The Project Gutenberg eBook ofProsperity's childThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Prosperity's childAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: J. MacfarlaneRelease date: April 6, 2023 [eBook #70482]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: The Religious Tract Society, 1910*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSPERITY'S CHILD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Prosperity's childAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: J. MacfarlaneRelease date: April 6, 2023 [eBook #70482]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: The Religious Tract Society, 1910
Title: Prosperity's child
Author: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: J. Macfarlane
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Illustrator: J. Macfarlane
Release date: April 6, 2023 [eBook #70482]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: The Religious Tract Society, 1910
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSPERITY'S CHILD ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAP.
I. THE WYNDHAM FAMILY
II. THEIR FATHER'S FRIEND
III. DR. REED AT HOME
IV. DR. REED'S OFFER
V. TRAVELLING COMPANIONS
VI. NEWS FROM VIOLET
VII. A MORNING WALK
VIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
IX. ONLY A SERVANT
X. CONCERNING LOTTIE MEDLAND
XI. A CALL ON DR. ELIZABETH
XII. A SOLICITED INVITATION
XIII. THE TORTOISE-SHELL PURSE
XIV. THE EASTER HOLIDAYS
XV. THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SUMMER TERM
XVI. NOT WORTH BOTHERING ABOUT
XVII. EXPLANATIONS
XVIII. AGNES HOSKING APOLOGISES
XIX. ANN'S PROMISE
XX. VIOLET AT HOME AGAIN
XXI. AT TEYMOUTH
XXII. AT STREATHAM
XXIII. UNHAPPY LOTTIE
XXIV. WHAT VIOLET SAW IN A SHOP WINDOW
XXV. LOTTIE'S CONFESSION
XXVI. "NO SENSE OF HONOUR WHATEVER"
XXVII. AGNES HOSKING IN TROUBLE
XXVIII. CONCLUSION
THE November day, which had been dull and chilly, was closing in, and a thick mist was settling over the metropolis, making the traffic in the streets slow and difficult, and causing those whose business lay in the city no small anxiety as to how they would reach their various suburban homes that night; for, as was patent to everybody, in a very short while all London would be enveloped in a dense fog.
In the sitting-room of a certain small villa at Streatham, a family group was assembled around the fire, talking and laughing. It comprised, Mrs. Wyndham and her five children—Ruth and Violet, aged fifteen and fourteen respectively; Madge, who was twelve; and Frank and Billy, who were twins of not quite ten years old. The gas had not been lit, but the fire fitfully illuminated the room, which was certainly anything but neat or well kept, for the furniture was dull if not actually dusty, the lace curtains on either side of the window were soiled and limp, and the tea-cloth on the table was crumpled and not over clean. Even in the kindly firelight the room looked poor and neglected, and yet it was evident that its general appearance might have been improved at very little cost.
"I hope your father will come home soon for it's getting very foggy, I see," Mrs. Wyndham remarked by-and-by when there was a pause in the children's chatter. Her voice was soft and musical, with a plaintive note in it. "He coughed continually during the night, he quite alarmed me," she added, with a deep-drawn sigh.
"I heard him," the eldest girl said, turning a pair of serious, dark eyes from the fire to her mother's face; "I spoke to him about it after breakfast, and he said he would get some cough mixture from a chemist: I hope he won't forget."
"I hope not," Mrs. Wyndham replied. "I am sure it is no wonder that he ails so often," she proceeded, "always rushing here, there, and everywhere as he does, getting his meals so irregularly, and wearing clothes which do not properly protect him from the cold and damp. He ought to have both a new overcoat and a new waterproof this winter, but how he is to get either I really do not know. Dear me, it's nearly five o'clock. I hope Barbara has the kettle on the boil: I wish one of you would go and see—not you, Billy, you're always quarrelling with Barbara, you tease her and make her cross. Let Madge go. And Violet, you light the gas and pull down the blind."
Madge left the room to do her mother's bidding, whilst Violet, before lighting the gas, went to the window and peered out into the mist, remarking that it was so thick that she could hardly see the street lamps. Ruth kept her seat by the fire; she was listening for her father's footsteps—or his cough, which had haunted her ears all day.
The Wyndhams were all nice-looking children, tall for their ages and well-grown; they greatly resembled their mother in appearance. Mrs. Wyndham was a pretty woman, having a clear complexion, small regular features, and brown eyes and hair. At the time of her marriage she had been a lovely girl; but now she was somewhat faded and careworn, and she always seemed weighed down with domestic worries.
Mr. Wyndham held a post on a popular daily paper; but, unfortunately, his wife was no manager, and he was generally exercised in mind how to make his income cover his expenses, which he was not always successful in doing. If his wife was not the helpmeet to him he had hoped she would be, he never admitted the fact; and if his home was not as comfortable as those of other men who earned less than he did, he never complained but made the best of things, telling himself that he had much to be thankful for in that his family was both a happy and a healthy one.
He was deeply attached to his children, and they were very fond of him; but Ruth, without doubt, was more to him than the others. Young as she was, she was in his confidence; she was interested in his work as work, not only as a means of providing the necessaries of life, and she realised, as her mother did not, that he loved his profession and was ambitious to succeed in it. In short, she understood him; and her love for him was so deep and unselfish that she would have been capable of making any sacrifice for his sake.
By-and-by Ruth rose from her seat by the fire, and slipped quietly out of the room. There was no light in the passage, so she lit the gas there, and, as soon as she had done so, the front door opened and her father entered. She sprang to meet him, and, after having given him a hearty kiss, proceeded to assist him in taking off his overcoat. Mr. Wyndham was a tall, thin man with stooping shoulders and near-sighted dark eyes. As a rule his expression was thoughtful and pre-occupied; but to-night, as his daughter observed at once, he looked particularly alert.
"Well, Ruthie," he began, "is tea ready? I'm longing for 'the cup which cheers,' for the fog is enough to choke one. I'm glad to be at home and to know that I shall not have to go out again to-night."
He followed Ruth into the sitting-room as he spoke, and glanced around with smiling eyes. His wife's face brightened as she saw his look, and she greeted him with an answering smile, whilst Madge and the boys began to question him about the fog. Was it much worse in the City than at Streatham? Did he think it would last long? Had he any difficulty in finding his way from the station?
"I should think it is worse in the City," was the reply; "everything will be at a standstill soon if the fog continues, and it does not appear likely to lift yet. I had to stop every now and again as I came from the station to make sure I was in the right road, and that delayed me. Ah, here's tea! That's good."
Violet now entered the room followed by Barbara, the maid-of-all-work, who was a rather untidy-looking specimen of her class. She had been with the Wyndhams for more than two years, and had fallen into the ways of the family; she was always a little late with everything, always "in a rush" as she expressed it, but she suited her employers and was good-natured to a fault. Before the advent of Barbara the Wyndhams had never been able to keep a servant for long; but Barbara had settled down comfortably at once, and seemed likely to remain a fixture. She was a little body, with a freckled countenance and the roundest of green eyes, and her cap was generally askew on her sandy hair; but there was a vast amount of energy and strength in her slight frame, and she worked with a will.
Having placed the tea on the table, Barbara retired, and the meal commenced. The children had most of the conversation at first, and gave their father various items of information about their doings during the day. The twins attended a preparatory school for boys, not five minutes walk from their own home, and the girls had not much farther to go. Ruth was not to return to the same school as her sisters after Christmas; for it was only a school for young girls, kept by a lady named Minter, and Ruth was the eldest pupil.
Mr. Wyndham talked of sending her to a boarding-school for a couple of years, but how that was to be managed he did not quite know, and it was Ruth's private opinion that her education, as far as schooling went, would be finished when she left Miss Minter's. That she would not mind, she told herself, if only she could have lessons in drawing and painting—she was devoted to the pencil and the brush, and she would have time to help her mother and Barbara and to try to get things in better order; for, of late, the general untidiness of her home had vaguely troubled her.
By-and-by Mr. Wyndham coughed, and his wife asked him if he had remembered his promise to Ruth and procured some cough mixture.
"Yes," he replied, "the bottle's in the pocket of my overcoat. My cough has not been so troublesome to-day as it was during the night, but I remembered I had said I would get something for it, so I went into a chemist's in the city, and there I met some one whom I had not seen for more than twenty years; you have heard me mention him—Andrew Reed."
"Andrew Reed?" echoed Mrs. Wyndham. "Oh yes, I have often heard you mention him. You went to school with him, and afterwards you saw a good bit of him when he was a medical student. Quite a poor lad, was he not?"
"Yes. He was always one of the best fellows in the world, though, and the straightest. He was of humble birth; his father was only a small renting farmer in Devonshire, who had saved a few hundreds and had the sense to see that by educating his son and letting him follow his natural bent he was doing the best for him that he could. Reed's practising as a doctor in Yorkshire now, and his is the first practice in the place—I heard that some time ago. He has prospered in life and made money."
"Did he recognise you, father?" Ruth asked eagerly.
"Yes. He was in the chemist's shop having a prescription made up when my voice attracted his attention, and he spoke to me. I knew him the minute our eyes met. He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him, and we went and had lunch together and a long talk about old times."
"What is he doing in London?" Mrs. Wyndham inquired.
"He is merely stopping here a few days, with relations of his wife's, on his way home from Devonshire. His mother still lives, and he has been to see her. I did not know he had a wife until to-day, but it appears he has been married sixteen years and has an only child, a girl, of whom he spoke very affectionately. I told him that, in one way, I am richer than he," Mr. Wyndham concluded with a smile.
"In what way, Clement?" asked his wife wonderingly.
"I have three daughters and two sons, my dear, and he has only that one girl."
The children laughed, whilst their mother smiled and looked pleased.
"Not but that he seemed very satisfied with his single chick," Mr. Wyndham proceeded; "one could tell that she is as the apple of his eye. You cannot imagine what a pleasure it was to me to renew my acquaintance with my old friend; he regrets, as I do, that we failed to keep in touch with each other after he left town, and he expressed a desire to see you, my dear Mary—" Mr. Wyndham smiled at his wife— "and our little flock."
"You did not suggest his coming here, I suppose?" Mrs. Wyndham said quickly.
"Yes, I did," Mr. Wyndham admitted; "I invited him to spend Sunday with us. It won't matter, will it? You needn't make any difference for Andrew Reed."
"But, Clement, we always have cold dinners on Sundays, and I expect your friend is accustomed to have everything very nice," expostulated Mrs. Wyndham, glancing expressively around the room.
"I daresay he is, nowadays," Mr. Wyndham answered, "but you must remember he was not born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. He is a thorough man of the world, in the best sense of the term, and I should like you all to know him. I couldn't well ask such an old friend as he is to dine with me at an hotel or a restaurant when I've a home in London to invite him to."
"No, no," Mrs. Wyndham agreed, "only I thought, as he has got on in the world—but, there, he must just take us as he finds us!"
"Tell us some more about him, father," said Madge; "how old is his little girl?"
"Nearly fifteen, so she must be quite a big girl, my dear." And Mr. Wyndham, who was in excellent spirits, continued to talk of his old school friend at length, whilst his wife and children evinced great interest in listening to him.
"And he was only a poor, common boy once," Violet remarked wonderingly by-and-by; "and now I suppose he has become very rich, father?"
"I don't know that he is very rich, Vi," Mr. Wyndham answered gravely; "but he is certainly a prosperous man. Yes, he used to be poor, but never common. A common man could never have made the position in life which my old friend has done. I should say he is decidedly uncommon."
Violet flushed and hung her head, for there was reproof in her father's voice.
"He was always a true gentleman at heart," Mr. Wyndham proceeded; "he deserves success, and I am glad it has come to him. I am sure you will all like him, for he is one of the most kindly and genial of men."
"I am glad you met him, Clement, since you are so pleased at having done so," Mrs. Wyndham said, speaking more cordially; "we will certainly make him welcome when he comes."
Having finished tea, Mr. Wyndham went to his study, a small apartment intended for a breakfast room, simply furnished with a writing-desk and a few chairs; and the children prepared their lessons for the following day. Ruth found some difficulty in concentrating her thoughts; for her mind was full of her father's friend, and occupied with one of the puzzles of life—why success should be given to some and denied to others. No man could work harder or more conscientiously than her own father; and yet, so far, success had not come to him. Why did God keep it from him? she wondered. It was very difficult to believe that He knew best.
"I AM glad the fog is clearing," remarked Ruth to Barbara, on the following afternoon —it was Saturday— as she was assisting in putting away the dinner things in the kitchen, "because father would be disappointed if it prevented Dr. Reed's coming to-morrow."
"I am sure it would be a great pity if the gentleman did not come after all the trouble you've taken on his account, Miss Ruth," Barbara replied, smiling good-naturedly; "you've been hard at work all day making the house look as nice as possible."
"I've given the study the most thorough turn out and clean it's had for months," said Ruth; "for father is certain to take Dr. Reed in there to talk with him; and I've cobbled together several tears in the sitting-room curtains, and nailed down the canvas in the passage where it's worn out—Billy caught his foot in it last night and had a nasty fall. But, dear me, Barbara, I don't know where the work in a house comes from, there seems to be no end to it."
"Things will wear out," Barbara observed sagely; "and when they do and are not replaced—"
"Ah, that's it!" Ruth interposed, "we so seldom have anything new. We ought to have a new carpet in the sitting-room, it's really dreadfully shabby, and will look more so when the sunny spring days come, but it's no good thinking about it. I hope Dr. Reed won't notice it, but mother says doctors are very observant people as a rule, so I suppose he will."
"I wouldn't begin to worry about that if I were you, miss," advised Barbara; "the gentleman isn't coming to take stock of the furniture, you may depend. What time does master expect him?"
"About one o'clock, I think—after church, he told father. He is going home on Monday; he has an assistant who looks after his practice in his absence."
Ruth was wiping the plates and dishes which Barbara had washed. She often gave her assistance in this way in the kitchen on Saturday afternoons, thus enabling Barbara to get over her work earlier than she otherwise would have done. Madge and the boys were out; but Mrs. Wyndham and Violet were in the sitting-room, mending stockings, and, as soon as Ruth had put away the dinner things, she joined them there.
"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed Violet, as her sister entered the room. "How tired you look, Ruthie!"
"No wonder, poor child," said Mrs. Wyndham; "she has had a very fatiguing day. I am glad the study has been turned out, howler, for I know it wanted cleaning badly; but your father does not like Barbara to do it for fear that she might misplace his papers, and I really have had no time to see to it myself. I peeped into the room just now, and thought it looking very fresh and nice."
"Still it hardly seems fair that Ruth should have had to work so hard on her holiday," Violet remarked; "we ought to keep two servants—cook and house-maid—"
"Oh, Vi, you know we couldn't afford two servants!" Ruth broke in protestingly, whilst her mother shook her head.
"I suppose not," Violet admitted. "It is too bad that we should be so wretchedly poor," she proceeded irritably; "we are wretchedly poor, although no doubt we ought to be thankful we have a home, and food to eat when so many people have neither. But it seems to me that we are poorer than most people in our position; I'm sure I don't know why it is. Father's no better off now than he was on his wedding day; I heard him tell you so, mother, didn't I?"
"Yes, my dear," assented Mrs. Wyndham; "but that is not his fault, he has had no opportunity of bettering his position. Besides, when a man has a wife and five children to provide for he is heavily handicapped, remember. Perhaps some day your father will get a more lucrative post; he is very clever, every one says so—"
"Yes, but it's not always the clever people who get on best," interposed Violet, who, in some ways, was wise beyond her fourteen years; "the fathers of several of the girls at school are not in the least clever, but they're very well off."
"You're not blaming father in any way, are you?" Ruth cried hotly, her brown eyes flashing with anger. "Perhaps if he had made a fortune by speculating like Agnes Hosking's father you'd be more satisfied!"
"Don't be disagreeable, Ruth," pouted Violet; "you don't mean that, and you know I don't blame father. What an idea! See how hard he works. That's why it seems so unfair that he should not earn more money. I don't suppose Dr. Reed works any harder than father does."
"I don't think he could," Ruth replied, speaking more quietly. "Let me help with the stockings." She slipped one over her hand and commenced to darn it. "I wonder what Dr. Reed's daughter is like," she said, by way of turning the conversation into a different channel.
"I expect she has everything heart can desire," Violet answered with a sigh; "lucky girl!"
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Wyndham; "doubtless she has all that your father and I would give you, Violet, if we could. But you are a poor man's daughter, and she—well, she is Prosperity's child."
There was a touch of bitterness mingled with reproach in Mrs. Wyndham's tone, and Violet had the grace to feel ashamed of the discontent she had shown. Ruth kept silence, for her heart was full of indignation against her sister, and she feared that if she spoke she might say something she would repent. Presently Violet said—
"There is one thing I do not envy her, and that is her name."
"What is it?" asked Ruth; "I did not hear father say."
"She is called 'Ann.'"
"Ann," Ruth repeated; "Ann Reed. It is not a pretty name, I suppose, but I do not know that I dislike it."
"It is an old-fashioned name, of course," said Mrs. Wyndham; "Dr. Reed told your father that he had called his daughter after his mother. I do hope nothing will happen to prevent Dr. Reed's coming to-morrow now we have prepared for him."
By the following day the fog had quite gone, and towards noon the sun cleared. When the Wyndham children returned from church, after morning service, they found their father's expected visitor had just arrived, and they were immediately presented to him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a grave, clean-shaven face, and a pair of steel-grey eyes which looked both keen and kindly. The young folks took to him at once, and Ruth's heart warmed towards him, when, after her father had introduced him to her, and they had shaken hands, he said:—
"Why, you must be about the age of my little maid at home! One of these days I must persuade your mother to let you pay us a visit; I am sure you would be friends with Ann. Do you know that your father and I were chums before we were as old as you?"
"Yes," Ruth answered; "he has told us so."
"Ah, but he hasn't told you how he used to stand by me, at school, and help fight my battles! No, he wouldn't tell you that!" —And he straightway launched into an account of his school-days, which they all— Frank and Billy especially—found very interesting.
Soon the children were quite at their ease with their new acquaintance. He made himself at home at once, as Mrs. Wyndham afterwards remarked; and his visit proved a great success. Ruth and Violet could not help wondering if he noticed the shabbiness of the house, but he did not appear to do so; and they would have liked to find out what his own home was like, but he said very little about it, though he talked a good deal of his wife and daughter. Every one was sorry when the time came to say good-bye to him; and he left with the promise to call and see them again the next time he came to town.
"He isn't a bit as I expected he would be," Violet confided to her sister when they were alone for the night in the room which they shared; "I pictured him like Agnes Hosking's father, but he doesn't resemble him in the least."
"I never saw Mr. Hosking."
"Oh, he's a stout, red-faced man with a big curled moustache, who puts his hands in his pockets, and jingles his money when he's talking to you. Agnes took me over their new house the other day, and I saw him then. It's such a grand house, Ruthie, and the furniture is lovely— almost too handsome to use. The drawing-room chairs are upholstered in bright pink satin— Agnes says pink is the fashionable colour for drawing-rooms, now; and there's one mirror so big that it reaches nearly to the ceiling. Everything is the best that can be had for money. How I should like to be rich and live in a house like that!"
"It would be far too grand to suit me," Ruth said, shaking her head. "What made Agnes take you there? I did not know you were very friendly with her."
"I am not. I think she wanted to show off her new home, and when she asked me if I'd like to see it, I said 'yes,' and went. As a rule she doesn't have much to say to me. I think she is rather inclined to look down on us, Ruthie, because we're poor, and, do you know, once I heard her call father 'a newspaper hack'— that was after I'd been to her house, I wished then I hadn't gone. I wonder if Dr. Reed's daughter is anything like Agnes Hosking."
"I should think not."
"Oh, I don't know! Being rich often makes people very horrid. You heard what mother called Ann Reed? Prosperity's child. I expect she's quite spoilt, and as selfish as she can be."
Violet paused for a minute; but, as her sister made no response, she continued: "Did you notice that Barbara had a smut on her nose when she was waiting table at dinner? I told her about it, in a whisper, and she tried to rub it off, but just smeared it instead. I wish we could afford to keep a proper parlour-maid, but it's no good wishing. Ruthie, does it ever strike you that we're a rather untidy family?"
"Yes," Ruth admitted, with a slight smile; "Miss Minter says there should be a place for everything and everything should be in its place, but that's certainly not the case in our house."
"I never think about it unless we've visitors," Violet confessed; "then I notice it, and wonder what they think."
Long after her sister was asleep that night Ruth lay awake pondering on many things. She was vexed that Violet's curiosity should have taken her to Agnes Hosking's home; for Agnes had been neither kind nor considerate in her treatment of the Wyndham girls, having frequently allowed them to see that she looked down upon them because they wore somewhat shabby clothes, and had but little pocket money to spend. Ruth both disliked and despised Agnes.
By-and-by she dismissed her from her mind, and her thoughts passed to her father's old friend. She liked him, she told herself, and she fancied she understood now a remark she had overheard her father make to her mother, that prosperity had not spoilt Andrew Reed. She wondered if Dr. Reed had really meant that he must persuade her mother to let her pay a visit to his home. Yes, she believed he had meant it; he did not strike her as being the sort of man who would have said it merely to be pleasant. Perhaps, some day, she would receive an invitation from Mrs. Reed. How delightful that would be!
Then she reflected how much better her father had looked that day, and that his cough had been less troublesome. She had been glad to hear Dr. Reed tell him that he must take care of himself; for he never considered himself enough, he was the most unselfish of men. Now, as it always did, her heart softened and thrilled with loving pride as her mind dwelt on her father; and she remembered how, once, when she had been regretting the fact that his work was not appreciated as she had thought it should be, he had put his arm around her and said:—
"Never mind, little daughter, perhaps my day will come, and if not—well 'The true problem of life is not to "get on" or "get up," not to be great or to do great things, but to be just what God meant us to be,'" and the recollection soothed and comforted her, for she realised that one who believed that could not be altogether dissatisfied with his lot.
"NOW, father, for a nice, cosy chat. Take your favourite chair close to the fire, and the little mother shall sit opposite to you, and, oh, I do hope nobody will disturb us to-night!"
The speaker was Ann Reed, and the scene was the drawing-room of the Reeds' house, on the night of the doctor's return from London. He had dined with his wife and daughter, and, having seen his assistant and ascertained that all had gone well during his absence, he had joined them in the drawing-room where they had been waiting for him for the past hour. Sinking into the comfortable chair which Ann had pulled near the fireplace, he heaved a sigh of perfect contentment, and a tender smile shone in his grey eyes as he looked from one to the other of the two faces which, to him, were the dearest in the world.
Mrs. Reed was a little woman with a slight, girlish figure, and a sweet-tempered rather than a pretty countenance, around which waved a quantity of soft, fair hair, which made her look younger than her years. She had been a hospital nurse before her marriage, and had brought her husband no money, but those who knew her well declared she was a fortune to him in herself; for she had a shrewd head for business, and had always kept his books and managed his home most capably; in short, she had proved a helpmeet to him in the truest sense of the word. Now, as she met her husband's eyes, she said:—
"I, too, hope we shall not be disturbed to-night. It seems an age since we three enjoyed a chat together, though in reality you have been only absent from home a week. The time dragged while you were away, did it not, Ann?"
"Yes," Ann assented; "you were very good to write every day, father, and the cream you sent us was delicious, and arrived quite fresh."
She was standing before her father, a slight, tall figure—though barely fifteen she was half a head taller than her mother—with a bright flush on her cheeks, and her eyes—very like her father's they were—shining with happiness. Though she could not be called pretty, there was something wonderfully attractive in her face, in its frank expression and lack of self-consciousness.
"It's pleasant to know one has been missed," Dr. Reed said, in a satisfied tone; "and I'm glad to be at home again. I should have been back on Saturday if I had not run against my old friend, Clement Wyndham. He asked me to spend Sunday with him, and I was glad to be able to accept his invitation and talk over old times. I was grieved, though, to see how much he has changed; he looks more than his age. Poor Wyndham!"
Ann seated herself on a stool at her father's feet, and leaned her head against his knee. "Why do you say 'poor Wyndham,' father?" she inquired.
"Because I am afraid life has not treated him very kindly, my dear. He is a journalist, a clever fellow, but somehow he has not managed to make much headway in his profession, and he has a long family—three girls and two boys—and, I fear, rather an incapable sort of woman for a wife. Mrs. Wyndham seems very nice, but I imagine she is a poor manager; indeed their home at Streatham showed me that fact plainly enough. I dined there, and made the acquaintance of the whole family—good-looking, intelligent children all of them. The eldest girl, Ruth, appeared very helpful; I noticed the servant consulted her about several matters, and her father told me that she was his right hand. She is only about your age, Ann; but there is a little worried pucker between her brows already, as though the cares of life weigh upon her mind. Next to Ruth in age come Violet and Madge—extremely pretty children they are; then come the boys who are twins and very fine little fellows indeed. The children attend day schools at Streatham; their school bills must take a substantial slice out of their father's income."
"Yes, indeed," agreed Mrs. Reed. "Mr. Wyndham is a journalist, you say?"
"Yes. He has a post on a daily paper, he has had it for years in fact, but it leads to nothing better. Being a married man with a long family he cannot afford to strike for a larger salary, though he is most inadequately paid for his work. He told me that he has had to stand quietly by and see less efficient men pushed into lucrative posts through interested friends. It must have been very hard lines for him."
"What a shame to treat him so unfairly!" Ann cried warmly, her eyes darkening with indignation. "Is he, then, so very poor, father?"
"Well, I'm afraid his income scarcely meets the requirements of his family, my dear. He did not actually say so, but I gleaned as much."
"I am very sorry for him, poor man," said Mrs. Reed, her voice full of sympathy, "and for his wife, too."
The doctor looked thoughtfully into the fire, and for a few minutes there was silence, then Ann asked:—
"Isn't there anything you can do to help Mr. Wyndham, father?"
"That's what I've been wondering, Ann," he replied.
"You couldn't give him money or—if he would not like that—lend it to him?"
"N-o-o. He did not tell me he was in need of monetary help. But, perhaps, I—we might help him in some other way."
"We?" Mrs. Reed said interrogatively. "What is in your mind, Andrew? Let us hear."
"Well, my dear, Wyndham confided to me that he is rather troubled about Ruth, his eldest girl. She is to leave the school, which she now attends with her sisters, at Christmas—it is only a school for young girls it appears—and he would like to send her to a thoroughly good boarding-school for a couple of years if he could hear of one where the terms are 'very reasonable' as he expressed it; and I've been thinking how it would be to have Ruth here—she would be a capital companion for Ann—and let her complete her education at Helmsford College. Of course we should undertake to pay her school fees and in every way provide for her as long as she remains with us."
"Oh, father, how clever of you to think of that!" Ann cried excitedly; "I call it a splendid plan! We should be sure to become great friends, as she is about my age. It would be like having a sister almost. Oh, do you think her mother and father would let her come?"
"I believe they would." The doctor glanced from his daughter to his wife, who was looking very serious and thoughtful. "What do you think of my plan, Helen?" he inquired.
"That it requires consideration," she replied gravely; "I daresay it might answer, but then it might not. Don't let us act hastily and afterwards regret it. Let us take time to think the matter over."
"You are quite right, my dear," Dr. Reed agreed. "You and I are a great deal too impulsive, Ann; we need the little mother to keep us in check."
Ann looked disappointed, but only for a minute, and, meeting Mrs. Reed's glance, she smiled. She had perfect confidence that her mother would advise what she considered would be right and for the best.
"I think Ruth is such a pretty name," she said; "and I am sure, from the little you have told us about her, father, that she is a nice girl. I have always longed to have a companion of my own age. Do tell me exactly what she is like in appearance."
"She's about your height and size, and she has regular features, brown eyes, and brown hair. I am afraid that description is not very distinctive. What struck me most in connection with her was the way in which all the others appealed to her about nearly everything; really, she might have had the management of the household, poor child! No wonder her father spoke of her as his right hand!"
"What would he do without her, then?" Mrs. Reed inquired. "Do you think he would be willing to part with her, Andrew?"
"He is the sort of man who would not consider himself in the matter in the least, he would think only of what would be best for his child."
"And the mother?" questioned Mrs. Reed.
"I cannot answer for her," Dr. Reed answered dubiously; "she struck me as an affectionate wife and mother, but I should say she is rather a weak, undecided kind of person. Wyndham married her when she was very young, she had but just left school, I believe. She was an only child, an orphan, and, as she had been left unprovided for in infancy, she had been brought up and educated by an uncle who was only too glad to get her off his hands, as he had a family of his own. So you see she was quite an inexperienced girl at the time she married, with no knowledge whatever of housekeeping or the worth of money, and I fear she is not much wiser on either point now."
"Poor soul," said Mrs. Reed pityingly; "I can understand the sort of woman she is. The circumstances of her life have been against her. I feel very interested in all you have told us about these Wyndhams, Andrew, and, like you, I wish we could help them. We'll decide nothing till Christmas, then we'll see what can be done. You must not think me unsympathetic, but—"
"Oh, mother, father couldn't think you that!" Ann broke in. "Why, you're always quite as eager to help people as he is!"
"Yes, indeed," agreed the doctor, "and much wiser about finding out the best mode to set about doing it. Perhaps my plan will not be feasible, but we'll think it over at any rate, and, as I've heard my mother say when she failed to see her way plainly or was doubtful about the wisdom of any step she contemplated taking, 'We'll just set the matter before the Lord and ask His guidance.'"
"How like dear old Granny to say that!" exclaimed Ann, a tender smile lighting up her face. "Oh, father, I wish you could have persuaded her to pay us a visit!"
"She thinks she has become too old to undertake such a long journey, my dear, and I believe she is right; besides, she is more contented in her own home. Elderly people do not care for change like young ones. She knows how welcome she would be here, but she is never so happy anywhere as at Teymouth. You and the little mother shall go and see her in the summer, Ann, if all's well, as usual, but I don't think she herself will ever leave Devonshire again."
"You do not think her ill, father?" Ann asked anxiously.
"No; but naturally her strength is not what it once was. She said to me that she thought the next journey she would make would be to her long home. That will be as God wills; but I saw she did not wish to leave Teymouth, so of course I refrained from urging her to do so."
Ann's eyes, which she shaded with her hand, were misty with tears, for she was most devotedly attached to her grandmother, and the thought that she might be in failing health caused her a pang of deep grief. Every summer she and her mother went to stay with old Mrs. Reed in the little cottage at Teymouth, which she had inhabited since her husband's death. Granny was a true, noble-hearted woman, though in her young days she had been "only a servant" as some people say—it had not been considered derogatory for the daughters of small farmers to be domestic servants then—and had had no education except what life had taught her.
From her the doctor had inherited many of those qualities which had gained him the respect and confidence of all classes in the prosperous Yorkshire town where he had become a successful surgeon and a well-to-do man; and when, nearly fifteen years previously, with his wife's cordial approval, he had called his infant daughter "Ann," it had been with the earnest hope and prayer that she might grow into as sweet and good a woman as the one after whom she was named.
"I am so glad you have been able to pay your mother this visit, Andrew," Mrs. Reed remarked, after a few minutes' silence, "I am sure she must have been delighted to have you to herself for a few days. I often wish that we lived nearer to her."
"So do I," her husband replied. "Mother spoke very affectionately of you, Helen," he proceeded, "and said how much she enjoyed your long letters, and she told me I was fortunate in my wife. 'She's a real lady, Andrew,' she said, 'if she wasn't she'd be ashamed of your old mother, and, instead of that, she treats me as a daughter would treat a mother, and I love her for it.' And I love her for it, too," he concluded in a tone so soft and low that only Ann caught the words.
"Oh, Andrew!" Mrs. Reed exclaimed, her fair face flushing rosy red. "I shall write to her to-morrow and tell her how well Ann and I consider you looking, she will be glad to hear that."
"I wish poor Wyndham could have a change for a few days," observed the doctor meditatively; "he looked as though he needed it badly. He and his family are on my mind. I shall not rest until I have found some way of helping them. We must put our heads together, Helen, and see what can be done."
His wife assented; and Ann's face brightened as she whispered to her father:—
"Oh, father, I don't think you'll have much difficulty in persuading the little mother to agree to your plan!"
TWO months had elapsed since the Sunday Dr. Reed had spent with his old friend at Streatham, and it was now the second week in January. The Wyndham children were all at home for the holidays, and, as the weather was wet and stormy, they had to remain indoors nearly every day, which proved trying, especially for the boys who teased their sisters, and worried poor Barbara "nearly out of her life," as she declared to Ruth, to whom she confided her grievances. Mr. Wyndham was working at the office very late of a night, at this time, and returning home in the early hours of the morning; his wife tried her best to keep the house quiet whilst he was taking his rest, but it was most difficult to do so, and the consequence was that he often failed in obtaining the sleep he so badly needed.
"I don't think our boys are worse than others," Mrs. Wyndham remarked to her little daughters, one afternoon, when Barbara had ousted the twins from the kitchen and they had betaken themselves to their own room upstairs, where, for the present, they were quiet; "but I must admit that they are very high-spirited and noisy. Barbara cannot manage them a bit."
"She cannot get on with her work if they are playing marbles on the kitchen floor," Violet replied; "and you know, mother, you complained to her yesterday that she had not changed her gown by tea-time."
"She had the kitchen stove to clean," Ruth said excusingly; "so it was really not her fault; and Frank upset a pail of water in the scullery, and that had to be mopped up. Barbara will be glad when the boys go back to school."
"Well, we shall all be back to school next week," put in Madge, not altogether regretfully; "all except you, Ruth."
"I wonder if father has given up all thoughts of sending Ruth to boarding-school, mother?" interrogated Violet. "Girls don't usually leave school at fifteen, do they?"
"No," Mrs. Wyndham replied, "but Ruth is too old to remain any longer at Miss Minter's, and I don't know how we can send her anywhere else. Your father is very short of money, at present."
"I shall stay at home and help you and Barbara, mother," Ruth said cheerfully, noting the look of distress on her mother's face; "I don't want to go to boarding-school. Perhaps by-and-by I shall be able to have lessons in drawing and painting at home—I don't show talent for anything but drawing and painting, Miss Minter says; I'm not like Violet, who's clever all the way round."
They all laughed at that, and Violet looked pleased. She really was a clever little girl, and industrious, too.
"I do not know what I should do without you at home, Ruth," said Mrs. Wyndham very seriously; "and you don't mind doing housework, do you, dear?"
"No," Ruth answered truthfully.
"Your father was saying to me only yesterday that he thought you would make a clever little housekeeper one of these days," Mrs. Wyndham continued, smiling at her eldest daughter; "he was so pleased with the way in which you cooked that steak for his supper the night Barbara was out. I could not have done it so well myself."
"I rather like cooking," responded Ruth, colouring with gratification.
"I should hate it," Violet confessed; "in fact, I dislike housework of any kind. I should like to be able to keep servants to do everything of that sort."
At that point in the conversation, the boys, having found nothing to interest them upstairs, appeared upon the scene and asked permission to make toffee over the sitting-room fire, as Barbara would not have, them in the kitchen. At first Mrs. Wyndham opposed the idea, but, as Madge joined her entreaties to her brothers', she gave in, and Ruth was prevailed upon to fetch the necessary ingredients and a saucepan.
Half an hour afterwards when Mr. Wyndham opened the front door and entered the house, he was greeted by the sound of high voices in the sitting-room and the smell of burnt toffee. With a weary sigh he turned into his study, and shut the door; but, ten minutes subsequently, he came out with an open letter in his hand and made his way to the sitting-room, where the burnt toffee had been emptied into a buttered dish, and the young folks were impatiently waiting for it to cool.
"It's all Madge's fault it is burnt," Billy was saying aggrievedly, as his father appeared, "she said she'd keep it stirred; but perhaps it won't taste so very bad—oh, here's father!"
Mr. Wyndham beckoned to his wife, who followed him from the room, closing the door behind her. The children exchanged significant glances.
"Something's happened," remarked Frank; and the others agreed with him.
"I expect it's to do with a bill," said Violet; "the butcher called this morning to know when it would be convenient for father to settle his account. Mother said she had no idea we owed him so much money as he said we did, and that she would speak to father about it; or, perhaps—"
"Oh, I don't fancy it's to do with anything disagreeable!" Ruth interposed; "I thought father looked quite pleased."
"So did I," agreed Madge; "perhaps something good has happened."
"I hope so, I'm sure," Ruth replied; and she fell to wondering if her father had been offered a better post at last.
By-and-by Mrs. Wyndham reappeared, looking flushed and excited, and bade Ruth go to her father in the study. As soon as she had gone Mrs. Wyndham explained to the others that her husband had received a letter, from Dr. Reed, offering to make a home for their sister and educate her with his own daughter for the next two years.
"It is a most kind, most generous offer," she said; "and your father and I are much touched by it—only what I shall do without Ruth I do not know! I shall miss her terribly!"
At first the young folks were too surprised at their mother's news to say much, but very soon they began to ask questions, and it was not long before they were in full possession of all the details of Dr. Reed's plan for their sister's benefit, so that by the time Ruth returned to the sitting-room they knew as much as she did herself. She appeared pleased, but her manner was very subdued.
"What a lucky girl you are, Ruth!" exclaimed Violet, half enviously. "Isn't Dr. Reed wonderfully thoughtful and kind? Oh, how I wish I were you!"
"Do you?" Ruth asked. "Yes, you would like to go to Helmsford College, I know. Father says it is a splendid school, one of the best in England; and I am to live with the Reeds—"
"Then it is decided already that you are to go?" Madge broke in eagerly. "Oh, Ruthie," the little girl proceeded, as she received a nod for an answer, "I hope you won't go away and get very proud and grand! Don't get to love Ann Reed better than you do us."
"As though I ever should!" Ruth exclaimed, half indignant, half amused at the idea. Her voice sounded slightly tremulous, and she was evidently agitated. "Dr. Reed says in his letter that he hopes Ann and I will be great friends," she continued, "but I don't know about that, and I shall miss you all so much—"
"And we shall miss you, darling," her mother assured her; "I have been saying that I do not know what I shall do without you. Your father, too, will be quite at a loss when you are gone, it's for you he looks the minute he comes home."
"I could be much better spared than Ruthie, couldn't I, mother?" Violet said. "How I should like to be in her shoes!"
"Would you?" Ruth asked quickly.
"Indeed yes! But you mustn't think me envious of you, Ruthie; I hope I'm not that. Mother says that Dr. Reed promises you shall be treated exactly as his own daughter, and no outsider will know that he is providing for you. Only think how nice it will be for you to live in a house where there's plenty of everything, servants to wait upon you, and—oh, dear me, you are a fortunate girl!"
"I am sure I am," Ruth answered earnestly; "but I shall be continually thinking of you all at home, and if I thought father would miss me very much—" She paused and looked wistfully at her mother, then continued— "Mother, tell me truly, if you had to choose between Violet and me, which of us would you keep at home? Oh, yes, I know I'm the one Dr. Reed wrote about—he thought of me because I am the eldest of the family, and I remember father told him I was leaving Miss Minter's at Christmas—but do, please, answer my question."
But this Mrs. Wyndham was not inclined to do. She shook her head; then, as Ruth was persistent in demanding a reply, she said evasively:—
"I shall miss you more than I should miss Violet because you do not mind putting your hand to housework, my dear; but I am very glad you should have such a splendid opportunity offered you for completing your education, and —and perhaps, when you are gone, Violet will try to fill your place at home."
Violet did not say that she would. She was regarding her sister curiously.
Ruth did not appear so exultant at the sudden change in her prospects as might have been expected, and there was a tender gravity in her glance as it rested on her mother that Violet failed to comprehend, for she was sure that if she was in Ruth's place her delight would know no bounds.
Violet never sought to disguise the truth that she was discontented with her home—perhaps it was natural she should be that—but she was ashamed of it, too, of its poverty, and the fact that her father was, as she considered, an unsuccessful man. Success to Violet meant a handsomely furnished house, servants, fashionable clothes, and plenty of money, all of which she hankered after, and she would have given a great deal to change places with the sister who now had the opportunity of turning her back, for two years at least, on the shabby, ill-managed home which Violet secretly despised, though it had always been rich in love.
Ruth's good fortune formed the chief topic of conversation during the remainder of the day. Ruth herself listened to the comments of the various members of the household with mingled feelings. Though everyone was pleased, for her sake, there was evidently a general impression that it would have been better for the family had Violet been the one selected to leave home.
Mr. Wyndham had determined not to answer Dr. Reed's letter till the following day, but he had not the least idea of refusing his friend's generous offer, which had arrived so opportunely, as he thought; therefore, he was considerably amazed when, that evening, shortly before it was time for him to start for the city, Ruth came to him in his study and informed him that, all things considered, she would rather not go to be educated at Helmsford College with Ann Reed.
"I want you to ask Dr. Reed to take Violet instead of me," she said falteringly; "please tell him I'm not ungrateful, but, if he does not mind, I would so much rather remain at home. Yes, father, I mean it. I thought, at first, that I should like to go, but Violet will do better at Helmsford College than I should; for she is clever and I am not, and I am wanted at home. Violet is only a year younger than I am, so she is quite old enough to go to a big school."
"But, my dear child, no mention has been made of Violet at all," Mr. Wyndham reminded her.
"No, but I am sure Dr. Reed would take her instead of me if you suggested it, father. Do ask him, and see what he says."
"But, child, it is not fair to set you aside. I greatly wished to send you to boarding-school, but I could not afford to do so, and—oh, no, you mustn't tempt me to keep you at home, though what we shall do without you, Ruthie, I really do not know."
"That is what mother and every one—even Barbara—says," Ruth told him eagerly. "Oh, father, I do really think it would be better if it could be managed for Violet to go instead of me. I do not think Dr. Reed and his wife will mind which of us they help, and—oh, it is good and kind of them to wish to help us at all! I am not nearly so quick to learn as Violet, I am sure she would do wonders at a good school. Please do write to Dr. Reed and ask him if he would mind having Violet instead of me."
Mr. Wyndham looked searchingly at his daughter; but he could read nothing in her face to tell him that it had been a hard matter for her to come to him with this request, and that she had put aside her own feelings for the sake of those dear to her, so he answered:—
"I am surprised you do not wish to go, Ruth. I don't know what to say. I will have a talk with your mother, however, and discuss the matter with her again. If you remain at home and Violet goes I shall be able to afford you drawing and painting lessons, and—well, we'll see!"
Mrs. Wyndham, when consulted, brightened perceptibly at the prospect of keeping her eldest daughter with her, and, finally, it was decided that, all things taken into consideration, it would be better for everybody if Violet went to live with the Reeds instead of Ruth. Mr. Wyndham wrote and intimated this to Dr. Reed, and, in due course, received an answer to the effect that Violet would be made as welcome as her sister would have been, and that she would be expected one day of the following week, as Helmsford College reopened in another fortnight's time. Violet, it is almost needless to tell, was immeasurably delighted at the turn matters had taken, and preparations were immediately commenced for her departure. She was going to a new life which would suit her better than the old, she told herself exultingly, and she was confident that Ruth did not mind remaining at home.
IT was a cold January day, with snow on the ground and the promise of more to come, on which Violet Wyndham travelled from London to Yorkshire. The previous evening her high spirits had failed her, and she had burst into a flood of tears on saying good-night to her mother, and sobbed forth that she wished she was going to remain at home, for that she never, never could be happy away from every one she loved; but now, this morning, as she drove off in a cab with her father to the railway station, she bravely choked down her sobs and wiped the tears from her eyes, reminding herself of all she had to gain in the new life which was opening before her.
"That's right, Violet," Mr. Wyndham said approvingly; "don't cry any more, there's a good girl." He spoke in a cheerful tone, though his heart was sorer than he would have liked to admit at the thought of separation from his little daughter. "If you're not happy with the Reeds you know you can come home," he proceeded to tell her; "but I believe you will be happy, I shall be greatly surprised and disappointed if you are not. And you'll be a good girl, won't you, and make the most of the advantages you will have? You'll obey Dr. Reed and his wife implicitly, remembering how generously they are treating you, and try to please them, won't you?"
"Oh, yes," Violet assented; "I promise I will."
"It will be a great change for you, child, a very great change," Mr. Wyndham said impressively, "for you are going from a comparatively poor home to one of affluence. But you won't forget the old home, eh?"
"No, indeed, father," was the earnest response; "and I shall write very often, at least once a week."
"Do so, my dear; we shall look forward to your letters with much pleasure."
When the station was reached Mr. Wyndham found the train for the north was nearly due to start. He saw Violet's luggage labelled and obtained her ticket, then found her a corner seat in a second-class compartment, opposite to an elderly lady, who, warmly clad, with her knees covered with a thick rug, was evidently prepared for a long journey.
"Is the little girl going far?" inquired the lady, looking with kindly interest from Violet to her father.
"To Barford," Mr. Wyndham answered, adding that his daughter had never taken a journey alone before, a piece of information which Violet considered he need not have given.
"Then we shall be fellow-travellers," observed the lady cordially, "for Barford is my destination, too." She spoke in a clear, decisive voice.
"I am glad to hear that," said Mr. Wyndham, with a smile, as he shut the carriage door.
The train was on the point of starting, and Violet leaned out of the window and put her arms around her father's neck and kissed him. It seemed to her that until that moment of parting she had never known how very dear he was to her. "God bless and keep you, Violet," he whispered tenderly; "Good-bye, my darling."
"Good-bye, father—dear, dear father," she replied huskily as she was obliged to unclasp her arms and take her seat.
The train moved slowly out of the station, and Violet sank back in her corner. For a few minutes she saw nothing, for her eyes were blind with tears; but, when her sight cleared, she glanced at her companions and was much relieved to find that they were taking no notice of her. The lady opposite had opened a newspaper which she was already reading, and the other two occupants of the compartment were seated one on either side of the far window, out of which they were gazing.
By-and-by Violet began to carefully study the figure opposite to her. The lady was plainly dressed in a blue serge gown underneath a heavy blue cloak which was somewhat the worse for wear, and the rug across her knees was decidedly shabby though it looked as if it might be warm and comfortable. She wore an old-fashioned bonnet, and her white hair was brushed back smoothly from her face—a plain face it was, with a large nose, and a large mouth, and heavily marked eyebrows. Violet had a very good opportunity for making her observations, for the lady continued reading for fully an hour, never glancing at her once; at length, however, she laid aside her paper and spoke.
"I am sure he is a very good father," she remarked, as though pursuing a train of thought; "he seemed very sorry to part with his little girl. I suppose you are going to school, child?" she questioned.
"No—yes—not exactly," Violet replied, flushing sell-consciously beneath the intent gaze of a pair of very bright, dark eyes. "I am going to be educated at Helmsford College," she explained, with a little air of importance, "but I am not going to be a boarder there, I am to live with friends."
"That will be pleasant for you. You have never been away from home before, I conclude?"
"No, never; and—and I can't help feeling a bit lonely, you know."
"You are not an only child?"
"Oh, no! There are five of us; I am the eldest but one. Do you know Barford very well?" Violet inquired, thinking it was her turn to put a question.
"Very well. I have always lived there, and I hope to end my life there. I am much attached to the town."
"Is it a very pretty place?" Violet asked, naturally interested in the town which, for the next year or so at any rate, was likely to be her home.
"Pretty? No. It is a large manufacturing town full of factories and workshops. I am attached to the place because I was born there, and I have worked there all my working days."
Violet wondered what her companion's work could be, but she did not like to inquire. The lady was extremely kind to her during the journey, made her share her rug, and pointed out various places of interest which they passed. At one of the stations at which the train stopped a porter handed in a luncheon basket containing a dainty repast for the lady, who insisted that Violet should take lunch with her. So they had a most enjoyable meal together, Violet contributing, as her share, the packet of sandwiches Barbara had cut for her. It was a delightful experience altogether, and one Violet never forgot; and it was no wonder that she grew confidential with this new friend, for she was not reserved by nature, or that, long before the journey came to an end, she had told the story of her short, uneventful life, and touched on the bright hopes she cherished for the future.
"I have only seen Dr. Reed once," she said; "but I liked him then, and father and he were great friends years ago. We none of us know what his wife is like, but I think she must be very kind, for she wrote so nicely about me. Poor mother! She cried when she read the letter, but she was pleased; she said it made her happy and satisfied to let me go."
"Would it surprise you to hear that I know the Reeds?" asked the lady, with a bright smile which made her plain face look positively handsome Violet thought, and almost young.
"Oh!" gasped Violet, for such a possibility had never entered her mind. "Do you really know them?" she questioned excitedly.
"I do; and I can answer for it that they will be kind to you. I think, my dear, that you and I will most certainly meet another day, and I hope you will be a little glad to see me."
"I shall be very glad," Violet responded earnestly. "I have had such a pleasant journey," she continued; "and all through you. The time has passed so quickly."
"We are nearly at our journey's end," said the lady, peering out of the window; "and it is snowing fast, I see."
Violet made no response. She was beginning to feel rather nervous, and she was wondering who she would find at the station to meet her. Dr. Reed had intimated to her father that, if possible, he would be there himself; she hoped that he would manage to come. Her companion now began to collect her belongings, and, that done, she glanced at Violet, and apparently read something of what was passing through her mind, for she said:—
"I will not leave you until I have seen you in safe keeping. Either Dr. Reed or his wife will no doubt meet you at the station, and perhaps Ann will be there, too. You will be sure to find a friend in Ann Reed."
"I hope so," Violet replied, speaking in rather a dolorous tone.
"Poor child, I can understand you feel low-spirited, for you have left all those you love in London. But you will find love awaiting you in your new home, of that I am certain, and you know you have one Friend always with you, my dear."
"I don't understand," said Violet, really mystified.
"I mean the Friend to whom your father confided you when he said good-bye. I heard him say, 'God bless and keep you,' did I not?"
At that moment the train, which had been slackening speed, slowed into Barford station and stopped. Immediately a porter opened the carriage door, and the lady and Violet were assisted on to the platform. Looking eagerly around, Violet, much to her relief and joy, at once caught sight of Dr. Reed, who came up to her and welcomed her heartily.
"It's snowing fast," he informed her; "so I advised Ann not to come, though she had looked forward to being here to meet you, and did not wish to remain at home—I promised to explain that she has a slight cold, otherwise she would certainly have been here. Have you had a comfortable journey? Yes. That's right. Why—" his quick glance passing from her to her travelling-companion who had stood back but now came forward and shook hands with him— "where have you come from? Not from London, too?"
"Yes," the lady assented; "we—" and she indicated Violet with a smiling nod— "have made the journey together, and have become quite friendly I assure you."
"That's capital!" exclaimed the doctor, looking both surprised and pleased. "Can I help you about your luggage?" he inquired courteously.