"How good you are to me, Theo. You always understand."
"No, I don't, old fellow."
"Oh, I think you do! Don't think me very selfish, Theo. Do you think it is wrong to wish to be like you—strong and well?"
"It is hard for you, Jack. I wish—I wish; I know!" with a quick, excited change of manner.
"What is it, Theo?"
"It's a secret. No, I can't tell you. No, I've only just thought of it."
Theodore's face was radiant with a bright idea; but he checked his excitement.
"Don't be lonely any more, Jack. I'm here, and I'll stay with you as long as you like. Do you feel at all sleepy?"
"I think I do."
"Then try to go asleep."
"Kiss me, Theo."
Theodore complied readily. Jack put his arms around Theodore's neck, and pressed his hot, feverish lips to the other's cool, firm cheek.
"Won't you sing to me, like mother does, before you go?" Jack whispered.
"I don't think I can."
"Oh, yes! Sing 'At even, ere the sun was set;—you know that."
And very sweetly, in his clear treble, Theodore sang the hymn correctly through to the end.
"The last verse again, please, Theo," Jack murmured, sleepily.
"All right, old fellow:—
"Thy touch has still its ancient power;No word from Thee can fruitless fall:Hear, in this solemn evening hour,And in Thy mercy heal us all."
"Thy touch has still its ancient power;No word from Thee can fruitless fall:Hear, in this solemn evening hour,And in Thy mercy heal us all."
"Thy touch has still its ancient power;No word from Thee can fruitless fall:Hear, in this solemn evening hour,And in Thy mercy heal us all."
"Thy touch has still its ancient power;
No word from Thee can fruitless fall:
Hear, in this solemn evening hour,
And in Thy mercy heal us all."
Attracted by the sound of the sweet boyish voice, Jane had come upstairs. She now entered the room, and Jack having fallen asleep, she bore Theodore off to supper and bed. But Theodore did not quickly close his eyes and drift into the land of dreams, as he usually did. He lay very quiet and still for more than an hour, his brain working busily; then, knowing he was now safe from a visit from Jane, he slipped out of bed, and swiftly dressed himself. Next he went to the window, and after noiselessly pulling up the blind, cautiously opened it.
The night air was sweet with summer scents, and blew freshly against Theodore's face, cooling his flushed, sunburnt cheeks. He leaned his elbows on the sill, and lifted his eyes to the sky, where the moon was shining brightly. Presently he turned his gaze to the garden, where the tall madonna lilies reared their stately heads; he could smell their delicious fragrance, and he fancied they looked like ghosts in the moonlight.
As his eyes wandered to the grey church tower in the distance, a sense of loneliness crept over him, such as he had never experienced before; and he thought of the grave wherein his mother lay, and wished sorrowfully that she had not died. If she had lived, she would have loved him, he knew, even as Mrs. Barton loved her little son. Why had God taken her away from him? Was it really because she had been too good to live, as Jane had often told him, unconsciously magnifying the good qualities of her dead mistress? He did not think that a sufficient reason, for other people were good, and often lived to be quite old.
"I'm sure John Bawdon is good, every one says so," Theodore mused. "Father says he's honest and faithful, and one of the best men he knows, and yet God has let him live all these years. No, that can't be it. I wish I knew."
Another hour passed, and still the boy waited by the open window. At length, however, he heard the sound of carriage wheels, and following out a plan he had made, he hastened downstairs, and into the room where he knew his stepmother and father would presently come.
The lamp was lowered, so that, on entering, Mr. and Mrs. Barton did not notice the child. They stood on the rug by the fireplace, talking and laughing about the events of the evening. She had thrown off her wraps, and looked very beautiful in her soft white gown, trimmed with filmy lace. As Theodore watched her face, flushed and animated at present, he did not wonder that Jack loved his mother so dearly, or that his father was so much happier now-a-days. The boy crossed the room towards them, and each turned on him with an exclamation of surprise.
"You did not see me when you came in," he explained. "I have been waiting for you."
"Is anything wrong?" Mrs. Barton asked anxiously, her pretty colour fading somewhat. "Jack is not ill, is he?"
"Oh, no! He is fast asleep."
She drew a breath of relief, and then, turning to her husband, remarked, "You must think me unnecessarily anxious about Jack."
"It is quite natural you should be," he answered, with a smile. Then turning to Theodore, he laid his hand on his shoulder as he enquired kindly, "Why are you not in bed and asleep, my son?"
"I did go to bed, but when all was quiet I got up again, and looked out of the window till I heard the carriage coming; then I came downstairs. Jane thinks I'm in bed now, and oh, wouldn't she scold if she knew!"
Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and meeting a look of amusement, laughed merrily.
"And may I ask why you thus run the risk of Jane's displeasure?" Mr. Barton asked.
"I wanted to ask you a favour, father."
"Is it to be a secret between you and me, Theodore, or may she," indicating his wife, "stay and hear?"
The boy looked at his stepmother. Her brown eyes were watching him earnestly, and a little sadly. They reminded him of Jack's, and he answered quickly, "Oh, she may hear if she likes!"
At this point husband and wife laughed, and Theodore joined heartily.
"Now, then, what is it? Have you tired of Jigger, and want me to get you a bigger pony?"
"No, father; I couldn't part with Jigger."
"Then what is it, Theodore?"
"I have been in the hayfields nearly all day, with the vicarage children," the boy began, "and Jack has been at home alone. I did not think he might be lonely. I did not think about him at all. But he was lonely; he told me so. I want to give a party in the lower meadow to-morrow; and, father, don't you think, as it is so close, we might wheel Jack in his chair as far as the gate, and then you could carry him very carefully, and put him on a comfortable seat in the hay. Oh, I'll make him such a cosy nest!"
"Of course I could, my boy, and I will."
"Oh, father, thank you! Jack will be so glad. But you mustn't tell him. He must go out in his chair, just as usual, and we will wheel him carefully down the road till we come to the lower meadow; and then you must come along, as if by chance, you know, and carry him the rest of the way—won't you?"
"I will, my son."
Mr. Barton looked down at the eager, animated face, so like his own in features, so unlike in expression, and a glow of fatherly love filled his heart for his child. Never, he thought, had he seen Theodore look so handsome, so noble. The little fellow's eyes shone brightly at the thought of the pleasure in store for his stepbrother; for his affection for Jack, which had commenced out of protecting pity, was fast developing into deep, unselfish love.
"A thousand thousand thanks, father! It must be a secret, mind. You will not tell?" Theodore asked, turning to Mrs. Barton.
She shook her head, smiling; but, to the boy's astonishment, there were tears in her eyes, and she seemed incapable of speech. Satisfied and happy, Theodore said "Good night," and went upstairs, taking care to step softly, that Jane should not hear him.
He was in bed, and almost asleep, when his stepmother passed his door on her way to her son's room. He knew she always visited Jack the last thing before going to bed herself, and presently he heard her returning. To his surprise, instead of passing his room, as usual, she entered. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, and wondering what she wanted. He knew she stood by his bedside, looking down upon him. Then he heard her sigh, and then a pair of soft lips kissed him gently, tenderly; and opening his eyes, he saw by the moonlight a beautiful face looking at him—oh, surely as his own mother, had she lived, might have looked at her son! That look filled him with strange, joyful wonderment that was almost pain. He hastily buried his head under the bedclothes, and, mistaking the meaning of the action, Mrs. Barton turned sadly and sorrowfully away.
MERRIMENT in the hayfield was at its height. A group of youngsters, including Theodore and the vicarage children—two girls of ten and twelve, and a boy of six—were engaged in a thorough romping game, whilst Jack, enthroned on a beautiful couch of softest hay, watched them with contented, happy eyes. Mr. Barton was at a little distance with the haymakers, as was the vicar—a big middle-aged man, with a kindly face, merry blue eyes, and a deep resounding voice.
Mrs. Barton and Jane had spread a table-cloth on the ground, fastening it securely down with stones and presently the tea was laid, and the children stopped their game, to seat themselves in a ring close to Jack, so that he might join in their eager, joyous conversation. The little tongues grew silent as the business of tea progressed, but their appetites somewhat satisfied, the chatter began again. Then Mr. Barton and the vicar joined the group, and demanded their share of the good things. Theodore, who considered himself the master of the ceremonies, waited upon every one assiduously, taking especial care of his stepbrother.
"Are you sure you are enjoying yourself, Jack?" he would ask; and getting an answer in the affirmative, would be satisfied for about five minutes, when he would put the same question again, and receive the same reply.
Once he approached Mrs. Barton, and in low tones asked her: "Do you think Jack is enjoying himself?"
"I am sure he is, Theodore; he never had such a treat in his life before. It makes me very happy to see him looking so well and bright."
"Yes. Everything is going off splendidly, isn't it? I was afraid Aunt Selina and Aunt Penelope might turn up, but I don't think they will now."
"What makes you think of them?"
"Oh! Aunt Penelope said this morning she would rather like to see the haymakers at work. I was careful not to tell her we were going to have tea here this afternoon!"
The foregoing conversation had taken place shortly before tea, therefore Mrs. Barton was not surprised when the meal was in full swing to see her husband's aunts entering the field. Theodore was filled with consternation at the sight of them, which he made no attempt to hide, for he exclaimed hastily:
"What a nuisance! They will spoil our fun!"
"Theodore!" his father said sternly, in accents of rebuke; but the boy scowled rebelliously.
"Do not let us disturb you, pray!" Miss Selina said, after she and her sister had shaken hands with the elder ones of the party, and nodded to the children. "We have been to the Hall, and learning where you all were, thought we would look in on you for a few minutes."
"And now you must have some tea," Mrs. Barton said. "Children, cannot you make two comfortable seats?"
So two fresh mounds of hay were arranged, and presently the unexpected visitors were seated and sipping their tea complacently. Miss Selina wore the old brown silk gown that every one knew; but Miss Penelope's toilette was very juvenile—white muslin, blue bows, and a sailor hat.
"Your wife is not here?" Miss Selina remarked, addressing the vicar.
"No," he replied; "the baby is poorly, and she did not care to leave home."
"Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Oh, dear, no! Teething, I believe."
"Well, I'll call to-morrow, and cheer your wife up a bit; it's wearisome work nursing a sick child. By the way, I wanted to speak to you—"
And Miss Selina and the vicar drifted into a discussion upon parish matters; whilst Miss Penelope turned her attention to Jack.
"Why, Jack, this is a surprise! How comes it you are here?"
The child laughed happily, and turned his eyes upon his stepbrother.
"It was Theodore who thought of it," he answered. "Wasn't it splendid of him? And father carried me so gently that I was not a bit hurt."
Miss Penelope knitted her brows, and looked from Mr. Barton to Theodore. She had not known before that Jack was in the habit of addressing Mr. Barton as "father," and she was surprised that Theodore, who was at her side, and apparently listening to the conversation, did not seem to resent, or even to notice it.
"Theo arranged everything so that it should be a great surprise for me," Jack continued confidentially, in his serious, old-fashioned way. "A hayfield is a lovely place, I think. Oh, what is it?"
Miss Penelope had given a little scream, and Theodore, who had been watching her with a mischievous look on his face, openly smiled.
"There is something crawling on my neck!" she cried. "Oh, Theodore, see what it is, and take it off! there's a dear boy!"
"All right; keep still, Aunt Pen. Yes, I see it. Keep still, or it will crawl down the neck of your dress, and then—"
He paused expressively, whilst Miss Penelope appealed to him again.
"Oh, be quick, dear Theodore!"
But Theodore did not hurry. He very carefully and slowly removed something from the back of Miss Penelope's neck, and stood looking at her laughingly.
"What was it?" she asked nervously.
"A beetle, a beautiful green beetle," and opening his hand, he disclosed the insect, whereupon Miss Penelope gave a little horrified shriek, and the children could not help a roar of amusement.
"How foolish to make a fuss about such a trifle!" Miss Selina cried. "Really, Penelope, it is almost childish."
Miss Penelope looked resentful at this speech, and she sat in silence for a while.
The children having finished tea, Mrs. Barton sent them off to play again; and the vicar and Mr. Barton returned to the haymakers, whilst Jane packed the cups and plates into baskets, and returned with them to the Hall.
"Now I call this very pleasant," Miss Selina remarked. "What a pretty sight, to be sure. Why, it was years and years ago since I had tea in a hayfield. I suppose this is your first experience of anything of the sort, little man?" she said, glancing smilingly at Jack.
"Yes, indeed. Isn't it jolly?"
"Very. And so it was Theodore's idea, I hear?"
"He thought of it for Jack's sake," Mrs. Barton explained. "Was it not good of him? So many boys of his age would not have cared for another's pleasure."
"He is a good boy," Miss Selina agreed. "And so you two are great friends?" turning to Jack again.
"Yes," he answered promptly. "Oh, yes, great friends!"
"Just like brothers, in fact," Miss Penelope remarked in a tone that made her sister glance at her sharply.
"It is a great gratification to us that it is so," Mrs. Barton said quietly. "I think each is happy in the companionship of the other."
"And Jack calls your husband 'father'?" Miss Penelope queried sweetly. "Now, how nice that is!"
Mrs. Barton coloured faintly, for she anticipated what was coming.
"And does Theodore call you 'mother'? If so, how charming of him!"
"No, he does not," was the prompt answer. "No one has ever asked him to do so. His father would not suggest it; neither would I. Some day, I believe, Theodore will call me 'mother' of his own free will."
"To be sure, to be sure," Miss Selina agreed briskly. "The boy's not one to be driven an inch, but I believe he can be led by kindness and love. Now, you know, I am nothing if not outspoken," using her pet phrase, "and I always speak my mind. I see well enough that Theodore stands aloof from you, and you are fearful lest your will should clash with his, but I really do not think you need be. If I were you, I would exert my authority over him a little more. I would not let him be so much with that Tom Blake."
"Tom Blake—who is he?" Mrs. Barton asked anxiously.
"He is the blacksmith's little boy," Jack hastened to explain. "I have never seen him, but Theodore has told me all about him."
"I do not think there is much to his credit to tell," Miss Selina continued. "He is one of the worst boys I know, always staying away from school on one excuse or another, always telling falsehoods and swearing, and a regular bully."
"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Barton cried in dismayed accents; "and you say Theodore goes about with him? I don't think his father knows it."
"Probably not; but Jane must, and she ought to have put a stop to it ages ago. I expect, though, Theodore wheedled around her to let him have his own way."
Jack looked thoroughly uncomfortable, for he knew Theodore was often in Tom Blake's company, and he also knew that Jane was much distressed at the fact, though she had not sufficient control over the wayward boy to prevent it.
"Do you know anything about this matter, Jack?" Mrs. Barton enquired, noticing her little son's uneasy countenance.
"Not much, mother," he replied, rather evasively. "Of course I know Theo goes out with Tom Blake sometimes—often," correcting himself truthfully.
"And does Jane allow it?"
"No—that is, she does not like it. She wanted Theo to promise not to have anything more to do with Tom, but he would not promise."
"Just as I thought!" Miss Selina exclaimed. "Jane gives way to him in everything. Now," turning to Mrs. Barton, who looked much disturbed, "you see how necessary it is that some one holding more authority than a servant should interfere."
"I do indeed see it."
Mrs. Barton sighed as she turned the matter over in her mind, and came to the conclusion that it was her place to speak to Theodore about his questionable friend.
Presently Miss Selina and Miss Penelope took their departure, and then little Jack turned a distressed face to his mother.
"Oh, mother!" he cried, "what shall I do? I ought not to have told you anything about Theo's going with Tom Blake. Theo will be so angry."
"Nonsense, my dear. It was Miss Selina who told me, in the first place."
"Of course Theo couldn't promise not to have anything more to do with Tom Blake, if he meant to all the time."
"No, certainly not. But remember, Jack, it is Theodore's duty to obey Jane whilst he is under her charge."
"I know. But Theo wouldn't tell a lie, mother; and you see he doesn't mean to give up Tom Blake—he says he is such a nice boy."
"And do you think he is, Jack?"
Jack hung his head guiltily, mindful of many things that Theodore had repeated to him as clever speeches of Tom's.
Mrs. Barton did not press the question, and presently the party in the hayfield broke up.
"This has been the happiest day of my life," the little invalid confided to his stepbrother later on, "and I've been thanking God for it."
"It has been jolly," Theodore replied. "But what a queer chap you are, to thank God for it; you're as funny as old John Bawdon—that's just his way of talking."
Jack was by no means offended at this remark; he was accustomed now to Theodore's flippant manner of speaking. Instead, he continued:
"Mother says we should never forget to thank God. She says we're always ready to ask Him for things, and often forget to thank Him. But I haven't forgotten to-day. I feel so grateful, and as if I love Him so dearly. There's one thing I never forget to thank Him for; do you know what that is, Theo?"
"Not I," with a laugh.
"For giving me you, Theo."
And Theodore made no answer, only looked in wonderment at his stepbrother's bright, loving face, and decided that he was very peculiar—a decision he came to scores of times in a week.
So the happiest day of Jack's life came to a close; and when the little fellow went tired to bed, he fell asleep quickly, and dreamt a wonderful dream that he never forgot: for in it he thought he no longer lay watching the other children, but ran about and played with them.
It was the happiest dream he ever dreamt, a fit ending to the happiest day.
ONE afternoon, nearly a week later, upon entering the house by a side door, Mrs. Barton came upon Theodore and Jane both talking loudly and excitedly.
"I shall tell master, and see what he'll say!" she overheard Jane exclaim, and then came Theodore's quick retort, in enraged accents—
"You're a nasty sneak, and I'll do as I like!"
"What is it?" Mrs. Barton demanded, as she came forward, her usually gentle voice severe and peremptory.
Theodore turned a flushed, angry face towards her, whilst Jane changed colour, and hesitated to explain.
"What is it?" she asked again. "Theodore, how dare you speak to Jane in that way?"
"She is a sneak," the child declared passionately; "a sneak! a sneak!"
Mrs. Barton laid a firm hand on the boy's shoulder; and Jane burst into a storm of tears as she sobbed out:
"I'm sure I've done nothing to make Master Theodore so angry. I always try to do my duty!"
"I am sure you do," Mrs. Barton assured her. "Now, tell me what is the meaning of this scene?"
Whereupon Jane explained that Theodore had intended going out fishing with Tom Blake, and she had tried to prevent him. Mrs. Barton listened in silence. The case was just as she had imagined; and she now saw the time had come for her to put a check upon her stepson.
"I am very sorry Master Theodore has behaved so rudely to you, Jane; and he will be ashamed himself when he comes to think the matter over. You were quite right in not allowing him to go with Tom Blake—he is not at all a suitable companion for Master Theodore. You may go now. Theodore, you come with me."
Jane was glad to be dismissed, but went upstairs feeling uneasy, and somewhat frightened, as she thought of the interview that was to take place between Theodore and his stepmother.
Meanwhile Mrs. Barton led Theodore into the library, and, closing the door, released her hold of him. For some minutes there was silence, during which time Theodore's temper was rising, and Mrs. Barton was praying for help to use such words as would appeal to the boy's sense of right and duty.
"Sit down, Theodore," she said, gently and kindly. "I want to have a talk to you about this Tom Blake; but first of all I must tell you that I cannot allow you to call Jane names. It is unmanly to speak thus to a woman. Perhaps no one ever pointed out this to you—"
"She is a sneak!" the boy burst out angrily.
"A sneak means a low, mean person—Jane is not that."
"She was going to tell my father—something."
"Because you would not listen to her, or obey her. Theodore, such conduct is not honourable. Jane is responsible for you, and if you will not do as she tells you she must appeal to someone with greater authority. Now, she is quite right in not allowing you to go out with this Tom Blake; if your father was consulted on the matter he would most distinctly forbid it!"
"Why?" Theodore demanded, his eyes flashing ominously.
"Because the boy is not a fitting companion for you. I do not wish to get you into trouble, Theodore, and therefore I shall be quite satisfied to take your word that you will avoid Tom Blake all you possibly can. Will you promise this?"
"No, I will not! Someone has been putting you against Tom!"
"Someone has been telling me the truth about him. He is a bad boy; he swears, and tells lies. Is it not so?"
But Theodore was furiously angry. This was the first time his stepmother had ventured to interfere with his doings. His fierce grey eyes met hers, and he read in her steady gaze a look he did not like, a look that told him she meant him to obey her.
"What has it to do with you?" he demanded rudely.
"A great deal. It hurts me to think my husband's son should care for low company. Understand me, if this Tom Blake was a good boy I should not object in the least to your going about with him; it is simply because he is not good that I do object. Dear Theodore, you must see it is right. Do promise me you will do as I wish!"
"No! no! What has it to do with you? Why do you interfere with me? No one ever did until you came! You are not my mother, and I won't stand it! I hate you! I do! Yes, I hate you!"
"You do not know what you are saying, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said quietly, though her face became very pale. "You cannot mean what you say!"
"Yes, I do! I do! I hate you! I will go with Tom Blake whenever I like. He is waiting for me now, and I shall go, I tell you!"
Theodore was moving towards the door, but to his surprise his stepmother interposed between it and him.
"No, you will not go," she said, and the boy, even in his passion was quick to note the ring of power in her tones. "I shall prevent you. Go to your own room at once, and remain there till I give you permission to leave it."
Theodore gave a shriek of defiance as he listened, and then losing complete control over himself, he stamped round the room, raving at the top of his voice, venting on his stepmother all the pent-up evil thoughts he had harboured against her during the last few months.
She uttered no word, only watched him sorrowfully, marvelling that so young a child could hate so bitterly; then she went up to him, her quiet face showing little of the pain he had caused her.
"Are you going to obey me, Theodore?" she asked. "Go to your own room at once."
"I will not!"
"I must insist upon it."
"I will not! I—"
The words died on the boy's lips as the door opened and his father entered. Mr. Barton surveyed his son in silence, a dark flush of anger crossing his face; whilst Theodore's spirit quailed guiltily, though he was still determined to brazen the matter out.
Mrs. Barton in a few words gave her husband to understand that Theodore persisted in an act of disobedience, and she was insisting that he should go to his own room, and remain there for a punishment.
"Well, Theodore," Mr. Barton said sternly, "do as you are told, and go!"
"I will not do as she tells me!"
"What?"
The boy repeated the words, but scarcely had he done so than he felt himself in a strong grasp, and was dragged out of the room and upstairs before he had time to understand what was happening. In another minute he found himself seated on the floor in his own bedroom, and heard the door closed and locked from the outside.
He was stupefied with amazement. Never had his father interfered with him before, and he immediately saw that he had made a mistake in defying his stepmother. But he was not sorry yet, though he wept and sobbed himself perfectly sick. Nobody came to condole with him, and he felt he was hardly used, especially as tea-time passed, and no tea was brought to him.
"It is all her fault," he told himself, blaming his stepmother. "Of course, father would take her part."
He wondered why Jane did not come to see him, or at any rate to speak to him, if the key was taken out of the door; and regretted he had called her a sneak.
As the evening dragged on, his angry passions cooled down, and a feeling of self-pity took their place. Over the mantlepiece hung an enlarged photograph of his mother, and as his eyes rested on it, he almost fancied the sweet face smiled on him; and he wondered if she knew how badly he wanted her, and how lonely he felt. And then, in his imagination, the smile changed to a look of reproachful sorrow, and for the first time his heart smote him for his conduct that day.
Would no one ever come to him? The long summer evening was closing in at last, and still he was left alone.
"Theodore! Theodore!"
It was his stepmother's voice outside the door, and he answered quickly, "Yes, yes; oh, let me out!"
"I cannot; your father has the key. May I go to him and say you are sorry?" she asked anxiously.
Theodore did not answer, and she pleaded again: "You are sorry, are you not? Do let me fetch your father. Shall I?"
"Oh, yes, yes!"
He listened to her retreating footsteps, and it seemed ages before the key at length turned in the lock, and his father entered the room.
It was a forlorn-looking little figure, with pale cheeks and swollen eyelids, that stood shrinking before Mr. Barton's stern gaze.
"I am sorry," the boy murmured. "Won't you please forgive me, father?"
"It is not my forgiveness you want, Theodore. It was my wife you openly defied and insulted. When I first brought her home, she was ready to love you dearly, and would have done her best to fill the place of your dead mother. She has always been kind and considerate to you, and how have you repaid her? This afternoon I was ashamed of my son."
Theodore hung his head, and blushed with shame.
"I have heard the cause of the disturbance from Jane; and, once for all, let me tell you to avoid Tom Blake. Is that plain? Do you understand, and do you mean to obey?"
"Yes, father," Theodore answered, in a very small voice.
"If there is ever a repetition of the scene I partly witnessed to-day, I shall send you to a boarding-school at once. I should have dealt with you much more severely, if my wife had not begged me to be lenient with you. You had better go and try to make your peace with her. She is in the drawing-room."
Theodore turned away, and walked slowly downstairs, his proud spirit quite humbled for the time.
"I am sorry I behaved so badly," he said, going straight up to his stepmother, who was seated in a low chair by the window. As she turned and looked at him, he saw the traces of recent tears on her face. "I am sorry," he repeated. "Will you please forgive me?"
"Yes, Theodore."
His heart was touched by the gentle sadness of her voice, and he went on quickly:
"It was not true what I said, and it was very rude of me. I don't hate you, really."
Mrs. Barton made no reply, and Theodore did not know that she restrained a strong impulse to take him in her arms and kiss him. He was conscious of a touch of reserve in her manner that he had never felt before, and it made him uneasy.
"Did you—did you tell my father what I said?" he asked anxiously.
"No; there was no need to pain him."
Theodore winced at her reply, and stood hesitating, whilst Mrs. Barton turned her head away, and looked out of the window.
"I am sorry," he said again.
"If your sorrow is real, my dear, you will try to curb your temper. You must not continue to allow it to conquer you, or you will always be a slave to it."
"I can't help my temper."
"Oh, yes, you can! Pray to God to help you; and when you feel the evil passion getting the better of you, fight it down valiantly. Say to yourself, I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me.'"
"I will try; indeed I will."
"And ask God to forgive you. Oh, Theodore! you have made me very unhappy; think of the sorrow you must have caused Jesus."
"I don't think He can care for me much."
"Why not?"
"I'm too naughty."
"Dear Theodore, we are all naughty; but Jesus loves us, and wants us to try and do better for His sake. Will you try?"
Theodore nodded, his eyes swimming with tears.
"You are sure you forgive me?" he asked earnestly.
"Quite sure. Now, good night. Run away and have your supper; you must be very hungry. Jack is anxiously waiting for you, and so is Jane—poor Jane! Good night, my dear."
A few moments Mr. Barton joined his wife, and leaning over the back of her chair, kissed her softly on the forehead.
"Do you think I shall ever win his love?" she asked wistfully. "Sometimes I almost despair."
"You must not do that," he answered fondly. "Some day Theodore will love you as dearly as your own boy does. You will see that I shall prove a true prophet."
FOR some days after Theodore's exhibition of disobedience and passion, he was very subdued and quiet, treating Jane with great consideration, and spending most of his spare time in Jack's company.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Barton referred to Tom Blake, and Theodore felt he was quite forgiven for his naughtiness. But the boy could not overcome the slight reserve that his stepmother seemed to have wrapped around her.
Hitherto he had been content to keep out of her way as much as possible; now he often sought her presence, with the idea of wiping out from her mind the bitter words he had hurled at her in his ungovernable rage. But he found he could not. When he and Jack sat listening to a story from her lips,—for she often drew on her imagination for their amusement,—he would catch her eye, and know that she remembered.
As time went on, he grew to daily respect her more and more. He saw how she brightened the once dull house; he noticed how his father was happy when she was near; and he began to understand the tender affection with which Jack regarded her. He had not troubled as to what she had thought of him; he had not cared whether she loved him or not; but now slowly there was creeping into his heart a desire to obliterate any bad impression he might have made upon her.
Mrs. Barton's quiet influence for good was, felt at The Nest too. Miss Selina had no faults to find with the management of the new mistress at the Hall; Miss Penelope soon ceased to begrudge her the personal charms she had at first refused to admit, and even went so far as to acknowledge her "nice-looking."
Much to Theodore's astonishment, he found Jane upholding Mrs. Barton's authority, and quoting her opinions on different matters; the truth being that Jane was beginning to find her young master rather beyond her powers of control, and was really glad to have someone to whom she could go for assistance, or advice. Theodore managed to keep out of Tom Blake's way for many weeks, but one morning during the August holidays he met him close to the entrance to the Hall grounds. Theodore nodded, not meaning to stop, but Tom paused, and then, of course, Theodore had to do the same.
"Good morning, Master Theodore!"
"Good morning, Tom!"
"You didn't keep your promise about the fishing," was Tom's next remark, with a sly wink.
"No. I was very sorry. I would have let you know if I could. I didn't mean to break my promise!"
Tom looked curiously at Theodore's distressed countenance.
"I suppose they stopped you," he said, with a grin. "I guess Mrs. Barton thought you too much of a baby to go out without a nurse, eh?"
"I don't think I care for fishing much," Theodore remarked, with a would-be careless air, and ignoring the sneer conveyed in the other's remark.
Tom laughed in a manner which had an irritating effect upon his listener, and seemed to be vastly amused.
"You don't like fishing much? Oh, indeed! I s'pose you like being made a molly-coddle of like your stepbrother, eh?"
"Jack is not a molly-coddle!" Theodore flashed out indignantly, now thoroughly angry.
"He's well enough, I daresay. Now, look 'ere, see what I've got!"
Tom drew from his pocket a packet of cigarettes, and carefully selecting one, proceeded to light it, whilst the younger boy watched him with somewhat reluctant admiration.
"'Ave one?" Tom asked insinuatingly. "Bought 'em with my own money."
"No, no, thank you."
"Afraid you'll be sick, eh?"
"No. That's not the reason."
"Afraid your stepmother 'll whack you if she finds it out?"
"No, indeed!" Theodore responded, with a laugh at the idea.
"Well, then," the elder boy said persuasively, "try one, it can't 'arm you. Let's go and sit down in the shade somewhere."
Theodore rather reluctantly followed Tom into the lower meadow, where now stood a large hay-rick, in the shadow of which the boys seated themselves. Now, no one had ever told Theodore not to smoke; but all the same he had an idea that neither his father nor his stepmother would like him to do so. Yet when he watched Tom puffing away, and apparently thoroughly enjoying his cigarette, he told himself there really could be no possible harm in his trying one, just to see what it was like. So he allowed himself to be persuaded; and, after much coughing, because the smoke would go down his throat, and up the back of his nose, he succeeded in getting through one cigarette.
Then Tom suddenly remembered that his father would be wanting him, and made his way home, chuckling to himself as he went, whilst Theodore slowly rose to his feet, and turned towards the Hall.
But how queer he felt,—so sick, and everything seemed to be spinning round. He never quite remembered how he crawled home, but when at length he staggered into the nursery, Jane uttered an exclamation of dismay, and Jack gave a shrill scream of fright at the sight of his ghastly face.
"Oh, Master Theodore, my darling; what is it?" Jane cried, as she rang the bell violently, and caught the boy as he staggered, and would have fallen.
"I am very ill, Jane," he moaned; "very ill!"
In a few minutes nearly everyone in the house had rushed to the nursery, the servants with frightened faces, Mrs. Barton pale and trembling, and her husband no less alarmed. Jane held the boy in her arms, calling him by every endearing name she could think of, until Mr. Barton took him from her, and laid him on a sofa.
Theodore looked, as he said, very ill; but as his father leaned over him a sudden suspicion made him ask:
"What have you been doing, Theodore?"
"Doing?" Theodore repeated faintly, looking round on the assembled faces. "Doing? Nothing—only—smoking."
There was a moment's dead silence. Then Theodore saw the sympathy on the servants' faces give way to ill-suppressed amusement; and his father remarked, in decidedly relieved accents:
"So you've been smoking, have you? And you feel very ill? I can quite believe it. Don't be frightened, you are not so bad as you fancy, and you'll be better soon. Cheer up, Jack! There's nothing to be alarmed about. I think, Theodore, bed is the best place for you."
So saying, Mr. Barton turned away, and went downstairs.
The faithful Jane, much relieved as to the cause of her darling's illness, and, assisted by Mrs. Barton, soon had Theodore tucked up in bed, where he lay very sick, and suffering badly in his head for some hours.
At last he fell asleep, so that he never heard the stir and commotion that was going on in the house, for his sleep was deep and heavy; and when he awoke he thought it must be tea-time, he was so very hungry.
Then he remembered all that had taken place, the look of mingled relief and anger on his father's face when he had confessed he had been smoking, his stepmother's evident amazement, and the amused countenances of the servants. His cheeks burned with shame; and he determined to get up at once, and tell his father all about it.
Very slowly, for he felt weak and rather lightheaded, he arose and dressed, and made his way to the nursery. Jack was there alone, so intently and eagerly looking out of the window, that he never noticed his stepbrother till he reached his side.
"Well, Jack," Theodore remarked, rather shamefacedly.
"Oh, Theo, darling, are you better?"
But Theodore did not answer. He stood gazing out of the window with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes; for there, in the lower meadow, was a volume of smoke ascending from the new hay-rick.
"It is on fire," Jack explained. "Isn't it a pity? Nearly every one is there, trying to put the fire out."
"Oh, dear! how did it happen?"
"I don't know. But are you feeling better, Theodore?"
"Oh, yes, yes! I'm all right. Where's Jane?"
"She's downstairs, getting tea ready; all the servants are gone to the lower meadow. Father is there, and I think mother is—"
"Mother is here;" and turning, the boys saw Mrs. Barton standing behind them.
"You must be ready for your tea, Theodore, for you had no dinner," she said. "Are you better?"
"Yes, thank you; but my head aches."
"Ah, yes. I hope you will not be tempted to smoke again; it certainly made you very bad," she said, with a smile that caused Theodore to blush. Then she added more seriously, "You must have known it was wrong to smoke, and whoever gave you tobacco was much to blame."
"It was a cigarette," murmured Theodore; "but I will never touch another!"
Mrs. Barton thought it wisest to let the subject drop for the time, meaning to talk seriously to her little stepson when Jack was not present. The boys watched the burning hay-rick for some minutes in silence, but at last Theodore exclaimed excitedly, "Oh, I must go and see the fire-engine at work!"
"No, my dear, you cannot," Mrs. Barton answered. "Your father said that on no account were you to leave the house."
"I suppose he is very angry," Theodore sighed.
"Never mind," whispered Jack. "At least—I mean you won't smoke again, will you?"
"Never!" was the fervent response, in accents of conviction. "I do wonder, Jack, how the rick caught on fire; it was all right this—"
Theodore paused abruptly, ashamed to acknowledge he had rested in the shade of the hay-rick to smoke that unlucky cigarette.
Meanwhile, the fire-engine from the neighbouring town was playing on the flames; but though there was plenty of water, the efforts of the willing helpers were of little avail, for there was a stiff breeze blowing, which fanned the fire, so that when night fell there was very little hay that was not thoroughly spoiled.
"'Tis a bad job," said old John Bawdon, as he walked back to the Hall by his master's side.
"It is indeed, John, especially as the rick was not insured. I cannot imagine how it caught fire."
The old man looked troubled, and presently burst out:
"You know, sir, I love him dearly! I wouldn't willingly get him into trouble; but I think I ought to speak."
"What do you mean? What do you know?"
"Blake, the blacksmith, has been thrashing his son for smoking by the side of the rick. It seems he was passing along the road, and looking in over the hedge, saw him this very morning."
"The young rascal! You may depend he threw a lighted match unwittingly into some loose hay."
"Yes, sir," uneasily. "But he wasn't alone; Master Theodore was with him."
"Theodore!"
Very black indeed was the frown on Mr. Barton's brow; and seeing it, the old man, with whom Theodore was a prime favourite, was much distressed and agitated.
"Oh, be gentle with him!" he pleaded. "He is very young! I am sure he meant no harm."
"I had told him not to have anything to do with Tom Blake, and yet it seems he wilfully disobeyed me."
"Oh, sir, have patience with him! he's not used to control. Jane, she means well, but she has allowed him to have his own way so long."
"Too long."
Even as he spoke, the father's conscience told him he should have taught his son the lesson of obedience earlier himself.
"I am very glad you have told me this, John," he said. "Have no fear that I will be harsh with the boy. He is wilful and headstrong; I suppose I was the same at his age."
"That you were, sir!"
Mr. Barton laughed, and the old man hastily apologised.
"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure; but, you know, I remember when you were just such a little chap as Master Theodore; and sometimes I'm most afraid I forget my manners. But I've the family's welfare at heart, and—"
"You're a faithful soul, John," his master interposed feelingly; "I know that." And having arrived at the Hall, they parted company.
Mr. Barton went straight upstairs to the nursery, where he found his wife and the two boys. It was almost dark, and his footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet, so that for a few minutes he stood in the background, unseen and unheard.
Mrs. Barton sat on a low chair by Jack's sofa. The little invalid's golden head rested on his mother's shoulder; whilst on a stool at her feet sat Theodore, looking up at her with interested eyes.
"And David killed the giant," Mrs. Barton was saying in her dear, sweet voice, "killed him with a sling and a stone."
"A sort of catapult, I suppose?" Theodore queried. "What a first-rate shot David must have been!"
"Yes. You see it is not always the strongest that wins. David was only a lad; but he trusted in God, and God was with him—"
She broke off suddenly as her husband came forward. Theodore turned crimson, and regarded his father with startled eyes.
"I am sorry to disturb you, Mary," Mr. Barton said gently, "but I want a few words with Theodore before he goes to bed. Theodore, come downstairs into the library with me."
LATE that night, when all the household had presumably gone to rest, a little figure, clad in a scarlet dressing-gown, stole softly into Jack's bedroom, and, carefully closing the door, crept up to the bed.
"Is that you, Theodore?" Jack asked anxiously. "I thought you would come. Oh! I have been so very unhappy! Dear Theo, what is the matter? What did father say to you?"
For Theodore was weeping bitterly. He climbed on the edge of the bed, and laying his head on the pillow, sobbed as though his heart would break. Much distressed, Jack put his arm lovingly around his stepbrother's neck, and wept in sympathy. But Theodore's tears did not last long; he presently sat up, and explained the whole story of his troubles and misdeeds to his attentive listener.
"You set fire to the hay-rick!" Jack cried in dismay, when he at last understood Theodore's somewhat rambling statement.
"Yes. Of course I did not mean to—I suppose Tom or I must have dropped a lighted match in some loose hay without knowing it. Oh, dear, isn't it dreadful?"
"Was father very angry, Theo?"
"I don't know—not angry exactly, but sorry, and—and disappointed. He said he thought he could have trusted me," Theodore explained, with a choking sob. "I was very naughty, very disobedient, and I can't think what made me be so wicked. I was never so sorry about anything in my life before. Father said I ought not to have gone into the lower meadow with Tom; I ought just to have spoken to him, and gone home."
"Yes, yes!"
"Do you hate me, Jack?"
"No, no, Theo! I love you dearly—dearly!"
"I don't deserve you should. I expect she hates me," Theodore said with a sigh.
"She? Who?"
"Your mother."
"Oh, no! I'm sure she doesn't!"
"I don't think I shall ever be good, Jack; and I do want to be."
"Jesus will help you, Theo. You know that, don't you? I'll tell you a verse out of the Bible that mother told me to remember, when I wanted to do something wrong, shall I?"
"Yes, do. What is it?"
"'Thou God seest me.' You know, Theo, you wouldn't have liked father, or mother, or even me to have seen you smoking with Tom Blake this morning, would you, now?"
"No," Theodore answered truthfully.
"God saw you, only you didn't think of Him, did you?"
Theodore sighed deeply, and was silent for a long while. It was quite dark, so that the children could not discern each other's faces, but Jack held Theodore's hand firmly in his thin little fingers.
"You must never think anyone hates you, Theo," Jack said at length. "No one could—you are so kind! I think you will be a hero when you are a man—brave and strong, and I—"
Jack paused abruptly. He could picture a future for his stepbrother, but not for himself.
"Do you feel ill to-night, Jack?" Theodore asked uneasily, struck by an intonation of wistfulness in the other's voice.
"No, not ill—only tired."
"I ought not to have come, bothering you so. Jane would be dreadfully angry if she knew I was not in bed."
"I felt sure you would come! I should not have been able to sleep all night if you had stayed away. Has father forgiven you, Theo?"
"Yes. He was very kind to me, and he made me feel so ashamed of myself. I was sorry when I saw how sorry he was! I thought at first he was only annoyed about my smoking, but when he said most likely I set the rick on fire, I expected he might thrash me, and I was awfully frightened. Somehow he seemed to understand how I felt. I think father's a brick, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, he is!" Jack agreed cordially.
"I mean always to try and please him for the future," Theodore proceeded earnestly. "He said the hay-rick was worth many pounds, but he didn't mind the loss of the money half so much as my having been with Tom Blake."
"You'll give up Tom Blake now, won't you?" Jack enquired anxiously.
"Yes," was the prompt reply. "Well, I suppose I must go now. Good night, old fellow!"
"Good night, Theo."
Theodore's talk with Jack had done him good. He went quietly back to his own room, and was soon asleep. But Jack lay awake for a long while, thinking of his stepbrother; and in the morning, when his mother came to see him, as she always did the first thing, she found him feverish, and tossing about restlessly. Jack was ill; and, as evening drew on, he grew rapidly worse.
The village doctor came, shook his head gravely, and spoke of further advice. Then the great London physician was telegraphed for, and the next morning he arrived, and was shut up for a long time in Jack's room.
"I am glad he is here," Theodore said to Jane. "It will be all right now, you'll see. He'll make Jack better, won't he?"
Jane made no answer, so Theodore went downstairs, meaning to wait in the drawing-room till the doctors came down, hoping to hear what they thought about his stepbrother. To his surprise he found his aunts there.
"We are terribly shocked at the sad news," Miss Selina said, kindly drawing the boy towards her, and kissing his troubled race. "We must hope for the best, my dear. Jack is in God's hands."
"Oh, he has been very ill before, Aunt Selina, and has always got well again!"
"Yes, but each attack must leave him weaker. He suffers terribly, I hear?"
"Oh, yes, he does! Sometimes he can't help crying out; but I expect the London doctor will give him something to stop the pain; don't you think so?"
"I hope so."
"You seem very fond of him," Miss Penelope remarked, her voice sounding unusually soft and gentle.
"I am, Aunt Pen. Oh! here's father!"
"It is very kind of you to come," Mr. Barton said, as he shook hands with his aunts.
"Can we do anything in any way?" Miss Selina asked, her tone full of genuine sympathy.
"No, I think not, thank you. The doctors are in the library discussing their case. I fear there is a very slight hope this time. The poor little fellow-seems to have no strength left."
"Oh, dear! I am so sorry. How is your wife?"
"Bearing up bravely. She will not break down whilst Jack wants her."
"Father!" cried Theodore, in an awestruck whisper. "Do you mean that you think Jack will die?"
"I cannot say, my son. We shall know better what to think when we hear what the doctors have to say. Run away to the nursery now, Theodore, like a good boy."
Theodore obeyed, and spent the rest of the day most unhappily. He heard the doctors leave, and listened anxiously to the report Jane brought him that they thought Jack very dangerously ill, but it was possible he might rally again if his strength held out. To this hope, slight though it was, Theodore clung. He wandered aimlessly about the house and grounds, questioning everyone he came across:
"You think Jack will get better, don't you?"
All hoped he would, for there was not an inmate of Afton Hall who did not dearly love Theodore's stepbrother.
"It'll be as God wills," old John Bawdon replied, when appealed to for his opinion. "Maybe the Lord wants the little lad."
"But I want him, John; we all want him!" Theodore cried rebelliously.
"Aye, aye, Master Theodore, so we do. But it's a bit selfish of us to feel like that, I take it. 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him.' And Master Jack loves the Lord dearly. To think he may see Jesus before me after all! Well, well, 'tis hard to understand. Here am I, old, but hearty yet, and that bit of a boy has had more suffering in the few years he has lived than I have had all my long life! Oh, you mustn't grudge him to Jesus, Master Theodore!"
But Theodore turned impatiently away, and stole once more to the door of the room where his stepbrother lay. Once Mrs. Barton came out, and the boy clutched at her dress, and pleaded earnestly to see Jack. She shook her head sadly, but he persisted in his request.
"No, my dear, no," she whispered. "It cannot be. He is suffering dreadfully; I cannot let you see him now."
Even as she spoke, Theodore heard a terrible wail from the little sufferer, and he shrank away in dismay. He saw how the sound wrung his stepmother's heart.
Her very lips turned pale as she breathed, "Oh, Theodore, pray for him!"
"I will," he answered; "oh, I will!"
And Theodore went to his own room, and kneeling down by his bedside, prayed as he had never prayed in his life before; and perhaps it was the first real prayer his heart had ever offered, for self was forgotten, and he spoke to God for Jack alone.
"Oh, God!" he cried, "do help Jack, and make him well. Don't mind what I feel, only take away Jack's pain, for Jesus Christ's sake."
And as he prayed, Theodore felt assured that God was listening to him, that he was not praying in vain. When he arose from his knees he was much happier, and when Jane wanted him to go to bed, he submitted to her wish passively.
It seemed to Theodore that he had been asleep but a short while when he was aroused by his stepmother's voice.
"Theodore! Theodore!" she cried softly, "Jack wants you. Will you come?"
He was out of bed in a moment, and not waiting even to slip on his dressing-gown, followed Mrs. Barton into the passage. At the doorway of Jack's room she paused, hesitated a moment, then asked anxiously:
"You are not afraid?"
"Afraid!" He lifted his fearless grey eyes to her face in astonishment, wondering what she meant.
"You need not be; for though he has been so ill, he is not suffering now," she added quickly, as she opened the door and went to the bedside.
Theodore peeped into the room. No, Jack was not suffering now, for he was lying back quietly on the pillows, his dark eyes wide-open, turned in the direction of the door. The doctor and Mr. Barton stood near, and Jane hovered in the background.
"Theodore has come to see you, my darling," Mrs. Barton said, as she bent over her little son and kissed him tenderly.
"Theodore!"
Oh, the wealth of love in the weak voice! Theodore stole quietly across the floor, and took up his favourite position on the edge of the bed.
"How are you now, old fellow?" he asked gently. "Better."
The beautiful brown eyes rested contentedly on Theodore's face; the frail hand sought Theodore's strong clasp.
"Better? that's right! You've been dreadfully bad this time, haven't you? Never mind, you'll soon be well."
"I hope so."
"Oh, you will!" Theodore declared hopefully.
"I want to get well," Jack whispered faintly. "I wish you would sing to me, Theo—will you? You know my favourite hymn."
So Theodore sang, "At even, ere the sun was set," quite unmindful of the presence of any one but Jack, whose face grew radiant as he listened. When it was ended the little invalid closed his eyes, as though he was sleepy; but opening them again in a few moments, he spoke in a distressed voice:
"Mother, I haven't said my prayers!"
"Shall I pray for you to-night, Jack, darling?"
"Please, mother; I can't remember."
His mother repeated very slowly and distinctly the first prayer she had taught his baby lips to lisp—that prayer to our Father in Heaven which embraces all our needs; and Jack faintly whispered the words after her, a look of perfect happiness and contentment settling on his face.
"Stay with me, Theo," he whispered. "Don't go away."
And Theodore, who was really very sleepy, replied drowsily, "All right, old fellow," and laid his head on the pillow by his stepbrother's side.
A few minutes later the doctor moved to the bed, and after a moment's scrutiny of its occupants, turned a smiling glance towards the others.
"Your little son will recover from this attack," he told the anxious mother in a whisper, as he shook hands with her. "You had better let the children remain as they are. They are both asleep."
He followed Mr. Barton out of the room, whilst Mrs. Barton approached the bed and saw that the boys were indeed sleeping peacefully. She gazed at them with a world of thankfulness depicted in her expressive face, her eyes misty with tears. Jane fetched a warm shawl and wrapped it around Theodore, who had laid himself down outside the bedclothes.
The night was nearly gone, and the first streaks of dawn were appearing in the eastern sky as the two women sat down to watch, one on either side of the bed. No word was spoken, but each heart was full to overflowing with joy and gladness at the knowledge that little Jack was better! and Mrs. Barton, as her eyes rested on the sleeping children, felt that Theodore, wilful and mistrustful of her as he seemed to be, could never be otherwise than dear to her, for the sake of the love he bore her little son.
WHEN Theodore awoke on the following morning, Jack was still sleeping peacefully by his side, though the sun was shining high in the sky, and it was past nine o'clock. Jane hurried her little master to his own room, and bade him dress as quickly as he could. Her face was pale and tired with watching; indeed, she felt almost worn out, and was consequently rather silent, which fact alarmed Theodore, who feared his stepbrother's life might be still in danger.
"Do you think Jack is really and truly better?" he questioned eagerly, his face full of anxiety.
"Yes, yes," Jane assured him. "Don't you worry, Master Theodore; God is going to let the dear lamb stay with us a bit longer. He had a sharp time yesterday, and you mustn't be surprised or alarmed because he didn't wake up just now. Sleep will do him more good than anything, and you shall know the minute he awakes how he is. Make haste, like a good boy! You and master will have breakfast alone this morning, for the mistress is going to her own room for a rest."
When Theodore joined his father in the breakfast-room, he had regained his usual good spirits. He could not realise that it was so short a while since the episode of the burnt hay-rick; for Jack's dangerous attack of illness, and the anxiety he had endured on his stepbrother's account, had made him forget all else. The sight of his father's face, however, reminded him forcibly of the last occasion on which they had held a conversation alone together; and the little boy met Mr. Barton's gaze a trifle uneasily.
"So you and I are to breakfast by ourselves this morning," Mr. Barton remarked pleasantly, as Theodore took his place opposite to him at the table. "Jack is still asleep, I hear."
"Yes," Theodore responded, in a subdued tone; "Jane says sleep will do him more good than anything. But he is really better, isn't he, father?"
"Yes; there is no doubt about that, I am glad to say."
Mr. Barton spoke brightly and cheerfully, and continued to converse with his little son without once referring to Tom Blake or the burnt hay-rick. Theodore understood that no more was to be said on that subject, and his spirits, ever elastic, rose accordingly. He made an excellent breakfast, and talked and laughed without restraint.
"You appear very fond of Jack," Mr. Barton said at length, after a pause in the conversation.
"Yes," Theodore acknowledged, "I am. I thought I shouldn't be. I quite meant to hate him, but I don't! Aunt Pen said he would put my nose out of joint. He hasn't; but I shouldn't care if he had!"
"What made Aunt Penelope say that?" Mr. Barton asked, with a slight frown.
"Oh, I'm sure I don't know! Every one said it! The servants; Jane—every one!"
"It was very wrong of every one, then. I am glad people did not succeed in putting you against Jack; for it is a great pleasure to me to see you boys good friends. I only wish something could be done to cure the poor little lad. It is a terrible grief to his mother that he is such an invalid."
"Can't the great London doctor make him well?" Theodore asked. "He's very clever, isn't he?"
"Yes, I believe he is. I have asked him to come down again next week to see Jack. He said something about different treatment; but the poor child was too ill yesterday to think of that. However, I shall hear what he has to say after he has seen Jack again. I should give a great deal if he could effect a cure."
"Oh, father!" Theodore cried excitedly, "do you think he might be able to make Jack really well—well enough to walk about, I mean?"
"I don't know, my boy. I hardly dare indulge in such a bright hope as that, for Jack's case has been discussed by many doctors, who have thought it hopeless; but this one certainly did say something which led me to understand he would like to take Jack in hand himself. Don't say anything about it at present; more especially, don't mention it to Jack or his mother."
"Oh, I promise I won't! Oh, father," and as Theodore spoke his face glowed with happiness at the very thought of Jack being made better, "if Jack got well I don't know what I should feel! Think what good times we should have together! I would teach him to ride. I would lend him Jigger; and you know he's a very quiet, good-tempered pony."
"Don't let your imagination run away with you, Theodore. It may be Jack will always be a helpless invalid; if so, that is all the more reason why you should be kind to him, poor little boy!"
"I shall ask God to make him well," Theodore declared earnestly. "I prayed to God yesterday to take away Jack's pain, and He did."
During the days which followed, Theodore was tempted many times to repeat what his father had told him about the London doctor; but, mindful of his promise, he refrained, though every one could see that he was in a great state of excitement about something.
Although Jack was much pulled down after his severe attack of illness, he was slowly yet surely regaining his usual amount of strength, and his mother's pale face grew less anxious as she saw that this was so. She was considerably surprised when her husband informed her he had again sent for the famous London doctor to see her little son, and enquired tremulously if he considered him worse. But being reassured on that point, she was quite satisfied, and put no further questions.