It was evening; the daily routine of work was over, and the time come for resting and social enjoyment. The ruby curtains were closely drawn in the cosy parlour at Dingle Cottage; the flames leapt and danced in the polished grate, and the soft lamplight fell with mellowing gleam around. Click, click, went Aunt Debby's needles as she sat by the warm glow, knitting industriously; tick, tick, said the little clock, its pendulum swinging steadily to and fro. The cat purred in sleepy content on the rug; and Aunt Judith's gentle voice fell soothingly on the ear as she read some book aloud from her low seat by Aunt Meg's couch.
Nellie, curled up in the rocking-chair opposite Aunt Debby, rocked herself in lazy comfort, and gazed on her invalid relative with rather a doubtful expression of countenance. Her first impression of Miss Margaret was certainly not favourable; for the girl, though not very keen-sighted, saw how the pale pretty face was marred by lines of peevish discontent, and the brow continually puckered in a fretful frown. She was not old, Nellie decided—not much over thirty, at the very most; but oh, how unlike Aunt Judith! What a contrast there was betwixt that listless, languid form on the sofa, and the quiet figure on the low chair near! Nellie turned with a positive sigh of relief to rest her eyes on Miss Latimer's peaceful countenance and wonder at the marvellous calm that always brooded there.
Every now and then some frivolous demand or complaint would come from the invalid—her pillows required shaking; the fire was too warm; the lamplight not sufficiently shaded; what a noise Aunt Debby's pins were making, and could Aunt Judith not read in a lower tone? Nellie was surprised at Miss Latimer's good-humoured patience, and thoroughly enjoyed Miss Deborah's occasional tart remarks, thrown out in sheer desperation.
"Well, Meg, you would provoke the temper of a saint," she cried, twitching her wool so violently that the thread snapped, and the ball rolled under the table; "there you go grumbling from morning till night, in spite of every endeavour to make you comfortable. Your nurses have a hard time, I assure you, and are to be pitied sincerely."
Miss Margaret's eyes filled, and a flood of tears being imminent, Miss Latimer strove to avert the torrent by saying, "Come, come, Debby; that is strong language to use. You and I great healthy creatures do not know what it is to be confined to a couch day after day, and suffer almost constant pain. I should feel it very hard to be unable to go about and walk in God's beautiful sunshine, and I think one cannot be sufficiently tender and patient towards the sick and helpless."
"Mental pain is harder to bear than physical," quoth practical Miss Deborah, in no way convinced of her harshness by the gentle speech. "If one were to have one's choice, I reckon," with strong Yankeeism, "a headache would be chosen in preference to a heartache," and Aunt Debby nodded her head knowingly.
A white, set look crossed Aunt Judith's face, and a shadow crept into the dark eyes; but they were gone in a moment, and Miss Latimer's lips wore their own sweet smile as she replied, "God grant you may experience little of either, Debby; but if you do, trust me you will find that both bring the richest blessings in their train;" and Aunt Judith's patient face shone with a glad light as she spoke.
"Meg has failed to seize her blessings, then," said Miss Deborah composedly. "No, no, Judith, you are a good woman, but you won't convince me that Margaret is justified in whining and grumbling to the extent she does."
"I need never look for sympathy from you, Debby," broke in the invalid with a low sob; "you are very hard-hearted, but the day will come when all those cruel speeches will rise up and condemn you."
"When?" with provoking gravity.
"When I am no longer here" (low sobs), "and the cold earth hides me for ever from your sight."
"So let it be," retaliated Miss Deborah, coolly proceeding to turn the heel of her stocking, and speaking quite placidly. "I shall remember the amount of exasperation I received when that day comes, and be able to meet the condemnation with becoming fortitude."
"Debby, Debby," said Miss Latimer's voice reprovingly; but the warning came too late. A violent fit of hysterics ensued, and Miss Margaret was borne to her room by the much-enduring sisters, whose services were both required to quell the outburst and settle her comfortably for the night.
Nellie, left alone in the snug parlour, drew her chair closer to the fire, and lifting the cat from its cosy bed on the rug, allowed it to curl up comfortably on her lap. "What a fuss," said the girl, shrugging her shoulders and gazing into the bright, glowing fire. "If I were Aunt Meg, I should be positively ashamed of myself—peevish, cross thing that she is. What a contrast to Aunt Judith;" and here Nellie fell into a fit of musing, which lasted till Miss Deborah came in with the cloth for supper.
"How is Aunt Meg now?" she inquired, watching Aunt Debby bustling about on hospitable thoughts intent. "Is she better?"
"Well, yes," was the reply, given with a little twinkle of the eye; "and a good night's rest will work wonders. You must excuse your aunt this evening, Nellie; she is not always so fretful, and an invalid's life has its hard times."
Miss Deborah spoke earnestly, for although she felt justified in saying a sharp word herself, she could ill brook the idea of any one disparaging or thinking lightly of her invalid sister. Nellie gave a slight nod of assent, which seemed to signify approval of Aunt Debby's words. Nevertheless she retained her own opinion, and mentally condemned poor Miss Margaret as being both weak and silly.
Supper over, Miss Deborah retired to the kitchen, where her reign as queen was undisputed, and Miss Latimer, bidding Nellie bring a small stool and sit down at her feet, began to stroke the soft hair gently, and ask questions as to the day's proceedings.
"Tell me your first impressions, dear child," said the kind voice pleasantly; and the young girl, whose heart still ached at the remembrance of Ada Irvine's stinging words, poured forth the whole story with a force and passion which astonished even herself.
Aunt Judith listened quietly—so quietly, indeed, that Nellie felt half ashamed of her vehemence, and imagined she had been making "much ado about nothing;" but in a few minutes Miss Latimer spoke, and her tones were very tender as she said:—"So my little Nellie has learned that school is not the sunny place she fancied it was. Dear child, I think your new friend gave you very good advice. Don't be a coward, Nellie, and allow your happiness to be marred by the insolent tongue of a spoilt girl. Show her a true lady is characterized, not by outward dress and appearance, but by the innate beauty of heart and soul, and leave your quiet endurance and pleasant courtesy to speak for themselves. Dear, it seems to me as if you were just beginning life now—as if you had but newly entered the lists, and were preparing for that battle which we have all to fight in this world. The warfare is seldom, if ever, an easy one, and the little stings of everyday life are harder to bear than many a heavy trial; but you must determine to be a brave, true soldier, Nellie, and make your life a grand, noble one. You may say to me it is easy to speak, but difficult to act, which I readily grant; but, my child, although the acting may seem almost impossible, we have one Friend ever able and willing to help us. If we choose Him in all sincerity of heart for our Captain, we need not fear to engage in the very thick of the fight."
Aunt Judith paused; and Nellie, seizing the gentle hand which was stroking her head with tender touch, said, "You make me think of my father, auntie; he speaks so often to us just as you are doing now. Every Sabbath evening, when the little ones are in bed, he gathers us round him; and after reading a portion of the Bible, he closes the book and talks in the same way. Oh, I feel so strong and brave while I listen—I feel as if I could face the heaviest sorrow with all courage; but when Monday comes my good resolutions vanish, and I find myself yielding and sinning as before."
The girl gazed straight at her aunt as she spoke, fearing to see a look of disapprobation over her weakness; but Miss Latimer's face was as calm as ever, only the eyes seemed softer and full of such a tender, loving light as she replied,—
"We have most of us the same story to tell, child,—a story of bravery so long as the battle is far off, but of cowardly shrinking when the time for hand-to-hand conflict comes. Whilst the sunshine is all around us and our hearts full of great gladness, we look up and thank the good Father for his precious blessings, feeling nerved for the fiercest fight; but when the storm-clouds gather and the golden brightness is withdrawn, we bow before the blinding tempest and writhe under our pain, unless—and the kind voice spoke very softly—the Master has our hearts in his own safe keeping, unless we have learned to love his will. Then we can discern the bright stars of his love shining through the darkness, and find that the apparently pitiless storm has left diamond drops of blessing behind it. Never despair, Nellie; strive and pray for grace to follow in the Master's footsteps, and you will learn what a grand, noble thing the consecrated life is, and how truly worth living. You know those lines of Kingsley's, do you not?—
'Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Donoble things, notdreamthem all day long;And so make life, death, and the vast forever,One grand sweet song.'"
There was a long silence after this, during which Nellie thought deeply, and Aunt Judith lay back in her chair with quietly-folded hands and a far-seeing look in her patient eyes. Then the girl said earnestly, "Aunt Judith, I will try very hard to do my best, I will indeed; and oh, may I come to you when things go wrong, and I can't or won't see the right way? It does me good to have a talk with you, and takes half the home-sickness away. Say yes; please do, dear, dear, dear auntie;" and Nellie's voice sounded very earnest.
"I shall be only too glad, my child," replied Miss Latimer with her rare sweet smile. "Treat me as you would your own mother, dear, and let me help you so far as I am able; only, Nellie, don't depend on your own strength or my aid, but go straight to the Fountain-head, and find the never-failing strength and grace for the needs of every day."
"Thank you, Aunt Judith," was the fervent response; then Aunt Debby entered, and the conversation ceased.
Bedtime came. Nellie retired for the night; Miss Deborah 'followed suit;' and Miss Latimer, extinguishing the light, crossed the tiny hall, and opening a door to the left, entered, and closed it softly behind her.
This, her private sanctum, was like the other apartments—small and plainly furnished, but with the same air of neatness and comfort. A book-case lined one side of the room entirely; a small round table stood close to the window, bright with autumn flowers; a larger one in the centre of the room held a desk, and was strown with papers, magazines, etc.; while soft chairs inviting one to luxurious ease faced the ruddy hearth, and various little nick-nacks scattered here and there showed the graceful touch of a woman's hand.
Going to the centre table, Aunt Judith seated herself before the open desk, looked over several closely-written sheets of manuscript, and then furnishing herself with fresh paper, began to write rapidly.
The fire burned slowly out, and the midnight hour had long sounded ere Miss Latimer dried her pen and laid aside her work with a tired sigh. Crossing to the window, she raised the blind, and leaning against the casement, looked away up at the quiet night sky. There was no moon; but the happy stars, shining with frosty brightness, kept their silent watch over the sleeping world. Oh, how still, how very hushed it was! what a great infinite peace seemed brooding over all—a peace such as millions of weary souls were longing to possess; not a sound to be heard, not a ripple of unrest—only that wondrous calm. For a long time Miss Latimer stood drinking in the sweetness and beauty of the nature-world, and letting her thoughts soar up, upwards to the great Father of all, who neither slumbers nor sleeps. What those thoughts were we do not know; but surely some of that vast peace must have stolen softly, silently, into her patient heart, for when she turned away and entered a tiny bedroom leading off from her sanctum, Aunt Judith's face seemed as it were the face of an angel.
Next morning Nellie set out for school in apparently the best of spirits, returning Aunt Judith's encouraging smile with one as bright and hopeful, and shouting a merry farewell as she ran lightly down the garden path and closed the little gate behind her.
Arriving fully ten minutes before the hour, she found several of the girls already assembled in the large class-room, gathered as usual in knots, and talking gaily to one another.
"Good-morning," said Agnes Drummond, coming forward and holding out her hand in a friendly manner. "You are going to be a punctual pupil, Miss Latimer." And the other scholars, not being overpowered as yet by Ada's presence, nodded blithely and allowed their new school-mate to join in the general conversation.
While girlish tongues were busy and the room was filled with the hum of merry voices, the great bell rang loudly, and at the same moment Winnie came rushing in, crying half breathlessly as she did so, "Just in time, girls; not a minute too soon. Good-morning, everybody. Do I look as if I had been having a good race?" and she turned her piquant face round for a general survey.
"A species of milk-maid bloom," said Ada Irvine, catching the words as she leisurely entered the room, "which makes you appear more suited to your friend of the dairy-maid type;" and Miss Irvine looked insolently at Nellie's fresh bright face as she spoke. The soft tints on the smooth, rounded cheek deepened, and the girl bit her lip hard to keep back the angry words.
Not so Winnie, however. Turning a pair of great, serious eyes on her haughty school-mate's fair, placid countenance, she said with an air of prophetic solemnity,—
"Ada Irvine, you will yet be rewarded for all your contemptuous speeches. Mark my words, and see if you don't get smashed up in a railway accident, or fall a victim to that delightfully disfiguring disease—small-pox. Serve you right too. Every dog has its day: you are enjoying yours at present, and can say and do as you please; but—ugh! I'm disgusted at you," and Winnie "tip-tilted" her little nose with the most charming grace imaginable.
Ada smiled loftily.
"I would not be vulgar, if I were you," she remarked calmly. "I suppose you learn all those choice proverbs from your aristocratic brother. Ah, there is Mrs. Elder coming to open the school. Do alter your expression, my dear; you are regarding me with such loving eyes, I am sure she will think you are too affectionate," and Ada swept to her seat with a mocking laugh.
The lessons commenced, and Nellie, thoroughly prepared, almost forgot the morning's annoyance in the joy at finding herself slowly rising to the head of the class, where Miss Irvine sat with all the dignity of an enthroned queen.
Ten minutes' respite; then came the English, conducted by Mr. King, the most thorough and rigid master in the school. A question was asked—a question calculated to tax severely the skill and ingenuity of the active brain. Ada hesitated for one moment, then made a fatal blunder; and Nellie, answering correctly, slipped quietly into the seat of the deposed sovereign. Winnie's delight was indescribable. One triumphant glance after another flashed upwards to the fallen queen's angry face, and her bright eyes fairly danced with wicked joy when, at the close of the class, Mr. King said a few words of commendation on Miss Latimer's abilities.
"Nellie, Nellie! I'm proud of my friend to-day, She's a regular brick, and deserves any amount of hugging and petting. Oh joy, joy! how did you manage it, dear? You have taken the wind out of Ada's sails and gained a feather in your cap, I can assure you. It all seems too good to be true. The queen dethroned at last!" and Winnie catching Nellie round the waist, danced her up and down the schoolroom in a regular madcap whirl.
"You'll be late for dinner if you don't hurry home at once, Win," said one of the elder girls, crossing over to the fire and seating herself by its cheery blaze with a tempting book and box of caramels. "There, run away and don't waste your precious time in speaking uncharitable words, dear. Recess will soon be over;" and Elsie Drummond looked kindly down on the little figure dancing before her with such evident delight.
"I'm just going," replied Winnie, stopping to bestow a smile on the elder girl's pleasant face. "But you can't understand why I am so happy. You don't belong to our set, and therefore know very little about Ada's conceit and—yes, I shall say it—priggish ways. She's just as horrid as can be, and I hate her," wound up the malicious monkey, quite reckless of the character of her language.
"Agnes owns rather a sharp tongue, dear, and I hear many a tale from her," replied Elsie, referring to her younger sister; "but I think, Win, if you wish to be a true friend to Nellie, you will refrain from expressing your joy at her success too openly, at least in Ada's presence. Such unconcealed delight will, believe me, dear, do more harm than good."
"Oh, nonsense, Elsie," was the impetuous reply. "I must sing and dance my joy, it's such a splendid opportunity. Why shouldn't I crow over the nasty proud thing? She needs somebody to ruffle her, and I can do that part better than any one else in the school.—You don't mind my having a little fun, do you, Nellie? she's such a cross-patch, you know."
Now, as was quite natural under the circumstances, Nellie did feel not a little elated over her success. It was a triumph certainly, and girl-like she found it both palatable and pleasant to rejoice over a fallen enemy. At the same time, however, she saw the force of Miss Drummond's caution, and the wisdom of yielding to her advice, so turning to Winnie she answered gently,—
"Please say no more about it; it was all chance, and Ada may gain her old seat to-morrow again, though I mean to try to prevent her from doing so."
But the words were simply wasted on the incorrigible child, who resumed her fantastic war-dance as she replied,—
"No, no; I shall not make any false promise. I mean to be a true, loyal friend, Nell; but if a nice little malicious speech comes gliding softly to the very tip of my tongue, I must let the words out, otherwise there will be choking. Prepare then for sudden squalls," and with a mischievous laugh Winnie vanished from the room, and was soon running along the road in the direction of home.
"The old story—late again," said Dick, looking up from his well-filled plate as she entered and sat down opposite him at the table. "You'll never have time to cram down cabinet pudding and tart to-day, I'll be bound;" and the boy grinned teasingly on the bright face before him.
"Won't I, though?" answered Winnie, nodding her head blithely, and eying the contents of the plate brought to her by Jane the parlour-maid with decided relish. "Don't imagine you'll get my share to-day, Dicky boy, for I'm as hungry as a hawk. I have something to tell you, however, so please listen;" and between mouthfuls she told in a rambling style the story of Nellie's triumph and Ada's defeat, ending with the following words, "Do you know, Dick, when I saw Ada sitting below Nellie and looking so crestfallen, I could have risen there and then and danced for joy before her. Will you believe me, I felt so glad I could hardly restrain my feet till the hour was up, and whenever liberty was proclaimed, didn't they go well at the Irish jig! Oh dear!" and Winnie's face was all aglow as she waited her brother's commendatory remarks on such behaviour.
Dick coughed, blew his nose violently, filled out some water into his glass, quaffed the draught, cleared his throat, and then said gravely, "I'll tell you what to do, Win. This evening, after we have finished studying, I'll teach you a splendid double-shuffle which you will rehearse to-morrow (with added grace, of course,) in front of the lovely Ada, and before all the class—Mr. King included. My eye, what glorious fun!" and vulgar Dick looked across at his sister with beaming face.
"I dare hardly attempt that," she replied dolefully, "though I should dearly love doing so. But you see, Dick" (with energy), "Mrs. Elder detests me so much, and I have been caught in so many faults lately, that such an awful one as you propose would prove fatal. Your delightful plan must be abandoned, I am sorry to say."
"Well, perhaps after all you are right," replied the boy, changing his teasing tone into a serious one. "I daresay Miss Ada's rage would only increase in fury if she saw you performing a triumph-dance and rejoicing so extravagantly over her defeat. I remember a few years ago something of the same kind occurring in our school, and wasn't there a blow-up at the end! I was one of the little chaps then, but I managed to keep my eyes and ears open, and knew more about the whole affair than any one guessed."
"Tell me the story, Dick," interrupted Winnie, holding a spoonful of tart suspended betwixt her mouth and plate, and speaking eagerly; "do, there's a dear boy." But Dick shook his shaggy head, and answered,—
"Not just now, Win. Our time is almost up. Finish your pudding, old girl, and let us away. By-the-by, don't expect me home till after five this afternoon;" and the boy's bright face clouded as he made this statement.
"Why not?" was the inquiry. "We were going to have such splendid fun together. Is there anything wrong?"
"Kept in," uttered in a growling tone. "Lessons as usual badly prepared—denounced for my stupidity, and ordered to remain after hours and work up. See what it is to have a dunce of a brother, Win," and Dick, curling his lip sneeringly, endeavoured to hide his wounded feelings by putting his hands in his pockets and trying to look perfectly indifferent.
Winnie, on her part, burst forth indignantly,—
"Not another word against yourself, Richard Blake. I won't listen." Then coming to her brother's side and slipping two soft arms round his neck, she raised her eyes with the love-light shining so softly in them, and murmured tenderly, "Don't be downcast, dear old boy—all will come right some day; and I am just as stupid as you are."
"No, no," cried Dick quickly. "Indolence is your fault, Win, not stupidity. But I—I can't learn, and that's the simple truth. I've tried over and over again, but it's no good; and, of course," (doggedly) "no one believes that fact."
"I do," said the soft little voice. "But, Dick, people don't know you. There you go," (with quaint gravity) "hiding that great, kind heart of yours, and showing only a rough exterior. Our father and mother never guess bow brave and good and true you are. They'll find all that out some day, however;" and Winnie looked into her brother's honest freckled face with all the affection of her loyal, little heart.
"You're a decided goose, Win," was all the answer vouchsafed to her cheering words, as the boy rose from his chair and prepared to leave the room; but the twinkle in his eye, and kind, firm pressure of his hand, when they parted at the street corner, spoke volumes to little Winnie, and sent her back to school with a happy heart.
She was very thoughtful all that afternoon, however, and so quiet that when school was over and the two girls stood on the steps of Mrs. Elder's Select Establishment, Nellie inquired anxiously if her friend were ill.
"Ill!" repeated Winnie with a light laugh; "not I—only, I've been a-thinking," and a long-drawn sigh accompanied the words.
"What about?" asked her companion, descending the steps and viewing the little figure with the great, serious look on its face. "What a doleful expression, Winnie! You look as if you had, like Atlas, the whole world on your shoulders."
"Nellie," interrupted the child—for indeed she seemed little more than such—with the faintest quiver in her voice, "did you ever think, and think, and think, till your head seemed bursting, and all your thoughts got whirled together? No? Ah, well, I have; and somehow when I get into these moods everything becomes muddled, and I find myself all in a maze. Oh!" and Winnie spoke with passionate vehemence, "often I would give I don't know how much to find some one who could understand and explain away my thoughts."
"Why not speak to your mother?" asked Nellie, rather surprised at this new phase in her friend's character; "surely she should be able to help you."
But the little girl shook her head despondingly. "No, no, Nellie; my stepmother is very kind and pretty, but I don't see much of her, and she would only laugh at me."
They were strolling leisurely along the street now, and the child's voice had a plaintive ring in it as she continued: "I was very ill about a year ago—so ill, Nellie, that I had to lie in bed day after day for a long time. I can't tell what was wrong with me, but I know the doctor used to look very grave when he saw me; and one day, after he had gone away, nurse went about my room crying softly to herself. I was too weak to care or think, and only wondered dreamily what she was crying for, till my stepmother entered, and I noticed that her eyes were red too. They imagined I was sleeping, I suppose, for nurse quite loudly asked, 'Is there no hope?' O Nellie! I shall never forget that moment, never so long as I live. I seemed to realize that I was dying—really, truly dying—and the thought was awful. What would happen to me after death? I could not, I dared not die. Springing with sudden strength from the bed, I tried to rush anywhere, screaming, 'Save me! don't let me die!' in the most awful agony. Then came a long blank. I never forgot that time, but I never spoke of it to any one. Where was the use? I should only have been laughed at, and told to think about living, not dying."
There was something so pathetic in the way all this was told, there was such an amount of pathos in the quivering voice, that Nellie's heart ached and the tears rushed to her eyes.
"Winnie," she began gently, "I know what would do you all the good in the world—a talk with Aunt Judith. I am sure she would never laugh away your thoughts or refuse to listen, she is so good and kind; and when she speaks, one feels as if all one's wicked passions were hushed away."
Winnie brightened visibly.
"Is that so?" she inquired; "then I should dearly like to see her. Won't you invite me to spend some afternoon with you, Nellie, and allow me to see Aunt Judith and your cosy wee home?"
"I shall be only too pleased, Winnie," replied her companion. Then the two friends parted and went their respective roads—one to a fashionable home where gaiety reigned supreme and pleasure filled up every hour; the other to a lowly cottage-dwelling where God's holy name was hallowed, and the Christ-life showed itself clear and bright in Aunt Judith's daily walk.
That same evening Winnie and Dick were alone together in the oak parlour; a room sacred to themselves, where they ate, studied, played, and lived, as it were, a life quite apart from that of the other inmates of the family, who, occupied with business or domestic duties through the day, spent evening after evening in a round of gaiety and amusement. Brother and sister enjoyed little of the society of their elders during the week, but on Saturdays and Sabbaths they were usually expected to lunch with their parents—an honour which, I am sorry to say, neither appreciated; for somehow Dick seldom failed to commit a gross blunder or make some absurd speech at a critical moment, and Winnie, though a general favourite, refused to be happy when he was sternly upbraided for his fault.
The father, a man of wide culture and refinement, had no patience with his son's clumsy movements and slow brain, refusing to look under the surface and see the great loving heart which beat there with its wealth of warm true affection; while Mrs. Blake and the elder brothers and sisters regarded him in the light of a good-for-nothing or general scapegrace. The result was that Dick hid the many sterling qualities of his nature under a gruff, forbidding exterior, and only tender-hearted Winnie guessed how he winced and writhed under the mocking word or light laugh indulged in at his expense. Resenting them bitterly, she gathered up all the love of her passionate little heart and showered it on him, idolizing this big brother of hers to such an extent that even his faults seemed gilded with a halo; and her affection being equally returned, both found their greatest happiness in each other's society.
Oh, what fun they had together in the oak parlour! Oh, the shouts of ringing laughter and the merry jest of words! Now and then Dick would bring home with him his special friend, Archie Trollope, and what a night would follow,—Winnie entering into their games with all the zest of her tomboy nature.
She never felt solitary or out of place in the company of these two boys; and they—why, they looked upon her as one of themselves: Dick describing her to his numerous companions as being a "tip-top" girl, and Archie singing her praises loudly to his own sisters who never knew what it was to join in a madcap frolic, and whose voices were strictly modulated to society pitch.
Sometimes, in the long winter evenings, the trio, tired with play, would lower the gas, and gathering round the large, blazing fire, tell ghost stories with such thrilling earnestness that often the ghastly phantoms seemed to merge almost into reality, and they found themselves starting at a falling cinder or the sound of a footstep in the passage outside. On those occasions the window-blind was usually drawn up to the top, that the pale, glimmering moonlight might stream in; and as the soft silvery beams stole silently into the room and laid their tremulous light on the young forms and awestruck faces, the flames leaping and crackling joined in enhancing the effect of the story by throwing on the walls weird shadows of a moving spectral band.
But the winter days were yet to come, though the cold autumn winds and falling leaves heralded their sure approach; and this evening Winnie and Dick were engaged—not in wandering hand in hand into wonderland, but in the prosaic occupation of making toffy.
Winnie, enveloped in one of nurse's huge bib-aprons, stood at a little distance from the fire, busily studying a book of recipes; while Dick, his honest face burnt to the colour of a lobster, was bending over a saucepan and stirring manfully the tempting contents.
"Yes," said the young lady, laying aside the well-thumbed volume and taking a step forward, "the quantities are correct. I am sure this will be excellent toffy, but—Dick, you shocking boy! whatever are you doing? Licking the spoon, I declare. How very vulgar!" and Winnie opened her eyes in horrified amazement at her brother's lack of good-breeding.
"Well, you see, Win," replied the culprit meekly, "you so often make mistakes and put in some awful compound that I am obliged to guard against being poisoned. Having a sincere affection for life, and not being like Portia 'aweary of this great world,' I consider it my duty to take all due precautions, and thereforepardonnez-moifor tasting the toffy."
The young cook drew her slight figure up and said with an air of offended dignity, "I flatter myself that I am quite capable of making excellent toffy, Richard Blake, and am well aware as to the proper ingredients."
"Doubtless," with a sweeping bow, "but 'accidents will happen in the best-regulated families;' and I remember how you substituted salt for sugar the last time, and apparently never discovered your mistake till you had dosed me with some of the vile concoction. It was cracking stuff, I can assure you." Here Dick became thoroughly convulsed at the remembrance of that disastrous night, and laughed so heartily that Winnie fled to the rescue of her beloved toffy, and seized the spoon from her brother's swaying hand.
"What an object you look!" she said scornfully, stirring the clear brown liquid and inhaling its savoury odour with intense satisfaction. "I don't see anything to laugh at;" and she began to hum the tune of an old nursery rhyme, as if utterly indifferent to both Dick and his laughter.
"Don't ape Madame Dignity, Win," gasped the awful boy in an almost strangled condition; "lofty airs are not becoming to such a little creature. You know perfectly well what a 'go' it was, and thought I was about to 'shuffle off this mortal coil.'" Dick had a weakness for Shakespeare. "Oh dear! when I reflect upon it all and remember the taste—" but here Winnie was obliged to give in and join in his merriment, for the boy's face of pretended disgust was too comical to resist.
"Dick, you are dreadful!" she said at length, the tears streaming down her cheeks and her voice still trembling with a lurking suspicion of laughter. "Will you never forget that eventful night!"
"Never," replied her brother with mock gravity; "the remembrance is printed indelibly on the records of my memory, and the taste remains for ever fresh to my palate. Let us change the conversation, Win; the subject is too much for my delicate constitution."
"I am quite agreeable," quoth the young lady composedly, "and in that case allow your hands to be active and your tongue silent. I want the tin buttered, and the bottle of vanilla essence brought from the pantry. Now, do hurry, for the toffy is almost ready."
Dick obeyed orders, and in a short time the candy was cooling outside on the window ledge, while brother and sister, comfortably settled in their respective chairs, were preparing to enjoy a "quiet read."
"This is a splendid book, Dick," said the little chatterbox, toying with the leaves of her dainty volume, and glancing at the tasteful engravings. "All the school-girls are raving about it, and saying how delightfully interesting the story is."
"What's the name and who's the author?" inquired Dick, too much engrossed in his own book of wonderful adventures to give much heed to his sister's words. "Quick, Win; I'm just killing a whale. Ah! now they've got him. Bravo!" and the boy shouted his appreciation of the stirring tale.
"Oh, the title of the book is 'A Summer's Pleasure;' and the author—let me see—why—" and Winnie stopped short, her eyes opened to their widest extent and her rosy lips slightly parted.
"What's up with the girl?" queried Dick, roused by the little sister's surprised tone and bewildered expression. "Lot's wife could not have looked more petrified, I'll be bound. Do satisfy a fellow's curiosity, Win, and don't sit there mute as a fish."
Thus admonished, Winnie gave herself a little shake and laughed lightly.
"No wonder," she said excusingly. "Only think, Dick,—the author of this book calls herself 'Aunt Judith,' and that is the name of one of Nellie Latimer's aunts."
The boy gave a prolonged whistle.
"Well, you are a little fool," he said politely, "to make such a fuss about nothing. Dear me, Win, you don't imagine surely that Nellie Latimer's aunt is the author of that book, simply because her name happens to be Judith. Why, there are hundreds of Aunt Judiths in the world;" and philosopher Dick went back to his whales and icebergs in lofty contempt of his sister's excitement.
"I daresay I am a goose," laughed Winnie apologetically; "but somehow it seemed so strange to see 'Aunt Judith' staring at me from the title-page. Aunt Judith—" and the little girl repeated the name softly, as if those two words held for her some subtle charm.
The minutes passed slowly one by one. Dick was away in the far north fighting the whales, and having wonderful adventures with polar bears; while Winnie, curled up cosy fashion in the depths of a huge easychair, was also absorbed in the contents of her book; when the soft swish-swish of garments was heard coming along the passage, and the door opened to admit a fair, stately lady, whose silken robe fell in graceful folds to her feet, and whose arms, neck, and hair glittered with sparkling jewels. She was followed by two younger ladies, as richly but more youthfully dressed; and as they entered the room a delicious perfume distilled itself and wafted all around the sweetest fragrance.
"Mamma!" cried Winnie, springing up and gazing admiringly on the beautiful figure before her; "how pretty you look! Are you going out to-night again, and Clare and Edith also?"
"Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Blake in a softly-modulated voice; "we are all going to the opera, and the carriage is already at the door. I wished to know, however, why Dick was so late in getting home this afternoon, and so looked in on you as I was passing."
Dick, who had barely glanced up at his stepmother's entrance, and then continued reading, now knit his brow in an angry frown, and seemed unwilling to answer; while Clare, the elder of the two young ladies, laughed carelessly as she said, "Our invasion for that purpose was hardly necessary, I fancy. It is simply the old story over again—badly-prepared lessons."
"You're about right there," replied the boy sullenly, never raising his eyes from the volume before him. "What else could you expect of the dunce?" and a bitter sneer curled the corners of his lips as he spoke, while Winnie's warm little heart was all aglow with love and sympathy.
Mrs. Blake's face assumed an expression of peevish distress. "I am sure, Dick," she began plaintively, "I do not know what the end of all this will be. Your father is perfectly disgusted at your indolence and ashamed of your stupidity." The boy's eyes flashed. "Yes, it is quite true. I am tired listening to his continual complaints;" and the lady drew her fleecy wrap round her with an injured air.
"O mamma," interrupted Winnie eagerly, "you are wronging Dick. He may not be so clever as Algy and Tom, but he is such a dear, good boy, and does try ever so hard to learn his lessons. He does indeed; and I should know best, when I study beside him every night."
"That's enough, Win," answered her brother doggedly. "I don't care what they believe;" and the boy, drawing his chair closer to the fire, gazed angrily into the burning embers.
"What a respectful speech, and what charming manners!" said Edith scornfully. "You would grace any drawing-room, Dick.—Come away, mamma; we shall be late. Papa will soon bring his dutiful son to his proper senses."
"Well spoken, Edith," said Mrs. Blake, sweeping indignantly from the room; "the boy is a perfect boor. I trust he may show more honour to his father than he has accorded to me."
The door closed softly behind the unwelcome guests, the light footsteps died away in the distance, and Winnie and Dick were once more alone in the little oak parlour, with the dancing firelight playing on their faces and roguishly deepening the tint on their youthful cheeks.
Dick's book had dropped from his knees, and was lying with crumpled leaves on the rug, while the boy, his hands tightly clenched, sat in moody silence; and Winnie's tender heart ached as she watched him. Slipping from her chair, she crossed over to his side, and nestling down, laid her pretty head on his arm, saying with a quiver in her voice, "Dick, my dear, good boy, don't look like that; I can't bear it. Oh, why do they say such things to you?" Here the tears forced themselves into the bright eyes as she spoke.
Dick gave the fender a vicious kick ere he replied: "I tell you what it is, Win: one of these days I'll run away. No, no; don't strangle me and say I won't, for I tell you Iwill. A fellow can't be expected to stand this sort of thing all his life. I'm sick of it. Hallo! what's up?" for Winnie's arms were clasped tightly round his neck and the great tears were running silently down her cheeks.
"Don't go, Dick, oh, don't go!" she pleaded frantically, half choking the boy with her violent embraces. "Whatever should I do without you? Dick, you must not go; only wait, and all will come right in the end. Promise, promise!" and the little gipsy face looked pitiful in its wild terror.
Dick's heart melted.
"There, there, dry your eyes, you wee goose; I was only teasing you. Why, what a disconsolate-looking object somebody is!" and laughing his sister out of her fright, the two sat chatting merrily till bed-time, when Winnie went away to her own dainty room, and Dick also sought his den.
Then, when alone in the darkness, the merriment died out of his face, and as he lay thinking over his wrongs, real and imaginary, bitter feelings swept over his heart, and the idle threat began to form itself into fixed determination. "I would go right off to-night were it not for Win," he muttered, tossing restlessly on his pillows; "but I guess she would fret sorely, and—'there's the rub.'" Another Shakespearian quotation. "Well, well, I'll sleep over it;" and then Dick wandered into the land of dreams, to be haunted by the vision of a quaint gipsy face and great pleading eyes—a vision which rose up before him again and again in after years, when he was out on the great waste of waters, and the soft moon and shining stars seemed to whisper of home and loving hearts.
One Saturday afternoon, about a week after the events recorded in the last chapter, Miss Latimer stood at the window of her cosy parlour looking out into the quiet street with its small semi-detached villas and cottages, the tiny gardens of which were now strown with the falling autumn leaves. There was a slight look of expectancy in her eyes and pleased expression on her face calculated to give any beholder the idea that Aunt Judith was watching for something or somebody. And so she was; for Winnifred Blake had gladly accepted the invitation to spend that afternoon and evening at Dingle Cottage, much to Nellie's delight; and that young lady, too impatient to await her guest's arrival, had gone part of the way to meet the expected visitor.
Aunt Judith, after giving a quick glance round the room to see that everything had a comfortable, inviting look, resumed her quiet watch, and for some time the silence of the house was unbroken, save by a slight sound now and then proceeding from the kitchen, where Aunt Debby, Martha-like as usual, was busy with domestic work. At last two figures appeared coming swiftly along the street, and Miss Latimer, hastening to the door, opened it with words of kindly welcome as Winnie and Nellie danced (I can use no better word) up the tiny garden path.
"Come in, dear; I am pleased to see you," she said in her gentle voice, leading the young guest to Nellie's bedroom, and assisting her to take off her hat and jacket. "Nellie has spoken so often about you that you seem no stranger to me, and I am glad to think my niece has gained such a true, warm-hearted little friend."
Winnie, surveying the kind face bending over her, smiled at the words, but seemed to be too much overwhelmed by an unaccountable fit of shyness to vouchsafe any reply. She kept her usually busy tongue silent till the three were seated in the snug parlour, when, under the influence of Miss Latimer's simple, homely manner, she began, as Nellie expressed it, to thaw, and the fountain once set free produced a play of bright, sparkling conversation.
Aunt Judith's nimble fingers plied the needle industriously, and though she herself said little at first, her thorough enjoyment of the young people's society was evident from the quiet, amused smile which lurked round the corners of her lips, and the close attention she gave to the merry flow of talk. School and school-mates were the two chief themes of conversation, and if now and again a remark savouring rather strongly of girlish malice or jealousy fell from either lips, Miss Latimer wisely made no comment; for she knew what, alas! many pay so little heed to—that for everything there is a season, and that a word of admonition thrown in at a wrong time serves rather to harden than soften the heart.
"Nellie is getting on splendidly at school, Miss Latimer," announced Winnie after a long pause. "Ada Irvine cannot call herself the dux any longer; and I am so glad. It is quite delightful to see her angry, crestfallen look each time Nellie makes a correct answer;" and Winnie's face glowed in thorough appreciation of the present state of affairs. "As for revenge," she continued, "there will be a terrible climax some day, I am sure. Even now, and this is only the beginning, she cannot find anything too horrible for herself or the other girls to say about Nellie."
"I am sorry to hear that," replied Aunt Judith quietly; "but Nellie must try to win Ada's love, and not provoke her by any appearance of triumph or self-esteem. Draw your chairs nearer me, dears, and I will tell you what happened to me long, long ago when I was a girl;" and here Miss Latimer smiled on the upturned young faces and commenced her story.
There was nothing very exciting in the tale—nothing certainly bordering on the wonderful—and yet one might have heard a pin fall, so great was the silence while she spoke.
Winnie sat quite still, her eyes shining like twin stars, and the whole expression of her face denoting the most intense interest; while Nellie, her lips slightly parted as if in expectation, also seemed to have her attention completely absorbed: for Aunt Judith was a splendid story-teller, and entered heart and soul into the spirit of her tale.
Miss Deborah's little bright orbs twinkled when she entered the parlour with the tea-tray and found how the three were occupied. There was little heed given to her entrance, and not even a glimpse of pretty china or a daintily-spread table could tempt the listeners' eyes or attention from Miss Latimer and her story till the last word was spoken, when both roused themselves with a sigh of the utmost satisfaction.
"Oh, that was splendid!" cried Winnie eagerly. "What a nice story-teller you make, Miss Latimer; you talk just like a book." Here Aunt Debby, accidentally, of course, choked slightly. "I could sit and listen to you for ever,—couldn't you, Nellie?" and Winnie appealed to her companion for an enforcement of her statement.
"Scarcely, dear, scarcely," interrupted Aunt Judith, rising from her chair and advancing to the tea-table; "if you were to hear my stories often, the novelty would by-and-by wear away. But here is Aunt Debby with the urn. Let us see what a successful tea-maker she is, and we can talk more about stories and story-telling afterwards."
Both girls jumped up obediently, and gathering round the tempting table the happy party proceeded to enjoy the many goodly things displayed thereon, and kept up such a merry strain of conversation that the room rang with laughter; and Aunt Meg, lying in her darkened chamber, bitterly bewailed her infirmities and the seeming lack of sympathy vouchsafed to her in her affliction.
Tea was followed by games and other interesting amusements, all of which Winnie enjoyed immensely; and then Aunt Judith inquired if she would like to see an old maid's den. "Nellie has never as yet been privileged to cross its threshold," she finished laughingly, "so it will be something new for both of you to inspect."
With that she led the way and ushered the two girls into her study.
Both stood for a few minutes silent, glancing round the pretty room so simply and tastefully furnished; then with a little cry of delight they sprang towards the bookcase and began to scan the contents eagerly.
"Why, I declare," cried Winnie excitedly, "here are ever so many books like the one I have at home just now. They are all by the same author too.—Miss Latimer," she continued, turning and speaking rapidly, "she must be a good lady who writes those books. I have only read one of them, entitled 'A Summer's Pleasure;' but it was beautiful, and I felt as if I should like, ohso much, to talk with the author, and tell her how earnestly I long to be good, and how I can't."
Nellie, who had taken one of the pretty volumes into her hand and was scanning the title-page, looked up at Miss Latimer's face with a half-incredulous light in her eyes; but Aunt Judith, gazing down on the little figure before her, failed to catch the puzzled gleam.
"My child," she said, oh so gently, taking the small white hands and drawing the young girl to the warm fireside, "your words do my heart good, and help to repay me for hours of weary labour. You wish to know the author of those books, dear. You feel you could tell her some of your deepest longings. What will you say when I confess that she stands before you—that it is in very truth Aunt Judith who loves children and sends them through print her best heart-thoughts?"
Nellie's face at this point was a study; but Winnie cried joyfully,—
"I knew it, I knew it! something whispered to me it was you. Oh, Miss Latimer, I am so glad! Will you lend me one of your dear little books, and may I love you because you are so good? I wish you were my aunt; I do indeed," and there was a lonely ache in the girlish voice as she spoke.
Miss Latimer laid her hand on the rough curly head.
"Little Winnie," she said tenderly, "don't you know that love is a treasure to me? I shall prize your warm, true affection very dearly. Call me Aunt Judith, my child; and when you read my little books, to which you are heartily welcome, remember I am speaking simply from my heart, with the earnest wish to raise your thoughts to the good Father who made this beautiful world and gave us all things richly to enjoy."
Words like these had a strange sound to Winnie, and filled her with an awe-stricken feeling; but she made no reply, only raising herself on tip-toe she kissed Miss Latimer warmly, and turned her attention to the bookcase again. At that moment the door-bell rang, and Miss Deborah announced the arrival of Dick with the carriage to take his sister home. So once more they re-entered the little parlour where Aunt Debby, with kind thoughtfulness, had prepared a repast of fruit and cake, and where Master Blake sat looking decidedly awkward and out of place in the dainty little room.
He acknowledged Miss Latimer's greeting with a few unintelligible words, and seemed altogether to be labouring under some restraint, till Winnie said with a light laugh,—
"For the first time in my life, Dick, I am sorry to see you. Whatever made you come so soon?" and at the plain-spoken words there was such a general laugh that the boy's reserve vanished, and—"Richard was himself again."
Nellie and he became fast friends, and chatted away pleasantly; while Winnie, after having partaken plentifully of fruit and cake, went to put on her hat and jacket under Miss Latimer's escort.
"May I come again soon?" she inquired naively, looking round the tiny room with loving eyes; "this is such a dear little house, and you are all so kind, I should like to spend an afternoon often here." Winnie seemed very earnest as she spoke.
"We shall be only too pleased to see you," replied Aunt Judith, smiling down on the upturned face, and neatly adjusting the tie round the girl's soft neck. "I love to have young people about me, and it is good to hear the sound of a blithe young voice."
Those words amply satisfied Winnie, and after many good-nights had been exchanged, she and Dick drove homewards, bearing with them two of Aunt Judith's precious volumes.
"I say, Win, that's a jolly little house," said the boy as they rolled along in the darkness. "What a funny, brisk old lady Aunt Debby is! Did you notice the way she dodged about, and how her front curls shook and bobbed a regular jig every time she spoke? She puts me in mind of a little bird peeping out at you from those small twinkling eyes. She's a rum old customer, sure enough;" and Dick chuckled at the remembrance of Miss Deborah's round chubby face and crisp chirping voice.
"Yes, she is rather queer," assented Winnie musingly; "but I like Miss Latimer dearly. She is awfully good, Dick; and fancy her being the author of those books after all. Is it not strange?"
"Slightly, perhaps; but 'truth is stranger than fiction,' my dear sister.—By-the-by, I did not notice any Quaker fashion in their dress to-night. Miss Latimer wore some lace fal-lal about her neck, and Aunt Debby's cap was a regular flower-garden." Dick was a severe critic on female attire.
"That's quite true," replied Winnie; "but if you saw them in the street, with their long loose cloaks and huge bonnets, you would speak differently. O Dick, how happy they all seem! don't they? and how cosy everything looks! Such a contrast to our great big rooms, where you feel like a—a—" Winnie stopped short for lack of a simile, and her brother supplied the missing word,—
"Pelican in the wilderness. That's it, Win; and you're about right. Love won't make the pot boil; but money can't buy everything, and I reckon there's a screw loose somewhere in our home."
With that there followed a long silence, and Winnie was almost in the land of dreams when the carriage stopped at No. 3 Victoria Square, and Dick shouted roguishly in her ear the one word—"Awake!"
The windows were ablaze with light, and there were sounds of music and singing as brother and sister, entering the house, wended their way to the oak parlour and warmed their hands at the cheerful blaze. The gas was lit, the curtains drawn, the room tidy and inviting-looking; but no kind motherly face was there to welcome them and ask if the evening had been a pleasant one. At other times Winnie would not, most probably, have felt the blank, having been accustomed to such neglect; but coming straight from Aunt Judith's gentle presence, and with the remembrance of her loving words and kind voice stirring the lonely little heart, it struck home to her with a chill. Leaving Dick to his own meditations she slipped away to the large nursery, where old nurse sat quietly watching the slumbers of her young charge, Winnie's little step-brother.
Here at least there was no lack of sympathy or welcome, for dearly did the faithful servant love her first mistress's children, and bitterly did she bewail the neglect with which the two youngest were treated. Kneeling down by her side, Winnie rehearsed the whole history of the afternoon and evening at Dingle Cottage; and old nurse, listening intently, did not fail to raise her hands and express due astonishment at the knowledge of Aunt Judith's authorship. So the young girl was comforted, and after kissing her little brother lovingly, she rejoined Dick in the oak parlour, and passed the rest of the evening contentedly in his society.