily. "I think it is such a lovely place, with those beautiful virginian creepers growing all over the colleges."
"The leaves will soon be off the creepers after the first frost," remarked Rose. "I'm glad you've seen them, Mavis. Some people think Oxford prettier in the autumn than at any time, but I like it in the spring, when the hawthorn and lilacs and laburnums are in flower."
"Uncle put up the horse at an inn, and took me to see T—, that was father's college, you know, and he pointed out the rooms that were father's once, and I saw the chapel and the lime-walk, and he told me such a lot about father, how clever he was, and that he won scholarships, and in that way more than half paid for his own education. Oh, how I wish mother could have been with me to-day!"
"You'll be able to tell her all about it some time," said Rose, as she noticed a shade of sadness cross her cousin's face.
"Oh yes; but not for a long, long time. How did you and Bob spend the afternoon?" Mavis asked, glancing from the sister to the brother.
"We went blackberry gathering," answered Rose.
"It was slow work," observed Bob, joining in the conversation at last. "You had the best of it, Mavis," he added, grudgingly.
"Indeed I think I did," Mavis agreed, with a smile. Then, becoming aware by the expression of Bob's face that he was displeased, she inquired, "Would you have liked to have gone to Oxford instead of me this afternoon?"
"Rather!" he exclaimed. "Father took you for a drive last Saturday, too!" he reminded her, in a way which showed he resented the fact.
"Bob!" exclaimed Rose, in an expostulating tone.
"Well, it's not fair that father should make more of Mavis than of us," he grumbled, "I know mother thinks so too."
"For shame!" cried Rose, her kind heart touched by the hurt expression on her cousin's face. "Don't take any notice of what he says, Mavis."
"I didn't know he wanted to go this afternoon," murmured Mavis, looking distressed, "but I suppose one of you would have gone, if I had not been here. I—I am very sorry."
"There is nothing to be sorry about," Rose replied. "There, I believe you've made her cry," she said, turning upon her brother with indignation, as Mavis slipped quietly out of the room. "I saw tears in her eyes. You are very selfish, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bob. If father makes much of Mavis, it's only because he wants her to be happy with us. It's so sad that her mother should have had to go away and leave her."
"I didn't mean to make her cry," Bob answered. "I call her a great baby!"
"She's quite a little girl, of course," said Rose, who, being two years her cousin's senior, felt almost grown up in comparison to her, "but I don't consider her at all babyish. See how little fuss she made when her mother left!"
"I don't believe she cared—not much, heard mother say so to Jane; she said Mavis was singing a few hours after Aunt Margaret had gone, and people don't sing if they're sad."
Rose did not argue the point. Instead, she went upstairs in search of Mavis, whom she found in her bedroom, sitting on a chair by the window in the dark.
"What are you doing, Mavis?" she asked.
"Nothing," Mavis answered, "only thinking, and—and wishing that mother had left me in London with Miss Tompkins. I never guessed Bob wanted to go this afternoon, I never thought that I was taking his place!"
"It was very selfish and unkind of him to speak as he did, and father would be very angry if he knew he had done so. Think no more of it, Mavis. You haven't been crying, have you?"
"No," Mavis answered. "I've been praying," she added, after a minute's pause.
"Praying?" Rose was surprised. "But it isn't bedtime," she said, "I always say my prayers night and morning, don't you?"
"Yes, and odd times besides, whenever I feel I want to. It—it comforts me. It's so nice to think Jesus is always near to hear one, isn't it, and to remember He understands what other people can't? I expect Bob thinks it was very selfish of me to go to Oxford with Uncle John—"
"I shall tell father how he spoke to you!" Rose broke in, impetuously.
"Oh, don't, please don't!" implored Mavis. "Don't let us say any more about it. Promise you won't."
Rose gave the required promise, and the two little girls went downstairs together. Bob, who was now ashamed of the jealous spirit he had exhibited, found an opportunity during the evening of telling Mavis he was sorry if he had seemed unkind, and that he was really glad that she had enjoyed the afternoon.
September was nearly out now, but the fine weather continued, so that the young folks were able to spend their spare time out-of-doors. They had several blackberrying expeditions, from which they returned laden with luscious fruit, which Jane converted into bramble jelly. Mavis soon knew the prettiest walks around W—, and learnt the dangerous places in the river, where the water was deep and swift.
Sometimes in their rambles, the children came upon Mr. Moseley, who generally stopped and talked to them. Rose and Bob, like many country children, were shy, and had little to say for themselves. But Mavis, on the contrary, was always ready to further a conversation.
"You should have heard Mavis chattering to the Vicar this afternoon," said Bob to his mother, one Saturday evening. "I should think she talked to him for quite half an hour."
"Oh, quite!" agreed Mavis.
"I hope he did not think you a forward little girl, Mavis," said her aunt gravely, with a note of rebuke in her voice.
Mavis coloured indignantly, and a quick retort rose to her lips, but she refrained from uttering it, and kept silence.
"Mr. Moseley asked Mavis what she thought of Oxford, and she told him," explained Rose. "And then he questioned her about Aunt Margaret, and when the 'Nineveh' was due to arrive at Sydney, and of course, she had to answer him."
"Yes," assented her mother, "that was quite right. But little girls must not be too ready with their tongues."
"Rose isn't," said Bob, with a mischievous glance at his sister. "She scarcely spoke a word to Mr. Moseley this afternoon."
"I-I don't know Mr. Moseley very well," stammered poor Rose, "and I was shy, I suppose. So were you, Bob, for that matter."
"Bob is three years your junior, Rose," said her mother. "At your age, you ought not to be shy. Why could you not talk to the Vicar as well as Mavis?"
Rose hung her head and made no response, whilst her cousin felt very uncomfortable. Mavis was fully conscious, by this time, that her aunt did not approve of her, that she regarded her with critical eyes, and that she was always displeased if any one noticed her more than her cousins. And these facts prevented her from being as happy as she otherwise would have been at the Mill House. She was never quite at her ease in her aunt's presence, and certainly never at her best. And yet, Mrs. John had no intention of being otherwise than just and kind to her little niece, and was vexed when she observed that Mavis' affection for her uncle was deepening day by day, whilst she held more and more aloof from herself.
"Aunt Lizzie doesn't like me," Mavis thought frequently, and she would wonder if she could have possibly done anything to evoke her aunt's displeasure. "I try to please her, but I see she doesn't care for me, and I'm afraid I don't care for her—much."