How to Begin
Yet how are they to fulfil the call which will surely come to them to teach either their own children or those of others if they have not troubled to gain religious knowledge for themselves? The Bible, which becomes each day a more living book because of all the light thrown upon it by recent research, should be known and studied as the great central source of teaching on all that concerns the relations between God and man. But sometimes we are told that it is less well known now than formerly, when real knowledge of it was much more difficult.
Women are said to be naturally more religious than men, but that natural religion will have all the stronger influence the more it is founded on knowledge, and so is able to stand alone, apart from the stimulus of beautiful services or inspiring preaching. Women who follow their husbands into the distant parts of the earth, and are called to be home-makers in new lands, may find themselves not only compelled to stand alone, but called upon to help to maintain the religious life in others. They will not be able to do this if, when they had the opportunity, they neglected to lay sure foundations for their own religious life.
These thoughts may seem to lead us far away from the occupations and interests of girlhood; but they emphasise what is the important thing—the need to recognise the years of girlhood as years of preparation. This is not to take away from the joy of life. The more we learn to find joy in all the beauty of life, in books, in art, in nature, the more permanent sources of joy we are laying up for the future. We must not starve our natures; we should see that every part of ourselves is alive and vigorous.
It is because so many women really hardly live at all that their lives seem so dull and colourless. They have never taken the trouble to develop great parts of themselves, and in consequence they do not notice all the beautiful and interesting things in the world around them. They have not learnt to use all their faculties, so they are unfit to do the work which they might do for the good of others.
Many girls have dreams of the great things they would like to do. But they do not know how to begin, and so they are restless and discontented. The first thing to do is to train themselves, to do every little thing that comes along as well as they can, so as to fit themselves for the higher work that may come. It is worth while for them to go on with their studies, to train their minds to habits of accurate thought, to gain knowledge of all kinds, for all this may not only prove useful in the future, but will make them themselves better instruments for any work that may come to them to do. It is very worth while to learn to be punctual and orderly in little things, to gain business-like habits, even to keep accounts and to answer notes promptly—all these will be useful in the greater business of life. We must be tried in little things before we can be worthy to do big things.
Meanwhile doors are always opening to us whilst we are young, only very often we do not think it worth while to go in at the open door because it strikes us as dull or unimportant and not the great opportunitythat we hoped for. But those who go in at the door that opens, that take up the dull little job that offers, and do it as well as they can, will find, first that it is not so dull as they thought, and then that it leads on to something else, and new doors open, and interests grow wider, and more important work is offered. Those who will not go in, but choose to wait till some more interesting or inviting door opens, will find that opportunities grow fewer, that doors are closed instead of opened, and life grows narrower instead of wider.
"THE SON OF MAN CAME NOT TO BE MINISTERED UNTO, BUT TO MINISTER.""THE SON OF MAN CAME NOT TO BE MINISTERED UNTO, BUT TO MINISTER."
All the Difference
It is of course the motive that inspires us that makes all the difference. To have once realised life, not as an opportunity for self-pleasing, but as an opportunity for service, makes us willing to do the small tasks gladly, that they may fit us for the higher tasks. It would seem as if to us now came with ever-increasing clearness the call to realise more truly throughout the world the great message that Christ proclaimed of the brotherhood of men. It is this sense of brotherhood that stirs us to make the conditions of life sweet and wholesome for every child in our own land, that rouses us to think of the needs of those who have never heard the Christian message of love. As we feel what it means to know God as our Father, we learn to see all men as our brothers, and hence to hear the call to serve them.
It is not necessary to go far to answer this call; brothers and sisters who need our love and help are round our doors, even under our own roof at home; this sense of brotherhood must be felt with all those with whom we come in contact. To some may come the call to realise what it means to recognise our brotherhood with peoples of other race and other beliefs. Even within our own Empire there are, especially in India, countless multitudes waiting for the truth of the gospel to bring light and hope into their lives. Do we feel as we should the call that comes to us from our sisters the women of India? They are needing teachers, doctors, nurses, help that only otherwomen can bring them. Is it not worth while for those who are looking out into life, wondering what it will mean to them, to consider whether the call may not come to them to give themselves to the service of their sisters in the East?
But however this may be, make yourselves ready to hear whatever call may come. There is some service wanted from you; to give that service will be your greatest blessing, your deepest joy. Whether you are able to give that service worthily will depend upon the use you make of the time of waiting and preparation. It must be done, not for your own gratification, but because you are the followers of One who came, "not to be ministered unto, but to minister."
BY
A very singular adventure befell two young people, who entertained a stranger unawares.
that makes you feel how good it is to be alive and young—and, incidently, to hope that the tennis-courts won't be too dry.
You see Gerald, my brother, and I were invited to an American tournament for that afternoon, which we were both awfully keen about; then mother and father were coming home in the evening, after having been away a fortnight, and, though on the whole I had got on quite nicely with the housekeeping, itwouldbe a relief to be able to consult mother again. Things have a knack of not going so smoothly when mothers are away, as I daresay you've noticed.
I had been busy making strawberry jam, which had turned out very well, all except the last lot. Gerald called me to see his new ferret just after I had put the sugar in, and, by the time I got back, the jam had, most disagreeably, got burnt.
That's just the way with cooking. You stand and watch a thing for ages, waiting for it to boil; but immediately you go out of the room it becomeshysterical and boils all over the stove; so it is borne in on me that you must "keep your eye on the ball," otherwise the saucepan, when cooking.
However, when things are a success it feels quite worth the trouble. Gerald insisted on "helping" me once, rather against cook's wish, and made some really delicious meringues, only hewouldeat them before they were properly baked!
The gong rang, and I ran down to breakfast; Gerald was late, as usual, but he came at last.
"Here's a letter from Jack," I remarked, passing it across; "see what he says."
Jack was one of our oldest friends; he went to school with Gerald, and they were then both at Oxford together. He had always spent his holidays with us as he had no mother, and his father, who was a most brilliant scholar, lived in India, engaged in research work; but this vac. Mr. Marriott was in England, and Jack and he were coming to stay with us the following day.
GERALD LOOKED PUZZLED.GERALD LOOKED PUZZLED.
Gerald read the letter through twice, and then looked puzzled.
"Which day were they invited for, Margaret?" he asked.
"To-morrow, of course, the 13th."
"Well, they're coming this evening by the 7.2."
I looked over his shoulder; itwasthe 12th undoubtedly. "And mother and father aren't coming till the 9.30," I sighed; "I wish they were going to be here in time for dinner to entertain Mr. Marriott; he's sure to be eccentric—clever people always are."
"Yes," agreed Gerald, "he'll talk miles above our heads; but never mind, there'll be old Jack."
Cook and I next discussed the menu. I rather thought curry should figure in it, as Mr. Marriott came from India; but cook overruled me, saying it was "such nasty hot stuff for this weather, and English curry wouldn't be like Indian curry either."
When everything was in readiness for our guestsGerald and I went to the Prescotts', who were giving the tournament.
We had some splendid games, and Gerald was still playing in an exciting match when I found that the Marriotts' train was nearly due. Of course he couldn't leave off, so I said that I would meet them and take them home; we only lived about a quarter of a mile from the station, and generally walked.
I couldn't find my racquet for some time, and consequently had a race with the train, which luckily ended in a dead heat, for I reached the platform just as it steamed in.
The few passengers quickly dispersed, but there was no sign of Jack; a tall, elderly man, wrapped in a thick overcoat, in spite of the hot evening, stood forlornly alone. I was just wondering if he could be Jack's father when he came up to me and said, "Are you Margaret?"
"Yes," I answered.
"I have often heard my boy speak of you," he said, looking extremely miserable.
Jack does not Come
"But isn't he coming?" I cried.
He replied "No" in such a hopeless voice and sighed so heavily that I was beginning to feel positively depressed, when he changed the subject by informing me that his bag had been left behind but was coming on by a later train, so, giving instructions for it to be sent up directly it arrived, I piloted him out of the station.
I had expected him to be eccentric, but he certainly was the oddest man I had ever met; he seemed perfectly obsessed by the loss of his bag, and would talk of nothing else, though I was longing to know why Jack hadn't come. The absence of his dress clothes seemed to worry him intensely. In vain I told him that we need not change for dinner; he said he must, and wouldn't be comforted.
"How is Jack?" I asked at last; "why didn't he come with you?"
He looked at me for a moment with an expression of the deepest grief, and then said quietly, "Jack is dead."
"Dead?" I almost shouted. "Jack dead! You can't mean it!"
But he only repeated sadly, "Jack is dead," and walked on.
It seemed incredible; Jack, whom we had seen a few weeks before so full of life and vigour, Jack, who had ridden with us, played tennis, and been the leading spirit at our rat hunts, it was too horrible to think of!
I felt quite stunned, but the sight of the poor old man who had lost his only child roused me.
"I am more sorry than I can say," I ventured; "it must be a terrible blow to you."
"Thank you," he said; "you, who knew him well, can realise it more than any one; but it was all for the best—I felt that when I did it."
"Did what?" I inquired, thinking that he was straying from the point.
"When I shot him through the head," he replied laconically, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
If he had suddenly pointed a pistol atmyhead I could not have been more astonished; I was absolutely petrified with horror, for the thought flashed into my brain that Jack's father must be mad!
His peculiar expression had aroused my curiosity at the station, and his next remark confirmed my suspicion.
"You see, he showed unmistakable symptoms of going mad——"
(I had heard that madmen invariably think every one around them is mad, and that they themselves are sane.)
"——so I felt it my duty to shoot him; it was all over in a moment."
"Poor Jack!" I cried involuntarily.
"Yes," he answered, "but I should do just the same again if the occasion arose."
And he looked at me fixedly.
I felt horribly frightened. Did he think I was mad? And I fell to wondering, when he put his hand in his pocket, whether he had the revolver there. We had reached our garden gate by this time, where, to my infinite relief, we were joined by Gerald, flushed and triumphant after winning his match.
After an agonised aside "Don't ask about Jack," I murmured an introduction, and we all walked up to the house together. In the hall I managed to tell Gerald of our dreadful position, and implored him to humour the madman as much as possible until we could form some plan for his capture.
"We'll give him dinner just as if nothing has happened, and after that I'll arrange something," said Gerald hopefully; "don't you worry."
A Knife Trick
Never shall I forget that dinner! We were on tenterhooks the whole time, and it made me shudder to see how Mr. Marriott caressed the knives. I could scarcely prevent myself screaming when he held one up, and, feeling the blade carefully with his finger, said:
"I rather thought of doing this little trick to-night, if you would like it; it is very convincing and doesn't take long."
I remembered his remark, "it was all over in a moment," and trembled; but Gerald tactfully drew his attention to something else, and dinner proceeded peaceably; but he had a horrible fondness for that knife, and, when dessert was put on the table, kept it in his hand, "to show us the trick afterwards."
I stayed in the dining-room when we had finished; I couldn't bear to leave Gerald, and he and I exchanged apprehensive glances when Mr. Marriott refused to smoke, giving as his reason that he wanted a steady hand for his work later.
He worried ceaselessly about his bag (I began to think the revolver must be there), and when, at last, it came he almost ran into the hall to open it.
Then Gerald had a brilliant inspiration. Seizing the bag, he carried it up to his room, which was at the top of the house. Mr. Marriott eagerly followed, and when he was safely in we shut the door and bolted it securely on the outside.
"That was a good move, Gerald," I cried, heaving a sigh of relief, "we can keep him there till mother and father come home; they can't be very long now; perhaps he won't notice he's locked in for some time."
But unfortunately hedidnotice, for very soon we heard him rattling the door handle, and when no one came (for we had had to explain matters to the maids, whereat they had all rushed, panic-stricken, to the servants' hall), he started banging and shouting louder than ever.
It was an awful time for us; every minute I expected him to burst the door open and come tearing downstairs. Gerald wanted to go up and try to pacify him, but I told him I was too frightened to be left, which, I knew, was the only way of preventing him.
We walked down the garden to see if mother and father were in sight, and then——
"Awfully sorry we missed the train," said a cheerful voice, andJack, followed by another figure, came through the gate!
"You aren't dead then?" was all I could manage to gasp.
"No, rather not! Very much alive. Here's the pater; but first, tell me, why should I be dead?"
Gerald and I began to speak simultaneously, and in the midst of our explanations mother and father arrived, so we had to tell them all over again.
"The question is, whoisyour lunatic?" said father, "and——"
But just at that moment we heard frantic shouts from Gerald's bedroom window, and found the sham Mr. Marriott leaning out of it in a state of frenzy.
He was absolutely furious; but we gathered from his incoherent remarks that he was getting very latefor a conjuring performance which he had promised to give at a friend's house. He vowed that there was some conspiracy to prevent him going there at all; first his bag was lost, then some one pretended to be his friend's daughter, whom he had never seen, and finally he was locked in a room with no means of escape!
Our Little Mistake
Then, and only then, did we realise our mistake! The others seemed to find it very amusing and shrieked with laughter, but the humour of it didn't strike Gerald and me any more than it did the irate conjuror, who was promptly released with profuse apologies, and sent in our car to his destination. It transpired that his conversation which had so alarmed me referred only to a favourite dog of his, and I, of course, had unconsciously misled Gerald.
Mr. Marriott proved to be most interesting and amusing, anything but eccentric; but I shallneverhear the last of my mistake, and to this day he and Jack tease me unmercifully about my "dangerous maniac!"
BY
A story of the Canadian North-West Mounted Police, founded on fact.
"Our Lady of the Snows" resents the title. It is so liable, she complains, to give strangers an utterly wrong idea of her climate. And yet, at times, when the blizzard piles the swirling snow over fence and hollow, until boundaries are lost, and the bewildered wayfarer knows not which way to turn, he is apt to think, if he is in a condition to think at all, that there is some justice in the description.
But there was no sign of the stern side of nature as Jim Rattray made his way westward. The sun shone on the wide, rolling plains, the fresh green of the pasture lands, and the young wheat; the blue sky covered all with a dome of heaven's own blue, and Jim's heart rejoiced within him.
A strapping young fellow was Jim, not long out from the Old Country—the sort of young fellow whose bright eyes and fresh open face do one good to look at. North-country farming in England was the life to which he had looked forward; vigorous sports and hard work in the keen air of the Cumberland fells had knit his frame and hardened his muscles; and his parents, as they noticed with pride their boy's sturdylimbs, and listened in wonder to the bits of learning he brought home from school, had looked forward half-unconsciously to the days when he in his turn would be master of the farm which Rattrays had held for generations.
Bad days, however, had come for English farmers; the Cumbrian farm had to be given up, and Jim's father never recovered from the shock of having to leave it. Within a few years Jim was an orphan, alone in the world.
The Great New World
There was nothing to keep him in England; why should he not try his fortune in the great new world beyond the seas, which was crying out for stout hearts and hands to develop its treasures? He was young and strong: Canada was a land of great possibilities. There was room and a chance for all there. His life was before him—what might he not achieve!
"What do you propose doing?" asked a fellow-voyager as they landed.
"I really don't quite know," replied Jim. "As soon as possible I must get employment on a farm, I suppose, but I hardly know how to set about it."
"There won't be much difficulty about that. All you have to do is to let it be known at the bureau that you want farm work, and you'll find plenty of farmers willing to take you—and glad to get you," he added, as his eyes roved over Jim's stalwart figure. "But have you thought of the police?"
"The police? No—what have I done?"
His friend laughed.
"I mean the North-West Mounted Police. Why don't you try to join it? If they'll take you, you'll take to the life like a duck to water. You could join, if you liked, for a short term of years; you would roam about over hundreds of miles of country, and get a general knowledge of it such as you could hardly get otherwise; then, if you'd like to settle down to farming or ranching, the information you had picked up would be useful."
Jim pondered over the advice, and finally resolved to follow it. He hoped to make his way in the world, and the more knowledge he could gain the better.
A few days later saw him on his way westward, his heart bounding with the exhilarating beauty of the scene. Already the life at home seemed cramped; the wideness and freedom of this great new country intoxicated him.
"Do we want a recruit? No, we don't!" said the sergeant at Regina, to whom Jim applied. "Stay a bit, though; you needn't be in such a hurry. Just out from the Old Country, I suppose. Do you know anything about horses? Can you ride?"
"Yes," said Jim humbly.
"Let's try you," and the sergeant led the way into the riding-school. "We call this one 'Brown Billy,'" he remarked, indicating a quiet-looking horse. "Think you can sit on him?"
"I'll try," said Jim.
Riding Brown Billy seemed ridiculously easy at first. Suddenly, however, without the slightest warning, Jim found himself gripping with his knees the sides of an animal that was dancing wildly on its hind legs.
Jim caught a grin on the faces of the sergeant and some of the other bystanders, and setting his teeth he held on grimly. This was evidently a favourite trick of Brown Billy's, and the sergeant knew it. Well, they should see that British grit was not to be beaten.
Seemingly conquered, Brown Billy dropped again on all-fours. Scarcely had Jim begun to congratulate himself on his victory when Billy's head went down between his forelegs, his hind-quarters rose, and Jim was neatly deposited on hands and knees a few feet ahead.
The grins were noticeably broader as Jim rose, crimson with vexation.
"Thought you could sit him, eh?" laughed the sergeant. "Well, you kept on longer than some I'veseen, and you didn't try to hug him around the neck, either. You're not the first old Billy has played that trick on, by a long way. You'll make a rider yet! Come along and let us see what else you can do."
Enrolled
As a result of the searching examination Jim underwent he found himself enrolled as a recruit. He was glad to find that there were among his new companions others who had fallen victims to Brown Billy's wiles, and who in consequence thought none the worse of him for his adventure.
Into the work that followed Jim threw himself with all his might. Never had instructors a more willing pupil, and it was a proud day for Jim when he was passed out of the training-school as a qualified trooper.
Jim found himself one of an exceedingly small party located apparently a hundred miles from anywhere. Their nearest neighbours were a tribe of Indians, whose mixture of childishness and cunning shrewdness made them an interesting study. These gave little trouble; they had more or less accepted the fact that the white man was now in possession of the domains of their forefathers, and that their best course was to behave themselves. When the presence of the police was required, Jim was almost amused at the docility with which his directions were generally obeyed.
He delighted in the life—the long rides, the occasional camping out on the plains far from any dwelling, the knowledge that he must rely upon himself. He felt more of a man; his powers of endurance increased until he took a positive pleasure in exercising them to their fullest possible extent. Meanwhile, nothing more exciting happened than the tracking and capture of an occasional horse-thief.
Winter set in early and hard. Snow fell until it lay feet deep, and still the stormy winds brought more. One day the sergeant came in with a troubled face.
"Wightman's horses have stampeded," he announced. "They'll be gone coons if they're not rounded up and brought in."
"Let me go, sergeant!" said Jim.
The sergeant shook his head. "It's no work for a young hand. The oldest might lose his bearings in weather like this."
"Let me go, sergeant!" Jim repeated. "If those horses are to be brought in I can do it." There was a world of pleading in his tone, and the sergeant guessed the reason.
"I meant no reflection on you, my lad," said he. "It's no weather for anybody to be out in. All the same, if those horses aren't to be a dead loss, somebody's got to round them up."
Finally Jim got his way. In a temporary lull about midday he set out on his stout horse, well wrapped up in the thick woollen garments provided for such times as these, and determined to bring in those horses, or perish in the attempt.
"They went off sou'-west," shouted the sergeant. "I should——" A furious blast as the gale recommenced carried away whatever else he might have said, and Jim was alone with his good horse on the prairie.
There was no hesitancy in his mind. South-west he would push as hard as he could go. The animals had probably not gone far; he must soon come up with them, and the sooner the better.
Gallantly his steed stepped out through the deepening snowdrifts. Fain would the sensible animal have turned and made his way back to his stable, but Jim's credit was at stake, and no turning back was allowed. Mile after mile was covered; where could those animals be in this storm?
Ha! a sudden furious rush of wind brought Jim's horse nearly to its knees. How the gale roared, and how the snow drove in his face! Up and on again, south-west after those horses!
But whichwasthe south-west? The daylight had completely faded; not a gleam showed where the sun had set. Jim felt for his pocket-compass; it was gone! The wind, blowing apparently from everyquarter in succession, was no guide at all. Nothing was visible more than a yard away; nothing within that distance but driving snowflakes. Any tracks of the runaways would be covered up in a few moments; in any case there was no light to discern them.
Lost!
However, it was of no use to stand still. By pressing on he might overtake his quarry, and after fright had driven them away, instinct might lead them home. That was now the only chance of safety. Would he ever find them?
Deeper and deeper sank his horse into the snow; harder and harder it became to raise its hoofs clear for the next step. Snorting with fear, and trembling in every limb, the gallant beast struggled on. Hemustgo on! To stop would be fatal. Benumbed as he was by the intense cold, bewildered by the storm, with hand and voice Jim cheered on his steed, and nobly it responded.
Suddenly it sank under him. A hollow, treacherously concealed by the snow, had received them both into its chilly depths.
"Up again, old boy!" cried Jim, springing from the saddle, and tugging at the rein, sinking to the waist in the soft snow as he did so. "Now then, one more try!"
The faithful horse struggled desperately to respond to the words. But its strength was spent; its utmost exertions would not suffice to extricate it. The soft snow gave way under its hoofs; deeper and deeper it sank. With a despairing scream it made a last futile effort, then it stretched its neck along the snow, and with a sob lay down to die. Further efforts to move it would be thrown away, and Jim knew it. In a few minutes it would be wrapped in its winding-sheet.
With a lump in his throat Jim turned away—whither? His own powers had nearly ebbed out. Of what use was it to battle further against the gale, when he knew not in which direction to go?
With a sharp setting of the teeth he set himselfto stimulate into activity his benumbed faculties. Where was he? What was he doing there? Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed.
Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him, Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest?
But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing, but was not God everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him.
No words would come but the familiar "Our Father," which Jim had said every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think out any other petition. "Our Father," he muttered drowsily, "which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . ."
The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep.
They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The sergeant saw it, and pointed—he could not trust his voice to speak. Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade.
"Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his notebook. What is it?"
Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read the words aloud:
"Lost, horse dead. Am trying to push on. Have done my best."
"That he did. There was good stuff in him, lads, and perhaps he was wanted up aloft!"
A solemn hush held the party. "'I did my best,'" said a trooper softly at length. "Ah, well, it'll be a good job for all of us, if when our time comes we can say that with as much truth as he!"
BY
Mary sacrificed herself to help another. The renunciation in time brought reward.
"How very foolish of you! So unbusinesslike!" cried Mrs. Croft angrily.
"I could not do anything else, Hetty. Poor Ethel is worse off than we are. She has her widowed mother to help; they are all so poor, and it was such a struggle for Mrs. Forrest to pay that £160 for Ethel's two years' training in the Physical Culture College. You know, when Ethel and I entered for training, there was a good demand for teachers of physical culture, but now, alas! the supply exceeds the demand, and it has been such a great trouble to Ethel that she could not get a post, and begin to repay her mother for the outlay. She failed every time she tried to secure an appointment; the luck seemed always against her. And now she was next to me, and I had only to step aside to enable her to receive the appointment."
"And you did so! That is just like you, Mary. You will never get on in the world. What will people say? They are already wondering why my clever sister is not more successful."
"Does it really matter what people think?" questioned Mary, and there was a far-away look in herblue eyes, as she glanced through the window at the wide stretch of moorland to be seen from it.
She had been to London to try to secure an appointment as teacher of physical culture at a large ladies' college. There were several applicants for the appointment, which was worth £100 a year and board and lodging, not bad for a commencement, and she was successful.
The lady principal came out to tell her so, and mentioned that Ethel Forrest, her college friend, was the next to her, adding that the latter appeared to be a remarkably nice girl and very capable. In a moment, as Mary realised how terrible poor Ethel's disappointment would be, she resolved to step aside in order that her friend might have the appointment.
The lady principal was surprised, and a little offended, but forthwith gave Ethel Forrest the post, and Mary was more than repaid by Ethel's unbounded gratitude.
"I can't tell you what it is to me to obtain this good appointment," she said, when they came away together. "Poor mother will now cease to deplore the money she could so ill afford to spend on my training. You see, it seemed as if she had robbed the younger children for me, and that it was money thrown away when she could so ill spare it, but now I shall repay her as soon as possible out of my salary, and the children will have a chance."
"Yes, I know. That is why I did it," Mary said. "And I am happy in your happiness, Ethel darling."
"But I am afraid it is rather irksome for you, living so long with your sister and brother-in-law, although they are so well off," Ethel remarked, after a while.
"That is a small matter in comparison," Mary said lightly. "And I am so happy about you, Ethel, your mother will be so pleased."
It seemed to Mary afterwards, when she left Ethel and went by express to York, where she took a slow train to the little station on the moors near her sister's home, that her heart was as light and happy as if shehad received a great gift instead of surrendering an advantage. Truly it is more blessed to give than to receive, for there is no joy so pure as "the joy of doing kindnesse."
But on her arrival at the house which had been her home since her parents died, she found herself being severely blamed for what she had done.
In vain Mary reminded her sister that she was not exactly poor, and certainly not dependent upon her. Their father had left a very moderate income to both his daughters, Hetty the elder, who had married Dr. Croft, a country practitioner, and Mary, who, as a sensible modern young woman, determined to have a vocation, and go in for the up-to-date work of teaching physical culture.
Finding she could make no impression upon her sister, Mrs. Croft privately exhorted her husband to speak to Mary about the disputed point.
That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty to yourself and—and your friends."
"I am quite aware of that," Mary replied, "but this was such an exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and——"
"Each for Himself!"
"Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world."
"Is it?" Mary asked, and again there was a wistful, far-away look in her blue eyes. With an effort, she pulled herself together, and went on softly: "Shall I tell you what I saw as I returned home across the moor from the station? The day was nearly over, and the clouds were gathering overhead. The wind was rising and falling as it swept across the moorland. The rich purple of the heather had gone, and was succeeded by dull brown—sometimes almost grey—each little floret of the ling, as Ruskin said, folding itself into a cross as it was dying. Poor little purply-pink petals! Theyhad had their day, they had had their fill of sunshine, they had been breathed on by the soft breezes of a genial summer, and now all the brightness for them was over; they folded their petals, becoming just like a cross as they silently died away. You see," she looked up with a smile, "even the heather knows that the way of self-sacrifice is the only way that is worth while."
There was silence for a few minutes. The crimson light from the shaded candles fell softly on Mary's face, beautiful in its sincerity and sweet wistfulness.
The doctor shook his head. "I should never have got on in life if I had acted in that way," he said.
"You are quite too sentimental, Mary," remarked her sister harshly. "Why, the world would not go on if we all did as you do. All the same," she added, almost grudgingly, "you are welcome to stay here till you get another appointment."
Mary rose and kissed her. "You shan't regret it, Hetty," she said. "I will try to help you all I can while I stay, but I may soon get another appointment."
Fifteen months afterwards there was great rejoicing in Mrs. Forrest's small and overcrowded house in Croydon, because her youngest brother had returned from New Zealand with quite a large fortune, which he declared gallantly that he was going to share with her.
"Half shall be settled on you and your children, Margaret," he said, "as soon as the lawyers can fix it up. You will be able to send your boys to Oxford, and give your girls dowries. By the by, how is my old favourite Ethel? And what is she doing?"
"She teaches physical culture in a large ladies' college in the West End. It is a good appointment. Her salary has been raised; it is now £130, with board and lodging."
That did not seem much to the wealthy colonial, but he smiled. "And how did she get the post?" he said."I remember in one of your letters you complained that her education had cost a lot, and that she was very unlucky about getting anything to do."
Uncle Max
"Yes, it was so, Max. But she owed her success at last to the kindness of a friend of hers, who won this appointment, and then stepped aside for her to have it."
"Grand!" cried Max Vernon heartily. "What a good friend that was! It is a real pleasure to hear of such self-sacrifice in this hard, work-a-day world. I should like to know that young woman," he continued. "What is she doing now?"
"I don't know," replied his sister. "But here comes Ethel. She will tell you."
Ethel had come over from the college on purpose to see her uncle, and was delighted to welcome him home. He was not more than ten years older than herself, there being more than that between him and her mother. His success in New Zealand was partly owing to his charming personality, which caused him to win the love of his first employer, who adopted him as his son and heir some six years before he died, leaving all his money to him. Ethel had pleasant memories of her uncle's kindness to her when a child.
When hearty greetings had been exchanged between the uncle and niece, Margaret Forrest said to her daughter: "I have been telling your uncle about your friend Mary Oliver's giving up that appointment for you, and he wants to know where she is now, and what she is doing."
"Ah, poor Mary!" said Ethel ruefully. "I am really very troubled about her. Her sister and brother-in-law lost all their money through that recent bank failure, and Dr. Croft took it badly. His losses seemed to harden him. Declaring that he could not carry on his practice in the country without capital, he sold it and arranged to go to New Zealand, though his wife had fallen into ill-health and could not possibly accompany him. He went abroad, leaving her in London in wretched lodgings. Then Mary gave up her goodsituation as teacher of physical culture in a private school, and took a less remunerative appointment so that she might live with her poor sister, and look after her, especially at nights. I believe there is a lot of night nursing. It's awfully hard and wearing for Mary, but she does it all so willingly, I believe she positively enjoys it, though I cannot help being anxious lest her health should break down."
"She must not be allowed to do double work like that," said the colonial. "No one can work by day and night as well without breaking down."
"But what is she to do?" queried Ethel. "She is obliged to earn money for their maintenance."
"We might put a little in her way," suggested Vernon.
Ethel shook her head. "She is very sweet," she said, "but I fancy she would not like to accept money as a gift."
Max Vernon assented. "Exactly," he said, "I know the sort. But she could not object to take it if it were her right."
IT WAS UNDER A NOBLE TREE THAT MAX ASKED MARY TO MARRY HIM.IT WAS UNDER A NOBLE TREE THAT MAX ASKED MARY TO MARRY HIM.
Margaret Forrest smiled, scenting a romance. "I will have her here to tea on her next half-holiday," she said; "then you will see her."
But Vernon could not wait till then. He and Ethel made up a plan that they would go to Mrs. Croft's rooms that very evening, in order that he might personally thank Mary for her goodness to his niece.
Mary thought she had never seen such a kind, strong face as his, when he stood before her expressing his gratitude for what she had done for Ethel, and also his sympathy with her troubles, of which Ethel had told him.
That was the beginning, and afterwards he was often in her home, bringing gifts for the querulous invalid, and, better still, hope for the future of her husband, about whom he interested a friend of his, who was doing well out in New Zealand, and looking out for a partner with some knowledge of medicine.
It was at a picnic, under a noble tree, that Max asked Mary to marry him, and learned to his great joy how fully his love was returned.
Mary thought there was no one like him. So many had come to her for help, but only he came to give with both hands, esteeming all he gave as nothing if only he could win her smile and her approval.
So it happened that by the time Mrs. Croft had so far recovered as to be able to join her husband, her departure was delayed one week, in order that she might be present at her sister's wedding.