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WHERE?
MRS. ELLIOT sat for some time after her little party had left her, thinking of many things, and when she began to feel lonely she made her way down to the cottage, which was about half-way to the shore.
The woman was busy preparing their tea, which had been ordered when they left the pony there in the morning, and Mrs. Elliot therefore sat down on the bench outside the door and opened the book she had brought.
When she looked up, after an hour or more, she felt astonished that the young people had not returned.
She went into the old-fashioned kitchen, and found the woman setting the cream and butter upon the table.
"They are late, Mrs. Mansbridge," said Mrs. Elliot; "but they will soon be here, I expect. What a pleasant room this is."
"Yes, ma'am; but since my man left me, it has not seemed the same."
"I can well believe that," answered Mrs. Elliot. "Is it long since you lost him?"
"Six months," answered the woman; "and he left me with a day-old baby."
"Oh, how very sad for you."
"One thing that comforts me is, he kissed it before he went. He held it in his arms; he had so longed for it; and then he said, as he gave it back to me, 'I don't know if I shall ever see thee again, my love; but tell the little man that his father loved him and blessed him.'"
"How was it?" asked Mrs. Elliot, thinking of the long weary illness of her own husband.
"He never came back alive, ma'am. A storm came on, and one of the spars of his boat broke, and in half-an-hour, he was—'at home,' ma'am."
"At home?" asked Mrs. Elliot. "Ah, yes, I know what you mean."
"And though this is not like home without him," said the woman, "yet I can wait; my Father has made me willing, ma'am."
Just then a sailor boy was seen hurrying up the hill. He beckoned to Mrs. Mansbridge through the lattice window, and she went out.
When she re-entered her face was very pale, and she came up gently to Mrs. Elliot.
"There has been an accident, ma'am," she said softly; "but a boat has been gone some time with the young gentleman."
"What has happened?" said Mrs. Elliot, starting towards the door.
"They were overtaken by the tide at the Caves. But take courage, dear lady; there's One above who rules all things."
"Is there any hope? Tell me truly," she breathed.
The woman took her hand. "There is some hope; but the tide flows in very quickly in that little bay, and rises very high too. Still—he has been gone some time, with a boat and two sailors."
Mrs. Elliot mechanically walked out of the cottage, and turned towards the shore. Mrs. Mansbridge looked after her with pitying eyes; and while she put on a large fire, and set blankets to warm, she murmured half aloud:
"O Lord, it's easy to trust Thee in fair weather; but when the storm comes—And yet it is in the storm that Thou art most near; and Thou canst say, 'Peace, be still.'"
* * * * * *
When Wilmot once more stood on the clear sand at the other side of the projecting cliff, so near to them all and yet divided by such a gulf, he rushed at the utmost speed to which he could force his limbs, towards the few fishermen's cottages which he could descry about a mile along the shore.
Drawn up above high water mark were two or three boats, and when he could make these out he took courage.
How weary the time seemed. He almost felt as if he were going backwards instead of forwards. At last the boats were reached; but no men were to be seen.
He shouted with all his voice, and ran up towards the cottages. Two sailors, who were smoking at their garden-gates, answered to his call, and came running down to him.
"A boat—quick—" was all he could gasp; and understanding in their precarious trade that there was danger, they quickly unfastened one, and pushed her down into the water.
Wilmot jumped in after them, and they set off. Now while the oars splashed evenly and strongly, he had plenty of time to think, and plenty of time to explain. But of explanation, he only said half-a-dozen words, and sat back at first exhausted.
His soaking, shoeless, and coatless condition, and the signs of extreme exertion which his manner indicated, showed the men, without much telling, that he considered there was urgent need of speed. Besides they knew of the treacherous tide.
"I say, master," said the man, handing him over a rough coat, "you put that on, or you'll have an illness, as sure as sure."
Wilmot roused himself, and asked if they had another pair of oars; and on being told there was, he pulled them out, and set himself to help forward the little craft; so nearer and nearer came the jutting cliff, and lower and lower sank the sun.
The men strained every nerve to push on; and Wilmot, while he aided them, could not help glancing over his shoulder every now and then to see how near they were getting.
At last they reached the cliff, and were under the projecting rocks, and were actually turning the corner. There lay the little bay before them, with the setting sun lighting up every crevice of the steep rocks, and sparkling on the water as it rolled inwards.
But as the boat came well round the point, and Wilmot could scan the length of the cliffs, there was no row of faces to welcome him; nothing on which his eye could rest but a piece of floating muslin; for the waves washed up deep and sullen against the rocks.
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FLOATING OUT TO SEA.
AS Hope watched her brother plunge into the sea on the other side of the rocks, she felt forsaken indeed.
She turned landwards, and dragged her heavy soaking clothes after her through the surf, till she stood once more beside the frightened group.
"Wilmot sent you all a message," she said sadly; "and before we get more anxious I will give it to you. I wish we all understood more about it."
"Take of some of your wet things, dear Hope," said Nellie, who had been already wringing her dress. "Can we not each contribute some dry garment; we should not miss it, and it is dreadful for you to wait two or three hours in this state."
"I am not the least cold," said Hope; "and I will walk about. No, dear, I can't change, it would be such a fuss; and I am so anxious."
Nellie did not press her further, and Hope drew them back against the cliffs.
"This is Wilmot's message: He told us to pray; and he said, 'Tell them Christ is able to save to the uttermost.'"
The young faces all turned towards her, and Hope felt bitterly that she knew not how to comfort them.
"Shall we pray?" she asked.
They knelt down on the sand, and Hope buried her face in her hands; but there was silence, interrupted only by Maude's and the little ones' sobs.
At last a gentle voice broke the stillness.
"Heavenly Father, Thou who rulest the raging of the sea, who stillest the waves when they arise, look down upon us now, and send peace into our troubled hearts. May we be delivered, if it is Thy holy will; and if not, if these waves are to come nigh to us, and end our earthly life, oh! For Jesus Christ's sake, may each one of us here be willing from our hearts to accept Thy salvation; and may the waves but introduce us into Thy eternal glory. We ask Thee, in the name of Jesus our Lord, to hear us, and bless us, and be very near to us. Amen."
When they rose from their knees, Mary slipped her little hand into Nellie's, and Hope gave her a warm kiss. "Thank you, dear," she whispered.
"Now," said Nellie cheerfully, "we must all take courage. Mr. Elliot cannot be here for a long time, and perhaps the water will reach us before he comes. But let us remember that nothing can hurt us without our Father's permission, and that even if we are surrounded by water, He can yet deliver us. But, all of you, it is a solemn time, and unless you know Jesus is your Saviour, I should advise you all to seek Him;
"'He can save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him.'"
The little party were very silent. The solemnity of a possible grave, so near, so dreadful, was enough to awe them, and beyond a passing question or conjecture hardly a word was spoken.
The water flowed in rapidly; the ground was very level, and though the sea had seemed at first an immense distance off, they were astonished to find that it crept nearer and nearer in such a way as to leave but little hope that Wilmot could get back to them in time.
In vain their eyes looked upwards to see if there were any ledges on which they might climb. The few there were, were far above their reach. One small place, however, was discovered, and on this they stood little Mary.
"She is mamma's only comfort," said Maude; and then she burst into tears, and hid her face against Mary's dress.
A steamer now came in sight round the point, but very far away. They waved their handkerchiefs wildly, feeling it was of no use, and strained their eyes for any response.
None seemed to come; for the steamer passed gradually before them till the other point hid her from view, and then Maude suddenly exclaimed, with a shriek, which shook the nerves of the whole party:
"The water has reached us! Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?"
"We must pray," said Nellie, looking up towards the blue sky, "each one for ourselves."
It was an awful moment, that first wetting of their feet; worse than even when the water was up to their knees.
How intently they gazed at the corner of the rocks round which Wilmot must come!
"Halloa!" called a voice from the other side of them, and there, to their right, was a young man seated in a canoe.
"I say!" he called. "Are you in danger, or only doing it for fun?"
His eyes scanned the cliffs; not an opening of any sort; he looked in their faces, and knew it was no fun, even before they had time to answer:
"Oh, can you save us, or do anything for us?"
"If I come near," he answered steadily, "you will not all rush in and swamp the canoe?"
"No," shouted Hope, "not one of us will move."
"No, we promise," answered all.
"There is no time to be lost," said the young fellow; "but I can only take one of you at once, except the little ones. Which is it to be? Be quick, and come out beyond this first wave."
Fortunately it was tolerably calm, and in this little bay there was only a swell that day.
Hope and Nellie looked at each other, and then at Mary.
"The youngest first," said Nellie.
They sprang forward, and lifted her down, and waded in with her to the canoe, taking also the next little boy with them.
The young man directed them to place the children as near to him as possible—in front of him and behind him—and telling them to hold on tight, in a moment he was paddling off as fast as he dared.
Hope and Nellie retreated to the cliff, and told Alice to be ready; for it was tacitly understood that the next in age was to go first.
"Why did he turn that way?" said George. "It is nearer to the village to the left."
They could not tell; and the minutes seemed hours till the canoe could come round to them again.
When he was seen returning, a shout of joy broke from them, for they had not expected him so soon.
"There is a large rock just round there," he said, as he came near, and they placed poor Alice beside him.
He was off again in a moment, and still the water kept on steadily rising. It was now to their middles.
"He cannot rescue us all," said George bravely; "you girls must go first."
"We will keep to ages, George," said Nellie firmly, "at least as far as I am concerned, till it comes to my turn, and then I should like Hope to go first. Let us have no confusion or dispute."
"Why should I go first?" asked Hope, looking imploringly at her.
"Because I am sure of going 'there,'" said Nellie; "and oh, Hope, I don't mind!"
As they stood now by the rocks, the swell rippled against them, and almost took them off their feet. They held each others' hands; but it began to be apparent that all could not be saved.
"Now, George," said Hope, when the canoe was seen returning; "Nellie is quite right; you go at once."
"I say!" called the young man, "I'm afraid I dare not take you tall ones on my boat! I had great work with the last when we got into the waves at the corner, and an upset would be very serious. But if you could take hold of the sternpost, it would keep you up perfectly, and it is not far."
He looked anxiously in their faces, fearing this would be considered sad news.
"I can swim a little," said George; "I think I might hold on to your rope, and then Maude could hold on to the stern. You would be back quicker for the others by taking two."
"All right," answered he, throwing his painter to him, and coming close to Maude, showed her where to hold; "just let yourself float easily," he added, "but hold firmly; don't be frightened."
"Keep up a brave heart," he said to the two who were left behind; "I will come as soon as ever I can."
"We are sure of that," said Nellie gratefully; "thank you if we never—"
"I say!" he shouted back, "can you two float?"
"Yes," shouted Hope in return.
"Then float, and don't lose your presence of mind; you will be saved, I hope!"
"I am off my feet," said Nellie hurriedly, holding tighter to Hope's arm.
"Have you courage to try to float?" said Hope; "for I too shall be out of my depth soon."
"Good-bye, then, dear Hope," said Nellie, giving her a kiss. "Look to Jesus; He knows and cares."
She spread her arms and fell backwards, committing herself not only to the deep, but to His care who she knew was "a very present help in time of trouble."
At first her agony was lest her courage should not hold out. Just floating for a few moments with a sandy shore two or three feet beneath was a very different feeling from floating on the wide ocean, drifting, it might be, out to sea.
But Nellie's habit of trust came to her aid, and she opened her eyes and looked once more calmly and trustfully up to her God.
How long she floated, she never knew.
Presently a sound of oars fell on her ears, she felt sure, above the noise of the rushing sea; and, still looking up, she felt a shadow come between her and the sunlight; her eyes were met by those of Wilmot Elliot; she was grasped by a strong grip, and lifted out of the water, and placed in the boat by the side of a dripping, shivering Hope.
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ADA'S FRIEND.
WHILE Nellie was spending a happy time at Fairleigh, two girls sat side by side, bending over their respective desks in London. They were intent on their lessons, and it was only when the teacher had shut her book that either of them raised her head.
"Ada," whispered the elder of the two, "we had such a jolly time last night."
"Did you?" answered Ada, leaning towards her, and looking interested.
"Yes; I wish you had been there. I say, Ada, I shall come and see your mamma; shall I?"
"If you like," answered Ada, just a little doubtfully.
"Why, you are a goose, Ada. Of course I shall like, and she will like me, too, I daresay; and I'll persuade her to let you come and see me."
Ada's eyes sparkled.
"No talking," interposed the teacher, and Clara May and Ada hastily opened their exercise-books, and proceeded industriously.
When school was over for that day, Clara followed Ada to the dressing-room, and announced her intention of coming home with her that afternoon.
Ada would have hesitated had she dared, as she would have preferred to ask her mamma's permission; but Clara had already laughed at her in a good-humoured way once or twice about "asking mamma;" and as this could not be anything the least underhand, she let it take its course, though secretly somewhat anxious as to what mamma would think of her friend.
So when they left the school door, they turned Ada's way, and soon arrived at No. 8.
"Here is my friend Clara May, mamma," said Ada, entering the drawing room, where her mamma was at work.
Clara May came forward and shook hands readily. She was quite used to good society, and had but little bashfulness. Nevertheless when she looked into Mrs. Arundel's face, a new feeling came over her, and instead of at once laughingly putting her request, she began to talk of the hot weather, and of how glad she was Ada and she were in the same class.
Mrs. Arundel chatted pleasantly to her, and Clara felt it more and more difficult to say what she wanted. At last she rather hurriedly began—
"Oh, Mrs. Arundel! Would you let Ada come to see us? Mamma said she should be so pleased to know her."
Ada looked anxiously at her mother, and Mrs. Arundel answered—
"If your mamma likes, dear, Ada may come to call on you at home."
"Oh, thank you," said Clara; "then you may, Ada, and I shall take you home to-morrow after school."
Clara soon after took her leave, and Ada and Mrs. Arundel were left alone.
"You have mentioned Clara May often, Ada, but I did not picture her quite what she is."
"How, mamma?"
"I hope she will be a good friend for you, my child."
"Why, yes, mamma, I hope so. She is a very nice girl, and all the others pay her a good deal of attention, and quite envy me her friendship."
"Well, dear, I only want you to be on your guard; she seems pleasant enough."
Mrs. Arundel spoke somewhat grudgingly, and Ada thought her unnecessarily cautious.
The proposed call the next day, however, came to nothing, for Ada was detained at home with a bad cold; but the following week, she received an invitation to spend the evening at her friend's home in Eaton Square.
"May I go, mamma?" asked Ada, while her mother was reading the note.
"What does 'spend the evening' mean?" asked Mrs. Arundel.
"I hardly know, but I should think they would be alone; but I can ask Clara."
When she did ask Clara, she said, "It was just a few friends, nothing much, and you must come early, so that we can have a talk first."
Ada's head was now full of what she should wear. She did not like to ask Clara, and before the eventful day, was quite worried with the subject. At last it was decided that she should put on her best Sunday dress. Her mamma would have advised her white muslin, but Ada thought it would be ridiculous if there were only one or two young ladies, and Mrs. Arundel did not press the matter.
"You must have gloves, Ada," said her mother.
"How horrid!" exclaimed Ada. "I do declare I shall feel so stuck-up."
Arthur, who was doing his lessons at the table, looked up and laughed.
Ada coloured with annoyance.
"How I should like to peep in on you, and see you sitting as fine as possible, clasping your elegant gloves."
"Hush, dear," said his mother. "Do not tease; your turn will come for this sort of thing some day."
"Not I," answered Arthur, who, boy-like, supposed that he would never have to conform to the conventionalities of life.
The day came at last, and Ada went to school as usual; but her mind was filled with thoughts of her coming treat. She met Clara just as she was entering the class-room, and looked into her face with questioning eyes. But Clara seemed exactly as usual, and was pre-occupied with her lessons. She hardly gave Ada a nod, but hurried off to her desk, and Ada followed with a sense of disappointment.
The day's work was unusually heavy, and the two girls had hardly time to exchange a word. Clara did just say, at luncheon time, "You won't forget to-night, Ada?"
"Oh no," answered Ada, wondering that Clara should think it likely.
When Dr. Arundel came home from his afternoon rounds, before the carriage went to the stables, Ada was to be conveyed to Eaton Square.
She came out into the hall at the sound of her father's latch-key, and he kissed her fondly.
"It seems like sending you into the world alone, my dear," he said, as he placed her in the carriage. "It is not like just going to see our own friends."
Ada was pretty well accustomed to the lighted streets, and was much more busy with her own thoughts than with outside things. She almost started when the carriage drew up at her friend's door.
Clara ran down to meet her, and led the way upstairs to her bedroom.
"You are nice and early," she said, "and I have not begun to dress yet."
As they entered the room Ada's eyes fell upon a fresh white dress spread out upon the bed. Her heart sank down, and she felt cold and miserable. Why had she not done as her mamma advised? She took off her cloak in silence; and when her friend turned round, she fancied there was a little surprise in her glance. Ada felt wretched; but though she tried to throw it off, could think of none of their usual topics of conversation.
Clara showed her the little "nick-nacks" of her room, and then told her who was coming; and Ada found that "a few friends" meant to Clara a very different affair from what it did to her.
"I'm afraid it is quite a party," she said at last, as her friend lifted the pretty dress from the bed.
"Oh, no! Not a real party; but we shall have some jolly fun. Don't be frightened, Ada; I gave you credit for more pluck."
"I am afraid I shall not be dressed enough," said Ada, flushing crimson; "I had no idea you expected so many. Do let me go home, Clara; it would be far better."
"Nonsense! But look here, Ada, I've a light silk dress here that would do, I believe, for you. Let me try it on you."
"Oh, no," said Ada, shrinking back. "I should not like to do that, Clara."
"Just as you like," answered Clara, shrugging her shoulders and looking vexed; "it would not have been so very dreadful, Ada."
Clara was too polite to add what was on the tip of her tongue—"I should have liked my friend to look as well as possible."
Ada felt somewhat taken in, and an aggrieved sensation came over her. She felt somehow that Clara had kept back the true nature of the party lest Mrs. Arundel should decline the invitation.
She however tried with all her might to throw off her depression, and busied herself about her friend's toilet with skilful fingers.
"You are ready now, are you not?" she said, looking with admiration at the graceful girl who stood before her.
"Yes; many thanks. Now shall we go down?"
There was no one in the large drawing room when they entered, and they wandered about looking at the pictures and portrait albums. The rooms seemed rather chill and gloomy to Ada, and she could not forbear a slight shiver.
"It is cool to-day, isn't it?" said Clara; "but we are always afraid of having a fire, because the rooms get so very hot with the gas and the people. Let us have some music while we are waiting."
At this moment, Mrs. May entered, and greeted Ada kindly; and then Mr. May came in, with a pretty girl carrying a heap of music.
"Oh, Clara," said she, "do come and help me find that song Captain McArthur wanted me to sing the other night."
"Which?" said Clara, without seeming to care; then suddenly bethinking herself, "This is Ada Arundel, Marion; my friend, you know."
Marion shook hands, and Ada had an impression that she looked her over from head to foot.
Clara went to the other side of the room and turned over the music with her sister; and though Ada was talking to Mrs. May, she could not help watching the girls; nor could she think it was only her fancy, when she saw Clara shrug her shoulders, that she was speaking to her sister about her.
The guests now began to arrive, and Clara was soon taken up with their entertainment. Ada found herself nearly forgotten, and was only introduced to one more person the whole evening. This time Clara did not say "my friend," but rather ungraciously added, "one of our girls."
But for this introduction Ada would have been nearly forsaken.
Mrs. May spoke to her once or twice, but otherwise she was left to herself. After a few songs, dancing was proposed, and everyone brightened up.
Clara came to her, and said, rather carelessly, "Do you dance, Ada?" and on Ada's shake of the head she turned away, and was soon flitting past in her airy dress.
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"You don't know those people very well, my dear,"said the lady who was sitting by her.
"You don't know these people very well, my dear?" said the lady to whom she had been introduced, who was sitting by her.
"No," said Ada, while tears of vexation gathered in her eyes; "I did not know, ma'am, that it was to be a party."
"Never mind that," said the lady cheerily; "at least if you mean your dress, my dear. We should try and look at things from above."
"From above?" asked Ada, looking up in the placid face, and feeling at once a sense of relief.
"Yes, my dear; these things are not worth all the thought and trouble we give ourselves over them."
"That's like my mamma," said Ada; "but—"
"Yes, I understand. There are a great many 'buts,' Miss Arundel, but the less we think of them, the happier we shall be. So your mamma advises you to look at things from above?"
"Not in those words," said Ada, smiling; "but she tells us to look at things in the light of eternity."
"Ah! And so we should, dear. It will not make much difference then whether we were at a party in Eaton Square, with a dress just a little too heavy. I am staying here with my niece, Mrs. May, and when I came downstairs to-night, rather wishing there were no party, I did not think I should meet a little body who would be glad of my old company."
Ada looked up reassured, and then she and the sweet old lady fell into one of those pleasant talks which rest the spirit, and before Ada knew how time was passing, Clara touched her on the shoulder, and whispered, "Your carriage is come for you, but you needn't go yet."
"Oh, I must!" said Ada, rising quickly.
"Hush, don't make a stir; nobody thinks of moving yet, and it is not even supper-time. You must have some supper."
"I must not keep the carriage. Please, dear Clara, let me go."
"Well then, if you wish it, just slip out by this door; I will bid mamma good-night for you; it will never do to make a commotion. Good-night; you will not mind my not coming up with you, because I am engaged for this dance."
So Ada whispered a good-bye to Miss Dean, and soon found herself stepping into the carriage. What was her surprise to find her father seated in it.
"Oh, dear papa, how kind of you!" she exclaimed.
"I had to be out, dear, and I came round for you myself."
"Is it very late?" asked Ada.
"No; about eleven. Have you had a pleasant evening?"
Ada burst into tears; and then, laying her head on her father's shoulder, she said:
"Oh, papa, I have been so wretched and so stupid."
"What has happened, dear?"
"Nothing at all, papa; and that is the very vexation. It was a dancing party, and I was not well enough dressed, and so Clara rather slighted me, and I thought she left me to myself, and it was very uncomfortable."
"It certainly was unkind if she forsook you for such a reason," said Dr. Arundel indignantly; "but how came you to make a friend who could serve you so, Ada?"
"I didn't know," faltered Ada.
"Had you any idea it was to be such a party?"
"Not the least, papa."
Dr. Arundel was silent for some minutes, and then he said, "It is very important what friends we make, dear. A good friend or a bad friend may influence our whole lives. Did you ever ask God about her, Ada?"
"I don't think I ever did, papa," she answered sorrowfully.
"What made you like her at first?"
"She was always so pleasant and gay, and I do like fun, you know, papa; and she used to tell us about her picnics and parties, and as she liked me, I was rather—you know what I mean, papa—rather proud to be singled out by her."
"I know it all, dear," he answered tenderly.
Ada nestled closer to him. "Dear papa, I feel that I have been so thoughtless and wrong, and I know it is my own fault that has brought me into this trouble."
"Poor little Ada!"
"I know, papa, Clara did not mean beforehand to be unkind; but I can't help thinking that she knew you would not have liked me to go to such a party."
"Very likely, dear; and here we are at home. But one word, dear Ada. I am not sorry this has happened before you got entangled more. Such a friend might have led you into very serious trouble. I thank God we have discovered it thus soon."
They got out, and Ada found her mamma had already gone upstairs, so she only gave her a kiss at her door, and went up to her own room at the top of the house.
All her vexed, disappointed feeling had now vanished, and only sorrow remained that she should have tried in even a small degree to walk, as it were, alone. A line of a hymn they sometimes sang kept running in her head; and when she laid it wearily upon her pillow, she kept on repeating, till sleep overtook her—
"Choose Thou for me my friends,My sickness or my health;Choose Thou my cares for me,My poverty or wealth."Not mine, not mine the choiceIn things or great or small;Be Thou my guide, my strength,My wisdom, and my all."
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SISTER AND BROTHER.
"WELL, Ada, how did the gloves go off?" asked Arthur at breakfast next morning.
"Pretty well," answered Ada seriously. "I'll tell you all about it when we start for school."
Arthur looked up in her face inquiringly; but there was a gravity there so unusual that he felt touched, and forbore to take the opportunity of teasing her, which he would otherwise have done.
When they ran down the steps of No. S together, and set off towards their respective schools, Ada began at once to explain about the difficulties of the previous evening, and she received the fullest sympathy.
"I should cut her dead this morning," he advised.
"I do not think I shall," answered Ada; "but of course, Arthur, I can never feel quite the same again. Not that I bear her a grudge; I really do forgive her for the pain she caused me; but I was mistaken in her, and I can't feel the same."
"I should think not," said Arthur; "but I never did admire that girl, she's far too grand to suit my fancy."
"Oh, that's nothing; she's not grand at all; there are lots of girls grander at our school. She was one of the popular girls, and I believe, Arthur," added Ada, lowering her tone, "that I liked being her friend for that reason."
"A very silly reason," said Arthur, in his inexperience.
"And now I'm friendless," said Ada, hopelessly.
"You'll find another."
"No; I shall never trust my own judgment again."
Arthur whistled; and presently they came to the corner where they usually parted.
"Isn't there something about 'I will guide thee with mine eye,' Ada?" he said thoughtfully.
Ada nodded; but her eyes were tearful, and she hurried on towards school, feeling rather choked.
That morning Clara May felt very uncomfortable when she thought of meeting her friend at school. She hoped Ada would have left the dressing-room before she went in; but in a moment became aware she was there, at the other side, changing her damp boots.
When Ada raised her head, and saw who it was, she advanced directly across the room, looking frankly into her face, and said:
"Clara, I wanted to tell you that I was so sorry I was not suitably dressed last night; but my excuse must be that I had no idea it was a party."
"Oh, don't think anything more about it," answered Clara, looking away in some confusion; "it did not matter."
"No," answered Ada quietly, "not so much as we are inclined to think. I will try and forget it."
Clara looked at her curiously; but Ada said no more. She gathered her books together and hastened into class.
She never again alluded to the subject, nor could Clara detect any difference in her; but gradually from that time, they ceased to be on such intimate terms; and Ada grew much happier than she had been for some months.
At this time Arthur was extremely considerate towards her. He had been touched by her friendless condition, and in his boyish way, did his best to make up for the loss. Nellie's being away had increased Ada's feeling of loneliness, and she looked forward to her sister's return with a sense of relief and comfort which she herself wondered at.
One day she and Arthur were sitting in the drawing room. The weather was very hot, and little Tom had been carried down, and was lying on the sofa. He looked very frail and delicate, and his thin little fingers were playing with each other listlessly. A book which he had been reading lay half closed beside him, and he seemed very weary.
"I was thinking, Tom," said Ada, "whether you would like to learn to do wool-work?"
"I don't know," answered Tom, turning his head a little.
"You got tired of the knitting mamma taught you."
"Yes; I really am sick of that."
"Well, then, I'll go up and fetch a piece of canvas, and some of my wools."
Tom lay quiet while she was gone, only sighing deeply once or twice.
"Does anything hurt you?" asked Arthur.
"No-o!" he answered. "But I'm so tired of lying here;" then quickly adding, "I don't want to grumble, Arthur; but of course the days do seem long."
"I am sure they must," said the strong boy, stretching his legs, and thinking for a moment what it would be to him not to be able to get up and do as he wished. He looked pityingly at Tom, but said nothing.
"Here you are, Ada! Have you got the canvas?" asked Tom, raising his head.
"Yes, here it is. Now look, Tom; watch while I do a straight row, and then you shall work a few stitches."
Tom lost his listlessness and became interested; very soon, he caught the way to do it, and went on by himself quite absorbed, while Arthur and Ada talked.
"I wonder what Frank Compton will be like?" said Ada.
"Like other boys, I suppose."
"It will be a great change for us to have him here."
"Yes, something a little lively; but what a long time mamma is gone to the station."
"She will soon be here," said Arthur, glancing at the clock; "it is nearly one o'clock now."
Soon after this a cab stopped at the door, and they both hurried to the window to see their visitor alight.
He was a tall youth of sixteen, the son of a friend in Scotland, and had just returned from his first voyage in a merchant vessel. His father had written to Dr. Arundel, asking permission for him to spend a few days with them, until Mr. Compton should have time to come up to London and join his son.
Mrs. Arundel came upstairs, followed by the boy, who soon made himself at home with the young people.
With ready sailor wit, he amused the whole family. Tom's wool-work was quite cast aside, and his only anxiety became that he should be lifted downstairs on all possible occasions.
Frank neglected no one. He was politeness itself to Mrs. Arundel; pleasant to the servants; kind to Tom; charming to Ada and the little ones; and fraternised constantly with Arthur.
During the mornings, when Ada and Arthur were at school, he often joined Mrs. Arundel and the little ones in the nursery; but sometimes he went out for a stroll in the streets, or to the British Museum, which was near; and when Arthur was free, they were off to see some London sight which was new to the Scotch boy.
Thus the first few days of his visit passed quickly away.
Arthur used generally to come to Ada's room at night to tell her all that had transpired; but one or two evenings the boys were home rather late, and there was not time, and when Ada said, "Come along, Arthur," one evening, he said, "Don't bother, Ada, I'm tired."
Ada looked surprised, but said nothing, and went into her room and shut the door.
"What a milksop you are," exclaimed Frank, laughing, as they entered their joint room; "what with 'mamma,' and what with 'sister Ada,' you have no time to yourself."
"I don't know that I want any," answered Arthur; but he felt angry; he did not know whether it was with Frank, or with Ada, or with himself.
"Of course I am growing up," he mentally argued, "and I have been a good bit with them; but, as Frank says, one cannot be always at Ada's 'beck and call.'"
"What are you in a 'brown stud' about now?" asked Frank.
"Oh, nothing," answered Arthur hastily, while he prepared for bed.
"You're just a wee bit cross, aren't you?" said Frank jestingly.
"I don't know that I am."
"Well, good-night," said Frank, "we won't talk if you are tired."
The words sounded kind in themselves, but there was an ironical ring in them that vexed Arthur, and roused him to make an effort to get rid of his disquieting thoughts; so with a light word or two, he laughed off his ill-humour, and dashed into lively talk.
Somehow the atmosphere of the house was less placid than it had been. Tom grew restless, and, strange as it would seem, he was often called 'the weather-glass of the house.' Any change in the moral atmosphere always affected him, and now, while feverishly anxious to enjoy Frank's company whenever he was there, he did not seem satisfied with it when obtained. He was heard to sigh more after liberty; he brooded more over his affliction, and was often snappish to the little ones and fretful with his mother. These were like the old days to him, before he had found out what Christ had done for him.
What was the cause? He did not wait to ask himself, or if he did, he knew not the answer.
Mrs. Arundel looked tired and worried, and told her husband that things did not seem to go so smoothly as usual. "But then," she added, "I am always tired if Tom is poorly."