CHAPTER X.HARCOURT MANOR.

"Christmas, happy Christmas,Sweet herald of good-will,With holy songs of glory,Brings holy gladness still."

SUMMER had long passed, autumn tints had faded, and the fallen leaves lay thick in the Forest.

For days a strong wind had blown, bending the high trees under its influence, and here and there rooting up the dark pines and laying them low. Through the night of which we are going to write, a heavy fall of snow had covered all around with a thick mantle of pure white. It weighed down the branches of the trees in the Forest, and rested on the piles of wood which lay ready cut to be carted off to be sold for fuel in the neighbouring towns. The roll of wheels, as the heavily-laden wagons passed, was heard no more. The song of the birds had ceased, though the print of their claws was to be seen on the snow. All was quiet. The silence of nature seemed to rest on the hearts of the dwellers in the Forest. In vain Elsie heaped on the wood; still thestove gave out little heat. She busied herself in the little room, but a weight seemed to be on her spirit, and she glanced from time to time uneasily at Frida, who sat listlessly knitting beside the stove.

"Art ill, Frida?" she said at last. "All this morning hast thou sat there with that knitting on thy lap, and scarce worked a round at it. And your violin—why, Frida, you have not played on it for weeks, and even Hans notices it; and Wilhelm says to me no longer ago than this morning, 'Why, wife, what ails our woodland child? The spirit has all left her, and she looks white and tired-like.'"

Frida, thus addressed, rose quickly from her seat, a blush, perchance of shame, colouring her cheeks.

"O Mutter," she said, "I know I am lazy; but it is not because I am ill, only I keep thinking and wondering and—There! I know I'm wrong, only, Elsie dear, Mutter Elsie, I do want to know if any of my own people are alive, and where they live. I have felt like this ever since I was at Baden-Baden; and I have not heard from Adeline Stanford for such a long time, and I suppose, though she was so kind, she has forgotten me; and Miss Drechsler has left Dringenstadt for months; and, O Mutter, forgive me, and believe that I am not ungrateful for all that you and Wilhelm and the kind people in the Dorf have done for me. Only, only—" And the poor girl laid her head on Elsie's shoulder and cried long and bitterly.

Elsie was much moved, she did so love the bright, fairy-like girl who had been the means of letting in the light of the gospel to her dark heart.

"Armes Kind" (poor child), she said, soothing her as tenderly as she would have done her own blind Anna, had she been alive and in trouble, "I understand it all, dear." (And her kind woman heart had taken it all in.) "It is just like the little bird taken from its mother's nest, and put into a strange one, longing to be back amongst its like again, and content nowhere else. But, Frida, dost thou not remember that we read in the little brown book that our Lord hath said, 'Lo, I am with you alway'? Isn't that enough for you? No place can be very desolate, can it, if He be there?"

In a moment after Elsie said these words, Frida raised her head and dried her eyes.

Had she been forgetting, she asked herself, whose young servant she was? Was it right in a child of God to be discontented with her lot, and to forget the high privilege that God had given her in allowing her to read His Word to the poor people in the Forest?

"I must throw off this discontented spirit," she said to herself; and turning to Elsie she told her how sorry she was for the way in which she had acted, adding, "But with God's help I will be better now."

Frida was no perfect character, and, truth to tell, ever since her return from Baden-Baden, a sense of the incongruity of her circumstances had crept upon her. The tasteful surroundings, the cultured conversation, the musical evenings, the refinement of all around, had enchanted the young girl, and the humble lot and homely ways of her Forest friendshad on her return to them stood out in striking contrast. And, alas! for the time being she refused to see in all these things the guiding hand of God. But after the day we have written of, things went better. The girl strove to conquer her discontent, and in God's strength she overcame, and her friends in the Forest had once more the pleasure of seeing her bright smile and hearing her sweet voice in song.

Johann Schmidt had fallen asleep in Jesus with the words of Holy Scripture on his lips, blessing the "wood-cutters' pet," as he called her, for having, through the reading of God's Word, led him to Jesus. But though sickness had left the Forest, the severe cold and deep snow were very trying to the health of all the dwellers in it, and the winter nights were long and dreary.

One day in December, Wilhelm Hörstel had business in Dringenstadt, and on his return home he gave Frida two letters which he had found lying at the post-office for her. They proved, to Frida's great delight, to be from her two friends Miss Drechsler and Adeline Stanford.

Miss Drechsler's ran thus:—

"Dear Frida,—I have been thinking very specially of you and your friends in the Forest, now that the cold winter days have come, and the snow, I doubt not, is lying thick on the trees and ground. Knowing how interested you are, dear, in all your kind friends there, I have thought how nice it would be for you, if Elsie and Wilhelm consent, to have aChristmas-tree for a few of your friends; and in order to carry this out, I enclose a money order to the amount of £2, and leave it to you and Elsie to spend it to the best of your power."I am also going to write to Herr Steiger to send, addressed to you, ten pounds of tea, which I trust you to give from me to each of the householders—nine in number, I think—in the little Dorf, retaining one for your friends the Hörstels. Will you, dear Frida, be my almoner and do my business for me? I often think of and pray for you, and I know you do not forget me. I fear I will not be able to return to Dringenstadt till the month of May, as my sister is still very ill, and I feel I am of use to her.—Your affectionate friend.M. Drechsler."

"I am also going to write to Herr Steiger to send, addressed to you, ten pounds of tea, which I trust you to give from me to each of the householders—nine in number, I think—in the little Dorf, retaining one for your friends the Hörstels. Will you, dear Frida, be my almoner and do my business for me? I often think of and pray for you, and I know you do not forget me. I fear I will not be able to return to Dringenstadt till the month of May, as my sister is still very ill, and I feel I am of use to her.—Your affectionate friend.

M. Drechsler."

"Oh, isn't it good? isn't it charming?" said Frida, jumping about the room in her glee. "Mayn't we have the tree, Mutter? And will you not some day soon come with me to Dringenstadt and choose the things for it? Oh, I wish Hans were here, that I might tell him all about it! See, I have not yet opened Adeline's letter; it is so long since I heard from her. I wonder where they are living now. Oh, the letter is from Rome."

Then in silence she read on. Elsie, who was watching her, saw that as she read on her cheeks coloured and her eyes sparkled with some joyful emotion.

She rose suddenly, and going up to Elsie she said, "O Mutter,was denken Sie?[what do you think?]. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford enclose a few linessaying they would like so much that I should, with your consent, spend some months with them at Cannes in the Riviera, as a companion to Adeline; and if you and Miss Drechsler agree to the plan, that I would accompany friends of theirs from Baden-Baden who propose to go to Cannes about the middle of January. And, Mutter," continued the girl, "they say all my expenses will be paid, and that I shall have Adeline's masters for music and languages, and be treated as if I were their daughter."

Elsie looked up with tears in her eyes. "Well, Frida dear," she said, "it does seem a good thing for you, and right glad I am about it for your sake; but, oh, we will miss you sorely. But there! the dear Lord has told us in the book not to think only of ourselves, and I am sure that He is directing your way. Of course I'll speak to Wilhelm about it, for he has so much sense; but I don't believe he'll stand in your way."

Frida, overcome with excitement, and almost bewildered with the prospect before her, had yet a heart full of sorrow at the thought of leaving the friends who had helped her in her time of need; and in broken words she told Elsie so, clinging to her as she spoke.

Matters were soon arranged. Elsie and Wilhelm heartily agreed that Frida should accept Sir Richard and Lady Stanford's invitation. They only waited till an answer could be got from Miss Drechsler regarding the plan. And when that came, full of thankfulness for God's kindness in thus guiding her path, a letter of acceptance was at once dispatched toCannes, and the child of the Forest only remained with her friends till the new year was a fortnight old.

In the meantime, whilst snow lay thick around, Christmas-eve came on, and Frida and Elsie were busy preparing the tree. Of the true Christmas joy many in the Forest knew nothing, but in some hearts a glimmer at least of its true meaning was dawning, and a few of the wood-cutters loved to gather together and hear Frida read the story of the angelic hosts on the plain of Bethlehem singing of peace and good-will to men, because that night a Babe, who was Christ the Lord, was born in a manger. How much they understood of the full significance of the story we know not, but wedoknow God's word never returns to Him void.

The tree was ready at last. Elsie, Frida, and Hans had worked busily at it for days, Miss Drechsler's money had gone a long way, and now those who had prepared it thought there never had been such a beautiful tree. True, every child in the Forest had had on former occasions a tree of their own at Christmas time—none so poor but some small twig was lit up, though the lights might be few; but this one, ah, that was a different matter—no such tree as this had ever been seen in the Forest before.

"Look, Hans," said Frida; "is not that doll like a little queen? And only see that little wooden cart and horse; won't that delight some of the children in the Dorf?—And, Mutter, we must hang up that warm hood for Frau Schenk, poor woman; and now here are the warm cuffs for the men, and a lovely pair forWilhelm.—And, O Hans, we will not tell you whatyouare to have; nor you either, Mutter. No, no, you will never guess. I bought them myself."

And so, amid chattering and laughing, the tree got on and was finished; and all I am going to say about it is that for long years afterwards that particular Christmas-tree was remembered and spoken of, and in far other scenes—in crowded drawing-rooms filled with gaily-dressed children and grown-up people—Frida's eyes would fill as she thought of the joy that Christmas-tree had given to the dwellers in the Forest, both young and old. Ere that memorable night ended, Frida and Hans, who had prepared a surprise for every one, brought out their violins, and sang together in German a Christmas carol; and as the assembled party went quietly home through the snow-carpeted Forest, a holy influence seemed around them, as if the song of the angels echoed through the air, "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men."

"Shall not long-suffering in thee be wroughtTo mirror back His own?Hisgentlenessshall mellow every thoughtAnd look and tone."

THREE years and a half have passed since the Christmas-eve we have written of, and the golden light of a summer day was falling on the earth and touching the flowers in a lovely garden belonging to the old manor-house of Harcourt, in the county of Gloucester in England.

In the lawn-tennis court, which was near the garden, preparations were making for a game. Young men in flannels and girls in light dresses were passing to and fro arranging the racquets and tightening the nets, some gathering the balls together and trying them ere the other players should arrive. It was a pleasant scene. Birds twittered out and in the ivy and rose covered walls of the old English manor-house, and the blithe laughter of the young people blended with the melodious singing of the choristers around.

The company was assembling quickly, kind wordswere passing amongst friends, when there appeared on the scene an elderly lady of great elegance and beauty, to whom all turned with respectful greeting, and a hush came over all.

Not that there was anything stern or severe in the lady's appearance to cause the hush, for a look of calmness and great sweetness was in her countenance, but through it there was also an appearance of sadness that touched every heart, and although it would not silence any true young joy, had certainly the effect of quieting anything boisterous or rude.

The "gentle lady" of Harcourt Manor was the name Mrs. Willoughby had gone by for some years. It was pretty well known that a deep sorrow had fallen upon her whilst still in the prime of life; and those there were who said they could recall a time when, instead of that look of calm peace and chastened sorrow, there were visible on her face only haughty pride and fiery temper.

It was hard to believe that that had ever been the case; but if so, it was but one of many instances in which God's declaration proved true, that though "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous, neverthelessafterwardit yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness."

Mr. Willoughby, a man older by some years than his wife, was a man who had long been more feared than beloved; and the heavy trial, which had affected him no less than his wife, had apparently hardened instead of softening his whole nature, though a severe illness had greatly mitigated, it was thought, some of his sternness.

The party of which we are writing was given in honour of the return from abroad of the heir of the manor, a distant relation of the Willoughbys, Mr. Reginald Gower, whom we have written of before. For five years he had been living abroad, and had returned only a month ago to the house of his widowed mother, the Hon. Mrs. Gower of Lilyfield, a small though pretty property adjoining Harcourt Manor.

Just as Mrs. Willoughby entered the grounds, Reginald and his mother did so also, although by a different way, and a few minutes passed ere they met.

The young man walked eagerly up to the hostess, a smile of real pleasure lighting up his handsome face at the sight of the lady he really loved, and who had from his boyish days been a kind friend to him. But as he greeted her, the look of sadness on her countenance struck him, and some secret thought sent a pang through him, and for the moment blanched his cheek. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he had it in his power, by the utterance of a few words, to dispel that look of deep sadness from the face of one of the dearest friends, next to his mother, whom he possessed?

"Very glad to see you back again, Reginald," said Mrs. Willoughby. "But surely the southern skies have blanched rather than bronzed your cheeks. You were not wont to be so pale, Reggie. Ay, there you are more like your old self" (as a flush of colour spread over his face once more). "We hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for yourdear mother has been worrying about your long absence.—Is it not so, Laura?" she said, addressing herself to Mrs. Gower, who now stood beside them.

"Yes, indeed," was the reply; "I am thankful to have my boy home again. Lilyfield is a dull place without him."

"Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in it." And as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see that her eyes were full of tears.

But Reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying, "Farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there.

But he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were heard from time to time such as, "Why, Reginald, have you forgotten how to play tennis?" "Oh, look out, Gower; you are spoiling the game! It was a shame to miss that ball."

Thus admonished, Reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts, concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. But no sooner was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face and figure of the beautiful foundling of the Black Forest, with her strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle friend Mrs. Willoughby.

Oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out the remembrance of her and beonce more the light-hearted man he had been ere he heard her story from Sir Richard Stanford!

He had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good principles, his high-toned soul ("True," he said to himself, "I never set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint like my noble mother and my friend Mrs. Willoughby") that he staggered as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. Dishonest, cruel, unjust—he, Reginald Gower; was it possible? Ah! his self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had both been put to the test and found wanting.

"Well, Reggie, had you a pleasant time at the manor to-day?" said his mother to him as they sat together at their late dinner.

"Oh, it was well enough," was the reply; but it was not spoken in his usual hearty tone, and his mother observed it, and also the unsatisfied look which crossed his face, and she wondered what had vexed him.

A silence succeeded, broken at last by Reginald.

"Mother," he said, "what is it that has deepened that look of sadness in Mrs. Willoughby's face since I last saw her? And tell me, is the story about their daughter being disinherited true? And is it certain that she is dead, and that no child (for I think it is said she married) survives her? If that were the case, and the child should turn up and be received, it would be awkward for me and my prospects, mother."

"Reginald," Mrs. Gower replied, for she had heard his words with astonishment, "if I thought that therewas the least chance that either Mrs. Willoughby's daughter or any child of hers were alive, I would rejoice with all my heart, and do all I could to bring about a reconciliation, even though it were to leave you, my loved son, a penniless beggar. And so I am sure would you."

A flush of crimson rose to Reginald's brow at these words. Then his mother believed him to be all that he had thought himself, and little suspected what he really was. But then, supposing he divulged his secret, what about debts which he had contracted, and extravagant habits which he had formed? No! he would begin and save, retrench his expenses, and if possible get these debts paid off; and then he might see his way to speak of the girl in the Black Forest, if she was still to be found.

So once more Reginald Gower silenced the voice of conscience with, "At a more convenient time," and abruptly changing the subject, began to speak of his foreign experiences, of the beauty of Italian skies, art, and scenery; and the conversation about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter passed from his mother's mind, and she became absorbed in her son's descriptions of the places he had visited. And as she looked at his handsome animated face, was it any wonder that with a mother's partiality she thought how favoured she was in the possession of such a child? Only—and here she sighed—ah, if only she were sure that this cherished son were a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and that the Word of God, so precious to her own soul, were indeed a light to his feet and a lamp to his path!

That evening another couple were seated also at their dinner-table, and a different conversation was being held. The master of Harcourt Manor sat at the foot of the table, opposite his gentle wife; but a troubled look was on his face, brought there very much by the thought that he noticed an extra shade both of weariness and sadness on the face of his wife. What could he do to dissipate it? he was asking himself. Anything, except speak the word which he was well aware would have the desired effect, and, were she still alive, restore to her mother's arms the child for whom she pined; but not yet was the strong self-will so broken down that those words could be spoken by him, not yet had he so felt the need of forgiveness for his own soul that he could forgive as he hoped to be forgiven.

Did not his duty as a parent, and his duty towards other parents of his own rank in life, call upon him to make a strong stand, and visit with his righteous indignation such a sin as that of his only child and heiress marrying a man, however good, upright, and highly educated he might be, who yet was beneath her in station (although he denied that fact), and unable to keep her in the comfort and luxury to which she had been accustomed?

"No, no,noblesse oblige;" and rather than forgive such a sin, he would blight his own life and break the heart of the wife he adored. Such was the state of mind in which the master of Harcourt Manor had remained since the sad night when his only child had gone off to be married at a neighbouring church to the young musician Heinz. But somemonths before Reginald Gower's return from abroad, during a severe illness which had brought him to the borderland, Mr. Willoughby was aroused to a dawning sense of his own sinfulness and need of pardon, which had, almost unconsciously to himself, a softening effect on his mind.

His wife was the first to break the silence at the dinner-table. "Has not Reginald Gower grown more manly and older-looking since we saw him last?" she said, addressing her husband.

A shade came over his face as he answered somewhat testily, "Oh, I think he looks well enough! Of course five years must have made him look older. But Reginald never was the favourite with me that he is with you, wife; a self-indulgent lad he always seems to me to be."

"Well, but surely, husband" (once she always called him father, but that was years ago now), "he is a good son, and kind to his mother."

"Well, well, I am glad to hear it. But surely we have some more interesting subject to discuss than Reginald Gower."

Mrs. Willoughby sighed. Well she knew that many a time she had a conflict in her own heart to think well of the lad who was to succeed to the beautiful estates that by right belonged to their own child.

Dinner over, she sought the quiet of her own boudoir, a room specially endeared to her by the many sweet memories of the hours that she and her loved daughter had spent together there.

The day had been a trying one to Mrs. Willoughby. Not often nowadays had they parties at HarcourtManor, and she was tired in mind and body, and glad to be a few minutes alone with her God. She sat for a few minutes lost in thought; then rising she opened a drawer, and took from it the case which contained the miniature of a beautiful girl, on which she gazed long and lovingly. The likeness was that of the daughter she had loved so dearly, and of whose very existence she was now in doubt. Oh to see or hear of her once more! Poor mother, how her heart yearned for her loved one! Only one could comfort her, and that was the God she had learned to love. She put down the picture and opened a little brown book, the veryfac-simileof the one which little Frida possessed, and which God had used and blessed in the Black Forest. Turning to the Hundred and third Psalm, she read the words, well underlined, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." Then turning to the Gospel of Matthew, she read Christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, andIwill give you rest." Ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! Ere she closed the book, Mrs. Willoughby read the fourth verse of the Thirty-seventh Psalm: "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." Then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly Father, and rose quieted in spirit.

Ere she put away the little brown book she lookedat it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two Bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in German, the other in English. The German Bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the English one to her mother. On the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, "To my much-loved mother, from Hilda." Ah, where was that daughter now? And if she still possessed the little brown German Bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her English Bible? Then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room.

"My God, I thank Thee who hast madeThe earth so bright,So full of splendour and of joy,Beauty, and light;So many glorious things are here,Noble and right."

MORE than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the Black Forest. April sunshine was lighting up the grey olive woods and glistening on the dark-green glossy leaves of the orange-trees at Cannes, and playing on the deep-blue waters of the Mediterranean there.

Some of these beams fell also round the heads of two young girls as they sat under the shade of a palm tree in a lovely garden there belonging to the Villa des Rosiers, where they were living. A lovely scene was before their eyes. In front of them, like gems in the deep-blue sea, were the isles of St. Marguerite and St. Honorat, and to the west were the beautiful Estrelle Mountains. Around them bloomed masses of lovely roses, and the little yellow and white noisettes climbed up the various tall trees in thegarden, and flung their wealth of flowers in festoons down to the ground.

The two girls gazed in silence for some minutes at the lovely scene. Then the youngest of the two, a dark-eyed, golden-haired girl, said, addressing her companion, "Is it not lovely, Adeline? The whole of nature seems to be rejoicing."

"Yes, indeed," answered her companion. "And I am sure I owe much to the glorious sunshine, for, by God's blessing, it has been the means of restoring my health. I am quite well now, and the doctor says I may safely winter in England next season. Won't it be delightful, Frida, to be back in dear old England once more?"

"Ah! you forget, Adeline, that I do not know the land of your birth, though I quite believe it was my mother's birthplace as well, and perhaps my own also. I do often long to see it, and fancy if I were once there I might meet with some of my own people. But then again, how could I, on a mere chance, make up my mind to leave my kind friends in the Forest entirely? It is long since I have heard of them. Do you know that I left my little Bible with them? I had taught Elsie and Hans to read it, and they promised to go on reading it aloud as I used to do to the wood-cutters on Sunday evenings. It is wonderful how God's Word has been blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind your friend Herr Müller has been about Hans? He got him to go twice a week to Dringenstadt, and has been teaching him to play on the violin. He says he has real talent, and if only he had the means to obtaina good musical education, would become a really celebrated performer."

"Yes, Frida," replied her friend; "I know more about all that than you do. Herr Müller has been most kind, and taken much trouble with Hans; but it is my own dear, kind father who pays him for so doing, and tells no one, for he says we should 'not let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.'"

A silence succeeded, broken only by the noise of the small waves of the tideless Mediterranean at their feet.

Then Frida spoke, a look of firm resolution on her face. "Adeline," she said, "your father and mother are the kindest of people, and God will reward them. This morning they told me that they mean to leave this place in a couple of weeks, and return by slow stages to England; and they asked me to accompany you there, and remain with you as your friend and companion as long as I liked. Oh, it was a kind offer, kindly put; but, Adeline, I have refused it."

"Refused it, Frida! what do you mean?" said her friend, starting up. "You don't mean to say you are not coming home with us! Are you going back to live with those people in the little hut in the Forest, after all your education and your love of refined surroundings? Frida, it is not possible; it would be black ingratitude!"

"O Adeline, hush! do not pain me by such words. Listen to me, dear, for one moment, and do not make it more difficult for me to do the right thing. Your parents have given their consent to my plan, and even said they think it is the right plan for me."

"Well, let me hear," said Adeline, in a displeased tone, "what it is you propose to do. Is it your intention really to go back to the Forest and live there?"

"Not exactly that, Adeline. I have thought it all over some time ago, and only waited till your parents spoke to me of going to England to tell them what I thought was my duty to do. And this is what has been settled. If you still wish it, as your parents do, I shall remain here till you leave, and accompany you back to Baden-Baden, where your parents tell me they intend going for a week or so. From there I propose returning to my friends in the Forest, not to live there any more, but for a few days' visit to see them who are so dear to me. After that I shall live with Miss Drechsler. Her sister is dead, and has left her a good deal of money, and she is now going to settle in Dringenstadt, and have a paid companion to reside with her. And, Adeline, that situation she has offered to me."

"Well, Frida," interrupted her friend, "did not I wish you to be my companion? and would not my parents have given you any sum you required?"

"O Adeline dear, hush, I pray of you, and let me finish my story. Youknowthat it is not a question of money; but you are so well, dear, that you do not reallyneedme. You have your parents and friends. Miss Drechsler is alone, and I can never forget all she has done for me. Then I am young, and cannot consent to remain in dependence even on such dear friends as you are. I intend giving lessons in violin-playing at Dringenstadt and its neighbourhood. MissDrechsler writes she can secure me two or three pupils at once, and she is sure I will soon get more, as the new villas near Dringenstadt are now finished, and have been taken by families. And then, Adeline, living there I shall be near enough to the Forest to carry on the work which I believe God has called me to, in reading to these poor people the words of life. And at Miss Drechsler's I mean to live, as long as she requires me,unlessI am claimed by any of my own relations, which, as you know, is a most unlikely event. I believe I am right in the decision I have come to. So once again I pray of you, dear Adeline, not to dissuade me from my purpose. You know how much I love you all, and how grateful I am to you. Only think how ignorant I would have been had not your dear parents taken me and got me educated, as if I had been their own child. Oh, I can never, never forget all that you have done for me!"

Adeline's warm heart was touched, and her good sense convinced her, in spite of her dislike to the plan, that her friend was right. "Well, Frida," she said, after a minute or two's silence, "if you feel it really to be your duty, I can say no more. Only you must promise me that you will come sometimes, say in the summer time, and visit us."

Frida smiled. "That would be charming, Adeline; but we will not speak of that at present. Only say you really think I am right in the matter. I have not forgotten to ask God's guidance, and you know it is written in the Word of God which we both love so well, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' But come; we must gonow and get ready, for we are to go to-day to the Cap d'Antibes."

And in the delights of that lovely drive, and in strolling amongst the rocks honeycombed till they look almost like lacework, the two friends forgot the evils of the impending separation.

In the meantime Frida was warmly remembered by her friends in the Forest, and their joy when they heard that she was once more coming to live near them was unbounded.

"Ah," said Elsie, as she bent her head over a sweet little year-old girl whom she held on her lap, "now I shall be able to show her my little Gretchen, and she will, I know, sing to her some of the sweet hymns she used to sing to my little Annchen, and she will read to us again, Wilhelm, out of the little brown book which I have taken great care of for her."

"Ay," put in Hans, "and Mütterchen, she will bring her violin, and she and I will play together some of the music you and father love; and she will, I know, be glad to hear that through Sir Richard Stanford and Herr Müller I am to become a pupil in the Conservatorium of Leipsic. I can hardly believe it is true."

"Ay, my son, thou art a lucky one, and ye owe it all to Frida herself. Was it not she who told Sir Richard about your love of music, and got Herr Müller to promise to hear you play? Ah! under the good God we owe much to the 'woodland child.'"

And so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at Cannes and Grasse, Frida found herself once more an inmate of Miss Drechsler's prettylittle house at Dringenstadt, and able every now and then to visit and help her friends in the Forest.

"Ah, Mütterchen," she said as she threw herself into Elsie's arms, "here I am again your foundling child, come to live near you, and so glad to see you all once more.—And Hans, why, Hans, you look a man now; and oh, I am so pleased you are to go to Leipsic! You must bring down your violin now and then to Miss Drechsler's, and let us play together. I am sure you will be a great musician some day, Hans."

The young man (for such he now was) looked much gratified at his friend's hopeful words, and said, "If I do turn that, I shall owe it all to you, Frida."

But the girl interrupted his speech by saying, "Now, Mutter, let me see little Gretchen;" and next minute she was stooping over the bed where lay the sleeping child—the very bed whence the spirit of the blind child whom she had loved so dearly had taken its flight to the heavenly land.

"What a darling she looks, Elsie! Oh, I am glad God has sent you this little treasure! She will cheer you when Hans has gone away and her father is all day in the Forest."

"Yes," said Elsie, "she is indeed a gift from God; and you, Frida, must teach her, as you taught her parents and Anna, the 'way of life.' And O Frida, thou must go down to the Dorf, for all the people there are so eager to see thee once more. And now that thou hast grown a young lady, they all wonder if thou still beest like the woodland child, and wilt care about the like of them, or if perchance thou hast forgotten them."

"Forgotten them! O Elsie, how could they think so? Could I ever forget how they and you gave of their little pittance to maintain the child found in the Black Forest, and how you all lavished kindness on her who had neither father nor mother to care for her? I must go at once and ask them what I have done that they should have thought so badly of me even for a minute. Don't you know, Mutter, that I have given up the going to England to live with Miss Drechsler at Dringenstadt, in order that I may often see my dear friends in the Forest; and that shall be my life-work, unless"—and here the girl looked sad—"any of my own friends find me out and claim me."

"Hast had any clue to them, Frida?" asked Elsie.

"Alas, no!" said the girl, "none whatever; and yet I have seen a great number of people during these few years. And I have always worn my necklace, which, being such a peculiar one, might have attracted attention and led to the discovery of my parentage; but except one Englishman, whom I met at the Stanfords', who said I reminded him of some one whom he had seen, there has been nothing to lead me to suppose that any one thought of me except as a friend of the Stanfords. But, Elsie, though I am not discontented, still at times there is the old yearning for my own people. But God knows best, and I am not going to waste my life in useless longings. I have got five pupils in Dringenstadt already, and several more applications, and next week I begin my life-work as a teacher of the violin.—Don't you envy me, Hans?"

"That is what I do, Fräulein Frida," said Hans. Somehow as he looked at the fair young lady the oldfamiliar name of Frida seemed too familiar to use. Frida turned quickly round on him as he uttered the word "Fräulein."

"Why, Hans—for I will not call thee Herr—to whom did you speak? There is no Fräulein here—just your old sister playmate Frida; never let me hear you address me again by such a title. Art thou not my brother Hans, the son of my dear friends Elsie and Wilhelm?" and a merry laugh scattered Hans's new-born shyness.

And to the end of their lives Frida and Hans remained as brother and sister, each rejoicing in the success of the other in life; and in after years they had many a laugh over the day that Hans began to think that he must call his sister friend, the companion of his childhood, his instructor in much that was good, by the stiff title of Fräulein Frida.

Ere Frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked God for past mercies, and it was Elsie's voice that in faltering accents prayed that Frida might still be used in the Forest to lead many to the knowledge of Christ Jesus through the reading of the Word of God.

"There are lonely hearts to cherishWhile the days are going by,There are weary souls who perishWhile the days are going by.If a smile we can renew,As our journey we pursue,Oh, the good we all may doWhile the days are passing by!"

THE London season was at its height, but though the pure sunshine was glistening on mountain-top and green meadow, and beginning to tinge the corn-fields with a golden tint in country places, where peace and quietness seemed to reign, and leafy greenery called on every one who loved nature to come and enjoy it in its summer flush of beauty, yet the great city was still filled not only by those who could not leave its crowded streets, but by hundreds who lingered there in the mere pursuit of pleasure, for whom the beauties of nature had no charm.

On one peculiarly fine day a group of people were gathered together in the drawing-room of a splendid mansion in one of the West End crescents.

There was evidently going to be a riding party, for horses held by grooms stood at the door, and two atleast of the ladies in the drawing-room wore riding habits.

In conversation with one of these—a pretty fair-haired girl of some twenty years—stood Reginald Gower. "Will your sister ride to-day, do you know?" he was asking, in somewhat anxious tones.

"Gertie? No, I think not; she has a particular engagement this morning. I don't exactly know what it is, but she will not be one of the party. So, Mr. Gower, you and Arthur Barton will have to put up with only the company of myself and Cousin Mary."

Ere the young man could reply, the door opened, and a girl dressed in a dark summer serge and light straw hat entered. She carried a small leather bag in her hand, and was greeted with exclamations of dismay from more than one of the party.

"Are you going slumming to-day, Gertie? What a shame! And the sun so bright, and yet a cool air—just the most delightful sort of day for a ride; and we are going to call on your favourite aunt Mary."

"Give her my love then," replied Gertie, "and tell her I hope to ride over one of those days and see her. No, I cannot possibly go with you to-day, as I have an engagement elsewhere."

"An engagement in the slums! Who ever heard of such a thing?" said her sister and cousin together.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Lily dear, and my cousin also; but I had promised two or three poor people to see them to-day before I knew anything of this riding party, and I am sure I am right not to disappoint them.—And, Mr. Gower, I know your mother at least would not think I was wrong."

"That is true, Miss Warden. My mother thinks far more about giving pleasure to the poor than she does about the wishes of the rich. But could you not defer this slumming business till to-morrow, and give us the pleasure of your company to-day?"

But she shook her head, and assuring them they would get on very well without her, she turned to leave the room, saying as she did so, "O Lily, do find out if it is true that Aunt Mary's old governess, Miss Drechsler, of whom we have all heard so much, is coming to visit her soon, and is bringing with her the young violinist who lives with her, and who people say was a child found in the Black Forest. I do so want to know all about her. We must try and get her to come here some evening, and ask Dr. Heinz, who plays so well upon the violin, to meet her; and you also, Mr. Gower, for I know you dearly love music."

Had Lily not turned quickly away just then, she would have noticed the uneasy, startled look which crossed Reginald Gower's face at her words. Was this woodland child, he asked himself, to be always crossing his path?

He had hoped he had heard the last of her long ago, and some years had elapsed since he had seen her. The circumstance of the likeness to the picture in Harcourt Manor, and the coincidence of the necklace, hadalmost(but as he had not yet quite killed his conscience), notaltogether, escaped his memory; and still, as at times he marked the increasing sadness on Mrs. Willoughby's countenance, he felt a sharp pang of remorse; and since he had known and begun to carefor Gertie Warden, her devoted Christian life and clear, truthful spirit were making him more conscious than ever of his own selfishness and sin.

True, he had no reason to suppose that she cared for him in any way except as the son of his mother, whom she dearly loved, but his vanity whispered that perhaps in time she might do so; and if that came to pass, and he found that his love was returned,thenhe would tell her all, and consult with her as to what course he should follow.

Lately, however, he had become uneasy at the many references which Lily Warden made to a Dr. Heinz, who seemed to be often about the house, and of whom both sisters spoke in high terms as a Christian man and pleasant friend. What if he should gain the affection of Gertie? Heinz! something in the name haunted him. Surely he had heard it before, and in connection with the young violinist. And now was it possible that that beautiful girl was really coming amongst them, and that his own mother might meet her any day? for she was often at the house, not only of the Wardens, but also of their aunt Mary, with whom the girl was coming to stay.

No wonder that during the ride Lily Warden thought Mr. Gower strangely preoccupied and silent. She attributed it all to his disappointment at her sister's absence, and felt vexed that such should be the case, as well she knew that in the way he wished Gertie would never think of Reginald Gower; but she felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up.

Through that long ride, with summer sunshine and summer beauties around him, Reginald saw only oneface, and it was not that of Gertie Warden, but that of the young girl whom he had heard play on the violin at the house of the Stanfords at Baden-Baden.

Oh, if he had only had courage then to write home and tell all that he had heard about her! And in vivid colours there rose before his mind all the disgrace that would attach to him when it became known that he knew of the girl's existence and kept silence. The reason of his so doing would be evident to many. And what, oh, what, he was asking himself, would his loved, high-souled mother think of her son? Surely the words of the Bible he heeded so little were true, "The way of transgressors is hard," and his sin was finding him out.

As soon as the first greetings were over, and the party were seated at the lunch-table in Miss Warden's pretty cottage situated on the banks of the Thames, Lily said, "O Aunt Mary, is it true what Gertie has heard—that Miss Drechsler and a beautiful young violinist with a romantic story are coming to visit you? Gertie is so anxious to know all about her, for neither she nor any of us can believe that she can excel Dr. Heinz in violin-playing; and, indeed, you know how beautifully Gertie herself plays, and she often does so now with Dr. Heinz himself."

"Yes, Lily dear, I am glad to say it is all true. I expect both Miss Drechsler and her youngprotégénext week to visit me for a short time, after which they propose to go to the Stanfords at Stanford Hall, who take a great interest in the young violinist—in fact, I believe she lived for three or four years with them, and was educated along with their owndaughter.—By the way, Mr. Gower, you must tell your mother that her old friend Miss Drechsler is coming to me, and I hope she will spend a day with me when she is here."

"I am sure she will be delighted to do so, Miss Warden," replied the young man; but even as he spoke his cheek blanched as he thought of all that might come of his mother meeting the young violinist.

Reginald rode back with his friends to their house, but could not be induced to enter again, not even to hear how Gertie had got on with her slumming. "Not to-day," he said; "I find I must go home. I don't doubt your sister has been well employed—more usefully than we mere pleasure-seekers have been," he added, in such a grave tone that Lily turned her head to look at him, as she stood on the door-steps, and inquire if he were quite well. "Quite so, thanks," he replied, in his usual gay tone; "only sometimes one does think there is a resemblance between the lives the butterflies live and ours. Confess it now," he said laughingly; but Lily was in no thoughtful mood just then, so her only reply was,—

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Gower. I have plenty of useful things to do, just as much so as making a guy of myself and going a-slumming, only I am often too lazy to do them," and with a friendly nod she followed her cousin into the house.

Reginald rode slowly homeward, and, contrary to his usual custom, went to his own room to try to collect his thoughts and make out in what form he would deliver Miss Warden's message to his mother. It was very evident to him that the meshes intowhich his own sins had brought him were tightening around him. Turn which way he liked, there was no escape. At least only one that he could see, and that was, that if the secret came out, and the young violinist of the Black Forest were proved to be the grandchild of the Willoughbys, he should keep silence as to his ever having known anything of the matter.

The more he thought of it, the more that seemed his wisest course; and even if it should come out that he had heard her play, that would tell nothing. Yet his conscience was ill at ease. Suppose he did so, what of his own self-respect? Could he ever regain it? Fortune would be lost, and all ease of mind gone for ever. Then again, if he told his story now, it would only be because he knew that in any case it would be disclosed, and shame would await him.

How could he ever bear the reproaches of his kind friends the Willoughbys, and more than all, the deep grief such a disclosure would cause to his loved mother? In that hour Reginald Gower went through a conflict of mind which left a mark on his character for life. But, alas! once more evil won the day, and he resolved that notyetwould he tell all he knew; but some daysoonhe might. But once again, as he rose to go downstairs, Bible words came into his mind: "To-day, while it is called to-day, harden not your hearts."

O happy mother, to have so carefully stored the young heart with the precious words of God! Long they may be as the seed under ground, apparently forgotten and useless, yet surely one day they willspring up and bear fruit. True even in this application are the words of the poet,—

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