IT was a trying experience for Angel to be the object of interest to five pairs of strange eyes, and she was seized with a perfect panic of shyness as she gave one hasty glance around the room, wishing she had been allowed to wait for Mr. Bailey downstairs. She blushed painfully, conscious of the dead silence which had fallen upon the group by the window; then she felt her hand taken in a reassuring clasp, whilst a kind voice said cordially—
"I am very pleased to see you, my dear. I am Mrs. Mickle. Sit down in this chair by my side. That's right! Let me introduce you to my children. This is Dinah. She must be about your age; and this is my baby, Dora. The boys are Gilbert and Tom. Now you know us all!"
Angel shook hands with each member of the family in turn, not knowing quite what to say, and hoping her silence did not appear ungracious.
"If you will tell us your name, we shall start our acquaintance on a proper footing," Mrs. Mickle proceeded, pitying her visitor's evident embarrassment, and longing to put her at her ease.
"I am called Angelica Willis," Angel answered, "but every one calls me Angel."
"May we call you Angel, too?"
"Oh, please do! Angelica is such a long name, but father wished me to be called it after Angelica Kauffmann, the painter. Father is an artist."
"I understand," Mrs. Mickle said, grasping the situation at once; "you will be an artist yourself, perhaps, when you grow up?"
"No," Angel replied, shaking her head regretfully, "I am afraid not! I am certain not! I cannot draw even a straight line. It is a great pity, but I have not the artistic temperament."
She spoke so seriously that Mrs. Mickle refrained from smiling; but Tom began to giggle, at which sound Angel shot a quick glance at him, and saw that he was making merry at her expense. She was not conscious of having said anything funny, and had yet to learn that very little was sufficient to amuse Tom Mickle. Gilbert was still standing by the window, looking out, listening to the conversation, though taking no part in it.
"Are you going to live at Haresdown House with Mr. Bailey?" Dinah asked hurriedly, seeing that Angel had noticed Tom was laughing at her.
"Oh no!" was the response. "I live in London with my father and brother."
"Mr. Bailey is your uncle, isn't he?"
"My great-uncle. He was born at Haresdown House sixty-five years ago, and he says he hopes to end his days there. He has been so kind to me, giving me this nice holiday in the country! I was never in the country before!"
"Never in the country before!" Dora echoed, opening her blue eyes very wide.
"If that is the case, I am sure you are enjoying your stay at Wreyford," Mrs. Mickle remarked. "You have been here several days, have you not?"
"Just a week. I think it is a beautiful place; I never imagined it would be so lovely! You have sunshine every day!"
"It is exceptionally fine weather for the season, but we rarely experience very severe winters here. So you have a father and brother in London? Have you no sisters?"
"No; there are only father, and Gerald, and me!" Angel hesitated, and glanced down over her black frock; then she raised her eyes to Mrs. Mickle's face, and caught a look so full of motherly tenderness and sympathy that her heart gave a throb half of pleasure, half of pain, and she added simply, "My mother died two years ago."
"Oh, my dear!" cried Mrs. Mickle; and she gave her little visitor a warm, impulsive kiss, which was returned with goodwill. "You are going to have tea with us presently," she continued, "so you had better go upstairs with the girls, and remove your hat and jacket. Dear me, it is more than half-past four, and we have tea at five."
"Come!" said Dora, taking Angel by the hand, and leading her from the room, whilst Dinah followed close behind. "We have a room between us," she explained; "I expect it's rather in a muddle because we had not time to tidy it before we went for our walk."
"Perhaps you'll excuse it?" Dinah asked politely.
"Oh yes!" Angel responded, "of course I will!"
It was impossible to be shy with the sisters long. They asked her dozens of questions, which she answered readily; and found herself putting questions to them in return. She looked around their bedroom with interested eyes—at the two little white beds side by side, the pretty pictures on the walls, and the ornaments, which she was told had been mostly birthday presents—and openly admired everything she saw. Dinah and Dora evidently had great pride in their room; they informed her they made the beds themselves, and took it in turns to do the dusting. "Jane, that is our housemaid, has so much work that mother likes us to help her all we can," Dinah said in her matter-of-fact way; "there's plenty to do in this house, there always is where there are boys about. Tom is dreadfully untidy, and always forgets to wipe his boots thoroughly before he comes upstairs, and brings such a lot of grit into the place. Is your brother like that?"
"Yes," Angel answered, smiling, "and Mrs. Steer does get so cross with him!"
"Who is Mrs. Steer?" Dora inquired.
"Our landlady. We live in lodgings, not in a house of our own."
"Oh, I should not like that at all!" Dora cried.
"Because you are not accustomed to lodgings," Dinah put in quickly. She turned to Angel and asked, "Is your brother older than you are?"
"No, younger," Angel replied. "He is very clever, and has such a lot of friends. Every one likes Gerald."
Once set going on her favourite topic of conversation, her brother, she found a great deal to say. She told how many prizes he had won at school, and how proud her father was of him.
"Did you ever win a prize?" Dora asked, much interested.
"No," Angel acknowledged, her face, which had been bright and animated, becoming suddenly overclouded; "I do not go to school!"
"And yet you are older than your brother!" Dinah exclaimed in accents of surprise.
"Yes," Angel answered; and became suddenly silent.
The sisters saw that for some reason or other she did not wish to be questioned further upon the subject, and Dinah considerately changed the conversation.
When the three little girls returned to the dining-room, they found the cloth had been laid for tea, the lamps lit, and the curtains drawn; everything looked very comfortable and homely.
"Where are mother and Tom?" Dinah inquired of Gilbert, the sole occupant of the room, as she drew Angel to the fireside, and gave her a comfortable chair.
"Mother has gone to see about muffins for tea, and Tom's cleaning up," he explained, as he slowly crossed the room from the window to the fireplace.
It was then that Angel saw for the first time that the boy walked with the assistance of crutches; she had not particularly noticed him before. Her heart swelled with pity as she realized that he was a cripple, and her little start of astonishment was not lost upon him.
"What is the matter?" he questioned sharply. "Did you never see any one on crutches before? Look here!" And he proceeded to swing himself up and down the room at a great rate. "You see how it's done, don't you? Now, you needn't stare at me any more!"
"Gilbert!" Dinah cried reprovingly, as he flung himself rather breathlessly into a chair, and allowed his crutches to drop on the floor with a crash.
"I—I did not mean to stare!" Angel gasped, aghast at the rage depicted in every line of the boy's face. "If I did, I am very sorry! It must have seemed dreadfully rude, but—"
"It is Gilbert who is rude," Dinah said severely, for though several years her brother's junior, she never scrupled to speak out to him.
"Never mind, Angel," whispered Dora consolingly; "Gilbert is always like that; you mustn't take any notice of him; we never do."
"What are you whispering about?" he asked suspiciously. He took no notice of Dinah's reproof; perhaps he knew he deserved it. "When girls get together they're always whispering."
Angel thought him a most disagreeable, ill-mannered boy; nevertheless, her kind heart was very sympathetic; she picked up his crutches from the floor, and put them within his reach.
"I am so very sorry if I annoyed you," she said in tones of real distress, "I had no idea I was staring. Do forgive me."
"Oh, it's all right! You needn't apologize," he responded gruffly; "I suppose you were surprised to see I was a miserable cripple."
"I am very sorry," Angel murmured, almost in tears. "It must be dreadful for you."
"Oh, I don't want you to pity me. I hate pity! I say, you aren't going to cry, are you? There'll be no end of a row if you do. I didn't mean to make you cry."
"I am not crying!" Angel declared, which was true, for she had blinked away the tears which had threatened to fall.
At that point Mrs. Mickle appeared, and not long afterwards Tom came noisily into the room, almost colliding with the parlour-maid, who was bringing in a dish of muffins and the teapot. Then Mr. Mickle and Mr. Bailey joined the party, and after the latter had been introduced to Mrs. Mickle and the children, they all sat down around the big dining-table, and the meal commenced.
"I was acquainted with your husband's father many years ago," Mr. Bailey told Mrs. Mickle. He was sitting at her right hand, talking to her as easily as though he had known her all his life. "You have doubtless heard I have bought Haresdown House," he continued; "I hope you and your young people will often come to see me when I am settled there. I'm a lonely, old bachelor, but I'm inclined to be sociable, you must understand."
"You will have your little niece with you?" Mrs. Mickle suggested.
"Oh no!" Angel exclaimed.
"I am afraid not," Mr. Bailey said, shaking his head regretfully; "my little niece has a father and brother, to both of whom she is devoted; I am not sure that they would consent to my taking her away from them!"
"Your father is an artist, is he not?" Mr. Mickle asked, turning to Angel. "I saw a book for children the other day most charmingly illustrated by one John Willis."
"Oh, that is my father!" Angel cried, her eyes flashing with delight, her heart swelling with pride. "He illustrates books most beautifully, and paints pictures too."
Mr. Mickle appeared much interested, and questioned his little visitor further. Encouraged by his evident appreciation of her father's abilities, Angel lost all her shyness, and told him of the great picture of which so much was expected.
"Indeed, I hope it will be a success," he said kindly; "if it is in the Royal Academy, I think I must run up to town in May and have a look at it!"
"How I should like to see your father's picture!" exclaimed Gilbert, meeting Angel's eyes across the table.
"Ah, Gilbert is fond of painting," his father remarked.
"Do you paint yourself?" Angel inquired, looking at the boy with friendly interest, momentarily forgetful of the uncomfortable five minutes he had given her before tea.
"A little," he acknowledged, "but I have never learnt."
"I have been remarking to your uncle that I hoped we should see more of you, my dear," Mrs. Mickle said to Angel; "but he tells me you are returning to London to-morrow!"
"And I have been saying that I shall expect you to pay me a long visit soon at Haresdown House, Angel," Mr. Bailey broke in, "and then Mrs. Mickle and all our kind, new friends will have an opportunity of renewing their acquaintance with you." And he nodded smilingly at the faces around the table.
"Oh, are you really going to-morrow," Dora cried disappointedly, "just as we have got to know you? That is too bad!"
The remainder of the meal passed very pleasantly; and Angel was exceedingly sorry when, a little later, her uncle bade her put on her hat and jacket, for they must go.
"When you come to visit Mr. Bailey we shall hope to see a lot of you," Mrs. Mickle said hospitably, as she shook hands with her little guest at parting, and gave her a kiss. "Good-bye, my dear; I trust we shall meet again."
"Good-bye!" Angel replied softly, as she returned the caress. "How kind of you to kiss me! No one has kissed me quite like that since mother died."
Then she took leave of the children and their father, and went away with Mr. Bailey, waving her hand to the group of faces watching from the window, wondering if she would ever see them again.
"What very nice people they are, Uncle Edward," she said, as soon as they were out of sight of the house.
"Yes," he agreed. "Mr. Mickle is going to see to my affairs. I have been on the lookout for a reliable lawyer since my return to England; I am glad now I did not enlist the services of one in London. I knew this man's father, and I like the man himself."
"I like him too," Angel replied. "Fancy his having seen some of father's illustrations! He was very kind, so was Mrs. Mickle, and Dinah and Dora. Uncle Edward, did you notice one of the boys is a cripple?"
"Yes; it is very sad. Such a handsome boy too, and remarkably clever, his father told me. Ah, it is a terrible cross for the poor lad to bear! He has been lame from birth. The younger boy looks full of life and mischief; Gerald would like him, eh?"
"I am sure he would."
"Gerald would enjoy the country as well as you, I dare say; if all's well, he shall spend his Easter holidays at Haresdown House next year."
The little girl slipped her fingers into Mr. Bailey's hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. She was delighted at the thought of the pleasure in store for her brother.
"May I tell him what you say?" she asked. "He was a little disappointed at having to remain at home now."
"Was he? Yes, you can tell him, if you like. Are you sorry we are leaving here to-morrow?"
"Yes, although I shall be glad to see father and Gerald again. What a long time a week seems sometimes, Uncle Edward! And, oh, what a lot I shall have to tell when I get home!"
The following day Mr. Bailey and his little niece returned to London. Their visit to Wreyford had been a great success, for the weather had been mild and pleasant, and they had been thus enabled to spend most of the time out of doors; Mr. Bailey had been gratified to find a few old friends still living in the place, with whom he had renewed acquaintance; and everything had been so new and strange to Angel, that the week in the country had almost seemed like a glimpse into fairyland, so charmed was she with the quiet, old town, its ancient church on the hill, and the beautiful scenery which stretched around.
THE short December day was drawing to a close as the fast train from the west of England slowed into Paddington Station, and Mr. Bailey let down one of the windows of the compartment in which he and Angel were seated, and peered into the gloom without.
"Now for bricks and mortar once more!" he exclaimed. "What a dense fog to be sure! It looks as though one could cut it with a knife! I scarcely fancy your father will be here to meet us on a night like this."
But he was wrong in his surmise, for the moment after the train had stopped, and he had alighted himself, and lifted Angel on to the platform by his side, she was in her father's arms, whispering how very glad she was to see him again.
"I did not expect to see you," Mr. Bailey said, as he shook his nephew by the hand, "but I am very pleased you have come. I hardly know my way about in a fog, so you must act as pilot."
Mr. Willis agreed, and a few minutes later found them seated in a cab, being driven slowly through the streets, for the fog was too thick to admit of faster progress.
"Are you sure our luggage is all right, father?" Angel asked anxiously. "Is the hamper there too?"
"Yes, your belongings are safe in front with the driver. May I inquire what the hamper contains?"
"Oh, it is a regular country hamper," Mr. Bailey replied, smiling, "and it contains—"
"Butter, and cream, and fowls," Angel broke in eagerly, "and other nice things to eat. The hamper is a present from Uncle Edward, father. He says one always ought to take back a hamper from the country."
"Uncle Edward is very kind," Mr. Willis remarked, with gratitude in his voice. "I declare, Angel, in spite of your journey, you are looking much better and brighter than I ever saw you look before," he continued; "the light is dim, and I may be deceived, but surely those are roses in your cheeks?"
"Then they must be winter ones," Mr. Bailey said, laughing, "but they are none the less becoming on that account. I am glad you think she looks well, John. We have had a happy time together—have we not?" he asked, turning to Angel.
"Very happy." she answered readily. "Oh, father, I think the country is beautiful! The sky is so clear, and the sun shines so brightly, and Wreyford is a simply lovely place!"
Her father smiled at her enthusiasm, and regarded her tenderly with affectionate eyes. He had missed his little daughter during the past week—he had not anticipated he would miss her so much—and he was delighted to see her bright and happy, He had felt very dull of an evening during her absence, for since her mother's death he had fallen into the habit of talking to her of his plans for the future; if Angel lacked the artistic temperament, she Was a most sympathetic listener, and she thoroughly believed in her father and his work.
"How is Gerald?" she questioned presently.
"He is very well. He wanted to come with me to Paddington, but I bade him remain at home and prepare his lessons for to-morrow, so that he might have a free evening with us to-night. I think he has missed your help in his lessons."
She laughed happily, for it was so nice to know she had been missed. Since her mother's death she had never felt so free from care as she did now; for the time she had forgotten all the little worries and troubles of her home life.
The cab proceeded very slowly, sometimes stopping altogether for several minutes, so that it was more than an hour after they had started from Paddington before they reached their destination. Angel was the first to enter the house, and rushing upstairs ran into the arms of her brother, who had heard the cab draw up at the door, and was coming down to meet her. The two children hugged and kissed each other; then, being joined by their father and uncle, they all went up to the sitting-room, where a substantial high tea awaited them.
It made Angel's heart glow with pleasure to see how glad every one was that she had come home. Mrs. Steer brought hot water to her bedroom, and stood by whilst the little girl removed the traces of her journey, and explained how greatly she had been missed.
"Your pa's been like a hen that's lost its one chick, Miss Angel," the landlady said; "I'll be bound to say this last week has been a long one for him. I think he missed you evenings most of all. Master Gerald, for all he's so clever, will never be the same to your pa as you are, my dear. The boy has an aggravating way with him sometimes, and he's not as obedient as he might be. One night he and your pa had words about his lessons. It would never have happened if you'd been here."
"What happened?" Angel asked, a slight shadow of anxiety creeping over her face.
"Well, as far as I could make out, Master Gerald said he'd learnt his lessons, and your pa said he didn't believe he had, because he hadn't been long about them, and Master Gerald declared he knew them perfectly. Then your pa took up his books and questioned him."
"And couldn't Gerald answer the questions?"
"No, miss, he couldn't. Your pa was very angry, and Master Gerald turned sulky, but he had to learn the lessons properly. After that he went to bed without any supper."
Angel was troubled. She knew her brother must have annoyed her father greatly if the latter had been very angry, for he was usually most even-tempered, and never blamed without serious cause. If she had been at home there would have been no opportunity for disagreement, for she always went over her brother's lessons with him again and again till he knew them perfectly. It never occurred to her to question the wisdom of thus making Gerald's work easy for him.
Steer was a well-intentioned woman; and she had informed Angel of the unpleasantness between her father and brother in order to point out to the little girl her own importance in the family; but she regretted having mentioned the matter when she saw the effect of her incautious words.
"Your pa and Master Gerald were good friends enough next day, so there's nothing to worry about," she proceeded consolingly; "and I dare say a few stern words did Master Gerald no harm. A fine treat you've had, Miss Angel, to be sure! I'm glad you had good weather whilst you were away."
"The weather was perfect, and not the least too cold," Angel responded. "Wreyford is a charming place. Uncle Edward has bought a house there—the very same house he lived in when he was a boy—and he means to go there to live by-and-by."
"He'll want you to live with him, miss."
The little girl laughed and shook her head; she did not think Mrs. Steer's surmise at all likely.
It was very pleasant to be at home again, even though that home comprised only a few rooms in a second rate lodging-house. It was sweet to think how she had been missed, and that she was of importance somewhere in the world. After tea she sat on a low stool by her father's side, whilst Mr. Bailey explained how he had found Haresdown House to be sold or let, and had purchased it for his future home.
"I shall remain with you till after Christmas if you'll keep me," he said to his nephew, "but with the new year I mean to settle at Wreyford. I dare say I shall be a bit lonely at first, but I don't feel I could live altogether in London. I could never be actually at home in a great city."
Mr. Willis nodded understandingly. Mr. Bailey's good-humoured, ruddy countenance was aglow with intense satisfaction; he was simply delighted at the prospect of living once more in his native town.
"Did you find Wreyford much altered?" Mr. Willis inquired.
"No, not much," was the reply. "The houses were smaller and the principal street narrower than I had pictured it; but still the view from the churchyard on Haresdown Hill is finer, to my mind, than any I ever saw."
"It is grand!" Angel cried. "Oh, father, you would like to see it!"
"You must see it one of these days, John," Mr. Bailey said impressively. "I'm making my home at Haresdown House. You must understand my doors will be always open to you and yours. Come when you will, and remain as long as you like. Why should you not all spend Easter with me next year?"
"It is very good of you to suggest it, Uncle," Mr. Willis responded, "and I am deeply sensible of your kindness. But I hope to be very busy about that time," he added; "I shall be putting the finishing touches to my picture. Easter falls early next year."
"Well, then, you must come when it suits you," Mr. Bailey said hospitably. "There is plenty of room in Haresdown House; is there not, Angel?"
"Yes," she nodded. "It has gardens all around it, and an orchard leading from the kitchen garden. It is a thatched house built on the slope of the hill; the porch at the front door is covered with honeysuckle and roses. Of course there were no flowers, but I noticed the plants, and thought how beautiful they must be in the summer."
"What a grand time you must have had, Angel," Gerald remarked, with a touch of envy in his tone.
"And I hope you will have a grand time at Wreyford too one of these days," Mr. Bailey told the boy cordially; "perhaps in your Easter holidays, eh? Your sister and I met some people you would like to know—Mickle they are called. The father is a lawyer, and there are several children. When you come to visit me you will find congenial companions."
Gerald's face lit up with a gratified smile, and he and Angel exchanged pleased glances.
Now that the first excitement of coming home had passed, Angel was beginning to feel weary; she leaned her head against her father's knee whilst a sensation of perfect happiness and contentment crept over her. The fire made her drowsy, and she was half asleep when her father's voice, with a distinct note of displeasure in it, aroused her thoroughly.
"Gerald, what are you doing?" he asked.
She raised her head quickly, and glanced at her brother, who had gone to the table and emptied the contents of his schoolbag upon it.
"I am only going to learn my lessons for to-morrow, father," the boy answered promptly, but nevertheless appearing slightly uneasy.
"I thought I told you to learn them whilst I went to Paddington?" Mr. Willis said sharply.
"So you did, father, but I brought back such a jolly book from the school library, and—and—"
"And you read it instead of carrying out my instructions," Mr. Willis interposed, as Gerald hesitated to finish his sentence. "You had no right to disobey me; if you do so on another occasion I shall certainly punish you. You had better do your work now as quickly as you can, and mind you do it thoroughly."
Angel was surprised to hear her father speak so sternly. The fact was, during the week his little daughter had been absent from home, Mr. Willis had seen more of Gerald than he usually did, and had become aware of certain flaws in his character of which he had been ignorant before. Then, too, he had discovered how dependent the boy was upon his sister, and how he relied upon her assistance in his lessons; besides which, he had been struck by Gerald's selfishness in begrudging Angel the pleasure of her trip to Wreyford. It had been with both grief and surprise that Mr. Willis had discovered his son's true feelings upon the matter.
Gerald opened his books, looking somewhat abashed, whilst Angel made a movement to rise and go to him; but her father placed his hands firmly though gently on her shoulders, and bade her remain where she was.
"Oh, father, may I not help Gerald with his lessons?" she asked in pleading tones.
"Yes, Angel, do come and help me with my French translation!" Gerald cried eagerly. "You might look out the words I don't know in the dictionary for me."
"I will, if father will let me," Angel replied, glancing coaxingly up into her father's face. "I expect Gerald did not learn his lessons this afternoon because he thought I would help him to-night," she added shrewdly; "do let me?"
That was the actual fact, but Gerald thought it wiser not to acknowledge it.
Mr. Willis did not remove his hands from his little daughter's shoulders; and when he spoke his words were a surprise to both children.
"Gerald must do his lessons by himself," he said quietly. "I shall not allow you to help him to-night, Angel, for he has most deliberately disobeyed me; besides which, it is selfish of him to want your assistance when you are tired with your journey."
"I am not very tired," the little girl declared, "only just a little! I can help Gerald quite well."
"But I would rather you did not, my dear."
Angel said no more, but she was distressed for her brother's sake. Gerald sulkily turned his attention to his work, a scowl upon his brow; when he had finished his lessons he put away his books, said good-night in an injured tone, and marched off to bed.
"Do not trouble about Gerald," Mr. Willis said, as Angel rose to follow her brother; "you do too much for him, and it is not right you should. He must learn to be more self-reliant. Are you going to bed too? Well, I know you are very tired, so good-night, my darling. Pleasant dreams!"
She kissed him lovingly, then turned to Mr. Bailey and kissed him too, lingering to tell him again what a happy time he had given her, and how grateful she was for all his kindness.
Gerald was already in bed when his sister peeped into his room. She went to his side, and bent over him to kiss him, but he did not return her caress, nor did he respond to her "good-night."
"I was sorry father would not let me help you with your lessons," she told him.
"You weren't!" he rudely retorted. "You didn't want to help me! You might have if you had liked."
"Oh, Gerald, you know better than that! And you know you were very wrong to disobey father. You ought to have done your work before."
"I am not going to be preached to by you, Angel! You think too much of yourself just because Uncle Edward's taken a fancy to you. It's not fair everyone should make so much more of you than me. Father's done nothing but talk of you all the time you've been away. And every time I've seen Mrs. Steer she's been just as bad. You've been enjoying yourself whilst I've had to go to school and work. You might have helped me to-night."
"But you know—you know father would not let me!" she cried tearfully.
"Father thinks more of you than of me," he declared; "yes, he does, he does, I say."
The little girl said no more. She turned away from her brother's bedside, and hastily left the room, amazed at the knowledge that Gerald was jealous of her. How unkind and unjust of him! Her pillow was bedewed with bitter tears that night; but by-and-by she assured herself that Gerald did not mean all he had said; he would be ashamed of himself the next day. So she asked God to forgive him for his jealous temper, and fell asleep with his name upon her lips.
Gerald had gone to bed without a prayer, as he had often done of late; unfortunately he did not realize how much he had been to blame that day, so he experienced no desire for God's forgiveness, no wish for communion with his Father in Heaven.
GERALD came down late to breakfast the following morning when the meal was more than half over. One glance at his face was enough to show Angel that he had not overcome his ill-temper. He muttered a few apologetic words to the effect that he had overslept himself as he took his place at the table, and cast a look of disgust at the rasher of bacon upon his plate.
"You have only yourself to blame if your breakfast is cold," his father told him; "I am afraid it is not very appetizing now. If you don't care for the bacon, have some bread and butter and marmalade instead."
"I am not hungry," the boy replied, as he sipped his lukewarm coffee; "I don't want any breakfast."
"Are you not well?" Mr. Willis asked, with a glance of inquiry at his son's sullen countenance.
"Quite well, thank you, father."
"Then I am afraid you must have got out of bed the wrong side this morning," Mr. Willis remarked; "you had better change your mind, and eat something, or you will be starving long before dinner-time.—There seems very little hope of the fog clearing," he proceeded, turning his attention to Mr. Bailey; "I believe you will have to content yourself in the house to-day, uncle."
"I can do that very well," was the cheerful response. "Shall you be very busy this morning, John, or can you spare me an hour? I want to have a talk with you."
"I can give you as much time as you like, uncle, for there will be no light for painting. If you will join me in my studio after breakfast, we shall be quite undisturbed."
Mr. Bailey nodded; and as soon as the meal was over followed his nephew from the room.
"I wonder what Uncle Edward wants to talk to father about," Gerald exclaimed curiously, the moment he was alone with his sister. "Do you know, Angel?"
"No, I haven't the least idea," she replied promptly, "How we shall miss Uncle Edward when he leaves, shan't we?"
"You will; you've seen more of him than I have. You're his favourite."
"Oh, Gerald, I wish you wouldn't say that!" Angel cried in vexation. "Of course I've seen more of him than you have, because you've been at school all day; but I'm sure he's quite as kind to you as he is to me."
"He took you to Wreyford with him, anyway."
"You know why that was."
"Because he likes you better than me!"
Angel made no response. She was deeply pained at her brother's jealous tone, and it was with difficulty she restrained the angry words which trembled on her lips.
"I suppose it's about time I started for school," the boy proceeded, "and I'm not perfect in one of my lessons. There'll sure to be a row, and it'll be all your fault, Angel, for being so selfish and disobliging last night."
Saying which, Gerald snatched up his bag of books and left the room, slamming the door after him. His sister listened to his footsteps descending the stairs, her heart full of indignation. Fond as she was of her brother, she could not blind herself to the injustice of his remarks; she had hoped he would have overcome his resentment against her by the morning, and her grief at the unkind spirit he was evincing towards her was eclipsed by her anger at his jealousy.
Mr. Bailey and his nephew spent the morning together in the latter's studio, whilst Angel remained disconsolately in the sitting-room. It was miserable, depressing weather, and as the little girl gazed out into the thick fog she sighed regretfully, thinking of the sunny days she had spent at Wreyford, and wishing it was her lot in life to dwell in the country.
Towards noon the fog lifted somewhat, so that after the midday meal Mr. Bailey was tempted by the clearing atmosphere to go out. Angel was prepared to spend the afternoon alone, for she thought her father would desire to make the most of the short spell of daylight they were likely to have; but, much to her surprise and pleasure, he remained in the sitting-room, and, seating himself in the easy chair by the fireplace, called her to his side.
"I want to have a confidential talk with you, little daughter," he said affectionately, as she took her favourite place on a stool at his feet, and rested her head against his knee; "tell me some more about your doings this past week."
She obeyed willingly, delighted to find with what close attention he listened to her. She told him everything she could think of, and entered into all the trifling details of her visit, to all of which he lent an attentive ear, occasionally asking a question, but for the most part allowing her to talk undisturbed.
"Would you like to live at Wreyford?" he inquired presently.
"Oh, indeed I should!" she replied readily.
"At Haresdown House, for instance?"
"Yes," she nodded; "I think it will be a lovely place when Uncle Edward has had the house done up, and the shrubs in the front garden cut down a bit. Mrs. Mickle said she thought it was rather lonely because it stands by itself, you know, with no other house in sight, but I am sure I should not be half so lonely there as here in London."
Mr. Willis gave an involuntary sigh, which caused Angel to glance up at him quickly. To her surprise he was looking unusually grave and thoughtful.
"Poor people are generally lonely in London," he remarked a little sadly. "You are right, Angel. I wish I could afford to make a home for you in the country, but, you see, it is necessary I should be in town at present, whilst I have so much illustrating work and sketches for papers to do."
"Oh, I know, father. I dare say some day, when you are rich and famous, it will not matter where you live, and then we will have a beautiful home in the country too."
He smiled, and stroked her hair with a tender hand. Being naturally of a sanguine temperament himself, he always hoped for the best; and though success was long in coming, he believed it would come, so he seldom discouraged Angel when she began to build castles in the air.
"Ah, yes," he said, "but meanwhile I must remain where I am—until my picture is finished, at any rate. Now I want to tell you what Uncle Edward was talking about this morning. He was telling me what a lonely life you lead, my dear, and how wrong it is that your education should be neglected, and that you ought to go to school like other little girls."
"Oh, father!"
"He is quite right, but perhaps I had not altogether realized these facts until he put them to me so plainly. You lead an unnatural life for a child of your years; if your dear mother had been spared to us it would have been different. I am afraid I am a bad manager, but really by the time the household accounts are paid, and Gerald's school bill, I never seem to have any money in hand." and Mr. Willis, who was one of the most unbusiness-like men in the world, shook his head dolefully. "Uncle Edward says I ought to send Gerald to a less expensive school, and that he is growing up selfish and extravagant," he added, after a slight pause.
"Oh, father!" Angel was commencing protestingly, when the remembrance of her brother's treatment of her since her return the preceding night made her pause, and reflect that there was some truth in Mr. Bailey's remarks. Then, too, she knew that though Gerald was given a generous allowance of pocket-money every week, he was always asking for more, and rarely spent a penny on any one but himself.
"Uncle Edward is very fond of you, Angel," Mr. Willis told her; "he says you are so very companionable and sensible. Now, I am coming to the really important part of what he said. He wants you to make your home with him at Haresdown House, and then he will send you to school, and—"
"And what did you say, father?" Angel broke in impetuously. "Didn't you tell him it was impossible, quite impossible?"
"No, my dear; I don't know that it is."
"Oh, father!" the little girl cried reproachfully, "as though I could ever bear to leave you and Gerald! You don't want to send me away from you, do you?"
"No, certainly not; but I must think of your ultimate good. Uncle Edward is most kind, most generous, and he would give you a happy home; you would go to school, and have friends of your own age, and—"
"Oh, father!" Angel interrupted again; "I can't bear to think of it. Nothing would make up to me for being separated from you and Gerald. I don't think mother would like it, I don't indeed," and her eyes filled with tears, whilst her lips trembled piteously. "Don't send me away from you," she said imploringly, as she rose and twined her arms around his neck; "don't! Who would mend your stockings if I was not here? And wouldn't you miss me? You said you did when I was at Wreyford for only one little week."
"Yes," Mr. Willis admitted, looking troubled; "but I must not be selfish, my dear."
"Oh, father, you couldn't be that! You never are! Then, there's Gerald. Think of him! Who help him with his lessons, and—"
"Ah, Angel, that is a mistake too. You help Gerald a great deal more than is good for him; if you remain at home, I must put a stop to your doing so much for your brother."
"Oh no, father! I like helping him. I do indeed. And I promised mother before she died that I would be good to him. But do say you mean to keep me with you. Oh, I wish I had never, never said how much I liked the country!"
"Don't wish that. Think over Uncle Edward's offer, child. You like him, do you not? Yes, I know you do. Of course you would feel the separation from Gerald and me at first, but consider what a pleasant time you would have at Wreyford. You would have everything that your heart could desire; it's my opinion that Uncle Edward would spoil you terribly."
"I could not bear it, I could not!" Angel cried, the tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh, father, do let me stay with you! How can you think of sending me away when you know it would break my heart?" And overcome with grief the little girl sobbed bitterly.
Much distressed at the sight of her emotion, Mr. Willis soothed her as best he could. He kissed her tenderly, at the same time assuring her she should not leave him against her will.
"I told Uncle Edward the acceptance or refusal of his offer must rest with you," he said, when, much comforted, she reseated herself on the stool at his feet; "still, I could do no other than point out to you the many advantages you would reap by going to live with him at Haresdown House; but I shall not part with my little daughter without she herself wishes it, because she is very dear to me, and though it wouldn't break my heart to send her away if it was for her good, yet I should feel doing so very deeply."
"How glad I am to hear you say that!" Angel exclaimed, her tear-stained face brightening into a smile. "Because, sometimes, I wish I was clever like Gerald, and it makes me unhappy to think how stupid I am; but if only you love me, father, and let me stay with you, I don't care for anything else."
"You are not stupid," Mr. Willis told her with an amused laugh; "indeed, you have a very wise head upon a young pair of shoulders."
"But I can't draw," Angel said, "and I know you are sorry I can't. I have heard you say lots of times that I have missed the artistic temperament."
"Well, perhaps I am a little disappointed on that account," Mr. Willis allowed with an amused twinkle in his eyes; "but you have other excellent qualities which may serve you as well, if not better."
"Mother used to say God gave different talents to different people," Angel remarked thoughtfully, "but I don't know that I have any particular talent."
"I believe you have one—perhaps more; but I am certain you have one."
"What is it?" she asked eagerly.
"A talent for happiness," he replied, with a smile.
"Oh, father, that is nothing!" she cried in disappointed tones.
"Nothing, is it? I think it's something worth cherishing with the greatest care. To possess a talent for happiness you must be blessed with a contented spirit."
"Mother used to say that if we believed God did everything for the best we should always be contented."
"She was right. You must never forget her teaching. I love to hear you quote her so often."
Father and daughter spent the remainder of the afternoon very happily together; the time passed so quickly that both were surprised when Gerald returned from school, although he was later than usual. His temper had not improved, for he had been in hot water on account of his not having prepared his home-work properly, and he had consequently a long imposition to do that evening, besides his usual lessons. When informed by his father of Mr. Bailey's offer to Angel, and her refusal of it, he expressed great surprise.
"I only wish Uncle Edward would ask me to go and live with him at Haresdown House!" he exclaimed. "Don't you think I might go instead of Angel, father?"
"I should not dream of suggesting it," Mr. Willis replied, at which the boy's face fell.
"You wouldn't like to leave us, would you, Gerald?" Angel questioned somewhat reproachfully.
"Wreyford is not so very far from here," he said evasively, refraining from giving a direct answer. "It would be so much jollier in the country. It's a pity we can't all leave London. What a silly you are not to want to go with Uncle Edward, Angel; still, I'm glad you've made up your mind to stay at home; it isn't like the same place when you're away!"
The little girl's eyes shone with happiness at this remark; she failed to grasp the vein of selfishness running through it, but her father did, and his face expressed the displeasure he felt. A short while later Mr. Bailey returned, and Mr. Willis at once told him Angel had decided to remain in her London home.
"It is not that I don't love you," Angel said, as she saw the disappointment in her uncle's countenance, "because I do. But I can't leave father and Gerald; I can't indeed. Oh, please don't think I don't understand how kind you are, and how good—"
"Kind! Good! Nonsense!" Mr. Bailey cried. "I am nothing of the kind. I'm a selfish old man, my dear, that's what I am. I think I knew in my heart what your decision would be; I won't say though I'm not disappointed, because I am. I should have tried to make you happy at Haresdown House; but never mind, never mind. You shall come and visit me—all of you—whenever you like. John—" turning to his nephew with a beaming smile— "when the great picture is finished you'll deserve a holiday, and I mean to see you take it."
Gerald had listened to all this with great interest, half hoping Mr. Bailey would transfer his offer from Angel to himself, but such an idea apparently never crossed his uncle's mind. The boy was very silent during the evening, but when his sister offered her assistance with his lessons, he was only too glad to accept it; and after his work was finished, he grew better tempered, and Angel, being not in the least resentful, was only too glad to make friends with him again, and thus peace was restored.
"DORA and I passed Haresdown House this morning," Dinah Mickle informed her mother one afternoon early in the new year; "the windows were all wide open, and there were people at work inside, papering and painting."
The Christmas holidays were nearly at an end, and Dinah was assisting Mrs. Mickle in the making of some garments for her sister and herself, whilst the other children had gone off on pleasure bent, Dora and Tom for a long walk, and Gilbert on his own account, for he seldom fraternized with his juniors.
"There were two men in the garden pruning the shrubs and turning up the ground," the little girl proceeded, "so I expect Mr. Bailey will soon be here himself; don't you think so?"
"Yes," Mrs. Mickle replied; "in fact, I know your father heard from him a few days ago, and he then wrote that he hoped shortly to be at Wreyford."
"I wonder if he is very rich," Dinah said meditatively; "Gilbert says Colonials generally are. Do you know, mother?"
"No, my dear; but I imagine he must be very well off. Your father says he means to spare no expense in doing up Haresdown House; and, as you know, he has subscribed largely to several Wreyford charities this Christmas."
"He will have a big house to live in!" Dinah exclaimed.
"I think his buying it was entirely a matter of sentiment; you see, it was his childhood's home, and it is curious how elderly people like to return to the scenes of their youth, even when—" Mrs. Mickle paused abruptly, and listened to the sound of voices on the staircase. "I believe Miss Goodwin is coming," she said, a slightly amused smile crossing her face.
The next moment the parlour-maid announced "Miss Goodwin!" and a queer-looking little person stepped into the room, and paused irresolutely, with her head on one side.
She was clad in an old-fashioned brown silk gown and a circular brown cloak, whilst a poke bonnet covered her head, the hair on which was as white as snow and arranged in little corkscrew curls. Her figure was slight, and as upright as a dart; her eyes singularly blue and clear, and so youthful in expression that they contrasted oddly with her wrinkled countenance, which was one network of fine lines. It was difficult to guess from her appearance what age she was, but she was known to be nearer ninety than eighty; she never thought of herself as old, though, and was so lively in her manner, and juvenile in her conversation at times, that she often proved a puzzle to new acquaintances.
"Do I intrude?" she asked in a high piping voice, as she stood just within the room, looking at the table laden with working materials. "If so, I will go, and call upon you at a more convenient season."
"We are very pleased to see you, dear Miss Goodwin," Mrs. Mickle said cordially, as she took her visitor's little hand, encased in a baggy, brown kid glove, and pressed it kindly. "Come near the fire, and warm yourself; I am sure you must be cold."
"Oh no, not very," Miss Goodwin responded; nevertheless, she allowed herself to be placed in an easy chair by the fireside. "I left my waterproof and goloshes in the hall," she explained, for it was one of her peculiarities, however fine the weather might be, to be prepared for rain. "The sun is shining brightly now," she went on, "but who can say how long it will be before the clouds come? We never know."
"No, never," Mrs. Mickle agreed, smiling pleasantly.
"I remember once going to a picnic attired in a muslin gown," Miss Goodwin continued, looking thoughtful, "and before the day was over the rain descended in torrents, drenching me to the skin; I had foolishly omitted taking my waterproof and goloshes with me. I learnt a lesson then which I have never forgotten, for I caught a severe cold, and spoilt my gown—a new one."
Dinah could not restrain a slight laugh, for she had heard this story so many times before; Miss Goodwin had a number of stock tales which she was in the habit of telling over and over again.
"Dinah, my dear child, you have not spoken to me yet!" the old lady exclaimed, as the little girl's laugh attracted her attention.
"I am waiting to do so, Miss Goodwin," Dinah answered, feeling rather ashamed of her merriment, though the visitor was quite unconscious of its cause. She bent and kissed the other's wrinkled cheek. "How do you do?" she said.
"I am very well, thank you, my dear. I need not inquire how you are, for you look blooming. Such a rosy face! Such bright eyes! Dear me, Mrs. Mickle, how old these young people make us feel!"
It was another of Miss Goodwin's peculiarities that she always spoke of herself as a contemporary of Mrs. Mickle's; and although she talked of feeling old, that was certainly not the case, for to the end of her days she was always young in heart.
"It is very nice for me that Dinah is of an age to be helpful," Mrs. Mickle remarked, with a smiling glance at her daughter; "she has remained at home this afternoon to assist me with this needlework."
"Please do not let me interrupt. Pray proceed with your work, and I will converse with you meanwhile." Then, as her companions complied with her wish, the old lady added: "I have just come from Haresdown House."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Mickle exclaimed. "Did you go inside?"
"I did, from curiosity I must admit, to see what the new owner is having done. I knew him when he was a boy, you understand; a masterful youth he was, but the owner of a kind and generous heart. Has he made his fortune, do you know?"
"I imagine he has, Miss Goodwin. He lived many years in Australia, it seems."
"Ah, I cannot keep count of time. Yes, Edward Bailey was a fine lad, and so was his brother. One went to Australia; the other became a clergyman, he always reminded me of that Nathanael Jesus loved, the one in whom there was no guile. He died, leaving a widow and one child—a son."
"That must be the father of the little girl Mr. Bailey brought here with him," Mrs. Mickle said, her face full of interest. "I believe I told you how we became acquainted with them. You will like to meet Mr. Bailey again, I am sure."
"It will give me great pleasure to do so. I remember him so well—a tall, slight, fair-haired boy."
"But he is elderly now," Mrs. Mickle reminded her visitor gently; "some people would, I have no doubt, call him an old man."
"He is younger than me," Miss Goodwin said; "indeed, I can remember the birth of himself and his brother. I do not think any one could call him old."
There was a note of reproach in the clear, piping voice, which Mrs. Mickle was quick to remark; she hastened to change the conversation.
"You will remain to tea, will you not?" she asked brightly. "Oh, do! The children will be here presently, and you may rely upon Tom to see you home safely in the evening."
"Let me take off your bonnet and cloak," Dinah said; and after feebly protesting, Miss Goodwin gave in, and allowed the little girl to have her way.
"I am a very frequent visitor," the old lady remarked half-apologetically as she patted her snowy curls, "but you are such hospitable people, and so very kind, that I never can refuse your invitations. I am glad I put a clean tucker to my dress," she continued artlessly, "for, at any rate, I have the satisfaction of being certain I look tidy. It is another lesson to show that one ought always to be ready for any emergency."
"And how are they getting on at Haresdown House?" Mrs. Mickle inquired. "Will the workmen soon finish?"
"Oh, not for some weeks, I imagine," Miss Goodwin responded. "I went into every room, and looked at the wall-papers; and the workmen were most polite. They gave me all the information I wanted."
"Yes?"
"The house is to be thoroughly repaired and renovated. Dear me, it will be like old times to see the place occupied once more. It always made me sad to see it looking so neglected and desolate."
After a little further conversation, Dora and Tom arrived upon the scene. Their bright faces broke into smiles of welcome at the sight of the visitor, for she was a great favourite with all the children; even Gilbert generally laid a restraint upon his sharp tongue in her presence. But this afternoon Gilbert did not put in an appearance till tea was nearly over; he apologized for being so late, but promptly snubbed his brother for asking him where he had been all the afternoon.
"You needn't be so nasty," Tom said, adding in the teazing way which was always particularly irritating to Gilbert's touchy temper, "I suppose you've been up to no good, or you wouldn't make a mystery."
"I don't know what you mean," Gilbert retorted hotly. "I'm making no mystery."
"What do you call it, then? Dora and I have been for a fine walk across country, over hedges and ditches, and have had a simply splendid time. We don't mind telling where we've been and what we've been doing. Isn't father coming up to tea, mother?"
"No, my dear," Mrs. Mickle answered. "I believe he has a client with him; he told me after dinner that he would be particularly engaged this afternoon, so I have promised Miss Goodwin that you will see her home by-and-by."
"So I will!" Tom cried gaily. "I'll take good care of you, Miss Goodwin."
"I am sure you will, Tom," the little lady replied, her eyes dwelling admiringly on the boy's healthy, honest face. "What a blessing it is to be young and strong," she continued; "a little bird told me you were one of the best football players at the Grammar School."
Tom flushed with pleasure, and laughed in a flattered, self-conscious manner, which made his brother look at him with a sneer.
"Come and see me play in the next match, Miss Goodwin," the younger boy said eagerly, not noticing the expression on Gilbert's face.
"But I was never at a football match in my life," she told him. "I am not certain that I should like to see a game played. It would make me nervous."
"Yes, I expect it would," Mrs. Mickle agreed. Then, glancing at her elder son, she said, "You are eating nothing, Gilbert."
"I am not hungry, mother."
"I should have thought the keen air would have given you an appetite."
"I have not been out of doors."
"Not been out of doors!" Mrs. Mickle echoed in surprise. "Do you mean you have been in the house all the afternoon?"
Gilbert nodded, and looked as though he would rather not be questioned further. Tom stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment, for being open concerning his own doings, he never could understand his brother's more reserved disposition.
"I know where he's been!" the younger boy cried at length. "I have it now. He must have spent all the afternoon in the attic. He was there yesterday, I know, because the door was locked, and—"
"Well, what if it was?" Gilbert demanded crossly. "I didn't want you poking and prying about the place. I locked the door to keep you out."
"Don't wrangle, boys," Mrs. Mickle interposed pacifically. "I wish, Gilbert," she said with a slight sigh, "that you would get out more this fine weather. Soon you will be back at school again, and then you will be obliged to remain indoors."
Shortly after tea Miss Goodwin left, and was escorted home by Tom, who carried her waterproof and goloshes, and made himself a most entertaining companion by good-humouredly listening to the little lady's chatter. She lived in a small, detached house close to the town, at the bottom of the road leading up Haresdown Hill, so they had not far to go. It stood in a sheltered spot, and a large myrtle flourished against the wall close to the front door, hence the name of the house, Myrtle Villa.
Whilst Tom was seeing Miss Goodwin home, Mrs. Mickle and Gilbert had been left in the sitting-room together, the little girls having gone upstairs to their own room. For a while there was silence between mother and son, but at last the former spoke.
"You must have been nearly frozen in the attic this afternoon," she said gently. "Why do you make a mystery about what you do there?"
The boy made no reply. He had flung himself into an easy chair, and was gazing gloomily into the fire. Mrs. Mickle repeated her question, speaking sharply this time, annoyed at his silence.
"I beg your pardon, mother," he cried hastily. "I was doing no harm in the attic."
"I never imagined that for a moment. But why not be open? It is not nice of you to be so secretive."
"Tom humbugs so. If he knew what I was doing he would be always worrying around me."
"But what were you doing, my dear?"
Thus pressed Gilbert confessed that he had turned a part of the attic into a sort of studio, and was trying to learn to draw and paint.
"I did not want any one to know about it," he explained, "because Tom chatters so, and the girls are so inquisitive, and father wants me to be a lawyer. I don't want to be a lawyer. I would far rather be an artist."
Mrs. Mickle's face was expressive of anxious thought. She knew Gilbert had a liking for painting, and drew very well; but he was quite self-taught, and she did not know if he possessed real talent or not. Her husband had always intended the boy should follow his own profession, and hitherto Gilbert had raised no objection to the plan.
"I wish you were more open with your father and me," she said presently, "but you wrap yourself up in yourself, and seldom confide in us. If we were unsympathetic parents it would be different. I cannot understand why you do not open your mind to us, Gilbert. You know how dear you are to us, and how there is nothing, in reason, we would not do for your happiness. Why cannot you be frank with us?"
"I don't know, mother," the boy answered. "I think I am frank with you generally, because you're more patient with me than I deserve; and so is father, too, for that matter. But I hate Tom and the girls to know all I'm doing."
"Tom is a great tease," Mrs. Mickle allowed, "but he is a well-meaning boy and as honest and open as the day."
"I know he is, mother, and I'm not. Every one likes Tom, even little Miss Goodwin, and no one cares about me—I mean, no outsiders."
"Don't you think that's your own fault? You cannot expect people to like you if you persist in showing them the worst side of your character; if you are unsociable and reserved, no one will want to be friendly with you. Why did you not say how you were employing your time in the attic? The others would not have intruded on you if you had asked them not to. Instead of explaining, you act so as to arouse their curiosity. Oh, you foolish boy!"
Gilbert flushed, and looked rather ashamed of himself, but he did not resent his mother's plain speaking. His face softened as she continued talking to him, and presently he looked at her with a smile in his usually sombre eyes.
"Gilbert," she said tenderly, "I wish you had found the secret of happiness; perhaps you will some day. I pray you may. If only you could learn to put your faith in God, to forget yourself and think of others more!"
The boy made no answer in words, but he laid his hand on one of the crutches which rested against the arm of his chair, and his mother understood the action as a reminder of the heavy cross he had to bear. The tears rushed to her eyes, but did not fall. It was minutes before she could be certain of speaking steadily; then, when she could control her voice, she laid her hand on his, which rested on the crutch, and smiled into his face.
"Remember, dear," she said earnestly, "no cross, no crown."
THE time was drawing near when Mr. Bailey intended leaving London to make his abode at Haresdown House; Gerald had returned to school after the Christmas holidays; and Angel was regretfully counting the days which had yet to elapse before Uncle Edward would take his departure for good, when Mr. Willis suddenly fell ill, much to the dismay and consternation of all. He had been working very hard on his exhibition picture, but his illness had nothing to do with overwork; somehow he caught a severe chill which turned to pneumonia, and before his children realized that he was seriously ill, he lay at death's door.
On returning from school one dull, depressing February afternoon, Gerald found his sister, pale with anxiety, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Steer; and his heart throbbed painfully as the thought flashed through his mind that his father must be worse.
"Oh, Gerald, I am glad you have come!" Angel cried.
"How is father?" he asked, looking from the little girl's colourless face to the landlady's, which expressed deep concern and sympathy.
"Oh, he is very ill!" Angel answered, with a sob. "The doctor says he is much worse than he was in the morning; he does not know me now, and the nurse says I had better not see him again till—till he is better. Oh, Gerald, suppose he should never get better?"
"You mustn't suppose that, my dear," Mrs. Steer remonstrated, speaking more cheerfully than she felt; "you must keep up your spirits, and hope for the best. You ought to be very thankful he is having everything done for him that human skill can do. Ah, it was a fortunate day for you all when your uncle came home from Australia!"
"Yes, indeed," Angel agreed. "Uncle Edward has gone to get another nurse," she explained to her brother; "he says father shall not die for lack of good nursing. Oh, poor, poor father!" And she broke into a flood of tears.
"There, there, don't take on so, there's a dear child!" Mrs. Steer exclaimed in much distress. "Think how much worse things might have been if your uncle had not been here! Come, cheer up, my dear; tears never did any good yet, and never will; besides, you're upsetting your brother."
Angel dried her eyes, and glanced remorsefully at Gerald, who had thrown his bag of books into a corner of the room, and had sat down by the table on which he had laid his head, and was weeping without restraint. She went to his side immediately and tried to comfort him, but her tears broke forth afresh, and the two children clung together, overcome with grief.
Presently Mr. Bailey returned with the news that he had engaged a second nurse, who would arrive shortly.
"Now, look here, my dears," he said kindly but firmly, as he noticed the woe-begone countenances of his little niece and nephew, "I hope you will both try to be brave. Your dear father is very ill, it is true; but I trust he may recover. It would be far better to pray for him than to sit down and cry on account of your own unhappiness; don't you agree with me?"
"Oh yes!" they answered in one breath; and Angel added wistfully, "I am sure I could help in the nursing if only the doctor would let me."
"You may depend the doctor knows best. Your father is in good hands; perhaps, if God sees fit to spare his life, your help may be required later on."
For many days Mr. Willis lay at death's door; but at length he rallied, and one never-to-be-forgotten morning his nurses declared that he was better; the doctor confirmed their hopeful report, and Angel and Gerald's joy and relief was too great for words. That was a red letter-day for both children and Uncle Edward too.
"Now the crisis has passed, he will soon begin to gain strength," Mrs. Steer said cheerfully, when she heard the good news, "but we must not expect him to get well all at once after such a serious illness. It will be months before he'll be himself again."
"Then I am afraid he won't finish his picture in time for the Royal Academy this year!" Angel exclaimed, the brightness of her face becoming slightly overclouded at the thought.
"Good gracious, no, child, I should think not, indeed!"
"He will be terribly disappointed," the little girl said, "terribly! Never mind," she added smiling happily, "God has spared his life, and nothing else matters much."
"No, indeed!" Gerald agreed. "I wouldn't think about the picture!"
But Angel could not help thinking about the picture, for she realized more fully than did Gerald how all her father's hopes of success had been centred on this piece of work; after her brother had gone to school she crept softly upstairs, and unlocked the studio door.
The room was dusty, for it had not been touched during its owner's illness, so she fetched a duster and dusted it thoroughly, taking care to keep every thing in place, that her father should find nothing altered. Then she turned to an easel pushed back into one corner of the room, and lifted the cloth which hid the unfinished picture. She had often watched the artist at work upon it; and, perhaps, from the fact of seeing it gradually grow beneath his touch, had never looked at it with the same comprehending eyes as she did now. It seemed to her very beautiful, the work of a genius, as she told herself proudly; and her heart swelled with pain at the thought of the keen disappointment it would be to her father not to be able to finish it in time for exhibition that spring.
The picture was to be called "Righteousness and peace," and the subject was an ambitious one representing two beautiful female forms clad in loose flowering garments in the act of kissing each other. As Angel stood looking at it, she heard some one, enter the room, and turning quickly saw Mr. Bailey. He came to her side, and fixed his eyes scrutinously upon the picture.
"It still requires many finishing touches, I perceive," he said at length. "I fancy he cannot mean to do much more to the women's faces, to my mind they tell all he means them to express—'Righteousness and Peace have kissed each other.' He told me he had been at work on the drapery—ah, yes, I see! I wonder what your father's artist friends think of his picture. It seems to me good, very good; but, then, I fear my opinion does not go for much. I am sorry to think it will not be exhibited this year. The doctor says your father must not dream of work for many weeks to come, and advises he should live in a milder climate."