"He was a sad scapegrace," said Mr. Basset reflectively; "he was caught poaching on several occasions, and on the last the magistrates would not let him off with a fine, but sent him to prison. When he came out he took himself off—to Canada it was supposed. Repentant is he? Humph!"
"Don't you think he is?" asked Josephine.
Mr. Basset looked doubtful.
"There may have been good in him which was never brought out," he said; "I cannot say. Anyway, I am glad his mother has heard from him at last."
"Perhaps he will get leave and come to see her," said Josephine; "oh, he will be sure to, I think!"
"Jane says she hopes if he does he will behave himself," remarked May.
"Then doesn't she believe he means to turn over a new leaf?" inquired Josephine.
"She says she doesn't know what to believe," May answered gravely; "she has a very poor opinion of her cousin, I'm afraid."
"And not without reason," said Mr. Basset. "However, let us hope Dick Rumbelow—yes, his name's Dick, I remember—has really written what he feels. I think the better of him for having obeyed his king and country's call. I dare say he will not make a bad soldier. If he should really be sorry for his past misdeeds—should really be meaning to turn over a new leaf—"
"Oh, I hope he is!" interposed Josephine eagerly; "oh, Uncle John, let us hope he is! God may have changed his heart, mayn't He?"
"Certainly, my dear," Mr. Basset answered. "Well, well, time will show—time will show."
IT was a wet winter in the west of England, that first one during the war, but not a cold one, and March found primroses and white violets peeping through the beautiful fern moss which grew so luxuriously in the lanes around Midbury; so that when, one Saturday afternoon, after a rainy morning, the sky cleared and the sun shone out on a world full of the promise of spring, May, who had been standing at the schoolroom window which she had opened, suddenly turned to Josephine and said—
"Do let us go out! The air is lovely—full of delicious scents! I'm longing for a walk, and I'm sure there must be primroses in Durley Dell."
Josephine, who had been seated at the table, was putting away her writing materials.
"Then do let us try and get some," she answered; "you know, I've never seen a primrose yet."
Ten minutes later, having left word where they were going, the two little girls passed out into the bright sunshine, and were soon walking briskly along the road towards Midbury. Their way took them straight past the blacksmith's and down a lane beyond Vine Cottage; and then Durley Dell was reached. It was a charming spot in summer, but damp and rather cheerless on this early spring day. Only a few primrose buds were discovered, and those were very short-stemmed, and took some while to find.
"I thought we should have found more," remarked May in a disappointed tone; "some one must have been before us, I am sure."
"Never mind," Josephine answered, "we can come again another day. Oh, how sweet these buds smell! I must add a postscript to my letter to father, and tell him the primroses are coming out; he's often talked to me of the primroses in Durley Dell. Oh, May, won't it be splendid if he is able to come home for a few days soon, as, if all goes well, he says he may?"
"Yes, indeed," May agreed. "I can imagine how you are longing to see him," she added; "I think you've been ever so brave all through the long, long winter."
"It's the suspense that's so hard to bear," Josephine said; "I feel it here." She laid her hand on her breast as she spoke. "It's a kind of sinking feeling," she explained; "I don't suppose you can understand what I mean."
May did not, but she looked sympathetic. She had grown to love Josephine, and admired her brave spirit; she knew now that that brave spirit found its strength in Christ—in faith in His perfect wisdom and love.
"How overcast it is," she said, as they left the dell for the lane, "I did not notice that under the trees. I think we ought to walk faster, don't you?"
Josephine agreed. She glanced up into the sky and noticed a heavy cloud right overhead. The fine weather had been too bright to last. In a few moments great drops of rain began to fall—slowly as yet.
"There's going to be a heavy shower!" exclaimed May. "Run, run! Mrs. Rumbelow will let us stand under her porch, I'm sure! The rain may not last very long!"
Two minutes later they had reached Vine Cottage, where they took shelter under the porch. Josephine knew Mrs. Rumbelow by sight now, for she had often seen her at the little mission church on Sunday mornings; but neither she nor May had ever spoken to her. On hearing their footsteps and voices, the old woman hastened to open her cottage door, and looked out.
"Oh, please," began May, "may we wait here for a few minutes—just until the shower is over?"
"You'll get wet, miss; the wind's blowing the rain this way," Mrs. Rumbelow answered. "Pray come inside."
"Shall we?" whispered May, and, Josephine nodding assent, they followed Mrs. Rumbelow into the kitchen.
It was a very clean, tidy kitchen with a round deal table in the centre, a dresser holding cheap blue and white china, and a few wooden chairs. By the hearth, on which a cheerful log fire was burning, stood a wicker arm-chair, upholstered in a pretty rosy chintz, which looked quite new.
"Please sit down," said Mrs. Rumbelow hospitably. "Won't one of you take this chair? It's very comfortable."
She pointed at the wicker arm-chair as she spoke, but her visitors declined it. They seated themselves by the window, so that they might see when the rain stopped.
"It looks a delightfully comfortable chair," Josephine said with her bright, friendly smile; "won't you sit in it yourself, Mrs. Rumbelow, and talk to us? We seem to know you quite well, though we've never spoken to you before; we've heard of you from your niece, Jane. How is your rheumatism to-day?"
"Better than it has been, thank you, miss."
Mrs. Rumbelow had a pale, pinched-looking face which told of much suffering, and sunken eyes with a patient expression in them. She looked with great interest at her visitors, more especially at Josephine.
"Surely you didn't gather those yourself?" May asked, nodding at a bunch of primroses in a vase on the table.
"No, miss," was the reply; "my son picked them in Durley Dell this morning."
"Oh!" exclaimed May, "that's why we could find only these few buds then! When did your son come home, Mrs. Rumbelow?"
"The day before yesterday, miss."
Young Rumbelow had been home once before during the winter, shortly after his arrival in England—only for twenty-four hours, however. Jane had spoken of the deep joy his visit had given his mother, but she had not seen him herself, so had had little to tell concerning him.
"After this I shan't see him again before he goes abroad," Mrs. Rumbelow continued; "he's going before long, he expects. Yesterday he went into Midbury, and bought me this beautiful chair." She smiled and patted the arm of the wicker arm-chair almost tenderly as she spoke. "'There, mother,' he said, 'you'll be able to rest your poor old bones in comfort in that!' And I shall, I hope. He bought me that picture, too!"
She pointed to a cheap print in a frame over the mantelpiece. It was a likeness of the King of the Belgians.
"I'm so pleased to have it," she said earnestly, "for I call him such a noble man. He has a good, straight face, hasn't he?—the face of one who would keep his word?"
Her visitors assented. She continued—
"I like to think that my boy is on his side. 'Dick,' I said to him last night, when he hung up the picture for me, 'I shall spend many an hour when you're gone sitting here in this beautiful comfortable chair, looking at the likeness of that good king, and thinking of you fighting, like him, for truth and honour—all that's best worth fighting for—aye, and dying for!'"
"What did he say to that?" Josephine asked eagerly.
"Well, you see, miss, I don't think he'd looked at it quite in that light before, so he didn't say anything."
The rain was descending in a deluge now. It lasted for about ten minutes, then ceased almost suddenly.
"Would you like these primroses, miss?" Mrs. Rumbelow asked, rising stiffly from her chair when her visitors, who had thanked her gratefully for having sheltered them, were about to leave; "Dick will get me some more to-morrow." It was May she addressed.
"Oh, no, no!" May answered quickly, "but thank you all the same! These buds we have will open in water. She—" nodding at her companion— "never saw a primrose before to-day."
"Then they don't grow in India?" said Mrs. Rumbelow inquiringly.
Josephine smiled at the idea.
"Oh, no!" she replied. "But my father had told me about them—how sweet they are; and I had been looking forward to see them, of course I dare say you know that my father's in France—somewhere?"
"Yes, miss, Jane's told me. May God Almighty bless and keep him."
"He will," Josephine said earnestly, "I know He will."
Her bright young eyes met the old woman's sympathetic gaze for a minute, then grew misty. She took Mrs. Rumbelow's work-hardened hand, the joints of which were swelled and knotted, and pressed it softly. "May we come and see you again?" she asked.
"Indeed, I wish you would, miss," was the pleased response, "I should be pleased!"
"Then of course we will!" May cried, adding: "I wish we'd thought of coming to see you before!"
She echoed this wish as she and Josephine plodded home through the thick mud of the high road.
"I expect the poor old soul leads a very dull life," she remarked, "and after her son's gone again she'll feel very lonely. We must go and try to keep up her spirits. I am sure Aunt Ann will let us."
As they passed the blacksmith's shop they noticed a young soldier standing by the forge in conversation with the blacksmith, and Josephine whispered—
"That must be Dick Rumbelow, May. Yes, he has 'Canada' on his shoulder."
A little farther on the road they met the blacksmith's wife, and stopped to exchange a few words with her. The recruits who had been billeted at Midbury during the winter had left the previous week to complete their training elsewhere, and with them, of course, young Dicker; May inquired for him.
"He's quite well, thank you, miss," his mother answered, "and very cheerful and happy. I hope you get good news of your father, miss?" she questioned, addressing Josephine.
"He was safe and well the last time I heard from him," Josephine replied. "We saw a Canadian soldier talking to your husband, Mrs. Dicker; I wonder if he was Dick Rumbelow?"
"Sure to be, miss. You can't think how much he's improved since the first time he had leave and came home to see his mother. I thought then he was just the careless good-for-nothing he used to be—he didn't seem to have altered very much; but now it strikes me that he's sobered down wonderfully—it's the discipline that's done it may be, or maybe it's in answer to his mother's prayers. Ah, he's got a good mother, has Dick Rumbelow! I can't explain to you how patient she's always been with him, and so hopeful—but there, love hopeth all things, doesn't it?"
With this she nodded at them smilingly and went on her way. It took the little girls but five minutes after that to reach the Glen. Donald, who had watched their approach from the dining-room window, met them in the hall. He looked at Josephine strangely, she thought, and appeared very excited.
"You're wanted in Uncle John's study at once," he told her; "Aunt Ann and Uncle John are there, and—"
"Oh, Donald," Josephine broke in, paling to the lips, "there's nothing wrong, is there? There's no bad news of father? Oh, tell me it's not that!"
"No, no!" he cried reassuringly, "your father's safe and sound, and—why you've turned quite white! How silly! Go into the study! What are you waiting for? Hurry!"
But Josephine stood as though rooted to the ground, her lips parted, her ears strained—listening. From within the closed door of her uncle's study came the murmur of voices—Miss Basset's, Mr. Basset's, and one other's. Then, suddenly, a cry of intense joy burst from her lips, and, springing to the closed door, she flung it open, no longer pale, but with flushing cheeks and eyes full of yearning tenderness and love.
"Father, oh, father!" she cried, "you have come! Oh, I have wanted you so!"
She was in her father's arms by this time, half laughing, half crying, her head upon his breast.
"Come away!" said Miss Basset to her brother. Then, as he followed her from the room, closing the door behind him, she looked at him with her eyes full of tears, and sighed—
"Dear me! oh, dear me!"
"There's nothing for you to trouble about now, Ann," remarked Mr. Basset; nevertheless, his own sight was a trifle dim.
"No," she agreed, adding: "But I never until now realized how much she has missed him! Oh, poor little thing!"
CAPTAIN BASSET was home on three days' leave only, so he had but one clear day to spend at the Glen, the Sunday which Josephine afterward looked back upon as one of the happiest of her life.
She was not so selfish as to wish to keep her father all to herself. It was sufficient joy for her to be in his presence, to listen to his voice, and to see that, whilst he talked to his aunt and uncle and made friends with May and Donald on his first evening at the Glen, his eyes constantly turned to her, telling her by their expression that this brief reunion was as great a joy to him as to her.
Captain Basset was a slight, middle-size man, with a thin bronzed face, dark hair, and eyes very like his little daughter's. His smile, too, was like hers, as was the frank, direct look he always gave every one he was talking to. Indeed the resemblance between the two was most strong, and noticeably so when they were together, a fact many remarked as they looked at father and daughter at the little mission church on Sunday morning.
Oh, how time flew on that memorable Sunday! Josephine resolutely put away all thought of the parting to come, and enjoyed every minute of her father's society, especially the precious hour she had with him alone in the afternoon when they strolled about the garden in the pleasant spring sunshine.
"And are you happy here?" Captain Basset questioned by and by.
"As happy as I could be anywhere without you, father," she answered; "I ought to be, for every one is so kind to me! May and I are like sisters, and Donald—well, he's very nice sometimes, too."
"Only sometimes?"
Josephine nodded.
"Sometimes no one can please him," she explained gravely; "they say he wasn't like that before his accident—it is his accident that has spoilt his temper Aunt Ann says. He wanted to be a soldier, you know; but that will be impossible now on account of his lame knee. It will never be quite right the doctors say. Father, I do wish you'd talk to him."
"Talk to him?" echoed Captain Basset inquiringly.
"Yes. I think he'd listen to you and pay attention to what you say. Couldn't you point out to him it's wrong to be cross with everybody because he's disappointed and unhappy himself? I do think it's very unkind of him, father."
"And rather cowardly, too. I don't suppose he's ever looked at it in that light though. Poor boy! I feel sorry for him."
"So do I. You know, he's being taught by Miss Cummings, and he doesn't like that; he gives her a lot of trouble very often. But he's to go back to boarding-school next term, I believe. The doctor says he will be able to do altogether without his crutch by then—he only uses it a little now."
"So I observe. You like your governess, Josephine?"
"Oh, yes! At first I did not, but now I know her better I do. She lives at Midbury with her mother, who is rather a melancholy sort of person. May and I went to tea with them once during the Christmas holidays. Oh, I did miss you so dreadfully at Christmas! But I didn't tell any one that! Aunt Ann and Uncle John invited all the Belgians from Midbury to a party, and it was good to see how they brightened up and enjoyed it, poor things! May and I helped entertain the children—I liked that. On Christmas Eve we took presents to the wounded at the hospital, and then we found out that, without saying a word about it at home, Uncle John had sent them a gramophone."
"Capital! He always was kindness itself, and Aunt Ann too. But they used to have few interests outside their own household, as well as I remember; now, judging from all I hear, they seem to have a good many."
"It is strange you should have said that, father, for I heard Uncle John say something very like it himself the other day. He was talking to Aunt Ann, and he said, 'The war seems to have taken us out of ourselves, Ann.'"
"What answer did Aunt Ann make?"
"She said, 'There are so many to be cared for and helped, and comforted, and so much work to be done.' She's busy making sand-bags now, you know. Oh, father, this cruel, cruel war! Oh, I do hope it will not last much longer!"
There was a minute's silence during which Captain Basset pressed the little hand within his arm closer to his side; then he said quietly: "These are very dark days, but God is always with us. We must 'trust in Him at all times.' I read the other day these words: 'If the sun is going down look up to the stars. If the earth is dark keep your eye on heaven.' You will try to do that?"
"I will! I do! That is fighting the good fight, isn't it?"
Captain Basset assented. Before there was time for anything more to be said May appeared at the house door and beckoned them indoors to tea.
Mr. Basset, with his nephew and the two little girls, went to church in the evening, whilst his sister remained at home with Donald. On their return the church-goers found Donald in the hall, having evidently grown impatient waiting for them.
"How late you are!" he exclaimed, addressing May, who was looking her brightest; "you cannot have come straight home!"
"We met several people we knew and stopped talking to them," she answered, "that delayed us. I'm afraid you've had a dull evening."
"Much you care if I have!" he muttered, adding, "If you hadn't been selfish you'd have offered to stay at home with me!"
The words were intended for May's ears alone, but some one else heard them. As the little girls ran upstairs to take off their hats and jackets and Mr. Basset turned into the drawing-room, Captain Basset laid his hand on Donald's shoulder, and said very quietly—
"Why try to make that little sister of yours unhappy? I saw the brightness fade from her face as you spoke to her. I don't think she deserved to be called selfish."
Donald flushed hotly. He admired Captain Basset as a brave soldier, and would have liked to have had his good opinion. Captain Basset continued—
"I have heard how lovingly she waited on you during your illness and what a kind little sister she is. Never try to wound a tender heart, my boy! It is most cowardly to do that!"
"I suppose you consider me a coward, then?" Donald suggested, rather resentfully.
"I expect you are more thoughtless than cowardly. I understand you wanted to be a soldier?"
"Yes, but I shall never be one now!" The boy's voice was slightly tremulous. "I couldn't do long marches with my lame leg—and I shall always be lame, you know. Oh, it is hard!"
"It is," Captain Basset agreed, "but if it is God's will—" He paused, for the boy had made an impatient gesture, then, after a brief hesitation, he proceeded— "If it is God's will that you should always be lame, do try to bear your cross bravely like a Christian soldier! Think of the many men who have come back from France and Flanders disabled for life—"
"Ah, but they have done some fighting!" Donald broke in. "Every one knows them for brave men!"
At that moment Jane appeared in the hall to sound the supper gong. During supper Donald seemed in a rather subdued frame of mind. May watched him anxiously, but he did not show ill-temper to her again that evening. He was really ashamed that Captain Basset should have overheard his unkind remark to his sister, and ashamed of the remark as well.
It was later than usual when the household at the Glen retired to rest that night, for, as Miss Basset said with a break in her voice, who could tell when they might see dear Paul again? In the drawing-room, after prayers, Josephine sat on a stool at her father's feet, her head resting against his knees. She was silent now. Indeed she feared to speak, for her throat seemed to swell every time she attempted to do so, and she dreaded lest she should burst into tears. Surely the clock on the mantelpiece ticked quicker than usual! How fast the precious minutes flew!
By and by, obeying a meaning glance from Miss Basset, May rose, said "good night," and went off to bed. Donald followed her example shortly afterwards; but Josephine did not move till her father remarked that if she did not go and get a night's good rest she would be "all mops and brooms" in the morning.
"And I want to take away with me the remembrance of your face at its brightest," he added; whereupon she rose quickly, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then, without one backward glance, left the room.
Captain Basset had arranged to travel by a train leaving Midbury about noon next day, and Josephine had heard the order given for Barnes to get the pony-carriage in readiness to drive to the railway station at eleven o'clock. She decided before she fell asleep that she would ask permission to drive into Midbury with her father and see him off at the railway station herself. So in the morning, whilst the family was at breakfast, she made her request.
"May I see you off, father?" she asked eagerly. "You'd like me to, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, my dear, don't you think it would be better if you said good-bye to him here?" suggested Miss Basset quickly, before her nephew could reply. "Your uncle is going to drive him into Midbury, and I'm sure it would upset them both very much if you made a scene—I mean if you broke down and cried."
"As if I would!" Josephine exclaimed reproachfully, her cheeks flushing.
"Well, I know I should," Miss Basset admitted, shaking her head and sighing. "But what does Paul wish himself?" she asked, looking at her nephew.
"I should like Josephine to come to the railway station with me," he answered, smiling; "I took it for granted she would."
"May I, Uncle John?" Josephine asked eagerly, appealing to Mr. Basset.
"Why, of course, my dear, if you wish it," he answered. "Eleven o'clock punctually mind!" As though it was likely Josephine would forget!
After breakfast May and Donald went to the schoolroom as usual to await Miss Cummings' arrival. The governess had not heard of the visitor at the Glen, so great was her surprise when the Raes greeted her with the news that Captain Basset had been there for the week-end and was leaving that morning.
"Josephine's to have a half-holiday to go and see him off," May said, "but I suppose we must do lessons as usual. I don't feel very workish to-day though."
For once in a way Miss Cummings was inclined to be lenient with her pupils. A little before eleven o'clock Captain Basset came into the schoolroom to say good-bye to May and Donald, and Miss Cummings was introduced to him. Then, shortly after he had gone, the wheels of the pony-carriage were heard, and May exclaimed—
"Oh, Miss Cummings, do, do let us go to the window and look out!"
"Very well," Miss Cummings agreed. "And I think we'll stop work for the morning," she added, "things are so unsettling."
She followed her pupils to the window, which they opened. Leaning out, they could see the pony-carriage at the front door, with Tommy between the shafts, Barns standing by.
In a minute Mr. Basset came out of the house, and, having taken the reins from Barnes, settled himself in the driver's seat. He was followed by Josephine, and some minutes later by Captain Basset. The latter looked up to the schoolroom window and saluted, as, having seated himself opposite his little daughter, the carriage moved away.
"I like him!" May exclaimed heartily. "He's so nice and friendly; I do hope he'll soon get leave again. I wonder where Aunt Ann is—why she didn't go out to see him off?"
"I expect she's crying somewhere," Donald answered; "I saw at breakfast that her eyes kept filling with tears."
"Let us go and find her and persuade her to come out in the garden with us, shall we?" suggested May.
Miss Cummings agreed. Accordingly governess and pupils went downstairs together, and found Miss Basset weeping in the dining-room.
May ran to her and kissed her with ready sympathy, whilst the governess explained that lessons had been stopped for the morning, adding that she hoped Miss Basset did not mind.
"No, no," the old lady answered, wiping her eyes, "I understand. Dear me, oh, dear me!"
"It's beautifully sunny out-of-doors," said May; "do come out into the garden with us, Aunt Ann!"
"Very well, dear, I will," Miss Basset replied, "I'm foolish to cry, I know. Oh, I do hope Josephine won't break down at the last—when the moment of parting from her father comes at the station, I mean. I am so afraid she will!"
Miss Basset need not have been afraid. Josephine's heart was one big ache when the moment of parting came, but her great unselfish love for her father made her determined not to distress him. She put her arms around his neck, and they kissed each other; then he placed her hand in Mr. Basset's, and sprang into the train just as it was on the point of starting. His last glimpse of Josephine showed her standing looking after the departing train, smiling and waving her kerchief to him. Thus in the future he to picture her—the brave little daughter who was dearer to him than all the world.
"DONALD, Donald! Oh, there you are! I've had a letter from Mrs. Ford by the afternoon post, and she says she's writing to Aunt Ann to ask if she may invite you to tea sometimes!"
The speaker was Josephine. She had come hurrying into the kitchen garden in search of Donald, who was standing by watching his sister weeding the corner which was her own garden. It was shaded by a big apple tree and did not get enough sunshine to grow flowers; but ferns flourished there, and May had turned it from a waste corner into a beautiful fernery.
It was April, the week after Easter, and very soon Donald would be going back to boarding-school at Exeter. He had discarded his crutch altogether now.
"Oh, I say, how jolly of her!" he replied, his blue eyes sparkling. "Did you put it to her that she might?" he asked.
Josephine shook her dark head smilingly.
"No," she said, "but I told her that you had no friends in Exeter. She's taken a little furnished house, you know, and is doing war work in different ways—nursing, and attending at the stations with refreshments for the wounded as the Red Cross trains go through." Her face saddened as she spoke of the Red Cross trains.
"Oh, Josephine, I forgot to tell you something!" May exclaimed. "Who do you think is helping at the soldier's hospital at Midbury now? But you'll never guess! Mrs. Cummings! Yes, actually! She met Aunt Ann in Midbury yesterday and told her so."
"I shouldn't like Mrs. Cummings to nurse me," remarked Donald, "she'd give me the doldrums."
"But she's doing cooking, not nursing," May explained; "she told Aunt Ann that with her daughter generally away the best part of the day she could well spare the time to help at the hospital. Aunt Ann says she seemed much brighter than usual; she thought it must be because she had found something to take her thoughts from herself."
"When are we going to see Miss Cummings, May?" asked Josephine. "You know we told her we would call to see her during the holidays, and a week of them has gone. Couldn't we go to-morrow afternoon?"
"I should think so," May answered; "we could walk into the town early, look at the shops, and then call on Miss Cummings. If she's at home she'll be sure to want us to stay to tea."
Accordingly the following afternoon, about four o'clock, found the two little girls at the door of their governess' home. In response to May's knock Margaret Cummings herself came to the door. Her grave face lit up with a smile at sight of her visitors; she was evidently glad to see them.
"Oh, come in, come in!" she cried hospitably. Then, as they obeyed and followed her into the front sitting-room, she drew chairs for them into the little bay window which commanded a view of the road, and said: "Mother will be here presently—she's at the hospital. You must stop to tea. I've put the kettle on."
"We intended to stay if you asked us," Josephine replied frankly, "didn't we, May?"
May assented.
"Aunt Ann said we might," she remarked; "but she thought that perhaps you would not want us—that you had enough of us in term time."
The young governess laughed. "I am very pleased to see you," she declared, "very pleased indeed! Are you enjoying the holidays?"
"Oh, yes!" May answered. "Aunt Ann has been taking us for some nice drives, and we have been doing a good bit of gardening."
"Uncle John has given me a piece of ground for my very own," Josephine said, "and May has helped me to put it in order. I heard from father yesterday, Miss Cummings. He is quite safe and well."
"I am so glad, dear! Oh, here's mother! Now I'll go and make the tea."
Mrs. Cummings was pleased to find that her daughter had visitors. She sat down and talked to them about her new work till they were called into the back sitting-room to tea. There she presided at the tea-table, and for once in a way said nothing of a depressing nature. By and by she mentioned the fact that her daughter spent her Sunday afternoons at the hospital. "She sings to the soldiers, you know," she said; "they never tire of listening to her."
"Why, I didn't even know you could sing!" May exclaimed, regarding her governess with so much astonishment that she broke into a merry laugh.
"She has a beautiful voice," remarked Mrs. Cummings, "but she never sang in public till lately. It was Dr. Farrant who persuaded her to sing at the hospital, and now she likes doing it, don't you, Margaret?"
Her daughter assented. "It makes me very happy to see my singing gives pleasure," she said. "Last Sunday I sang 'Fight the good fight,'" she continued, with a smile at Josephine; "I generally choose well-known hymns and ask the soldiers to join in singing them."
"And do they?" questioned Josephine eagerly.
"Oh, yes! Of course some do not know the words, but those who do enjoy to sing with me. And then every one joins in singing 'God save the King.'"
After tea a move was made into the front sitting-room, and shortly afterwards the visitors rose to leave. Their governess said she would go part way home with them, and accompanied them as far as Tor hill, where she turned back.
"I used to think I could never like Miss Cummings," May said gravely, as she and Josephine walked on towards the Glen; "but, do you know, I believe I'm getting quite fond of her? I've found out since the war began how really kindhearted she is. See how she's helped us with our work for the poor Belgians, and the soldiers! And it's kind of her to sing at the hospital, isn't it?—especially as she's rather a shy sort of person? Oh, here comes Donald to meet us! Oh, I wonder if he will ever be able to walk better than that? It's dreadful to think he will always be lame!"
"Here you are at last!" was Donald's greeting.
"At last?" echoed May. "Why, it isn't late! We've had tea with Miss Cummings and her mother. Aunt Ann said we might."
"I came to meet you to warn you that there's a bull straying about the lanes somewhere," the boy said; "I knew you'd be scared if you met him."
"I should think so!" cried May, who was afraid of all horned cattle, even cows. "But how do you know?"
"I was standing at the garden gate when a boy came along and told me," Donald explained; "he said it was Farmer Bond's bull, and that the farmer and several men were searching for him. He broke out of a meadow, it seems."
"Oh, let us get home as soon as we can!" cried May nervously. She had turned pale and was all of a shake. "I know Farmer Bond's bull is a savage one!" she added.
Donald looked at her with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and laughed.
"It would be no laughing matter if we encountered the bull and he turned upon us," Josephine said; "May is right, let us hurry home."
"Listen!" exclaimed May. "Oh, he's coming! Run! Oh, run!"
From a lane at no great distance, which led into the high road, came the sounds of men's voices shouting and a dog barking. The little girls began to run, and Donald followed them—he could not run on account of his lame knee, but he might have quickened his footsteps if he had liked.
"You little cowards!" he shouted, "I'm not going to hurry! I'm not afraid of—"
He broke off abruptly. He had been walking close to the hedge, and had caught his foot in a trailing bramble. The next instant he measured his length on the ground.
Meanwhile the little girls had reached a five-barred gate. May climbed it nimbly, and dropped into the field on the other side. Josephine was about to follow her example when she glanced back to look for Donald, and saw, to her dismay—for the sounds which had alarmed her and May were drawing nearer—what had happened.
"Quick! quick!" cried May. "Where's Donald?"
"He's fallen, but he's getting up," Josephine answered. "Oh, May, the bull's coming! I see it! And a sheep-dog after it! Run, Donald, run!"
But Donald, pale to the lips, had sunk down on the ground again. Josephine darted back the road and seized him by the arm.
"Get up, get up!" she cried imperatively, "the bull's coming!"
"I know!" he groaned. "Don't stop! I've twisted my bad knee! I'll hide in the ditch—the brute mayn't see me!"
As he spoke he rolled himself into a shallow ditch by the hedge. There was no time for Josephine to return to the gate; so she took refuge in the ditch too, and crouched beside the boy. Never in her life had she been so frightened before.
Would the bull see them? It seemed impossible that he would not. He was galloping along the road, bellowing loudly, evidently infuriated by the big sheep-dog who was trying to get ahead of him to turn him. With lowered head and fixed gaze he came on; but his fixed gaze was not on the terror-stricken occupants of the ditch, but on a little figure which stood right in the centre of the road in front of the five-barred gate, waving a white pocket-handkerchief. A moment more and he had passed by, whilst the little figure fled to the gateway and vanished. Another moment and the bull and dog had vanished too.
At this point in the proceedings two men, panting with running, appeared upon the scene, one being the bull's owner, Farmer Bond. Josephine scrambled out of the ditch, and ran with them to the gateway. The gate was closed, and safely imprisoned in the field beyond was the bull, guarded by the sheep-dog, who had ceased barking, whilst outside the gate, leaning against it for support and nearly in a state of collapse, stood May.
Josephine put her arms around her, hugging and kissing her, whereupon she burst into tears; she tried to check them when Donald, white and shaking, appeared upon the scene, anxiety on her account having made him impervious to pain for the time being.
The farmer whistled to his dog, who left the bull and came to him; then he looked at May and inquired—
"Was it you who opened the gate and let the bull into the field, missie?"
She nodded assent, but it was some minutes before she grew sufficiently composed to explain how she had managed. She had found the gate was not locked, arid as soon as she had realized Josephine and Donald's peril, had deliberately placed herself in the middle of the road and attracted the bull's attention. That done she had opened the gate wide, and stood behind it whilst the sheep-dog had driven the bull into the field; then she had come into the road again, and closed the gate.
"Well, missie, all I can say is that you're a real plucky little maid!" Farmer Bond declared admiringly.
"Oh, no!" May cried; "you wouldn't say that if you knew how frightened I was!"
"That made it all the pluckier of you to keep your head and act as you did. The bull's safe enough where he is, and by and by when he's quieted down we shan't have any difficulty in head-roping him and taking him home. I am more than sorry he should have given you all such a fright, and very grateful to you, missie, for what you've done. I hope you feel better now?"
May glanced at Farmer Bond's concerned countenance and tried to smile.
"Yes, thank you," she answered, but her voice sounded faint and tremulous.
"And you, sir?" the farmer asked, turning to Donald, who suddenly flushed crimson, "you are all of a shake—"
"I fell and twisted my injured knee," interposed Donald hastily; "that's why I was obliged to hide in the ditch."
"Oh, Donald," cried May, "have you hurt your knee badly? I'm afraid you have! Then you ought not to try to walk home!"
"Oh, as to that, my man and I will take him home," said Farmer Bond; "we'll cross arms and clasp hands, and so make a seat for him to ride on."
Thus was Donald conveyed to the Glen. He was in a good deal of pain, but Dr. Farrant, who was immediately sent for, said if he rested his knee a few days it would be as well as it was before. The boy was greatly relieved to hear that, for he was most anxious that nothing should happen to prevent his return to school.
During the next few days he followed the doctor's orders and rested his knee, May waiting on him with unselfish attention. Many times she caught his gaze fixed on her thoughtfully, and on one of these occasions she asked—
"What are you thinking of, Donald?"
"Of you," he answered promptly; "I was thinking that very likely you saved my life and Josephine's; I believe the bull would have seen us and gone for us if you hadn't stood out in the road as you did. Dr. Farrant said you were a real heroine when he heard about it. And yet you say you were frightened?"
"Oh, dreadfully!—when I saw you and Josephine in the ditch and the bull coming! But I prayed to God for help, and then it flashed upon me what to do. So you see God answered my prayer."
The boy was silent. It was very wonderful that his timid little sister should have proved herself capable of such courage.
"If I was brave it was only because I felt God was near me," she added after a pause; "yes, that was how it was, I am sure!"
"OH, how lovely the roses are!" exclaimed Josephine softly. "And, oh, how I wish father was here to see them!"
"I expect there are roses where he is," answered May, "for I saw a picture in a newspaper yesterday showing part of a ruined village—it had been shelled —and there were roses climbing over a cottage wall I noticed."
It was a beautiful evening in June, and the two little girls, having learnt their lessons for the next day, had come into the garden for a short while before supper and seated themselves on a seat within call of the house.
Everywhere were roses in full bloom—standard and half standards and bush roses in the garden beds, ramblers twining over arches and stretching out trailing branches covered with clusters of flowers, whilst the porch of the house was decked with a magnificent "cloth of gold" which Mr. Basset declared to be the finest in the county.
Josephine had been enjoying the peace and beauty of the garden; but at May's mention of the ruined village a shadow fell on her face, and a wistful expression crept into her dark eyes.
"I hope I shall hear from father soon," she said, "I have not heard from him now for ten days, and I can't help feeling very, very anxious—knowing his regiment has been in action. I notice that Uncle John is anxious too; he is always on the look out for the post."
"There may be a letter from Captain Basset in the post now," said May hopefully; "you know once before two letters from him, written at different dates, arrived at the same time."
"So they did!" Josephine replied, her face brightening; "I am glad you have reminded me of that!"
"I heard from Donald this afternoon," May remarked, drawing a letter from her pocket and opening it; "I want to read you the part where he speaks of Mrs. Ford, shall I?"
"Oh, yes, do, please!" Josephine answered eagerly. So May read aloud—
"You might tell Josephine that I went to tea again on Saturday with her friend, Mrs. Ford. She is a real, good sort, and I like her. She has promised to come and watch a cricket match we are going to have with some wounded soldiers—of course they are nearly well now or they wouldn't be able to play. She says she thinks I walk better than I did at the beginning of the term, and I hope she's right. But I don't mind so much about my lame knee as I did. I am thinking now of being a doctor, then, if there's a war, I shall be able to go to the front and attend to the wounded. Mrs. Ford says the doctors have often to do their work under fire, and they are quite as brave as the soldiers. I like talking to Mrs. Ford."
"Oh, I knew he would!" Josephine said, looking pleased, "every one does! She's such good company—so bright and always seems to know what it interests one to talk about. Should you like Donald to be a doctor?"
"Yes," May assented, "I should like him to be one like Dr. Farrant who is, oh, ever so good and kind. Why, there he is! Dr. Farrant, I mean! How strange that he should appear just as I was speaking of him! I wonder what he has come for? It's rather late to pay a call, isn't it? But perhaps he happened to be motoring past here and thought he'd stop and come in. Let us go and speak to him."
"No," Josephine replied quickly, observing that the doctor had caught sight of them but had turned his face sharply away and was making straight for the front door; "I don't think he wants to talk to us now—he seems in a hurry."
"He certainly does," agreed May; "he wants to see Uncle John about something, I expect."
This proved to be the case, for when they entered the house a few minutes later they heard the doctor's voice in the study. He remained nearly half an hour with Mr. Basset, leaving shortly before supper-time.
"What did Dr. Farrant want?" Miss Basset asked her brother during supper. "You found you couldn't persuade him to stay to supper, I suppose?"
"No," Mr. Basset said, answering the latter question and ignoring the first.
"Uncle John, did you tell him I'd heard from Donald to-day?" inquired May.
Mr. Basset shook his head. "Donald was not mentioned, my dear," he replied.
It was evident to every one that he was in a very pre-occupied mood. His sister remarked that he ate very little; but when she asked him if he did not feel well he assured her that he had never been better in his life, only he had no appetite.
"Neither has Josephine," sighed Miss Basset; "I know why it is—because she's not heard from her father. Oh, I do hope we shall hear from him to-morrow! Anxiety and suspense are so wearing! Dear me, oh, dear me!"
Josephine went to bed that night very heavyhearted. She lay awake some time thinking of her father and praying for him. He had not told her, but she knew from what she had read in the newspapers, that he had had a great many hardships and much sorrow to endure of late, for his regiment had suffered badly. Very earnestly, with all the fervour of her anxious heart, she prayed—
Jesus Saviour, let Thy presence
Be his light and guide:
Keep, oh keep him, in his weakness
At Thy side.
When in sorrow, when in danger,
When in loneliness,
In Thy love look down and comfort
His distress.
May the joy of Thy salvation
Be his strength and stay;
May he love and may he praise Thee.
Day by day.
Every morning, on rising, she was in the habit of reading a few verses from the Bible, and one of the verses she had read to-day had been: "We know that all things work together for good to them that love God." She remembered it now, and was comforted.
Though she did not sleep till late, Josephine was downstairs before May the following morning, and waiting in the garden when the postman arrived. Her face was alight with expectancy as she ran to meet the man; but it was grave and troubled when she returned to the house, for neither of the two envelopes the postman had given her bore her father's handwriting.
"Another disappointment, Uncle John," she said, with a little choke in her voice, as she met Mr. Basset in the hall, "there's nothing from father. Here are two letters, both addressed to you. One, I think, is only a circular."
"Yes, only a circular," Mr. Basset said, taking the letters from her and glancing at them hurriedly, "and the other is of no importance."
He turned sharply away from her and went into the breakfast-room as he spoke. It struck Josephine that his manner was strange, and one thing was quite evident—he did not wish to talk to her. She felt hurt, for hitherto he had always been most sympathetic concerning her father.
In the middle of the morning, whilst the little girls were at lessons with their governess, Dr. Farrant arrived at the Glen again. This time he saw Miss Basset as well as her brother, and by and by Josephine was sent for to come to the study. She guessed at once that news had been received of her father, and flew downstairs with white cheeks and a wildly beating heart.
In the doorway of the study she paused. Miss Basset was seated in an easy chair, her handkerchief held to her eyes, and Dr. Farrant and Mr. Basset were standing by the writing-table, the latter with a telegram in his hand.
It was Dr. Farrant who stepped quickly to Josephine's side, and drew her into the room.
"My dear," he said, "your uncle wishes me to tell you that there is news of your father—"
"Is he dead?" Josephine interrupted, her voice betraying the agony of her mind. "That's what I want to know! Is he dead?"
"No, no!" Dr. Farrant assured her. Then, as she drew a long, gasping breath of relief, he continued: "But he has been wounded and sent back to Boulogne."
He placed her in a chair as he spoke. Had he not done so she would have fallen, for she had turned dizzy and faint. In a few minutes she felt better, and looked up appealingly into the kind eyes which were watching her so earnestly and sympathetically.
"Ah!" Dr. Farrant said, "you are a true soldier's daughter, I see; you are going to show yourself a brave girl!"
"Will father die?" Josephine questioned; "oh, do you think he will die?"
"Oh, my dear, don't suggest it!" sobbed Miss Basset; "oh, no, no, no!"
Josephine paid no heed to her aunt. All her attention was given to Dr. Farrant.
"I will tell you all we know," he said; "do not fear that I will keep anything back. It was reported in an evening paper yesterday that your father was wounded, and Mr. Basset asked me to ascertain for him if the report was correct. As we were not sure we thought it better not to mention it to you last night. First thing this morning I telegraphed to the War Office, and have heard in reply that Captain Basset has been wounded by shrapnel in the face and head—"
"Seriously?" broke in Josephine. Then, as Dr. Farrant gravely assented, she uttered a faint moaning cry and covered her face with her hands.
"Remember seriously wounded may not mean mortally wounded," Dr. Farrant hastened to remind her; "do not make up your mind that your father will not be restored to you."
"No, I will not!" The poor child uncovered her face. "Oh, I hope—I pray that he is not suffering much! My dear, dear father! Oh, I wish I could go to him! But of course I can't!"
"Comfort yourself with the thought that he is being skilfully tended at Boulogne. You may be sure of that."
All this time Mr. Basset had not uttered a word, but had remained standing by the writing-table, his eyes fixed on the telegram in his hand. Now he turned to his sister and said: "Do try to compose yourself, Ann; this is no time for giving way to grief. There's much to be thought of—and done."
"I can't help crying," answered Miss Basset, "you know I was never very brave. And I'm so sorry for Josephine!"
Josephine rose, and, crossing the room, kissed her aunt tenderly.
"Dear Aunt Ann!" she whispered, then her eyes filled with tears, choking sobs rose in her throat, and the next minute, clasped in Aunt Ann's loving arms, she was weeping in such an abandonment of grief that the old lady was startled and frightened.
"Let her cry," Dr. Farrant said, as Miss Basset gave him a glance of alarm, "it will do her a world of good."
By the time Josephine's tears were exhausted the doctor had gone, and Mr. Basset, who had seen him off at the front door, was examining a railway time-table at his writing-table. As Josephine lifted her tear-stained face from Miss Basset's shoulder, her uncle remarked—
"I want you to come and pack my portmanteau for me, Ann; I'm going a journey."
"A journey?" echoed Miss Basset in amazement, for her brother had not been a night away from home for years. "A journey?" she repeated. "Why, where are you going?"
"To Boulogne," he answered briefly.
"To Boulogne? Why, you'll have to cross the Channel! Have you forgotten the mines? And you don't talk French! Oh, John, you can't go! You'll have to get a passport, too, and—"
"My dear Ann," interposed Mr. Basset, "will you please come and pack my portmanteau? I am not accustomed to travelling, I admit; nevertheless, God willing, I'm going to Boulogne."
"I WONDER if I shall find that they have heard I from Mr. Basset," thought Margaret Cummings, as she entered the grounds of the Glen one fine June morning, some few days after the master of the house had set out on his journey to Boulogne; "I hope so I am sure—whatever news he may have had to send. Anything is better than suspense. Poor Josephine! She's very brave, but the sight of her white, set face shows what she's enduring. Ah, there she is beneath the porch, on the look out for me! Then there's news! Now, what is it?"
From under the porch a slim figure, clad in a blue cotton dress, darted forth into the brilliant June sunshine to meet her, with a radiant countenance eloquent of happiness and joy. Gone were the white, set features of the previous day! The governess paused, a feeling of intense relief filling her heart, and cried—
"Oh, my dear, you have had good news then?"
"Yes!" Josephine replied, "the best of news! Father is going to recover! The doctors say so! His life is out of danger! And before long he will be brought back to a hospital in England, and—and, oh, hasn't God been merciful to me?"
Though generally one of the most undemonstrative of people, Margaret Cummings threw her arms around Josephine and kissed her. Her caress was returned warmly and gratefully.
"We've not had a very long letter from Uncle John," Josephine continued, "because he's coming home almost immediately, and he'll be able to explain all about father then. He says he can do no good by staying at Boulogne; but he's glad he went, for he wouldn't have been satisfied if he hadn't seen father. Do you know, he had to have his photograph taken in different positions, and there were other delays before he could leave England? But when, at last, he reached Boulogne all his difficulties were over, for there he fell in with a French gentleman who could speak English and helped him in every way he could. Wasn't that kind and good of the French gentleman? And he and Uncle John were strangers to each other, too!"
"It seems to me that in these days kindness and goodness are constantly appearing unexpectedly! I am glad Mr. Basset was so fortunate as to meet a friend in need. I suppose Miss Basset is less uneasy about her brother now?"
"Yes, I think so. And, oh, she is so delighted that father is going on well! Fancy! Father was well enough to talk to Uncle John, and he sent me his love and a message which Uncle John didn't write but is keeping to tell me when he gets home."
As governess and pupil entered the house together Miss Basset came out of the dining-room, her face wreathed in smiles; she said that as it was most certainly a red-letter day for them all she hoped Miss Cummings would have no objection to taking a holiday, and added that she was going into Midbury herself and would drive her home.
"Thank you, Miss Basset, that will be very kind of you," the governess answered, adding earnestly: "I cannot tell you how deeply glad I am that you have had such cheering news."
Oh, that was a happy holiday! Josephine and May spent the morning in the garden amongst the roses; and in the afternoon they went for a long walk, returning through Durley Dell, where they sat for an hour on a mossy bank in the shade of a beech tree, and talked.
"Perhaps I may bring father here one day before long," Josephine said softly, "for Aunt Ann says of course he will come to the Glen as soon as he is convalescent. Oh, I hope he will come before the roses are gone! He will so love to see them! I remember his telling me once that the Glen roses were the most beautiful he had ever seen."
On their way home from Durley Dell they called for a few minutes at Vine Cottage to inquire for Mrs. Rumbelow. The old women had heard from Jane that Captain Basset had been wounded, and received the news that he was doing well with so much pleasure that Josephine was deeply touched by the feeling she showed, and determined that, if all went well, some time she would take her father to see her.
Next day Mr. Basset arrived at home. He reached the Glen in a cab from Midbury railway station about six o'clock in the evening. Miss Basset had received a telegram in the morning saying at what time she was to expect him, so she was waiting at the front door with May and Josephine to greet him on his arrival.
"Oh, John, I'm so rejoiced you've come back safely!" she cried, as she kissed him, adding quickly: "And dear Paul's really better?"
"Yes," he answered, "really better, thank God!"
He turned to the little girls and kissed them affectionately, then, taking Josephine by the hand, led her into the drawing-room, the others following. Josephine, searching his face with eager, anxious eyes, saw that it looked pale and weary, and very sad.
"Please tell me all about father," she said tremulously, "I want to know all. Oh, please, please, don't keep anything back!"
"I will not," he assured her. He seated himself on a sofa and drew her down by his side. "As you know your father was injured in the face and head," he continued, "and he had not long regained consciousness before I saw him. He is in a large hotel at Boulogne, which is being used as a hospital. My dear—" his voice faltered with deep emotion— "I shall never forget the cry of pleasure Paul gave when he heard my voice, and I shall always be thankful that I obeyed the impulse which prompted me to go to him at once! I saw him twice. On the second occasion he said he did not wish me to remain longer—you see I could do no good there and was only in the way. Poor dear fellow! The doctors say his face will not be much disfigured—"
"Oh, I am glad of that!" Josephine broke in joyfully, "I've been thinking that it would be, and I know Aunt Ann has too!"
"And they say also that in their opinion in a few months he will be quite restored to health," Mr. Basset proceeded, taking no apparent heed of the interruption, "for he has a splendid constitution. The trouble is about his sight."
The old man's clasp on the little hand he held tightened as he spoke. He glanced significantly at his sister, who had sank into an easy chair, and shook his head slightly. Josephine noted the gesture, and a sudden chill feeling of dread fell upon her heart. She shivered as she asked—
"Do you mean that his eyes are hurt, Uncle John?"
"Yes, my dear," Mr. Basset admitted sadly, "and badly hurt. He knows it himself—spoke of it, in fact. It is a great blow to him, of course, but your father is a brave man and a Christian. He bade me tell you the truth—that he will never see again—"
"Oh, John!" interrupted Miss Basset, "how shocking! Oh, poor, poor Paul! What a terrible affliction to fall upon him! Oh, I never thought of this! Dear me, oh, dear me!" She sat wringing her hands, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
"Do you mean that my father is blind?" asked Josephine slowly, as though her mind was incapable of grasping the truth, plainly though Mr. Basset had spoken. There was an expression of horror on her face. "Yes!" she cried, as her uncle bowed his head silently, "he is blind! Oh, father, father, father!"
She snatched her hand from Mr. Basset's and rose to her feet. May, full of sympathy, hastened to her; but she put her aside, and ran out of the room.
"Don't follow her—you'd better not," advised Mr. Basset, as May stood hesitating; "for the time, at any rate, she will be best alone. I've so dreaded telling her, poor little soul!"
Josephine had run out into the rose-scented garden and hidden herself in a summerhouse which occupied a secluded corner. She cast herself on the ground on her knees, in an agony of grief, her head bowed on her arms which she rested on one of the two wooden chairs she and May used when—as they often did—they came there to do their war work. Heavy sobs shook her slender form; but it was some minutes before tears came to her relief, then it seemed as though they would never stop.
"Oh, father, poor, poor father!" she moaned over and over again; "oh, what will he do?—what will he do?"
Her heart bled with pity for her father. She pictured him as she had seen him last, looking back at her from the departing train at Midbury railway station. What a splendid soldier he had been! So full of strength and courage! She recalled how longingly his eyes had smiled at her! Beautiful eyes, so bright and brave! Now their light was quenched for ever!
By and by her tears ceased to flow, and she raised her head. Over the doorway of the summerhouse hung festoons of pink and white cluster roses, swaying gently in the summer breeze and making the air fragrant with their scent. Josephine noticed them with deepening pain.
"Father will never see them now," she thought, "never—never! And he will never more see the sunshine, or the starlight, or any of the beautiful sights he loved! Oh, poor father!"
She bowed her head once more on her arms, but she did not weep again; her passion of grief had spent itself. And so Mr. Basset found her, a picture of utter dejection, when, guessing where she had hidden, he, by and by, came to seek her.
"Josephine," he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder, "get up, my dear!" Then, as she obeyed, he made her take one chair, and seated himself on the other. "God has spared your dear father's life," he continued, "and thankfulness for that ought to soften this blow—"
"Oh, Uncle John, indeed I am thankful!" Josephine interposed; "but—but—oh, think what life will be to father without sight? He has always been so active and busy in every way! He isn't a man who likes to take things easily and let others work! And now—and now—oh, it will be dreadful for him!"
"My dear, don't say so! And don't think it! We will pray God to lighten your father's darkness, and I am sure He will. Now, I have not given you your father's message—almost the last words he said to me before I came away. It was this, 'Tell my little girl to remember that all things work together for good to them that love God, and so she mustn't grieve about me more than she can help.' You see, he realized the news of his loss of sight would be a sore blow to you."
"Oh, it has been, Uncle John! I—I haven't been a bit brave—father would be disappointed in me if he knew. But, oh, blindness seems so terrible! It is so hard to think of father—blind!"
Mr. Basset sighed.
"Very hard," he agreed. "But, now," he continued, "we mustn't stay here any longer, for supper's to be early to-night on my account, and you'll want to bathe your face, won't you?"
The two returned to the house together. Miss Basset and May saw them coming from the drawing-room window; and the latter hurried into the hall and went upstairs with Josephine.
"Dear," she whispered, her blue eyes tender with sympathy, "I'm so sorry—so very, very sorry for your father! Donald will be, too, when I write and tell him! Oh, it must be terrible to be blind!"
Josephine drew a quick breath, and assented. Then she told May the message her father had sent her, adding: "I'm going to try to do as he says and not grieve about him more than I can help. Perhaps, after all, the doctors have made a mistake and he may get his sight back after a time. If he doesn't—if it is God's will he should remain blind, then I know God will be with him."
"It is a great thing to feel that," May answered.
"Yes," Josephine agreed, "and the greatest comfort. Just for a little while I forgot it, though every day I pray—
"Jesus Saviour, let Thy presence
Be his light and guide,
Keep, oh keep him, in his weakness,
At Thy side."
"But, now I've had time to think and Uncle John has given me father's message, I know father's all right. He loves Jesus, and Jesus is at his side."