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CONFESSED AT LAST.
VERY few words passed between the boys on the journey. Jack proposed that Robert should go home with him, and wear a suit of his clothes while his own were being dried. And when Robert said he was afraid his aunt would think this a very strange and bold proceeding, he replied that she had gone into the country for a few days, and that though his father would return from one of his "rounds" that night, he was not expected until ten or eleven o'clock.
Robert, when he heard this, leaned back in his corner with a sigh of relief. Perhaps after all his mother would never know. Ah how he hoped it might be so. As long as he lived he would never go on the ice again. The terrible fate which had so nearly been his would never be forgotten. Suppose he had been drowned? Others had been brought lifeless from the water, and why not he? God was very good to have spared him. He had not deserved such mercy. Nay, had he not by his disobedience and deceit towards his earthly parents cut himself off, as it were, from the protection and love of his heavenly Father? And all for the sake of a little pleasure and excitement! A heavy penalty indeed was he paying for his sin.
The poor boy was shivering with cold when presently the train arrived at the station that was only a two minutes' walk from his friend's home, and Jack, seeing how his teeth chattered and how white he looked, said decidedly that he must go to bed while his clothes were being dried. And though Robert declared he should be all right as soon as he had got off his wet things and given himself a rub, Jack had his own way.
And well and kindly did he look after Robert. Jack had owned to himself that, if his schoolfellow had been drowned, he should always have felt that his death was on his head, for had it not been for his persuasions and sneers, Robert would never have learnt to skate, and therefore he would not have gone on the ice that day.
Then the horror of the scene was still fresh in his memory, and again and again he seemed to see it acted before his eyes. He had heard the cries of warning and the piercing shriek that followed. He had been almost paralyzed with fear at the panic that seized the skaters as they turned and fled from the direction in which Robert had disappeared. He had been thrust back when he approached the spot of danger; and oh! the agony of those few minutes of suspense until he saw the dripping form of his friend being borne towards him. To Jack, he appeared already dead. But the people near assured him "he'd soon come round," and presently the chafing and rubbing took effect, and to Jack's joy, Robert opened his eyes.
So now, he helped him undress, and then, going down to the kitchen, he spread the wet clothes over a couple of chairs, and by some means or other extracted a promise from the servant that she "wouldn't let nothing interfere with the drying of 'em."
Then he coaxed her to let him have tea in his bedroom. But it was not until he said it wouldn't be so much trouble as spreading it in the dining room, as he himself would both carry the tray upstairs and bring it down again, that she consented to such an unusual proceeding.
Under different circumstances the boys would have been happy enough. But do what he would, Robert could not get warm, while the sight of food only sickened him. But for Jack's persistent efforts to make him take it, he would not have drunk his tea. At last, however, a cup of the steaming beverage was swallowed, and then, for the first time since he had returned to consciousness, he felt a warm glow steal over him. But it was not a pleasant warmth, and presently the heat became more painful than the previous shivering fits; a violent headache also came on, and he could hardly speak for the acute throb that beat in his temples.
Jack, finding it was the kindest thing to do, forebore at last to chat and laugh in the hope of "cheering him up," and having taken down the tea-tray, brought back a pile of school books, and sat quietly down by the bed to do his preparation. He was glad to see that Robert was asleep. But at intervals, he moaned and muttered, and Jack did little study because he was constantly pulling up the blankets that Robert's restless movements tossed from his body, leaving his arms and chest exposed to the air. Presently, however, there came a longer silence than usual, and, turning, Jack saw that Robert was awake.
"Is that you, Jack?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. Who else should it be?"
"I'm not at home, am I?"
"No, you're at my house and in my bed. Don't you remember that the ice broke, and you fell in the water, and came here to get your clothes dried?"
For a moment Robert looked puzzled. Then Jack saw that he remembered everything.
"What's the time?" he asked.
"It's just gone eight."
Robert hastily rose on his elbow, but immediately fell back again with a groan.
"Oh," he said, "how my head aches directly I move. But I mustn't stay here any longer. Mother will be getting fidgety soon, and perhaps she'll send round to know where I am. I must get up and go now, whether my clothes are dry or not."
But they had received good attention before a blazing fire, and during the three hours in which they had remained in the heat had become thoroughly dry. Again Jack lent his aid, and soon Robert was ready to start on his homeward journey.
If he had been left to walk to Madeira Street alone, perhaps he would never have got there. But Jack once more took a cab, which, by his order, put them down within a few doors of No. 99. Even for the little distance that remained, Robert had company. He felt very grateful to Jack, and told him so as he wrung his hand at parting.
"Jack, old chap, you've been awfully good to me. I don't know what I should have done without you."
"Don't, I can't stand it;" and Jack's voice was actually choked with tears. "If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have gone on the ice at all. It's my fault, and if you had been drowned, it's I who would have been to blame."
"You mustn't say that. But, Jack, I can't go again."
"And I'll never ask you. Robert, from this day you and I'll try to—"
"Try to be better, do you mean, Jack?" asked Robert, for Jack's faltering voice had come to an abrupt stop.
"Yes. I won't be the tease and bully I have been. I'll try to do right myself, and help others to do the same."
"So will I; but oh, Jack!—" and Robert shrank away from the door as he stood on the step—"you don't know how I dread seeing mother. I needn't tell her, need I?"
"I don't think so. If she finds out, she must. But according to you, she's too good not to forgive you when she sees how sorry you are."
At that Jack left him, and Robert, feeling weak and sick, turned towards the door which Mary was opening.
"Has mother been expecting me?" he asked, as he stepped into the hall.
"We kept tea ever so long," replied Mary, "and at last missus said I'd better clear away, for she didn't think you were coming. Why, dear me!" she exclaimed, as for the first time, he allowed her to see his face. "If you don't look as white as a ghost!"
"I—I am not well to-night," he said, hurriedly. "Look here, Mary, I'm going straight to bed. I shall be better then. Don't you let mother know I've come in just yet. I've got an awful headache, and it's that makes me look so pale. It'll go off as soon as I can lie down, and then she won't be frightened."
"Well, I wouldn't like her to see you as you are now. Perhaps it's a sick headache you've got. I know the best thing for that is a good sleep."
Robert scarcely heard the words, he was in such fear lest his mother would come into the passage and find him. As soon as he got to his room, he began hastily to take off his clothes. For one brief moment he knelt down, but to-night he could not pray. Again the "still, small voice" within was prompting him to do what was right, regardless of consequences.
"Tell your mother all," it said; "make a clean breast of it, and then ask God to pardon you." But Robert would not confess his sin, and, sick and wretched and miserable, he got into bed.
For a little while he tossed about wearily. Then not only in his head, but in every limb, he felt the most acute pain; his whole body seemed smarting, throbbing, and burning. Suddenly a great fear took possession of him. Supposing after all he was going to die! And with that fear there came a question which banished all other thoughts, even that of the terrible sorrow and trouble he should bring upon his mother. Was he fit to die? Had he not been disobedient, deceitful, and untruthful? And was not God too holy and pure to look upon sin?
Then suddenly he remembered the words—and afterwards it seemed to him that an angel must have whispered them in his ear—"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
And lo! at that Robert's heart was melted. He had often heard, and often read, that "God is Love," but never before had he realised that blessed truth, and with the rush of emotion that the realisation called forth, he was filled with sorrow and repentance. Ah! If only he had thought against Whom he was sinning, he would never have done it, for he could never have borne to grieve so loving and tender a Father, and he lingered fondly on the last word, as he said it to himself. Confess his wickedness to his mother? Yes, he could now. And with the determination to go to her at once, he rose from his bed and tried to dress. At first it seemed that to do this was beyond his power, and whether he finally succeeded or not he did not know, for a great darkness fell upon him, and he remembered nothing more.
* * * * *
It was his mother who sat by his bed, with her cool hand on his forehead, and—why, yes, the sunlight was shining into his room.
"Do you know me, Robert?"
"Yes, mother. Why am I here? Am I ill?"
"Yes, dear, but we hope you'll soon be well again. You must do just as you are told, and then perhaps in a few days you will be able to get up and go downstairs again."
"Have I been ill long?"
"You have been unconscious since last night, and it is now about two o'clock in the afternoon. But you must not talk any more, Robert dear. The quieter you keep yourself, the sooner you will be better. Lie still, and try to sleep."
He lay still, but he could not sleep, and gradually the void and blank in his mind became filled with memories. First of all, he recollected that his father was away; then the last evening he had spent at home returned to him, with the solemn trust which his father had reposed in his children, and the promise they had each and all given him. He remembered how he had listened with a wretched sense of shame and unworthiness, for on that very day, and on two or three previous occasions, he had gone, not merely directly against his parents' wish, but against their direct command, that he should never learn to skate.
Little by little, after that, he recalled all that had taken place. Jack's persuasions; his weak resistance and speedy surrender; the journey to Hendon; his forgetfulness of everything except the enjoyment and exhilaration of the exercise; his determination to make the most of the last few minutes; the race in which he had first led, then dropped behind, and then again headed; the cries he had mistaken; the awful, horrible sensation of feeling himself sink beneath the water; his return to consciousness, and all that had ensued.
And now he was lying there with his mother seated by his side. Would her eyes have rested upon him so fondly and with such deep thankfulness and joy if she had known? But she should know. The resolution with which he had sprung out of bed on the previous evening to go to her should be carried out without a moment's delay.
"What is it, dear? Do you want anything?"
"Mother, I must talk to you. I can't rest if I don't."
"Lie still, then, and tell me. You are throwing all the bedclothes off."
"I have been so wicked. I—I learned to skate before father went, and yesterday—you said it was yesterday, didn't you?—I went to Hendon with Jack, and the ice broke, and—"
"My child, I know all. I came up to your room last night to find you insensible on the floor. We put you into bed and sent for Dr. Fowler, but before he arrived I guessed much, and have since learned the whole truth. In your delirium you told everything. My poor boy, I am so sorry. If I could have done so, how gladly would I have saved you all this misery and wretchedness."
"But, mother, I disobeyed you. I led you to think what wasn't true. Can you ever forgive me?"
"Forgive you? Indeed I can and do;" and a loving kiss was fondly imprinted on his forehead.
"And you can love me still?"
"Robert, nothing can draw a mother's love from her child, and I can only rejoice over you when I think how nearly I have lost you. Your own sin led you into the danger, but I know, too, that your repentance is sincere and deep. Now confess your sin to God, and ask Him to forgive you. Then thank Him, as I do, that He has spared your life. But it must not end there, dear: you must show your sorrow for the past by leading a new life in the future."
"I will. Oh, mother, how happy you have made me! I wish I had told you before; I might have known you would have forgiven me. And I did want to tell you. The night father went I was so miserable that I could not sleep. I saw a light burning under Dora's door, and I thought I'd get up and go to her. But she was busy writing out something, and didn't want to listen to me, and so I came away without saying a word."
He did not know that as he began speaking, the door quietly opened and Dora entered, nor did he notice the low, instantly checked cry that escaped her lips as she heard his confession with regard to herself. Neither did he see that his mother lifted a warning hand, and that, in obedience to its next movement, Dora left the room.
"You will never be afraid of me again, Robert?" she said then, as she bent nearer to him.
"Never. Please say again that you forgive and love me still. It is so sweet to hear it."
What a mother he had! Not a word of reproach had she spoken; only in loving, earnest accents had she told him of her love, and assured him of her pardon. And even as she had forgiven him so would God. So not only in that little room was there joy, but in heaven also, for a sinner had repented; and like a child that is sick of its naughtiness and perversity, Robert, with a calm, happy face, lay back on his pillow, and was soon sleeping as peacefully as an infant.
But in an adjoining room, Dora was sobbing as though her heart would break. Yes, it was as Robert had said. She might have known he was in trouble that night, and needed her sympathy; and she remembered her feeling of irritation and annoyance when he had interrupted her at her work. No wonder her manner had prevented him from confessing his sin and getting the relief for which he longed. Had she listened, he would probably never have gone skating again, and he would have been saved the disastrous results of his visit to Hendon. How differently would she act if the past could but be lived over again.
Alas! Dora's sorrow ended here! For a few days she reproached herself bitterly, but her constant round of occupations left her little time for thought. As soon as she was assured that Robert was recovering, the circumstance lost its importance, and was gradually forgotten.
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DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE.
BUT many days passed before Robert was able to come downstairs. The long time he had sat in his wet clothes had given him a severe chill, which, combined with the great nervous shock he had experienced, brought on a low fever. He required constant attention and nursing, and the unceasing care with which he was tended would have touched a harder heart than his.
"Oh, mother," he would say, "what a trouble and expense I am to you. This is a nice way, truly, of fulfilling the trust father left me."
"It is not too late yet, Robert, to prove that you have endeavoured to live up to the high standard he put before you," would be the gentle reply. "Your duty now is to do your best to get well as quickly as possible, and the less you worry and distress yourself, the sooner it will come to pass."
During the fortnight he spent in bed, Robert learnt that the hardest thing in the world is to be patient, and bear weakness and suffering without complaint. But he did try to let his weariness and restlessness have as little outward expression as possible.
This common bond of suffering drew him and Lancie very near together. Robert had had no illness since he was a baby, and for the first time he gained some true idea of what the little cripple's ill-health and feeble body entailed upon him.
And now Lancie, to his great joy, found himself able to render active service. For about a fortnight Robert was extremely weak, and Lancie delighted in waiting on him and being hands and feet to his sick brother. As soon, too, as he was well enough to care for the amusement, he read aloud to him, and many hours that would otherwise have passed heavily and wearily were made pleasant and bright by Lancie's loving anxiety to do "what he could."
Nor was Robert forgotten by those outside his home circle. Mrs. Armstrong was especially kind. During the first days of his illness it was necessary for somebody to sit up with him at night, and she had shared these nights of watching with his mother. Then as he began to get better, many a little dainty to tempt his appetite did she bring in her basket to 99, Madeira Street.
But, perhaps, of all who came to the house to inquire for the invalid, Jack paid the most frequent visits. He himself had felt too poorly to do much on the day following the accident; he had got up late, and, by his own request, gone to bed early. But on the Monday he was well enough to go to school, and on his way he looked out anxiously for Robert.
No Robert, however, did he see, and when at half-past twelve the boys were dismissed, he determined to ask the head master, Mr. Bullen, if he knew the reason of his friend's absence. In reply he was told that Mrs. Grainger had written saying her son was seriously ill, and though she did not think the fever would end fatally, yet it might be several weeks before he would again be able in attend school.
The news drove personal considerations from his mind, and, full of vague fears and dread, Jack resolved to call at 99, Madeira Street to find out for himself how matters really were. He was shown into the little shabbily-furnished drawing room, where presently Mrs. Grainger came to him.
She at once let Jack know she was acquainted with the events of the previous Saturday, and she told him plainly that he had done very wrong in persuading Robert to learn to skate, when he knew it was against his parents' wishes that he should do so. But she said nothing harsh or upbraiding, and when Jack heard how ill his friend was, and what trouble had been caused to the family, he begged her, with tears in his eyes, to forgive him, promising he would never lead Robert into mischief again.
And when Mrs. Grainger, remembering he was motherless, put her hand gently on his shoulder, and almost as lovingly as she would have done to one of her own children, pointed out his sin, and implored him to give up his old bad ways, and take to those that were noble and good, Jack completely broke down and cried and sobbed "like a great big baby," as he told Robert afterwards.
He went away comforted with the assurance that as soon as Robert was able to see visitors, he should be admitted to his room, and he walked home feeling that perhaps if he had had a mother such as Robert's, he would have been a different boy. He would never speak mockingly of her again—no, never; and his cheeks burned as he thought of all the sneering, taunting remarks he had made of her.
Mrs. Grainger kept her word. Jack called twice every day to inquire for his schoolfellow, and at the beginning of the second week was taken to his room. From that time he became a frequent visitor to the house, and the good influence which was born of what he saw and heard there had a long and lasting effect.
It was five weeks from the day of the accident before Robert was allowed to go to school again. Though wearisome, the time was not without its pleasures. Thu love that was shown him by his mother and brothers and sisters touched him greatly, for he could but feel how unworthy he was of it. More than that, it was a period of thoughtfulness and reflection. He had leisure to review the past, he saw how sinful, selfish, and weak he had been, and he earnestly asked for God's grace to strengthen him and help him live a new life. That he was sorry for the past nobody doubted. He gave proof, too, that his repentance was sincere.
"Mother," he said one morning, during the early days of his convalescence, when the younger children were at lessons, and nobody but Mrs. Grainger and himself and Phil were in the sitting room, "when are you going to write to father again?"
"The mail goes to-morrow, dear. I shall begin my letter to-night, when you are all in bed."
"Does he know I have been ill?"
"Yes, but I spoke as lightly of it as possible. I did not wish to trouble him unnecessarily, and from the first Dr. Fowler never really doubted your recovery."
"But, mother, he ought to know what made me ill, and how, if I had been obedient, I should never have gone to Hendon that day. Will you please tell him everything. I shall feel happier then."
"Won't you wait till you can tell him yourself."
"No, I want him to know as soon as possible, and I'm not strong enough yet, for much scribbling. But please, I'll put a few words into your letter. I'll write them now, if you'll bring me a piece of paper and a pencil."
She brought what he required to "Lancie's sofa," where he was now lying, and in a few minutes, he handed her a tiny note. It ran as follows:—
"DEAR FATHER,—I have asked mother to tell you all. I had been on the ice that day when I promised you I would be obedient and dutiful, and I let you go away thinking I was truthful and honest. Mother has forgiven me. Can you?"Your sorrowful boy,"Robert."
After this his mind seemed more at ease, a certain restlessness that had beset him vanished, and his recovery was much more rapid.
His last day at home was marked by an event that was memorable to all, and especially to Dora. She was practising in the drawing room after tea when Mary brought her a letter. The envelope was very business-looking, the handwriting decidedly masculine, and she broke the seal wondering who could have sent her such an epistle.
Apparently the contents were slightly mystifying, for, having glanced at the first two or three lines, her lips tightened, a half-eager, half-doubtful expression came into her eyes, and, with a low, breathless, "It can't be true," she began again.
This time she read steadily to the end. Then she started up with an energy that threw the music stool to the ground, crossed the hall at a bound, and the next instant was in the sitting room, where the whole family was gathered.
"Mother! Mother!" she exclaimed, as she waved a piece of paper above her head, "What do you think has happened?"
"If I know I couldn't say, for you are nearly stiffing me," replied Mrs. Grainger, laughing.
At that Dora released her mother from the close clasp of her arms, and, darting across to Lancie—he, not Robert, was on the sofa this evening—gave him a similar embrace, crying—"Oh, Lancie! Who would have thought it? You shall have—yes, I think I may promise you at least a dozen rides in a bath chair. And mother shall have the prettiest, bonniest cap I can find, and I'll buy that little fluffy toy rabbit that Phil saw in a shop yesterday, and cried because he couldn't have it. And I'll write, oh! I'll write heaps of stories, and who knows whether I mayn't have made a fortune before I die?"
Incoherent as her speech was, it gave her mother some idea of the truth.
"You have been writing a story and received that cheque in your hand for payment?" she asked. "My child, I can hardly believe it possible."
"That's not a bad guess, mother mine, but it isn't quite exact." And Dora, who was now somewhat quieted, sat down in front of the fire and took Phil on her knee. "I wouldn't tell you before," she went on, "because I never really thought anything would come of it. But when we all went to Mrs. Armstrong's to tea, she told me of some prizes that were offered for original stories, and showed me the notice in a magazine. Then I thought, 'Why shouldn't I try?' for there was a guinea prize offered for the best tale written by girls of from fourteen to sixteen. I had not very long to do it in, but I got up early and sat up late, and so managed to get it off in time. That's more than six weeks ago, and I had almost forgotten—"
"And you have got the prize?" interrupted Lancie, with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes. "I knew it. Oh, Dora, how proud we all are of you!"
And then Dora did what she afterwards called "a very silly thing." She buried her face on Lancie's shoulder and burst into a fit of weeping. It was not until Phil began to cry for sympathy that she was able to stay her tears, and tell them brokenly "they mustn't take any notice of her. She couldn't help it, for she was just so happy she did not know what she was doing."
Surely very few guineas have given greater pleasure than did that which Dora received as a reward for her story. So many plans were discussed for its expenditure that Mrs. Grainger, thinking it would save much after disappointment, said not half Dora's promises could be carried out.
This remark cast a temporary cloud over Olive and Lottie's faces; they soon cleared again, however, and both little girls declared Lancie should not be robbed of one of his dozen rides, and that they would be content with their fair share of the "lovely plum cake" which Dora declared should celebrate the memorable event.
After that it was impossible for the happy winner of the prize to settle down to her usual evening occupations. The best part for her, she said, was yet to come; for though she was glad enough of the money, it would afford her infinitely more pleasure to see her story in print. The editor had told her it would be published in the next month's number, and there were joyful anticipations of its appearance, and much talk of father's astonishment and delight when he should see it, for it was agreed that the circumstance should be kept a secret until the story could be sent out to him in the magazine.
So happy was she that she was very unwilling to go to bed, and so it happened that she and her mother were the last up.
"Do you remember the talk we had on the night after father went?" Dora asked, sitting in the same attitude as she had done on the occasion to which she referred, with her head resting against her mother's knee.
"Yes, dear."
"The work hasn't been too much," she said, triumphantly. "You thought I should break down!"
"You have done wonderfully well," replied her mother; "but lately I have feared the strain is getting too much for you."
"Indeed, I have not found it so; and now that it's light so early, I mean to have an hour's writing every morning before breakfast."
"I thought you intended taking that hour as extra practice time."
"But I like writing so much better than practising," said Dora, a little impatiently. "I know you will be prouder of me some day as a writer than ever you will be as a musician."
"I am not anxious to be proud of you as either," said Mrs. Grainger. "To see you using your talents for the happiness and comfort of others, and not for your own self-glory and advancement, is what I desire, Dora. Do you remember what took place after our talk together on that first night of your father's absence?"
The gravity of Mrs. Grainger's voice, more than the words, made her meaning clear.
"Mother, I had forgotten. Oh, if I had only made it easy for Robert to tell me, instead of making him feel it was impossible to say a word. But you do know how sorry I have been, don't you?"
There were tears in her eyes again now, and this time they were not tears of happiness.
"I do, dear," and her mother took her hand, and stroked it fondly; "but there is the danger that you will be so wrapped up in striving to do great things, that opportunities for little acts of kindness will pass unnoticed. It is 'he that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much;' not, he that is faithful in much is also faithful in the least."
After all it was with a grave face that Dora went up to bed that night.
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ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD.
TIME passed quietly on until Easter, which brought a fortnight's holiday. It came late that year. The weather was warm and fine, and the children enjoyed the rest they had honestly earned; for, under their sister's charge, they had worked well and made marked progress.
But though Dora needed the rest far more than her pupils, she would not take it. She had received an unexpected present of half a sovereign from a relation. This would just pay the fee of an examination she was anxious to pass; and she resolved to "study up and go in for it." In vain her mother begged her to give herself more time for preparation. Dora had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.
Edgar had a much shorter holiday than his brothers and sisters. He had, however, both Easter Monday and Tuesday, and a fellow clerk having invited him to spend the time at his home in Hampshire, he went down with him on the Saturday afternoon and returned late on the following Tuesday. He came back full of pleasant recollections of his visit to the old-fashioned, comfortable farmhouse, where he had been so kindly and hospitably entertained.
His mother fearing that his work the next day in the close, noisy city would prove more irksome than usual, and that he might find the house quiet when he came in, purposely gave the children their tea early and sent them for a walk under Mary's care. But he looked so cheerful and bright that she knew at once he was neither weary nor depressed.
"Where's Giles?" were his first words.
"In the schoolroom, working away at the Latin exercise he intends asking you to correct presently," replied Mrs. Grainger. "The little ones have gone out with Mary. Sit down, dear, and take your tea."
Instead of obeying her, he put his arm round her shoulder, and, bending down over her, said,—
"There's no need to bother about Dr. Fowler's bill, mother dear. I've got a rise in my salary."
He received the sympathy he wanted, as he knew he should. After all he had found many compensations for the work that was so uncongenial to him.
"The tea must get cold to-night," he continued. "I must have a word or two with Giles before I do anything."
With that he went to the schoolroom, where he was welcomed with a very bright smile.
"You haven't had tea already, have you?" Giles asked.
"No, not yet."
"Will you help me a bit afterwards?"
"Of course I will. Exercise 40? Why, you're getting on famously. How surprised Mr. Millen will be when you go back the week after next!"
For a moment Giles made no answer. When he looked up, his lip was quivering. He rarely showed any deep outward sign of emotion, and until now Edgar had never really known how deep a grief it was to him to be obliged to get his education at home.
"Don't tease a fellow," he said, trying hard to smile and speak bravely. "But when I go back, they'll find I haven't wasted my time."
"I'm not teasing; I mean it," said Edgar. "I'm to have more money from now, and to-day Mr. Darby—that's the head man in the firm, you know—gave me a sovereign because I had had the ordinary sense to see a blunder somebody had made in the books. We'll borrow the rest of mother until I get my next month's salary then I'll pay her back. And we'll ask her to write to Mr. Millen this very evening, send him the fee for the next term, and tell him to expect you after the holidays."
As Edgar went on talking, Giles' face became radiant. Now it suddenly grow serious.
"But are you sure you don't want anything yourself?" he asked. "You said the other night you wished you had a book on medicine. I forget the name of it. Couldn't you buy it with this sovereign?"
"Perhaps I might," replied Edgar, lightly, "but getting it for myself wouldn't give me half so much pleasure as sanding you to school. Besides," he continued, more gravely, "I daresay I shall get the book after a while. I am beginning to believe in that old saying, 'All things come round to him who will but wait.' Do you know who put that belief into me in the first instance?"
Giles shook his head.
"You did yourself. I have an inward conviction that some day my longing will be realised, and that I shall be a doctor. I know it seems all but impossible, but I have the faith, and that makes all the difference in the world. You see I owe a great deal to you, Giles."
A few more words passed between them, and then Edgar went back to his mother and his tea. He left Giles very happy, but with a quiet kind of happiness. In Dora's unexpected joy, she had not known how to keep herself still, but Giles sat with only a slight smile on his face. Then a grave, studious expression stole over his features, and with doubled application, he went on with his exercise.
Katie, comparatively speaking, spent very little of her holiday at home. The Paffords had decided to change their abode, and on Tuesday in Easter week began their removal. Katie, who was very good-natured, offered her services, and as her training had made her extremely useful and quick, she gave considerable help. Indeed, Connie took more help from her than was just or right. She had been told she must pack all her own possessions in her room, and, finding Katie willing to pack, fetch, and carry, she merely directed, and her friend did her utmost to obey her wishes.
By the end of the holidays the Paffords were tolerably settled in their new home, and Katie was filled with envy at the large, freshly-painted apartments and handsome furniture. Above all, she longed to possess a similar room to Connie's. With its pretty maple-wood suite, and its dainty curtains and toilet arrangements, it presented an unpleasing contrast to the barely furnished, almost carpetless room which she shared with Olive and Lottie.
Connie had often talked of a grand party her parents meant to give as a house-warming, and as several young people were to be invited, Katie naturally looked forward to being one of the guests. The party, however, was postponed until the beginning of June, and Connie had told her that a marquee would be erected on the lawn, which, decorated with flowers and Chinese lanterns, would serve for a supper-room.
But Katie received no invitation, and as the time drew near she wondered whether she had not better give Connie a hint that she had forgotten to say she would be expected, when a conversation she overheard explained the omission. Poor Katie! It was a hard lesson she learnt that morning.
The room in which Miss Loam's pupils hung their hats and jackets was separated into two divisions by a curtain, one being used by the elder, and the other by the younger girls. Now Katie had been asked if she would kindly see to the dressing of two little sisters, and on this particular day she was attending to this duty when she heard Connie's voice on the other side of the curtain.
It was the mention of her own name that first attracted her attention. Of course she should have made her presence known, but she was so astonished, hurt, and indignant at what she heard, that it never once entered her mind she ought to warn her schoolfellows that she was within earshot. So, with burning cheeks and great anger at her heart, she bent over little Nita Westmacott's shoe as she buttoned it, listening to what was said of her.
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SHE BENT OVER LITTLE NITA'S SHOE.
"Aren't you going to invite Katie Grainger?" asked Ethel Wilson, the girl to whom Connie was talking.
"No," was the reply. "It's a great nuisance, because she really has been very useful to us. They're awfully poor, you know, and so I suppose she's used to doing a servant's work. Mamma says she shall make her a present some day as a return. But we can't ask her to our party. Sir Edwin Osmond's two nieces are coming, and lots of swell people, and we can't have them see anybody at our house in such a shabby, old-fashioned dress as Katie would be sure to wear."
"But she has been to your parties, hasn't she?"
"She came to one in the winter, and I never saw such a dress as she wore in all my life. It looked as if it was made in Noah's Ark. And she couldn't dance—had never learnt, she said; and she actually came without gloves. I suppose she had never been to a dress party before, and didn't know they were necessary."
And Connie went off into a peal of laughter, while Katie, on the other side of the curtain, shook with anger and mortification.
"You are ready to go now. Good-bye, dears," she said in a whisper, and the two little girls trotted away, leaving her still concealed behind the curtain.
She stayed till Connie and Ethel Wilson had taken their departure; then she hastily put on her own hat and jacket, and went home with hot tears running down her cheeks. Arrived at No. 99, she went straight to her room, and throwing herself on the bed, sobbed with wounded pride and indignation.
Presently she heard cries of "Katie! Katie! Where are you, Katie?"
"I am coming," she called out, and having bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, she stepped outside.
On the landing was Robert.
"Why, what's the matter, Katie?"
"Nothing that you'd understand," she answered a little ungraciously.
"You might give a fellow a chance of proving that," he said, a little reproachfully.
Before school life had separated them, the twins had been noted for their friendliness and good understanding. During the last three or four years, however, they had drifted apart. Now as Robert put his arm fondly round her in the way he had often done in the old days when they were little children, she felt all her heart suddenly going out to him.
"Oh, Robert," she said, "I've been such a simpleton."
"Is that all that's bothering you?" he asked. "Why, you little goose, I might have told you that myself."
It is not the words that are spoken; it is the manner in which they are said that affects us. This speech of Robert's was just the most loving one he could have given her.
"It's about Connie," said Katie, breaking into tears again. "She's mean, and horrid and nasty. She makes use of me, and then laughs at me behind my back, and sneers at me because we are poor and I wear shabby clothes. I wouldn't have believed it of her."
"It's just what one might expect of the Paffords," said Robert, quietly. "I'd give them up if I were you."
"Yes, I will," and Katie's anger blazed forth and shone in her eyes. "I'll never speak to Connie again as long as I live."
"Isn't that going a little too far? I fancy mother would say so if she heard you."
"But she doesn't deserve it; she isn't worthy to be my friend," sobbed Katie, vindictively.
"I don't want to be a prig and preach to you," and Robert blushed crimson, "but if I were you, I'd try to return good for evil. Don't put yourself in her way and court her friendship, as I'm afraid you have done. Let her know, if you like, you are quite aware why she lets you think you are one of her chums—I suppose you help her with her lessons and things, don't you?"
Katie confessed she had often made clean copies of exercises for Connie, and frequently acted as monitor in her place, staying behind the rest of the girls and seeing the schoolroom was left in order when her friend was anxious to get home early. She had, in fact, done more than she had honestly any right to do.
"H'm!" said Robert, musingly. "Well, take my advice," he continued, "and leave Miss Connie to look after her own work. But if the chance to do her a good turn should happen, show her you don't bear malice, and that you're still willing to do her a kindness. You know what I mean—heap coals of fire on her head."
Katie felt very solemn. All the anger faded from her face and some of the anger from her heart.
"But I should have to forgive her to do that," she said in a low voice.
"And can't you?"
"No."
"I think you'll have to, old girl. Mother forgave Jack, you know, for having led me into mischief. Not that I blame him," added Robert, hastily; "'twas a deal more my fault than his."
"It isn't the same kind of thing at all," said Katie, decidedly.
"I'm not so sure of that. Mother had a wrong to forgive, and so have you. The two things are alike there, at any rate. And see what a lot of good it has done Jack. Mother's beginning quite to love him, and he knows it, and it makes a different boy of him."
"I know somebody else who's a different boy," said Katie.
And then, as there was nobody there to see, and his manner was so encouraging, she put her arm round his neck and gave him what in her childish days she used to call "a bear's hug," and Robert not only submitted, but seemed quite to enjoy it.
"Katie," he said, half-shyly, "you've lost a friend to-day; suppose you make one of me instead. I think we could help each other to be—what father hoped we should try to be."
His words brought the promise she had made suddenly to her mind.
"Oh, Robert!"—and she actually gasped for breath—"I've forgotten all about that. I haven't tried yet one bit."
"It's not too late to begin, and you haven't—" he stopped a moment, then went on rapidly—"done anything awful as I have. But I know father has forgiven me. Katie, would you like to see the letter I got from him a few weeks ago? I haven't shown it to anybody yet—not even to mother; but I'd like you to read it."
Katie had no thought of herself as she went with her brother into his room and read that letter. It was full of forgiveness and loving counsel. Towards the end came the words:
"Don't think I love you less because of what has happened; I love you more. I know from what your mother has told me that you are not merely showing your repentance by words. Struggle on, dear boy, and with the help of God's Holy Spirit, which will be given in proportion as you ask, you will conquer nobly and bravely in the end."
"It's a beautiful letter," said Katie, as she handed it back to Robert, adding in a little outburst of love, "Oh? Isn't father good!"
"Yes, won't you try to be like him?"
"I can't. I—what do you mean, Robert?"
"In one way you can follow his example; you can forgive."
For a few minutes Katie looked steadily at the vision of chimney-pots that could be seen from the window. Then her eyes came back and met her brother's.
"Robert," she said, "I can do it. I feel I can do anything because you and I are going to love each other and help each other to be good."
Ah! There is nothing like love. It makes the roughest road easy; the heaviest burden light. Oh, children! Love your good heavenly Father, and love each other; for love overcometh all things, love is stronger than death, and love will lift us from earth to heaven, and set us spotless at God's right hand.