A PROMISE.
"IVOR," said Barbara solemnly, "you ought not to have gone like that, not till we had asked Lucia. Now what is it you want to tell?"
Ivor looked first one way and then the other.
"Oh, Barbara, would Evan wish me to? He said I wasn't to till he said; but—if he were to die?"
Barbara took her brother's hand, and knelt down silently by the bed; but she could feel it being drawn away unwillingly.
"Had we not better tell God first, Ivor?"
"I can't—oh, Barbara, we've been so naughty—we ought to have told, and we haven't—"
"Told what? Oh, Ivor! Why don't you now?"
"About having a fall—he fell on his head."
"Ivor!"
"It was the tricycle—"
"Tricycle?" echoed Barbara.
"Yes; we didn't mean to get into any harm. But we saw a jolly one, and we hired it for an hour, and then we ran into a bank, and Evan hurt his head and his foot; and we thought it wasn't much, and we hoped—"
He laid his head down beside her and cried bitterly.
"Do you think he will die?" he sobbed.
"I don't know; but, oh! Do ask God to forgive you for being so deceitful, and then we'll go down and tell Lucia. How can we ask for him to be made well while you haven't told the dear Lord Jesus that you are sorry?"
Ivor threw his arms round her neck.
"I am, Barbara, I am sorry! Oh, do tell God how sorry I am! I'll tell Him too!"
So with broken little words the boy asked forgiveness for their deception, and then he passively let Barbara lead him down to where Lucia sat in the dark, counting the minutes till the doctor should come down to tell her—what?
But when the doctor came down, he had nothing very decisive to say. He reported that Evan was sleeping more naturally, that nurse was with him, and that he would call again in an hour or two, but that the house must be kept perfectly quiet.
Lucia had already taken Ivor back to his room, and now told the doctor of the fall from the tricycle.
He shook his head. "I guessed as much; I thought it was more than the sun," he said, and went out into the moonlight.
As Lucia crossed the little passage, feeling as if she had lived days instead of hours since yesterday, she heard from above a low sound of crying.
Her heart stood still for a moment. Then she ran up noiselessly, and found that it was Queenie crying in her bed, refusing even to be pacified by Barbara's tender comfort.
She had missed her nurse, and receiving no answer to her whispered inquiries about her brother, her resolution had broken down, and she had begun a little wail of woe, which had brought Barbara to her side, just as Lucia heard it too.
Lucia lifted her from her bed, and soothed her in her arms, telling her that Evan was a little better, and that nurse was with him, till the sobs ceased, and the little arms clung round her neck, not only frightenedly, but lovingly.
"Tell me some more," said Queenie.
"Look at the stars, Queenie; see how bright the sky is! The moon is under that cloud, but the stars are shining up in heaven so beautifully. When we are sad, and look at the stars, it ought to make us happy. Shall I tell you why?"
"But nurse says Evan is goin' to die!" said Queenie convulsively. "She said it was Ivor's fault, and—I don't like havin' Evan die!"
"No, dear. But do you know, Queenie, why I want you to look at the stars?"
Queenie gave a quick little glance upward, and then hid her face again in her sister's neck.
"It is because they tell us of God's great love, Queenie! He holds the stars up in the sky, and He holds Evan in His hand too; so we must trust Him, Queenie, because He loves us so much."
Queenie's little lips kissed her over and over, and her arms clung confidingly round her.
"I won't cry any more," she whispered.
"That is right, darling. May I put you back into bed now?"
"Yes."
"I will come and tell you if the doctor says Evan is better. And you can ask God, Queenie. There is nothing so good as telling God."
So Queenie nestled into her pillow, closed her eyes with a peaceful look, and Lucia crept downstairs again, her own heart comforted and cheered.
After the doctor had looked in late that night, Lucia kept her promise, and bent over her little sister's crib.
"Darling!" she whispered.
"Yes?" said Queenie, rousing herself quickly.
"God has made Evan better; the doctor says there is a wonderful change in him these last two hours."
"I'm so d'lad," whispered the child back. "I 'fought He would, Lucia."
EVAN IS GLAD.
EVAN'S illness made a great impression on the little community at the cottage. It was many days before he was considered well enough to join his brother and sisters, and even then he was very weak, and was carried out under the trees, not caring to exert himself in the least.
Ivor hovered round him, trying to show by his tender attentions how much he regretted his share in the trouble they had got into.
One morning, as Lucia sat by his side with her painting, she saw he was looking at her very earnestly, and bent down to him to hear what he had to say.
"Lucia," he said, looking rather abstractedly up into the tree, and through it to the blue sky beyond, "I've been thinking perhaps we ought to send back that little tricycle, and not use it any more."
"Why, dear?" she answered.
"Because it would serve us right for being so deceitful."
"Yes, I see that; but I am sure you are sorry without any further punishment. You have suffered enough, poor Evan."
"I am sorry; and though I have been very ill, do you know, Lucia, I'm really glad we were not let go in our naughtiness."
"Are you, Evan?"
"Yes, I've had time to think, and you have been so kind, and that night when my head ached so dreadfully, do you remember what you said?"
"Not exactly. I remember I sat by you and tried to comfort you."
"You said, 'Jesus says to you, Evan,—
"'"Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out."'"
"I remember that," answered Lucia.
"And I thought I had never come, and I wished I had, and then all in a moment something seemed to say to me, 'Why don't you come now?' and so, Lucia, I came."
"Oh, Evan, that is worth all the accident and trouble, if it has led you to Him!"
Evan nodded. His eyes were full, but he spoke again quickly, winking away his tears with an effort.
"Lucia, you thought it was a great bother to come home to take care of us, didn't you?"
Lucia started and coloured.
"I only felt that for a very little while, Evan. God taught me better than that very soon."
"Well, you never guessed that you could help us so nicely to be good, did you?"
"No," said Lucia humbly.
"So you will not be so sorry now—"
"I am not sorry at all. I am very glad."
"I'm glad," responded Evan heartily. "I never thought how nice it would be to have the Lord Jesus for my very own Saviour."
So the last cloud rolled from Lucia's heart, and that day, as she sat on her favourite wall at the edge of the wood to watch the sunset, she could not but think over the past, and thank God for His kindness in saving her from herself.
When the children were all in bed that night, she wrote to her cousins a brighter letter than she had been able to frame before. At the end she said—
"I was dreadfully unwilling, as you know, to take up my 'trust;' but oh, I cannot tell you how good God has been to me in it, nor how undeserving I feel of all His love. I should like to tell you this, because I am afraid I did not give you a very good idea of what a Christian should be like."
That letter sped on its way. It had cost Lucia a great deal to write it, but it set her cousins thinking, and bore fruit after many days.
Emmie took it to her mother, but did not get much sympathy from her about it.
"I am sorry to see her more religious," she said. "We must have her here again, and make her forget it."
So Emmie carried it to the housekeeper, thinking she would be sure to understand. And so she did.
"It's the best news I've heard for many a day," she exclaimed heartily. "Oh, Miss Emmie, if you did but know it!"
"Perhaps I shall," Emmie answered softly. "I am not satisfied as I am, that's certain!"
"Those that seek Him shall find, dear Miss Emmie!" said the housekeeper earnestly.
BARBARA'S GIFT.
THE tricycle, however, was returned without any more use. Ivor could not make up his mind to get on it again. "Garge" was commissioned to take it back to Windsor, pay the hire, and for the slight damage done, and there the matter ended.
But when Evan was a little better, the donkey carriage was found of the greatest use, and many hours were spent in the woods, Lucia taking her sketching and Barbara her book and her dog.
For Barbara had found at the cottage two things which gave her intense delight—a puppy which "Garge" was rearing for her father, and a cupboard of books which she discovered one wet day, and from which she brought volume after volume, reading aloud to her brothers and sisters when they could listen, or lying in luxurious loneliness on the wet days in the empty drawing room, buried in some tale of travel such as her heart loved. Thus the time flew away, and the three months were almost gone.
Letters were coming from their father and mother, speaking of their speedy and happy return, which would be very, very soon, and telling too of renewed health and hope for the future.
As Lucia looked out of her window one evening, and remembered the thoughts with which she had stood there three months ago, she could only fall on her knees and thank God that He had not allowed her to go on in her impatience and rebellion. He had enabled her to yield her will to Him, and then had given her back a hundredfold in happiness and peace. For when she looked round at the change in her step-brothers and sisters, her heart melted with thankfulness.
One morning, soon after breakfast, a telegram was put into her hand.
"They are coming to-day—to-day!" she exclaimed, as nurse and children crowded round her. "They are coming here. They ask if we can make room for them."
"Make room for them?" echoed everybody. "Why, if we could squeeze flat—"
"I must telegraph back," began Lucia. "Where do they date from? Why, from Newhaven. They are there, waiting for my answer! Oh, mother! Oh, father!"
And as she put her arm round Evan and supported him to a seat, she realized as never before what a care the care of them had been, and what a relief it was to know it was over.
What a busy morning they had. How Evan even tried to help by cutting the frill for the ham and running the tape through some fresh window-curtains. Lucia noticed that in his eager expectation, some of the fragile look went out of his face, and a sweet, gentle brightness took its place.
At last all was done. Everything was looked over for the last time, and the children decided that nothing was wanting for the perfection of a welcome.
"We will go into the dining room and listen for the wheels," said Ivor. "Evan is there, and we'll be with him."
But the younger girls preferred to go round the house once more with nurse. Barbara was glad to be left alone with Lucia; so Ivor found himself alone with his brother.
"Evan!" he began eagerly. "Do you think father and mother will want to know what we spent it on?"
"Yes," said Evan gravely; "and I mean to tell them directly I have a chance. I shan't burst out with it, but no more underhand doings for me!"
"Oh, no—I didn't mean that—!"
"Ivor, if we belong to the Lord Jesus we have to leave behind all that is wrong."
Ivor nodded earnestly. "I mean to—indeed I do, Evan. I have begun."
Meanwhile Barbara and Lucia were in the drawing room, holding another conversation quite as particular in its results as that.
"They cannot come for an hour at the earliest," said Lucia, looking round the room for something to do.
"Can't you finish that painting? I'll get your apron," coaxed Barbara. "There is time; you said an hour would do it—"
"So I did. Then I will, Barbara, now all is done."
The little girl stood by her in unusual silence, watching her busy brush, but not chatting as she often did.
An hour! The time was slipping away, and before it was over, she must get something said.
At last she flung her arm round her sister's shoulder, and with the other hand poured some bright coins into her lap.
"Whatever is that?" asked Lucia. For somehow the pressure round her neck told that Barbara felt what she was doing very much.
"You know about that money father and mother sent?"
"Yes—"
"They will think I have spent it, and I haven't."
"They will not mind, dear, about spending it if you do not want to."
"But I do want to. You know that book I've been reading by myself all the last days? Well, I never thought of those sort of things before. It's a missionary-book; it tells about the little girls who are married so young in India, and are shut up in houses with no pleasures, no employments, no books, no work, no love, no anything! And, oh, Lucia, I thought—"
Lucia looked up in her face with swimming eyes.
"I thought," pursued Barbara, hiding her face on her sister's shoulder, "that I had so much; and that if I could do anything—I know this isn't much; but, Lucia, they want so much—money, and people to go, and lots of things. But I thought if I sent this now, when I am old enough I might go!"
"Oh, Barbara!"
"Don't you like me to? You would want to go if you had read how sad and desolate they are without ever having heard of a Saviour, and how perfectly different it all is when they know about Him!"
Lucia turned round and clasped the little missionary in her arms.
"Oh, Barbara, Barbara!" she said lovingly.
"You don't think father and mother will mind?"
"Mind losing you by-and-by, do you mean?"
"No; about the money?"
"I feel sure they will not."
And then there was the sound of wheels, and in another moment their father had sprung out of the carriage and was walking up the path almost with his old step.
What an evening that was! How the mother and father looked at their children's faces, wondering to see in them such a chastened gladness as they had never noticed before. Was it Evan's illness? What was it that had made the change?
Barbara, as she gave her mother a good-night hug, gave her the key.
"Mother, we've all been getting nearer to Jesus! Lucia has helped us ever so nicely. She said she'd got nearer herself."
And Lucia went to bed that night with a thankful heart, glowing from her mother's tender words of thanks; for had she not received, even now, more than she had yielded?
The next morning her step-father said at breakfast, "Oh, Lucia, did your mother tell you that you are to go back to Yorkshire and finish that visit? It seems they cannot be satisfied without it; so you are to be off as soon as possible—eh, mother? Now we are home!"
And that was how Lucia's Trust ended. At least, did it end there?