Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.About this time it was announced to the world in general, that Miss Oswald’s marriage was to take place immediately. Her friends thought she had been very kind and considerate to stay with her father and her brothers and sisters so long. Miss Oswald was a discreet young lady, and knew how to manage her own affairs to her own satisfaction. Perhaps the knowledge that her own establishment must be in a different style from that of her father’s, helped her considerateness a little, and made her more willing to continue at home. However that might be, when her father set before her certain reasons for economy in household matters, for decided retrenchment indeed, she very considerately suggested that her Aunt Livy would be a very suitable person to see her father’s wishes in this direction carried out, and advised that she should be sent for, and then she set about her own preparations. With these, of course, no one at the bridge house had anything to do, except Violet. But for the glimpses that she had behind the scenes, she might have been a little dazzled and unsettled by the gaiety and splendour in the midst of which she found herself. For Miss Oswald’s arrangements were on the grandest scale. Everything that she considered “proper” on the occasion, she exacted to the uttermost, with no thoughts of necessary economy. There were fine clothes, fine presents, a fine wedding breakfast, and the proper number of fine brides-maids, of whom Violet was one.Even the wise and sensible Letty was not above a feeling of girlish delight in being prettily dressed and admired as one of the gay company; but the knowledge that she was only chosen at the last minute to supply the place of a young lady whose illness had disarranged Miss Oswald’s plans, and a few other drawbacks, kept her from being unduly elated with the honour and pleasure, and she was very glad when it was all over, and so was everybody concerned. So Miss Oswald went away. Mrs Mavor and Miss Livy came to the big house to reign in her stead, and all in it were beginning to settle down to a quiet and happy summer again.But trouble came first. Scarlet fever had broken out in the neighbourhood of the bridge house, and in other parts of the town, and first little Polly took it, and then Jessie and Ned, and Violet came home to help her mother to nurse them. They were not very ill—that is, the fever did not run very high, and at no time did the doctor suppose them to be in danger, but there was much anxiety and fatigue in taking care of them. The weather was very hot, too, and the bridge house stood too low to catch the infrequent breeze, and though they were soon able to be up and even to be out of doors, the children did not get strong.In the meantime both Charlotte and Sarah Oswald had taken the disease, and Mr Oswald himself came to the bridge house to entreat that Violet might be permitted to come to them. Their sister Selina had gone away after the wedding to visit in a distant city, and as she had never had the disease, her father did not like to send for her to come home. The children did not take to their aunt. It had been possible to get on when they were very ill, but when they began to be better they were peevish and fretful, and Aunt Livy could not please them, and nothing would do but Violet must come to them again. It did not seem possible that she could leave home, but David was to be spared as much as possible to help with the little ones, and so she went.But between her anxiety for the children at home, and her weariness with the little Oswalds, she had rather a hard time of it. Frank helped her for a while, but he was not very well, and was threatened with the old trouble in his eyes, so that he was not a very cheerful companion, either for her or the children. Mr Philip had commenced an irregular sort of attendance at the bank, but he had a good deal of time still at his disposal, and kindly bestowed a share of it on his little sisters. “Philip could be very nice when he liked,” they agreed, and he very often “liked” about this time.He went sometimes to the bridge house, too, and was as popular as ever among the little people there. They were not getting well very fast. Charlotte and Sarah were up and out in the garden, and able to amuse themselves with their dolls and their games, when Violet, going home one day, found Jessie and Ned languid and fretful, and poor wee Polly lying limp and white in her cot. Her mother looked worn and anxious, David came home with a headache, and Jem was the only one among them whose health and spirits were in a satisfactory condition.“I cannot stay to-night, mamma, because they expect me back,” said Violet. “But I shall come home to-morrow. They don’t need me half as much as you do, and I must come. You are sick yourself, mamma.”“No, I am tired, that is all; and the weather is so warm. Don’t come till the children are well. It is your proper place there, and even you cannot help us here while the weather is so warm.”It was very hot and close, and Violet fancied that from the low fields beyond, where there was water still standing, a sickly odour came.“No wonder they don’t get strong,” said she.Mr Oswald had spoken in the morning about sending his little girls to the country, or to the seaside. The doctor had suggested this as the best thing that could be done for them. Violet thought of their large house, with its many rooms, and of the garden in which it stood, and looked at her little sisters and brothers growing so pale and languid in the close air, which there was no hope of changing, with a feeling very like envy or discontent rising in her heart.“Mamma,” said she, “it is a dreadful thing to be poor;” and then she told of the plan for sending the Oswalds away for change of air, and how they were already well and strong in comparison to their own poor darlings, and then she said, again, “It is a dreadful thing to be so poor.”“We are not so poor as we might be?” said her mother, gravely. “Think how it would have been if we had lost one of them, dear. God has been very good to us, and we must not be so ungrateful as to murmur because we have not all that others have, or all that we might wish for.”“I know it, mamma. But look at these pale cheeks. Poor wee Polly! she is only a shadow of our baby. If we could only send her to Gourlay for a little while.”“Do you think her looking so poorly? I think it is the heat that is keeping them all so languid. Don’t look so miserable. If it is necessary for them to go to the country, we shall manage to send them in some way. But we are quite in the country here, and when we have had rain the air will be changed, and the heat may be less, and then they will all be better.”“Have you made any plan about going to the country?” asked Violet, eagerly.“No, my dear. I trust it will not be necessary. It could not be easily managed,” said Mrs Inglis, with a sigh.“If we were only not quite so poor,” said Violet.“I say, Letty, don’t you think mamma has trouble enough without your bother?” said Jem, sharply, as his mother went out of the room. Violet looked at him in astonishment.“If we were only not quite so poor!” repeated Jem, in the doleful tone she had used. “You have said that three times within half an hour. You had better stay up at the big house, if that is all the good you can do by coming home.”“That will do, Jem! Don’t spoil your sermon by making it too long,” said David, laughing.“Sermon! No, I leave that to you, Davie. But what is the use of being so dismal? And it isn’t a bit like Letty.”“But, Jem, it is true. The children look so ill, and if they could only get a change of air—”“And don’t you suppose mamma knows all that better than you can tell her? What is the good of telling her? She has been looking all day for you to come and cheer us up and brighten us a little, and now that you have come you are as dismal as—I don’t know what. You have been having too easy times lately, and can’t bear hardness,” said Jem, severely.“Have I?” said Violet, with an uncertain little laugh.“Softly, Jem, lad!” said his mother, who had come in again. “I think she has been having a rather hard time, only it will not do her much good to tell her so.”“I dare say Jem is right, mamma, and I am cross.”“Not cross, Letty, only dismal, which is a great deal worse, I think,” said Jem.“Well, I won’t be dismal any more to-night, if I can help it. Davie, take Polly, and, mamma, lie down on the sofa and rest while I make the tea. Jem, you shall help me by making up the fire. We will all have tea to-night, because I am a visitor.”“All right!” said Jem. “Anything to please all round; and the hot tea will cool us nicely, won’t it?”“It will refresh us at any rate.”And so the little cloud passed away, and Violet’s cheerfulness lasted through the rest of the visit, and up to the moment that she bade Jem good-bye at Mr Oswald’s gate. It did not last much longer, however. It was nearly dark, and Mr Oswald and his sister and Frank were sitting on the lawn to catch the faint breeze that was stirring among the chestnut trees.“I thought you were not coming home to-night,” said Miss Livy, in an aggrieved tone.“I was detained,” said Violet. “How are the children?”“They are in bed at last. You should not have told them that you would be home before their bed-time, unless you had intended to come. However, they are in bed now. Pray don’t go and disturb them again. Philip had to go to them at last. He is up-stairs now. They are dreadfully spoiled.”Violet dropped down in the nearest chair.“How are the children at home?” asked Mr Oswald, kindly.“They are—not better.”“I hope they are not spoiled,” said Frank, laughing. “Did they cry when you came away, Violet?”“They were rather fretful. They are not strong.”“You are not very well yourself, to-night,” said Mr Oswald. “The change will do you as much good as any of them.”“I am quite well,” said Violet.“We have been speaking about sending the girls to the country for a change of air,” went on Mr Oswald. “Will you go with them? Betsey will go too, of course, but they will scarcely be happy without you, and the change will do you good.”“Thank you. You are very kind. But the children need me at home. I could not think of leaving mamma while they are so poorly to go away for pleasure.”“It would not be quite all pleasure, I fancy,” said Mr Philip. “They are asleep at last. It cannot be a very easy thing to keep them amused all day, as they are just now.”“They are quite spoiled,” said Aunt Livy.“Oh! no. Not quite. They are good little things in general, as children go. You can’t judge now, aunt,” said Philip. “Miss Inglis, are you not a little dismal to-night?”“So Jem told me. I am tired. I think I shall say good-night and go up-stairs.”“It should be settled at once about the children, where they are to go, and who is to go with them,” said Aunt Livy.“There is no haste,” said Mr Oswald. “Perhaps the children at home may be better able to spare you in a day or two, Miss Violet.”“Thank you. It would be very pleasant, but—”“Why not send all together?” said Philip. “Ned and Jessie and wee Polly, with Charlotte and Sarah? I dare say they would all be better of a change, poor little souls!”“I dare say they can do without it, thank you,” said Violet, stiffly.“For what? My suggestion? They would like it, I am sure.”“People cannot get all they like in this world.”“Violet,” said Frank, solemnly, “I believe you are cross.”“I am almost afraid I am,” said Violet, laughing uneasily.“For the first time in your life. Something dreadful must have happened at the bridge house to-day!”“No; nothing happened.”“The children are not better, that is what is the matter,” said Philip; “though it ought not to make you cross, only sorry. Depend on it, it is change they want,” said Philip, with the air of a doctor.“It is worth thinking about; and it would be very nice if they could all go together, with you to take care of them,” said Mr Oswald. “Very nice for our little girls, I mean. Think of it, and speak to your mother.”“Thank you; I will,” said Violet.“Much they know about it,” said she to herself, as she went up-stairs in the dark. “An extra orange or a cup of strawberries for the little darlings has to be considered in our house, and they speak of change as coolly as possible. And I didn’t know better than to trouble mamma with just such foolish talk. We must try and have mamma and Polly go to Gourlay for a week or two. June not half over, and how shall we ever get through the two not months! Oh, dear! I am so tired!”Violet was so tired in the morning that she slept late, and a good many things had happened next morning before she came down-stairs. When she opened the dining-room door she thought, for a minute, she must be sleeping still and dreaming; for, instead of the usual decorous breakfast-table, Aunt Livy seemed to be presiding at a large children’s party. Everybody laughed at her astonished face, and little Mary held out her arms to be taken.“My precious wee Polly! Have you got a pair of wings?” said she, clasping and kissing her little sister.“We are to stay all day, if we are good. You are to tell mamma how we behave,” said Jessie. “We came in a carriage, with Mr Philip and Jem.”Violet looked a little anxiously from Aunt Livy to Mr Oswald, and saw nothing to make her doubt the children’s welcome. Mr Oswald smiled; Miss Livy nodded.“They seem very well-behaved children,” said she. “Not at all spoiled.”“We haven’t been here long,” said Jessie, gravely. “But we are going to be good, Letty. We promised mamma.”And they were very good, considering all things. Still, it was a fatiguing day to Violet. She followed them out and she followed them in; and when they grew tired, and their little legs and their tempers failed, she beguiled them into the wide gallery, shaded by vines, and told them stories, and comforted them with toys and picture-books and something nice to eat. It would have been a better day, as far as the visitors were concerned, if there had been less to see and to admire. But the great house and garden were beautiful and wonderful to their unaccustomed eyes, and they had tired themselves so utterly that they grew fretful and out of sorts, and were glad when it came night and time to go home; and so was Violet.The next day they came they were stronger and better, but they needed constant attention, lest mischief should happen among them; and, on the third morning, Violet was not sorry to hear the rain pattering on the window. Not that she would have minded ten times the trouble for herself, so that the children were the better for it, but it was as well not to try Miss Livy’s forbearance too far. Miss Livy had had very little to do with children since she was a child herself, and that little led her decidedly to agree with the generally-received opinion that the children of the present day are not so well brought up as children used to be. This opinion did not make her more patient with them, but rather less so; and so Violet was not sorry for the rain that kept her little sisters at home.At breakfast, the subject of sending the little girls, Charlotte and Sarah, to the country for awhile was again brought up by their aunt, and, in the afternoon, Violet, at Mr Oswald’s request, went home to speak to her mother about it; but she had fully determined beforehand how the matter was to be decided, as far as she was concerned.However, everything was put out of her mind by the surprise that awaited her; for, at the bridge house, they were entertaining an angel unawares, in the person of Miss Bethia Barnes. And was not Violet glad to see her? So glad that she put her arms round her neck and kissed her, and then laughed and then cried a little, not quite knowing what she did.“It is good to see you, Aunt Bethia,” said she.“You are the only one of the family who looks better for Singleton,” said Miss Bethia, regarding her with pleased wonder.Miss Bethia had considered Violet a little girl when she left Singleton; but she was a little girl no longer, but a young woman, and a very pretty young woman, too, Miss Bethia acknowledged. If Violet had not been so glad to see her, and shown it so plainly as to disarm her, she must, even at the first moment, have uttered some word of counsel or warning, for to be pretty, and not aware of it, or vain of it, was a state of things that she could not believe in. However, she reserved her advice for a future occasion, and, in the meantime, drew her own conclusions from the brightening of the mother’s face at the coming of her eldest daughter, and from the eager way in which little Mary clung to her, and the others claimed her attention.“You must stay at home to-night, Letty,” said Jem.“May I, mamma? I am to be sent for later; but may I not send a message that Miss Bethia has come, and that you cannot spare me?”“But I can spare you all the better that Miss Bethia is here,” said her mother, smiling.“Yes, I know mamma; but I want to stay so much.”“You would not think it polite in her to go away to-night? Now, would you? Aunt Bethia,” said Jem.“Politeness ain’t the only thing to think of,” said Miss Bethia.“Violet is not quite at our disposal just now,” said Mrs Inglis; “and I am afraid you will be missed up there, dear, by the children. They have had the fever, too, poor little things, and their sister is away, and they hardly know this aunt yet, and Violet has charge of them. They are fond of Violet.”“Oh, yes! they are all fond of Violet up there; but so are we,” said Jem. “Let her stay, mamma.”“And how do you like earning your living?” asked Miss Bethia.Violet laughed.“Oh, I like it. When did you come, Miss Bethia? You are not looking very well.”“I haven’t been well—had a sharp turn of rheumatism. I had some business, and I came yesterday.”“And how are all the Gourlay people? And you live in our house now. How strange it must seem! And what a shame that your old place is spoiled!”“I thought so at the time, but it might have been worse.”And then Violet had a great many questions to ask, and listened with many exclamations of wonder and pleasure to all that she heard; and Miss Bethia, pleased with the interest she displayed, made no pause till Ned called out that young Mr Oswald was driving Davie over the bridge, and that now Violet would have to go.“Mamma,” said Violet, “I have not told you why I came yet. Mr Oswald sent me, and I cannot tell it all at once. Let me stay till after tea, and Jem can take me home.”“All right,” said Jem. “I have no objections, if nobody else has none.”There was a little pleasant confusion after Mr Philip and David came in, two or three speaking at once, and all eager to be heard, and then Mr Philip was introduced to the visitor. There was no mistaking the look she bent upon him. It was searching and critical, admiring, but not altogether approving.“You have never been out Gourlay way?” said she.“No, I never have, as yet.”“He did not know what nice people the Gourlay people are, or he would have been,” said Jem.“I expect so,” said Miss Bethia. “It ain’t too late to go yet.”“Thank you, Miss Barnes. I shall be happy to accept your kind invitation,” said Philip.In the meantime, Violet had been telling her mother of Mr Oswald’s proposal. It was a matter of too great importance to be dismissed with a single word of refusal, as Violet would have liked, and time must be taken to consider it.“Violet is not going with you, Mr Philip,” said Jessie. “She is going to stay and take tea with Miss Bethia.”“I am sorry you should have had the trouble of coming round this way for nothing, Mr Philip,” said Mrs Inglis. “We want Violet a little while to-night. Miss Barnes does not know how soon she may go, and Violet thinks she can be spared to-night, perhaps.”“Of course, she can be spared. And it was no trouble, but a pleasure, to come round. Shall I come back again?”“Pray, do not. Jem will go with me. I shall like the walk.”“All right!” said Jem. “I consider myself responsible for her. She will be up there at the proper time.”“All right!” said Philip cheerfully. “Aunt Mary, you might ask me to have tea too.”“You haven’t had your dinner yet,” said Jessie.“And you could not keep your horse standing so long,” said Ned.“And, besides, I am not to be invited,” said Philip, laughing.They all watched him and his fine horse as they went over the bridge and along the street. Then Violet said:“Now, mamma, you are to sit down and I am to get tea. I can do all quite well.”And, so tying on an apron over her dress, she made herself very busy for the next half-hour, passing in and out, pausing to listen or put in her word now and then, sometimes claiming help from Jem or Davie in some household matter to which she put her hand. At last, with an air of pride and pleasure that Miss Bethia thought pretty to see, she called them to tea.“You have got to be quite a house-keeper,” said Miss Bethia, as they sat down to the table.“Hasn’t she?” said Jem and Davie in a breath.“I mean to be, at any rate,” said Violet, nodding and laughing gaily. “I like it a great deal better than teaching children, only, you know, it doesn’t pay quite so well.”“I guess it will, in the long run,” said Miss Barnes.“I am going to be house-keeper for the next two months. Sarah and Charlotte are to have no lessons for that time, and Betsey can take care of them in the country quite as well as I—better, indeed. Mamma needs me at home. Don’t you think so, Davie? I can find enough to do at home; can’t I?”“But, as you say, it wouldn’t pay so well.”“In one way, perhaps, it wouldn’t, but in another way it would. But mamma doesn’t say anything,” added Violet, disconsolately.“We must sleep upon it, mamma thinks,” said Jem.“We need not be in haste to decide upon it for a day or two,” said Mrs Inglis.“I am afraid we must, mamma. The sooner the better, Mr Oswald says; and that is why I came to-day.”“I wish you would come and keep house for me. I am getting tired of it,” said Miss Bethia.“I should like it well—with mamma and the children.”“Of course, that is understood,” said Miss Bethia. “And you could take these others with you, couldn’t you? And what their father would pay for them would help your house-keeping.”“Miss Bethia spoke as coolly as if she had been speaking about the stirring up of a Johnny cake,” Jem said. Violet looked eagerly from her to her mother. There was a little stir and murmur of excitement went round the table, but all awaited for their mother to speak. But she said nothing, and Miss Bethia went on, not at all as if she were saying anything to surprise anybody, but just as she would have told any piece of news.“I’ve thought of it considerable. Serepta Stone has concluded to go away to a water-cure place in the States. If Debby should conclude to go to another place, I shouldn’t care about staying in that big house alone. I can let it next fall, I expect. But this summer, Mrs Inglis, if you say so, you can have the house as well as not. It won’t cost you a cent, and it won’t be a cent’s loss to me. And I don’t see why that won’t suit pretty well all round.”A chorus of “ohs,” and “ahs,” and “dear mammas,” went round the table.“It wouldn’t cost more than living here,” said David.“Not so much,” said Miss Bethia.“And I am sure Mr Oswald would be delighted to have Charlotte and Sarah go, mamma,” said Violet.“He would pay you the same as he’d pay to them at the other place, and he might be sure he would get the worth of his money,” said Miss Bethia.“And I would keep house, and save you the trouble, mamma,” said Violet.“You and Debby Stone,” said Miss Bethia, who seemed to consider that it was as much her affair as theirs, and so put in her word between the others.“Davie, you’ll have to lend me your fishing rod, to take to Gourlay with me,” said Ned.“Bless the child! there’s fishing rods enough,” said Miss Bethia.“It’s mamma’s turn to speak now,” said Jessie. And “yes, mamma!” and “oh! dear mamma!” were repeated again, eagerly.There would be no use in telling all that Mrs Inglis said, or all that Miss Bethia and the rest said. It was not quite decided that night that they were to pass a part of the summer in Gourlay, but it looked so much like it that Violet held a little private jubilation with little Polly, as she undressed her for bed, before she went away, promising her, with many kisses and sweet words, that she would be rosy and strong, and as brown as a berry before she should see the bridge house again. Before she was done with it, Jem called out.“It is time to be going, Letty, if I am to be responsible for you at the big house.”“Perhaps if you wait, Mr Philip will come for you. He said he would,” said Jessie.“And, just at the minute, he meant it, but we won’t put him to the trouble, even if he remembers, which is doubtful,” said Violet. “Come, Jem, I am ready.”“He seems a pretty likely young man, don’t he?—young Mr Oswald, I mean,” said Miss Bethia.The question was not addressed to any one in particular. Jem looked at Letty, and Letty looked at Davie, and they all laughed merrily. “Likely,” in Miss Bethia’s vocabulary, meant well-intentioned, agreeable, promising, all in a moderate degree, and the description fell so far short of Mr Philip’s idea of himself and his merits, and indeed of their idea of him that they could not help it.“He seems to be a pleasant-spoken youth, and good-natured,” said Miss Bethia.“Oh, yes! he is very good-natured,” said Violet.Everybody had something to say in his praise. The little ones were quite enthusiastic. Jem said he was “smart” as well as good-natured, and David, though he said less, acknowledged that he was very clever, and added Mr Caldwell’s opinion, that Mr Philip had all his father’s talent for business, and would do well if he were really in earnest about it, and would settle down to it. Several instances of his kindness to the children and to his own little sisters were repeated, and Mrs Inglis spoke warmly in his praise.“Only, mamma,” said Violet, with some hesitation, “all these things are agreeable to himself. He does such things because he likes to do them.”“And ain’t that to be put to his credit,” said Miss Bethia. “It is well when one does right things and likes to do them, ain’t it?”“Yes; but people ought to do right things because they are right, and not just because they are pleasant. If very different things were agreeable to him, he would do them all the same.”“Stuff, Letty! with your buts and your ifs. Mr Phil, is just like other people. It is only you and Davie that have such high-flown notions about right and wrong, and duty, and all that.”“Our ideas of ‘duty and all that’ are just like other people’s, Jem, I think,” said David. “They are just like Miss Bethia’s, at any rate, and mamma’s.”“And like Jem’s own ideas, though not like Mr Philip’s” said Violet.“Violet means that if he had to choose between what is right and what is pleasant, the chances are he would choose to do what is pleasant,” said Davie.“He would not wait to choose,” said Violet, gravely. “He would just do what was pleasant without at all thinking about the other.”“Mamma, do you call that charitable?” said Jem.“I think Violet means—and Davie—that his actions are, as a general thing, guided and governed by impulse rather than by principle,” said Mrs Inglis; “and you know, Jem, the same reliance cannot be placed on such a person as on—”“On a steady old rock, like Mr Caldwell or our Davie,” said Jem. “Yes, I know; still I like Phil.”“So we all like him,” said Violet. “But, as mamma says, we do not rely on him. He likes us and our ways, and our admiration of him, and he likes to come here and talk with mamma, and get good advice, and all that. But he likes to go to other places, and to talk with other people, who are as different from mamma as darkness is from daylight. He is so careless and good-tempered that anything pleases him for the moment. He has no stability. One cannot help liking him, but one cannot respect him.”Everybody looked surprised. Jem whistled.“Why don’t you tell him so? It might do him good.”“It wouldn’t change his nature,” said Violet, loftily. And then she bade them all good-night, and she and Jem went away, and Miss Bethia improved the occasion.“I expect that his nature has got to be changed before he amounts to much that is good. I hope, David, you will not let this frivolous young man lead you away from the right path.”Mrs Inglis had gone out of the room, and David prepared himself for what he knew would come sooner or later, Miss Bethia’s never-failing good advice.“You are none too wise to be drawn away by a pleasant-spoken, careless youth like that. His company might easily become a snare to you, and to Jem too.”“Oh! he has very little to say to me, Miss Bethia. He is older than Jem or I. He likes to talk to mamma, and you mustn’t think ill of him from what was said to-night.”“I suppose the trouble is in his bringing up,” said Miss Bethia. “From all I hear, I should fear that his father hasn’t a realising sense of the importance of religion for himself or his family, and what can be expected of his son?”David did not like the turn the conversation had taken, and he did not like the next better.“There is a great responsibility resting on you, David, with regard to the people among whom your lot is cast. It is to be hoped they’ll be led to think more, and not less, of the Master you serve from your walk and conversation.”David made no answer.“David,” said Miss Bethia, “have you been living a Christian life since you came here? Such a life as would have given comfort to your father, if he had been here to see it? Have you been keeping your armour bright, David?”“I have been trying, Miss Bethia,” said David.“Well, it is something to have been trying. It is something not to be led away. But have you been content with that? You have a battle to fight—a work to do in just the spot you stand in, and if you are faithful, you may help that unstable youth to stand on firmer ground than his feet have found yet.”David shook his head.“You don’t know me, Miss Bethia, nor him, or you would not say that.”“Your father would have made it his business to do him good.”“But I am not like my father, very far from that.”“Well, your father was nothing by himself. You are bound to do the same work, and you can have the same help. And it will pay in the long run. Oh, yes! it will pay!”“I have been telling David that he may do that pleasant-spoken youth much good, if he is faithful to him and to himself,” added she, as Mrs Inglis came into the room.“And I have been telling Miss Bethia that she does not know me, or him, or she wouldn’t say that, mamma,” said David.“She must know you by this time, I think, Davie,” said his mother, smiling.“I used to know him pretty well, and he seems to be getting along pretty much so. I don’t know as I see any change for the worse in him. He has had great privileges, and he has great responsibility.”“Yes,” said his mother, gravely; “and I quite agree with you, Miss Bethia, he may do Mr Philip good by a diligent and faithful performance of his daily duties, if in no other way. He has done so already.”“Oh, mamma!” said David, “Miss Bethia will think you are growing vain.”“No, I sha’n’t. But he must be faithful in word as well as in deed. Oh! I guess he’ll get along pretty well—David, I mean, not young Mr Oswald.”Jem came home while they were still talking.“Mamma,” said he, as he followed his mother out of the room, “we saw Philip going into Dick’s saloon as we were going up the street and Violet said he’d be just as pleased and just as popular there as in our own home among the children, and she said he was as weak as water. That is all she knows! Violet is hard on Phil.”“She cannot think it right for him to spend his evenings in such a place,” said his mother.“But he sees no harm in it, and I don’t suppose there is much.”“I should think it great harm for one of my boys,” said his mother, gravely.“All right, mamma!” said Jem. “But, then, as Miss Barnes says, our bringing up has been different.”

About this time it was announced to the world in general, that Miss Oswald’s marriage was to take place immediately. Her friends thought she had been very kind and considerate to stay with her father and her brothers and sisters so long. Miss Oswald was a discreet young lady, and knew how to manage her own affairs to her own satisfaction. Perhaps the knowledge that her own establishment must be in a different style from that of her father’s, helped her considerateness a little, and made her more willing to continue at home. However that might be, when her father set before her certain reasons for economy in household matters, for decided retrenchment indeed, she very considerately suggested that her Aunt Livy would be a very suitable person to see her father’s wishes in this direction carried out, and advised that she should be sent for, and then she set about her own preparations. With these, of course, no one at the bridge house had anything to do, except Violet. But for the glimpses that she had behind the scenes, she might have been a little dazzled and unsettled by the gaiety and splendour in the midst of which she found herself. For Miss Oswald’s arrangements were on the grandest scale. Everything that she considered “proper” on the occasion, she exacted to the uttermost, with no thoughts of necessary economy. There were fine clothes, fine presents, a fine wedding breakfast, and the proper number of fine brides-maids, of whom Violet was one.

Even the wise and sensible Letty was not above a feeling of girlish delight in being prettily dressed and admired as one of the gay company; but the knowledge that she was only chosen at the last minute to supply the place of a young lady whose illness had disarranged Miss Oswald’s plans, and a few other drawbacks, kept her from being unduly elated with the honour and pleasure, and she was very glad when it was all over, and so was everybody concerned. So Miss Oswald went away. Mrs Mavor and Miss Livy came to the big house to reign in her stead, and all in it were beginning to settle down to a quiet and happy summer again.

But trouble came first. Scarlet fever had broken out in the neighbourhood of the bridge house, and in other parts of the town, and first little Polly took it, and then Jessie and Ned, and Violet came home to help her mother to nurse them. They were not very ill—that is, the fever did not run very high, and at no time did the doctor suppose them to be in danger, but there was much anxiety and fatigue in taking care of them. The weather was very hot, too, and the bridge house stood too low to catch the infrequent breeze, and though they were soon able to be up and even to be out of doors, the children did not get strong.

In the meantime both Charlotte and Sarah Oswald had taken the disease, and Mr Oswald himself came to the bridge house to entreat that Violet might be permitted to come to them. Their sister Selina had gone away after the wedding to visit in a distant city, and as she had never had the disease, her father did not like to send for her to come home. The children did not take to their aunt. It had been possible to get on when they were very ill, but when they began to be better they were peevish and fretful, and Aunt Livy could not please them, and nothing would do but Violet must come to them again. It did not seem possible that she could leave home, but David was to be spared as much as possible to help with the little ones, and so she went.

But between her anxiety for the children at home, and her weariness with the little Oswalds, she had rather a hard time of it. Frank helped her for a while, but he was not very well, and was threatened with the old trouble in his eyes, so that he was not a very cheerful companion, either for her or the children. Mr Philip had commenced an irregular sort of attendance at the bank, but he had a good deal of time still at his disposal, and kindly bestowed a share of it on his little sisters. “Philip could be very nice when he liked,” they agreed, and he very often “liked” about this time.

He went sometimes to the bridge house, too, and was as popular as ever among the little people there. They were not getting well very fast. Charlotte and Sarah were up and out in the garden, and able to amuse themselves with their dolls and their games, when Violet, going home one day, found Jessie and Ned languid and fretful, and poor wee Polly lying limp and white in her cot. Her mother looked worn and anxious, David came home with a headache, and Jem was the only one among them whose health and spirits were in a satisfactory condition.

“I cannot stay to-night, mamma, because they expect me back,” said Violet. “But I shall come home to-morrow. They don’t need me half as much as you do, and I must come. You are sick yourself, mamma.”

“No, I am tired, that is all; and the weather is so warm. Don’t come till the children are well. It is your proper place there, and even you cannot help us here while the weather is so warm.”

It was very hot and close, and Violet fancied that from the low fields beyond, where there was water still standing, a sickly odour came.

“No wonder they don’t get strong,” said she.

Mr Oswald had spoken in the morning about sending his little girls to the country, or to the seaside. The doctor had suggested this as the best thing that could be done for them. Violet thought of their large house, with its many rooms, and of the garden in which it stood, and looked at her little sisters and brothers growing so pale and languid in the close air, which there was no hope of changing, with a feeling very like envy or discontent rising in her heart.

“Mamma,” said she, “it is a dreadful thing to be poor;” and then she told of the plan for sending the Oswalds away for change of air, and how they were already well and strong in comparison to their own poor darlings, and then she said, again, “It is a dreadful thing to be so poor.”

“We are not so poor as we might be?” said her mother, gravely. “Think how it would have been if we had lost one of them, dear. God has been very good to us, and we must not be so ungrateful as to murmur because we have not all that others have, or all that we might wish for.”

“I know it, mamma. But look at these pale cheeks. Poor wee Polly! she is only a shadow of our baby. If we could only send her to Gourlay for a little while.”

“Do you think her looking so poorly? I think it is the heat that is keeping them all so languid. Don’t look so miserable. If it is necessary for them to go to the country, we shall manage to send them in some way. But we are quite in the country here, and when we have had rain the air will be changed, and the heat may be less, and then they will all be better.”

“Have you made any plan about going to the country?” asked Violet, eagerly.

“No, my dear. I trust it will not be necessary. It could not be easily managed,” said Mrs Inglis, with a sigh.

“If we were only not quite so poor,” said Violet.

“I say, Letty, don’t you think mamma has trouble enough without your bother?” said Jem, sharply, as his mother went out of the room. Violet looked at him in astonishment.

“If we were only not quite so poor!” repeated Jem, in the doleful tone she had used. “You have said that three times within half an hour. You had better stay up at the big house, if that is all the good you can do by coming home.”

“That will do, Jem! Don’t spoil your sermon by making it too long,” said David, laughing.

“Sermon! No, I leave that to you, Davie. But what is the use of being so dismal? And it isn’t a bit like Letty.”

“But, Jem, it is true. The children look so ill, and if they could only get a change of air—”

“And don’t you suppose mamma knows all that better than you can tell her? What is the good of telling her? She has been looking all day for you to come and cheer us up and brighten us a little, and now that you have come you are as dismal as—I don’t know what. You have been having too easy times lately, and can’t bear hardness,” said Jem, severely.

“Have I?” said Violet, with an uncertain little laugh.

“Softly, Jem, lad!” said his mother, who had come in again. “I think she has been having a rather hard time, only it will not do her much good to tell her so.”

“I dare say Jem is right, mamma, and I am cross.”

“Not cross, Letty, only dismal, which is a great deal worse, I think,” said Jem.

“Well, I won’t be dismal any more to-night, if I can help it. Davie, take Polly, and, mamma, lie down on the sofa and rest while I make the tea. Jem, you shall help me by making up the fire. We will all have tea to-night, because I am a visitor.”

“All right!” said Jem. “Anything to please all round; and the hot tea will cool us nicely, won’t it?”

“It will refresh us at any rate.”

And so the little cloud passed away, and Violet’s cheerfulness lasted through the rest of the visit, and up to the moment that she bade Jem good-bye at Mr Oswald’s gate. It did not last much longer, however. It was nearly dark, and Mr Oswald and his sister and Frank were sitting on the lawn to catch the faint breeze that was stirring among the chestnut trees.

“I thought you were not coming home to-night,” said Miss Livy, in an aggrieved tone.

“I was detained,” said Violet. “How are the children?”

“They are in bed at last. You should not have told them that you would be home before their bed-time, unless you had intended to come. However, they are in bed now. Pray don’t go and disturb them again. Philip had to go to them at last. He is up-stairs now. They are dreadfully spoiled.”

Violet dropped down in the nearest chair.

“How are the children at home?” asked Mr Oswald, kindly.

“They are—not better.”

“I hope they are not spoiled,” said Frank, laughing. “Did they cry when you came away, Violet?”

“They were rather fretful. They are not strong.”

“You are not very well yourself, to-night,” said Mr Oswald. “The change will do you as much good as any of them.”

“I am quite well,” said Violet.

“We have been speaking about sending the girls to the country for a change of air,” went on Mr Oswald. “Will you go with them? Betsey will go too, of course, but they will scarcely be happy without you, and the change will do you good.”

“Thank you. You are very kind. But the children need me at home. I could not think of leaving mamma while they are so poorly to go away for pleasure.”

“It would not be quite all pleasure, I fancy,” said Mr Philip. “They are asleep at last. It cannot be a very easy thing to keep them amused all day, as they are just now.”

“They are quite spoiled,” said Aunt Livy.

“Oh! no. Not quite. They are good little things in general, as children go. You can’t judge now, aunt,” said Philip. “Miss Inglis, are you not a little dismal to-night?”

“So Jem told me. I am tired. I think I shall say good-night and go up-stairs.”

“It should be settled at once about the children, where they are to go, and who is to go with them,” said Aunt Livy.

“There is no haste,” said Mr Oswald. “Perhaps the children at home may be better able to spare you in a day or two, Miss Violet.”

“Thank you. It would be very pleasant, but—”

“Why not send all together?” said Philip. “Ned and Jessie and wee Polly, with Charlotte and Sarah? I dare say they would all be better of a change, poor little souls!”

“I dare say they can do without it, thank you,” said Violet, stiffly.

“For what? My suggestion? They would like it, I am sure.”

“People cannot get all they like in this world.”

“Violet,” said Frank, solemnly, “I believe you are cross.”

“I am almost afraid I am,” said Violet, laughing uneasily.

“For the first time in your life. Something dreadful must have happened at the bridge house to-day!”

“No; nothing happened.”

“The children are not better, that is what is the matter,” said Philip; “though it ought not to make you cross, only sorry. Depend on it, it is change they want,” said Philip, with the air of a doctor.

“It is worth thinking about; and it would be very nice if they could all go together, with you to take care of them,” said Mr Oswald. “Very nice for our little girls, I mean. Think of it, and speak to your mother.”

“Thank you; I will,” said Violet.

“Much they know about it,” said she to herself, as she went up-stairs in the dark. “An extra orange or a cup of strawberries for the little darlings has to be considered in our house, and they speak of change as coolly as possible. And I didn’t know better than to trouble mamma with just such foolish talk. We must try and have mamma and Polly go to Gourlay for a week or two. June not half over, and how shall we ever get through the two not months! Oh, dear! I am so tired!”

Violet was so tired in the morning that she slept late, and a good many things had happened next morning before she came down-stairs. When she opened the dining-room door she thought, for a minute, she must be sleeping still and dreaming; for, instead of the usual decorous breakfast-table, Aunt Livy seemed to be presiding at a large children’s party. Everybody laughed at her astonished face, and little Mary held out her arms to be taken.

“My precious wee Polly! Have you got a pair of wings?” said she, clasping and kissing her little sister.

“We are to stay all day, if we are good. You are to tell mamma how we behave,” said Jessie. “We came in a carriage, with Mr Philip and Jem.”

Violet looked a little anxiously from Aunt Livy to Mr Oswald, and saw nothing to make her doubt the children’s welcome. Mr Oswald smiled; Miss Livy nodded.

“They seem very well-behaved children,” said she. “Not at all spoiled.”

“We haven’t been here long,” said Jessie, gravely. “But we are going to be good, Letty. We promised mamma.”

And they were very good, considering all things. Still, it was a fatiguing day to Violet. She followed them out and she followed them in; and when they grew tired, and their little legs and their tempers failed, she beguiled them into the wide gallery, shaded by vines, and told them stories, and comforted them with toys and picture-books and something nice to eat. It would have been a better day, as far as the visitors were concerned, if there had been less to see and to admire. But the great house and garden were beautiful and wonderful to their unaccustomed eyes, and they had tired themselves so utterly that they grew fretful and out of sorts, and were glad when it came night and time to go home; and so was Violet.

The next day they came they were stronger and better, but they needed constant attention, lest mischief should happen among them; and, on the third morning, Violet was not sorry to hear the rain pattering on the window. Not that she would have minded ten times the trouble for herself, so that the children were the better for it, but it was as well not to try Miss Livy’s forbearance too far. Miss Livy had had very little to do with children since she was a child herself, and that little led her decidedly to agree with the generally-received opinion that the children of the present day are not so well brought up as children used to be. This opinion did not make her more patient with them, but rather less so; and so Violet was not sorry for the rain that kept her little sisters at home.

At breakfast, the subject of sending the little girls, Charlotte and Sarah, to the country for awhile was again brought up by their aunt, and, in the afternoon, Violet, at Mr Oswald’s request, went home to speak to her mother about it; but she had fully determined beforehand how the matter was to be decided, as far as she was concerned.

However, everything was put out of her mind by the surprise that awaited her; for, at the bridge house, they were entertaining an angel unawares, in the person of Miss Bethia Barnes. And was not Violet glad to see her? So glad that she put her arms round her neck and kissed her, and then laughed and then cried a little, not quite knowing what she did.

“It is good to see you, Aunt Bethia,” said she.

“You are the only one of the family who looks better for Singleton,” said Miss Bethia, regarding her with pleased wonder.

Miss Bethia had considered Violet a little girl when she left Singleton; but she was a little girl no longer, but a young woman, and a very pretty young woman, too, Miss Bethia acknowledged. If Violet had not been so glad to see her, and shown it so plainly as to disarm her, she must, even at the first moment, have uttered some word of counsel or warning, for to be pretty, and not aware of it, or vain of it, was a state of things that she could not believe in. However, she reserved her advice for a future occasion, and, in the meantime, drew her own conclusions from the brightening of the mother’s face at the coming of her eldest daughter, and from the eager way in which little Mary clung to her, and the others claimed her attention.

“You must stay at home to-night, Letty,” said Jem.

“May I, mamma? I am to be sent for later; but may I not send a message that Miss Bethia has come, and that you cannot spare me?”

“But I can spare you all the better that Miss Bethia is here,” said her mother, smiling.

“Yes, I know mamma; but I want to stay so much.”

“You would not think it polite in her to go away to-night? Now, would you? Aunt Bethia,” said Jem.

“Politeness ain’t the only thing to think of,” said Miss Bethia.

“Violet is not quite at our disposal just now,” said Mrs Inglis; “and I am afraid you will be missed up there, dear, by the children. They have had the fever, too, poor little things, and their sister is away, and they hardly know this aunt yet, and Violet has charge of them. They are fond of Violet.”

“Oh, yes! they are all fond of Violet up there; but so are we,” said Jem. “Let her stay, mamma.”

“And how do you like earning your living?” asked Miss Bethia.

Violet laughed.

“Oh, I like it. When did you come, Miss Bethia? You are not looking very well.”

“I haven’t been well—had a sharp turn of rheumatism. I had some business, and I came yesterday.”

“And how are all the Gourlay people? And you live in our house now. How strange it must seem! And what a shame that your old place is spoiled!”

“I thought so at the time, but it might have been worse.”

And then Violet had a great many questions to ask, and listened with many exclamations of wonder and pleasure to all that she heard; and Miss Bethia, pleased with the interest she displayed, made no pause till Ned called out that young Mr Oswald was driving Davie over the bridge, and that now Violet would have to go.

“Mamma,” said Violet, “I have not told you why I came yet. Mr Oswald sent me, and I cannot tell it all at once. Let me stay till after tea, and Jem can take me home.”

“All right,” said Jem. “I have no objections, if nobody else has none.”

There was a little pleasant confusion after Mr Philip and David came in, two or three speaking at once, and all eager to be heard, and then Mr Philip was introduced to the visitor. There was no mistaking the look she bent upon him. It was searching and critical, admiring, but not altogether approving.

“You have never been out Gourlay way?” said she.

“No, I never have, as yet.”

“He did not know what nice people the Gourlay people are, or he would have been,” said Jem.

“I expect so,” said Miss Bethia. “It ain’t too late to go yet.”

“Thank you, Miss Barnes. I shall be happy to accept your kind invitation,” said Philip.

In the meantime, Violet had been telling her mother of Mr Oswald’s proposal. It was a matter of too great importance to be dismissed with a single word of refusal, as Violet would have liked, and time must be taken to consider it.

“Violet is not going with you, Mr Philip,” said Jessie. “She is going to stay and take tea with Miss Bethia.”

“I am sorry you should have had the trouble of coming round this way for nothing, Mr Philip,” said Mrs Inglis. “We want Violet a little while to-night. Miss Barnes does not know how soon she may go, and Violet thinks she can be spared to-night, perhaps.”

“Of course, she can be spared. And it was no trouble, but a pleasure, to come round. Shall I come back again?”

“Pray, do not. Jem will go with me. I shall like the walk.”

“All right!” said Jem. “I consider myself responsible for her. She will be up there at the proper time.”

“All right!” said Philip cheerfully. “Aunt Mary, you might ask me to have tea too.”

“You haven’t had your dinner yet,” said Jessie.

“And you could not keep your horse standing so long,” said Ned.

“And, besides, I am not to be invited,” said Philip, laughing.

They all watched him and his fine horse as they went over the bridge and along the street. Then Violet said:

“Now, mamma, you are to sit down and I am to get tea. I can do all quite well.”

And, so tying on an apron over her dress, she made herself very busy for the next half-hour, passing in and out, pausing to listen or put in her word now and then, sometimes claiming help from Jem or Davie in some household matter to which she put her hand. At last, with an air of pride and pleasure that Miss Bethia thought pretty to see, she called them to tea.

“You have got to be quite a house-keeper,” said Miss Bethia, as they sat down to the table.

“Hasn’t she?” said Jem and Davie in a breath.

“I mean to be, at any rate,” said Violet, nodding and laughing gaily. “I like it a great deal better than teaching children, only, you know, it doesn’t pay quite so well.”

“I guess it will, in the long run,” said Miss Barnes.

“I am going to be house-keeper for the next two months. Sarah and Charlotte are to have no lessons for that time, and Betsey can take care of them in the country quite as well as I—better, indeed. Mamma needs me at home. Don’t you think so, Davie? I can find enough to do at home; can’t I?”

“But, as you say, it wouldn’t pay so well.”

“In one way, perhaps, it wouldn’t, but in another way it would. But mamma doesn’t say anything,” added Violet, disconsolately.

“We must sleep upon it, mamma thinks,” said Jem.

“We need not be in haste to decide upon it for a day or two,” said Mrs Inglis.

“I am afraid we must, mamma. The sooner the better, Mr Oswald says; and that is why I came to-day.”

“I wish you would come and keep house for me. I am getting tired of it,” said Miss Bethia.

“I should like it well—with mamma and the children.”

“Of course, that is understood,” said Miss Bethia. “And you could take these others with you, couldn’t you? And what their father would pay for them would help your house-keeping.”

“Miss Bethia spoke as coolly as if she had been speaking about the stirring up of a Johnny cake,” Jem said. Violet looked eagerly from her to her mother. There was a little stir and murmur of excitement went round the table, but all awaited for their mother to speak. But she said nothing, and Miss Bethia went on, not at all as if she were saying anything to surprise anybody, but just as she would have told any piece of news.

“I’ve thought of it considerable. Serepta Stone has concluded to go away to a water-cure place in the States. If Debby should conclude to go to another place, I shouldn’t care about staying in that big house alone. I can let it next fall, I expect. But this summer, Mrs Inglis, if you say so, you can have the house as well as not. It won’t cost you a cent, and it won’t be a cent’s loss to me. And I don’t see why that won’t suit pretty well all round.”

A chorus of “ohs,” and “ahs,” and “dear mammas,” went round the table.

“It wouldn’t cost more than living here,” said David.

“Not so much,” said Miss Bethia.

“And I am sure Mr Oswald would be delighted to have Charlotte and Sarah go, mamma,” said Violet.

“He would pay you the same as he’d pay to them at the other place, and he might be sure he would get the worth of his money,” said Miss Bethia.

“And I would keep house, and save you the trouble, mamma,” said Violet.

“You and Debby Stone,” said Miss Bethia, who seemed to consider that it was as much her affair as theirs, and so put in her word between the others.

“Davie, you’ll have to lend me your fishing rod, to take to Gourlay with me,” said Ned.

“Bless the child! there’s fishing rods enough,” said Miss Bethia.

“It’s mamma’s turn to speak now,” said Jessie. And “yes, mamma!” and “oh! dear mamma!” were repeated again, eagerly.

There would be no use in telling all that Mrs Inglis said, or all that Miss Bethia and the rest said. It was not quite decided that night that they were to pass a part of the summer in Gourlay, but it looked so much like it that Violet held a little private jubilation with little Polly, as she undressed her for bed, before she went away, promising her, with many kisses and sweet words, that she would be rosy and strong, and as brown as a berry before she should see the bridge house again. Before she was done with it, Jem called out.

“It is time to be going, Letty, if I am to be responsible for you at the big house.”

“Perhaps if you wait, Mr Philip will come for you. He said he would,” said Jessie.

“And, just at the minute, he meant it, but we won’t put him to the trouble, even if he remembers, which is doubtful,” said Violet. “Come, Jem, I am ready.”

“He seems a pretty likely young man, don’t he?—young Mr Oswald, I mean,” said Miss Bethia.

The question was not addressed to any one in particular. Jem looked at Letty, and Letty looked at Davie, and they all laughed merrily. “Likely,” in Miss Bethia’s vocabulary, meant well-intentioned, agreeable, promising, all in a moderate degree, and the description fell so far short of Mr Philip’s idea of himself and his merits, and indeed of their idea of him that they could not help it.

“He seems to be a pleasant-spoken youth, and good-natured,” said Miss Bethia.

“Oh, yes! he is very good-natured,” said Violet.

Everybody had something to say in his praise. The little ones were quite enthusiastic. Jem said he was “smart” as well as good-natured, and David, though he said less, acknowledged that he was very clever, and added Mr Caldwell’s opinion, that Mr Philip had all his father’s talent for business, and would do well if he were really in earnest about it, and would settle down to it. Several instances of his kindness to the children and to his own little sisters were repeated, and Mrs Inglis spoke warmly in his praise.

“Only, mamma,” said Violet, with some hesitation, “all these things are agreeable to himself. He does such things because he likes to do them.”

“And ain’t that to be put to his credit,” said Miss Bethia. “It is well when one does right things and likes to do them, ain’t it?”

“Yes; but people ought to do right things because they are right, and not just because they are pleasant. If very different things were agreeable to him, he would do them all the same.”

“Stuff, Letty! with your buts and your ifs. Mr Phil, is just like other people. It is only you and Davie that have such high-flown notions about right and wrong, and duty, and all that.”

“Our ideas of ‘duty and all that’ are just like other people’s, Jem, I think,” said David. “They are just like Miss Bethia’s, at any rate, and mamma’s.”

“And like Jem’s own ideas, though not like Mr Philip’s” said Violet.

“Violet means that if he had to choose between what is right and what is pleasant, the chances are he would choose to do what is pleasant,” said Davie.

“He would not wait to choose,” said Violet, gravely. “He would just do what was pleasant without at all thinking about the other.”

“Mamma, do you call that charitable?” said Jem.

“I think Violet means—and Davie—that his actions are, as a general thing, guided and governed by impulse rather than by principle,” said Mrs Inglis; “and you know, Jem, the same reliance cannot be placed on such a person as on—”

“On a steady old rock, like Mr Caldwell or our Davie,” said Jem. “Yes, I know; still I like Phil.”

“So we all like him,” said Violet. “But, as mamma says, we do not rely on him. He likes us and our ways, and our admiration of him, and he likes to come here and talk with mamma, and get good advice, and all that. But he likes to go to other places, and to talk with other people, who are as different from mamma as darkness is from daylight. He is so careless and good-tempered that anything pleases him for the moment. He has no stability. One cannot help liking him, but one cannot respect him.”

Everybody looked surprised. Jem whistled.

“Why don’t you tell him so? It might do him good.”

“It wouldn’t change his nature,” said Violet, loftily. And then she bade them all good-night, and she and Jem went away, and Miss Bethia improved the occasion.

“I expect that his nature has got to be changed before he amounts to much that is good. I hope, David, you will not let this frivolous young man lead you away from the right path.”

Mrs Inglis had gone out of the room, and David prepared himself for what he knew would come sooner or later, Miss Bethia’s never-failing good advice.

“You are none too wise to be drawn away by a pleasant-spoken, careless youth like that. His company might easily become a snare to you, and to Jem too.”

“Oh! he has very little to say to me, Miss Bethia. He is older than Jem or I. He likes to talk to mamma, and you mustn’t think ill of him from what was said to-night.”

“I suppose the trouble is in his bringing up,” said Miss Bethia. “From all I hear, I should fear that his father hasn’t a realising sense of the importance of religion for himself or his family, and what can be expected of his son?”

David did not like the turn the conversation had taken, and he did not like the next better.

“There is a great responsibility resting on you, David, with regard to the people among whom your lot is cast. It is to be hoped they’ll be led to think more, and not less, of the Master you serve from your walk and conversation.”

David made no answer.

“David,” said Miss Bethia, “have you been living a Christian life since you came here? Such a life as would have given comfort to your father, if he had been here to see it? Have you been keeping your armour bright, David?”

“I have been trying, Miss Bethia,” said David.

“Well, it is something to have been trying. It is something not to be led away. But have you been content with that? You have a battle to fight—a work to do in just the spot you stand in, and if you are faithful, you may help that unstable youth to stand on firmer ground than his feet have found yet.”

David shook his head.

“You don’t know me, Miss Bethia, nor him, or you would not say that.”

“Your father would have made it his business to do him good.”

“But I am not like my father, very far from that.”

“Well, your father was nothing by himself. You are bound to do the same work, and you can have the same help. And it will pay in the long run. Oh, yes! it will pay!”

“I have been telling David that he may do that pleasant-spoken youth much good, if he is faithful to him and to himself,” added she, as Mrs Inglis came into the room.

“And I have been telling Miss Bethia that she does not know me, or him, or she wouldn’t say that, mamma,” said David.

“She must know you by this time, I think, Davie,” said his mother, smiling.

“I used to know him pretty well, and he seems to be getting along pretty much so. I don’t know as I see any change for the worse in him. He has had great privileges, and he has great responsibility.”

“Yes,” said his mother, gravely; “and I quite agree with you, Miss Bethia, he may do Mr Philip good by a diligent and faithful performance of his daily duties, if in no other way. He has done so already.”

“Oh, mamma!” said David, “Miss Bethia will think you are growing vain.”

“No, I sha’n’t. But he must be faithful in word as well as in deed. Oh! I guess he’ll get along pretty well—David, I mean, not young Mr Oswald.”

Jem came home while they were still talking.

“Mamma,” said he, as he followed his mother out of the room, “we saw Philip going into Dick’s saloon as we were going up the street and Violet said he’d be just as pleased and just as popular there as in our own home among the children, and she said he was as weak as water. That is all she knows! Violet is hard on Phil.”

“She cannot think it right for him to spend his evenings in such a place,” said his mother.

“But he sees no harm in it, and I don’t suppose there is much.”

“I should think it great harm for one of my boys,” said his mother, gravely.

“All right, mamma!” said Jem. “But, then, as Miss Barnes says, our bringing up has been different.”

Chapter Twelve.When it was fairly decided that Miss Bethia’s pleasant plan for the summer was possible, there was little time lost in preparation. Miss Bethia went away at once, to have all things ready for their coming, and in a few days Mrs Inglis and Violet and the children followed. The little Oswalds went with them, and Jem and possibly Frank Oswald were to follow when their holidays commenced. Whether David was to go or not, was to be decided later, but he did not let the uncertainty with regard to his own prospects of pleasure interfere with his in all that the others were to enjoy. He helped cheerfully in all the arrangements for their departure, and made light of his mother’s anxiety and doubts as to the comfort of those who were to be left behind.But when they were gone, and Jem and David left in the deserted house alone, they were neither of them very cheerful for a while. They were quite alone, for Mrs Lacy, the neighbour whom Mrs Inglis had engaged to care for their comfort, had a home of her own and little children to care for, and could only be there a part of the day. The unwonted silence of the house pressed heavily upon their spirits.“It’s queer, too,” said Jem, who had been promising himself great enjoyment of the quiet time so that he might the better prepare for the school examinations that were coming on. “I used to think the children bothered with their noise and their chatter, but the stillness is ten, times more distracting, I think.”David nodded assent.“They will be in Gourlay long ago,” said he. “I wonder how it will seem to mamma to go back again.”Jem looked grave.“It won’t be all pleasure to her, I am afraid.”“No; she will have many things to remember; but I think she would rather have gone to Gourlay than anywhere else. I wish I could have gone with her.”“Yes; but she has Violet and the children; and mamma is not one to fret or be unhappy.”“She will not be unhappy; but all the same it will be a sorrowful thing for her to go there now.”“Yes; but I am glad she is there; and I hope I may be there, too, before the summer is over.”Jem’s examinations passed off with great credit to himself; but he did not have the pleasure of telling his triumph, or showing his prizes to his mother and the children till after their return to Singleton; for Jem did not go to Gourlay, but in quite another direction.When an offer was made to him, through one of his friends at the great engine-house, to accompany a skillful machinist to a distant part of the country where he was to superintend the setting up of some valuable machinery in a manufacturing establishment, he gave a few regretful thoughts to his mother and Gourlay, and the long anticipated delights of boating and fishing; but it did not take him long to decide to go. Indeed, by the time his mother’s consent reached him, his preparations were far advanced, and he was as eager to be gone as though the sole object of the trip had been pleasure, and not the hard work which had been offered him. But, besides the work, there was the wages, which, to Jem seemed magnificent, and there was the prospect of seeing new sights far from home; so he went away in great spirits, and David was left alone.He was not in great spirits. Jem had left him no earlier than he must have done had it been to join his mother and the children in Gourlay. But, somehow, when he thought of his brother out in the wonderful, strange world, about which they had so often spoken and dreamed, David had to struggle against a feeling which, indulged, might very easily have changed to discontent or envy of his brother’s happier fortune.Happier fortune, indeed! How foolish his thoughts were! David laughed at himself when he called up the figure of Jem, with bared arms and blackened face, busy amidst the smoke and dust of some great work-shop, going here and there—doing this and that at the bidding of his master. A very hard working world Jem would no doubt find it; and, as he thought about him, David made believe content, and congratulated himself on the quiet and leisure which the summer evenings were bringing, and made plans for doing great things in the way of reading and study while they lasted. But they were very dull days and evenings. The silence in the house grew more oppressive to him than even Jem had found it. The long summer evenings often found him listless and dull over the books that had been so precious to him when he had only stolen moments to bestow on them.There had been something said at first about his going to the Oswald’s to stay, when the time came when he should be alone in the house. Mr Philip had proposed it at the time when they were making arrangements for the going away of his little sisters. But the invitation had not been repeated. Mr Philip had gone away long before Jem. He had, at the last moment, joined an exploring party who were going—not, indeed, to Red River, but far away into the woods. Mr Oswald had forgotten the invitation, or had never known of it, perhaps, and David went home to the deserted house not very willingly sometimes, and, with a vague impatience of the monotony of the days, wished for something to happen to break it. Before Jem had been gone a week, something did happen. Indeed, it had happened a good while before, but it only came to David’s knowledge at that time.Mr Caldwell had just returned from one of his frequent business journeys, and one night David lingered beyond the usual hour that he might see him and walk down the street with him as far as their way lay in the same direction; and it was while they were going towards home together that Mr Caldwell told him of something very unpleasant that had occurred in the office. A small sum of money had been missed, and the circumstances connected with its loss led Mr Caldwell to believe that it had been taken by some one belonging to the office. Mr Caldwell could not give his reasons for this opinion, nor did he say much about it, but he questioned David closely about those who had been coming and going, and seemed troubled and annoyed about the affair. David was troubled, too, and tried to recall anything that might throw light upon the painful matter. But he did not succeed.The circumstances, as David learned them then and afterwards, were these: Mr Oswald, as treasurer for one of the benevolent societies of the town, had, on a certain day of the preceding month, received a sum of money, part of which could not be found or accounted for. The rest of the sum paid into his hands was found in that compartment of his private safe allotted to the papers of the society. A receipt for the whole sum was in the hands of the person who had paid the money, and an entry in the society’s books corresponded to the sum named in this receipt. Mr Oswald was certain that he had not made use of any part of it, because such was never his custom. The accounts of the society were kept quite distinct from all others, and all arrangements with regard to them were made by Mr Oswald himself. It did not make the loss a matter of less importance that the sum missed was small. Nor did it make Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell less anxious to discover what had become of it.The loss had not been discovered until some time after it had taken place, when the quarterly making up of the society’s accounts had been taken in hand, and Mr Oswald could not remember much about the circumstances. The date of the receipt showed the time. The person who paid the money remembered that part of it had been in small silver coins, made up in packets, and this was the part that had disappeared.All this was not told by Mr Caldwell that first afternoon. It came to David’s knowledge, little by little, as it was found out. The matter was not, at first, discussed by the clerks in the office. Mr Caldwell had asked David not to speak of it to them, or to any one.When Mr Caldwell told him that nothing had been said to them of the loss, he thought it was strange; but it never came into his mind that the reason was that Mr Oswald feared that he was the person guilty, and wished to keep it from the knowledge of the rest. But, as time went on, he began to notice a change in Mr Oswald’s manner toward him. He had never said many words to him in the course of the day. It was not his way with those in his employment, except with Mr Caldwell. He said less than ever to him now, but David fancied that he was more watchful of him, that he took more note of his comings and goings, and that his manner was more peremptory and less friendly when he gave him directions as to his work for the day.Mr Caldwell did not remain long in Singleton at this time, and having no one to speak to about the mysterious affair of the missing money, David, after a day or two, began to think less about it than he might otherwise have done. Once he ventured to speak to Mr Oswald about it.“Have you heard anything about the lost money, sir?” said he, one night, when there were only they two in the office.Mr Oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that David was startled, changing colour and looking at him in astonishment.“No, I have not. Haveyouanything to tell me about it? The sooner the better,” said Mr Oswald.“I know only what Mr Caldwell has told me,” said David.“You may go,” said Mr Oswald.And David went away, very much surprised both at his words and his manner. He did not think long about it, but every day he became more certain that all was not right between them. He had no one to speak to, which made it worse. He could not write to his mother or even to Violet, because there was nothing to tell. Mr Oswald was sharp and short in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had never said much to him at any time. No; there was nothing to tell.But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. The weather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office was done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother’s return. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit.He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little Dick Lacy his accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual. But, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him a sense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not right between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. He seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtook him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. Once he came at night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been forgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his head on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence.Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had been at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and where he went, and how he passed his time; and though David was surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he thought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into his mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few days at the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. He was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters in the morning, for Mr Oswald’s manner was much kinder, and he spoke to him just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did not come down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might.That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive till after the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he went home. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money; and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whether the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of suspicion in his friend’s hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if some one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell’s voice, saying:“Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falsely accused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What would your mother say?”His mother! David uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain. Was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief?“David,” said his friend solemnly, “it is at a time like this that our trust in God stands us in stead. There is nothing to be dismayed at, if you are innocent.”“If!” said David, with a gasp.“Ay! ‘if!’ Your mother herself might say as much as that. And you have not said that the charge is a false one yet.”“I did not think I should need to say so to you!”“But you see, my lad, I am not speaking for myself. I was bidden ask you the question point blank, and I must give your answer to him that sent me. My word is another matter. You must answer to him.”“To Mr Oswald, I suppose? Why should he suspect me? Has he been suspecting me all these weeks? Was that the reason he wished nothing said about it in the office?”“That was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna’ let your eyes flash on me,” said Mr Caldwell, severely. “Don’t you think it has caused him much unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?”“But why should he suspectme?”“There seemed to be no one else. But he must speak for himself. I have nothing to say for him. I have only to carry him your answer.”“I will answer him myself,” said David, rising, as though he were going at once to do it. But he only walked to the window and stood looking out.“David,” said Mr Caldwell, “put away your books, and come home with me.”“No, I cannot do that,” said David, shortly.He did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spoken for a while. By and by Mr Caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way:“David, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is to see that you bear it well. The accusation will give but small concern to your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has been indulging in an angry and unchristian spirit.” And then he went away.He did not go very far, however. It was getting late, and, in the gathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the house seemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before he reached the gate.“David,” said he kindly, opening the door, “come away home with me.”But David only answered as he had done before.“No, I cannot do that.”He said it in a gentler tone, however, and added:“No, I thank you, Mr Caldwell, I would rather not.”“It will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart. You need not be alone, however. You don’t need me to tell you where you are to take all this trouble to. You may honourHimby bearing it well,” said his friend.“Bear it well!” No, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first.When Mr Caldwell had gone, and David had shut the doors and windows to keep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he had kept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in a flood. And they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh. There was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitter as they fell. He had wild thoughts of going that very night to Mr Oswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he would never enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected, seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made him eager to defend himself at whatever cost. But night brought wiser counsels; and David knew, as Mr Caldwell had said, where to betake himself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite another mind.As for Mr Caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer to Mr Oswald. He did not even go home first to his own house, though he had not been there for a fortnight.“For who knows,” said he to himself, “what that foolish lad may go and say in his anger, and Mr Oswald must hear what I have to say first, or it may end badly for all concerned.”He found Mr Oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a few words concerning the business which had called him away during the last few weeks, he told him of his visit to David, and spoke with decision as to the impossibility of the lad’s having any knowledge of the lost money.“It seems impossible, certainly,” said Mr Oswald; “and yet how can its disappearance be accounted for? It must have been taken from the table or from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or I must have seen it at night. There can be no doubt it was brought to me on that day, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except young Inglis and yourself were gone. I was out, I remember, when it was time to go home. When I came in, there was no one in the outer office. You had sent David out, you said. He came in before I left—” And he went over the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the money that vexed him. Though the loss had been ten times as great, it would have been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss of confidence in those whom he employed.“For some one must have taken the money, even if David Inglis be not guilty.”Here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room.“David Inglis, papa! What can you mean?” and Frank came hurriedly forward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from the light.“My boy! are you here? What would the doctor say? You should have been in bed long ago.”“But, papa, what is it that is lost? You never could blame Davie, papa. You could not think Davie could take money, Mr Caldwell?”“No, I know David Inglis better,” said Mr Caldwell, quietly.“And, papa, you don’t think ill of Davie? You would not if you knew him. Papa! you have not accused him? Oh! what will Aunt Mary think?” cried the boy in great distress. “Papa, how could you do it?”Mr Oswald was asking himself the same question. The only thing he could say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thing to say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in David. But he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told Frank it was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in his discomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away.“But I shall go to Davie the first thing in the morning, papa. I would not believe such a thing of Davie, though a hundred men declared it. I would sooner believe it of—of Mr Caldwell,” said Frank, excitedly.“Be quiet, Frank,” said his father; but Mr Caldwell laughed a little and patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed, and then he, too, said good-night and went away. And Mr Oswald was not left in a very pleasant frame of mind, that is certain.True to his determination to see David, Frank reached the bank next morning before his father. He reached it before David, too, and he would have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshine which had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made him dizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa in his father’s office for a while. He lay still after his father came in, and only moved when he heard David’s voice saying—“Mr Caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir.”Then Frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend.“He does not mean it, Davie!” he cried. “Papa knows you never could have done such a thing. Don’t be angry, old fellow.”And then he put out his hand to clasp David’s, and missed it partly because of their natural dimness and partly because of the tears that rushed to them. David regarded him in dismay.“Are they so bad as that, Frank? Are they worse again?” said David, forgetting his own trouble in the heavier trouble of his friend. They were bad enough, and there was more wrong with the boy besides his eyes. He was ill and weak, and he burst out crying, with his head on David’s shoulder, but his tears were not for himself.“You were wrong to come out to-day, Frank,” said his father, surprised and perplexed at his sudden break-down; “you must go home immediately.”“Papa, tell Davie that you do not believe he took the money,” cried the boy. “Hecouldnot do it, papa.”“Indeed, I did not, sir,” said David. “I know nothing about the matter except what Mr Caldwell has told me. You may believe me, sir.”“I do not know what to believe,” said Mr Oswald. “It seems unlikely that you should be tempted to do so foolish and wrong a thing. But I have been deceived many a time. Who could have taken it?”“It was not I,” said David, quietly, and while he said it he was conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen Mr Oswald in the first angry moment after he had known of his suspicion. An angry denial, he felt now, would have availed little.“Papa, begin at the beginning and tell Davie all about it. Perhaps he will think of something you have forgotten—something that may help you to find out where the money has gone,” said Frank, earnestly.But Mr Oswald would do nothing of the sort. He was tired and perplexed with the matter, and he had come to the determination to pay the lost money, and wait till time should throw light on the circumstances of its loss, or until the guilty person should betray himself.“You must go, Frank. You are not fit to be here,” said he.“I want to hear you tell Davie that you don’t believe he is a thief.”A thief! That is a very ugly word, and David winced as it was spoken. Mr Oswald winced too.“Money has been taken from this room, and until the manner of its disappearance be discovered, all who had access to the place must, in a sense, be open to suspicion. Let us hope that the guilty person will be found out, and in the meantime, let nothing more be said about it.”“But why did you not tell me at once that you suspected me?” said David, in some excitement.“It was not a pleasant thing to tell.”“No, but it is not pleasanter to hear it now. There is less chance that the guilty person may be traced now, than if the loss had been declared at once. And must I lie under the suspicion always? I do not think you have been just to me.”“That will do. The less said the better,” said Mr Oswald. “Frank, you must go home.”“You will not go away, Davie?” said Frank.“Not if I may stay. Where could I go?” said David.“You will stay, of course. Let us hope the truth about this unpleasant business may come out at last. We must all be uncomfortable until it does.”“If you had only spoken to David about it sooner,” said Frank, again.But Mr Oswald would neither say nor hear more. Entreated by Frank, however, he asked David to go and stay at his house, till his mother returned home. But David refused to go even for a day, and no entreaties of Frank could move him.“I don’t wonder that you will not come,” said Frank. “I don’t blame you for refusing. And oh! what will Aunt Mary think of us all?”“She will know thatyouare all right, Frank,” said David, trying to look cheerful as he bade his friend good-bye at the door. He did not succeed very well, nor did Frank; and David, thinking of it afterwards, was by no means sure that he had been right in refusing to go to stay with him for a while, and thinking of his friend’s troubles did him some good, in that it gave him less time to think of his own. But he could not make up his mind to go to Mr Oswald’s house, and he did not see Frank again for a good while after that.

When it was fairly decided that Miss Bethia’s pleasant plan for the summer was possible, there was little time lost in preparation. Miss Bethia went away at once, to have all things ready for their coming, and in a few days Mrs Inglis and Violet and the children followed. The little Oswalds went with them, and Jem and possibly Frank Oswald were to follow when their holidays commenced. Whether David was to go or not, was to be decided later, but he did not let the uncertainty with regard to his own prospects of pleasure interfere with his in all that the others were to enjoy. He helped cheerfully in all the arrangements for their departure, and made light of his mother’s anxiety and doubts as to the comfort of those who were to be left behind.

But when they were gone, and Jem and David left in the deserted house alone, they were neither of them very cheerful for a while. They were quite alone, for Mrs Lacy, the neighbour whom Mrs Inglis had engaged to care for their comfort, had a home of her own and little children to care for, and could only be there a part of the day. The unwonted silence of the house pressed heavily upon their spirits.

“It’s queer, too,” said Jem, who had been promising himself great enjoyment of the quiet time so that he might the better prepare for the school examinations that were coming on. “I used to think the children bothered with their noise and their chatter, but the stillness is ten, times more distracting, I think.”

David nodded assent.

“They will be in Gourlay long ago,” said he. “I wonder how it will seem to mamma to go back again.”

Jem looked grave.

“It won’t be all pleasure to her, I am afraid.”

“No; she will have many things to remember; but I think she would rather have gone to Gourlay than anywhere else. I wish I could have gone with her.”

“Yes; but she has Violet and the children; and mamma is not one to fret or be unhappy.”

“She will not be unhappy; but all the same it will be a sorrowful thing for her to go there now.”

“Yes; but I am glad she is there; and I hope I may be there, too, before the summer is over.”

Jem’s examinations passed off with great credit to himself; but he did not have the pleasure of telling his triumph, or showing his prizes to his mother and the children till after their return to Singleton; for Jem did not go to Gourlay, but in quite another direction.

When an offer was made to him, through one of his friends at the great engine-house, to accompany a skillful machinist to a distant part of the country where he was to superintend the setting up of some valuable machinery in a manufacturing establishment, he gave a few regretful thoughts to his mother and Gourlay, and the long anticipated delights of boating and fishing; but it did not take him long to decide to go. Indeed, by the time his mother’s consent reached him, his preparations were far advanced, and he was as eager to be gone as though the sole object of the trip had been pleasure, and not the hard work which had been offered him. But, besides the work, there was the wages, which, to Jem seemed magnificent, and there was the prospect of seeing new sights far from home; so he went away in great spirits, and David was left alone.

He was not in great spirits. Jem had left him no earlier than he must have done had it been to join his mother and the children in Gourlay. But, somehow, when he thought of his brother out in the wonderful, strange world, about which they had so often spoken and dreamed, David had to struggle against a feeling which, indulged, might very easily have changed to discontent or envy of his brother’s happier fortune.

Happier fortune, indeed! How foolish his thoughts were! David laughed at himself when he called up the figure of Jem, with bared arms and blackened face, busy amidst the smoke and dust of some great work-shop, going here and there—doing this and that at the bidding of his master. A very hard working world Jem would no doubt find it; and, as he thought about him, David made believe content, and congratulated himself on the quiet and leisure which the summer evenings were bringing, and made plans for doing great things in the way of reading and study while they lasted. But they were very dull days and evenings. The silence in the house grew more oppressive to him than even Jem had found it. The long summer evenings often found him listless and dull over the books that had been so precious to him when he had only stolen moments to bestow on them.

There had been something said at first about his going to the Oswald’s to stay, when the time came when he should be alone in the house. Mr Philip had proposed it at the time when they were making arrangements for the going away of his little sisters. But the invitation had not been repeated. Mr Philip had gone away long before Jem. He had, at the last moment, joined an exploring party who were going—not, indeed, to Red River, but far away into the woods. Mr Oswald had forgotten the invitation, or had never known of it, perhaps, and David went home to the deserted house not very willingly sometimes, and, with a vague impatience of the monotony of the days, wished for something to happen to break it. Before Jem had been gone a week, something did happen. Indeed, it had happened a good while before, but it only came to David’s knowledge at that time.

Mr Caldwell had just returned from one of his frequent business journeys, and one night David lingered beyond the usual hour that he might see him and walk down the street with him as far as their way lay in the same direction; and it was while they were going towards home together that Mr Caldwell told him of something very unpleasant that had occurred in the office. A small sum of money had been missed, and the circumstances connected with its loss led Mr Caldwell to believe that it had been taken by some one belonging to the office. Mr Caldwell could not give his reasons for this opinion, nor did he say much about it, but he questioned David closely about those who had been coming and going, and seemed troubled and annoyed about the affair. David was troubled, too, and tried to recall anything that might throw light upon the painful matter. But he did not succeed.

The circumstances, as David learned them then and afterwards, were these: Mr Oswald, as treasurer for one of the benevolent societies of the town, had, on a certain day of the preceding month, received a sum of money, part of which could not be found or accounted for. The rest of the sum paid into his hands was found in that compartment of his private safe allotted to the papers of the society. A receipt for the whole sum was in the hands of the person who had paid the money, and an entry in the society’s books corresponded to the sum named in this receipt. Mr Oswald was certain that he had not made use of any part of it, because such was never his custom. The accounts of the society were kept quite distinct from all others, and all arrangements with regard to them were made by Mr Oswald himself. It did not make the loss a matter of less importance that the sum missed was small. Nor did it make Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell less anxious to discover what had become of it.

The loss had not been discovered until some time after it had taken place, when the quarterly making up of the society’s accounts had been taken in hand, and Mr Oswald could not remember much about the circumstances. The date of the receipt showed the time. The person who paid the money remembered that part of it had been in small silver coins, made up in packets, and this was the part that had disappeared.

All this was not told by Mr Caldwell that first afternoon. It came to David’s knowledge, little by little, as it was found out. The matter was not, at first, discussed by the clerks in the office. Mr Caldwell had asked David not to speak of it to them, or to any one.

When Mr Caldwell told him that nothing had been said to them of the loss, he thought it was strange; but it never came into his mind that the reason was that Mr Oswald feared that he was the person guilty, and wished to keep it from the knowledge of the rest. But, as time went on, he began to notice a change in Mr Oswald’s manner toward him. He had never said many words to him in the course of the day. It was not his way with those in his employment, except with Mr Caldwell. He said less than ever to him now, but David fancied that he was more watchful of him, that he took more note of his comings and goings, and that his manner was more peremptory and less friendly when he gave him directions as to his work for the day.

Mr Caldwell did not remain long in Singleton at this time, and having no one to speak to about the mysterious affair of the missing money, David, after a day or two, began to think less about it than he might otherwise have done. Once he ventured to speak to Mr Oswald about it.

“Have you heard anything about the lost money, sir?” said he, one night, when there were only they two in the office.

Mr Oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that David was startled, changing colour and looking at him in astonishment.

“No, I have not. Haveyouanything to tell me about it? The sooner the better,” said Mr Oswald.

“I know only what Mr Caldwell has told me,” said David.

“You may go,” said Mr Oswald.

And David went away, very much surprised both at his words and his manner. He did not think long about it, but every day he became more certain that all was not right between them. He had no one to speak to, which made it worse. He could not write to his mother or even to Violet, because there was nothing to tell. Mr Oswald was sharp and short in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had never said much to him at any time. No; there was nothing to tell.

But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. The weather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office was done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother’s return. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit.

He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little Dick Lacy his accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual. But, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him a sense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not right between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. He seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtook him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. Once he came at night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been forgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his head on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence.

Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had been at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and where he went, and how he passed his time; and though David was surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he thought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into his mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few days at the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. He was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters in the morning, for Mr Oswald’s manner was much kinder, and he spoke to him just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did not come down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might.

That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive till after the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he went home. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money; and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whether the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of suspicion in his friend’s hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if some one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell’s voice, saying:

“Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falsely accused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What would your mother say?”

His mother! David uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain. Was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief?

“David,” said his friend solemnly, “it is at a time like this that our trust in God stands us in stead. There is nothing to be dismayed at, if you are innocent.”

“If!” said David, with a gasp.

“Ay! ‘if!’ Your mother herself might say as much as that. And you have not said that the charge is a false one yet.”

“I did not think I should need to say so to you!”

“But you see, my lad, I am not speaking for myself. I was bidden ask you the question point blank, and I must give your answer to him that sent me. My word is another matter. You must answer to him.”

“To Mr Oswald, I suppose? Why should he suspect me? Has he been suspecting me all these weeks? Was that the reason he wished nothing said about it in the office?”

“That was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna’ let your eyes flash on me,” said Mr Caldwell, severely. “Don’t you think it has caused him much unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?”

“But why should he suspectme?”

“There seemed to be no one else. But he must speak for himself. I have nothing to say for him. I have only to carry him your answer.”

“I will answer him myself,” said David, rising, as though he were going at once to do it. But he only walked to the window and stood looking out.

“David,” said Mr Caldwell, “put away your books, and come home with me.”

“No, I cannot do that,” said David, shortly.

He did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spoken for a while. By and by Mr Caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way:

“David, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is to see that you bear it well. The accusation will give but small concern to your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has been indulging in an angry and unchristian spirit.” And then he went away.

He did not go very far, however. It was getting late, and, in the gathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the house seemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before he reached the gate.

“David,” said he kindly, opening the door, “come away home with me.”

But David only answered as he had done before.

“No, I cannot do that.”

He said it in a gentler tone, however, and added:

“No, I thank you, Mr Caldwell, I would rather not.”

“It will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart. You need not be alone, however. You don’t need me to tell you where you are to take all this trouble to. You may honourHimby bearing it well,” said his friend.

“Bear it well!” No, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first.

When Mr Caldwell had gone, and David had shut the doors and windows to keep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he had kept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in a flood. And they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh. There was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitter as they fell. He had wild thoughts of going that very night to Mr Oswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he would never enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected, seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made him eager to defend himself at whatever cost. But night brought wiser counsels; and David knew, as Mr Caldwell had said, where to betake himself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite another mind.

As for Mr Caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer to Mr Oswald. He did not even go home first to his own house, though he had not been there for a fortnight.

“For who knows,” said he to himself, “what that foolish lad may go and say in his anger, and Mr Oswald must hear what I have to say first, or it may end badly for all concerned.”

He found Mr Oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a few words concerning the business which had called him away during the last few weeks, he told him of his visit to David, and spoke with decision as to the impossibility of the lad’s having any knowledge of the lost money.

“It seems impossible, certainly,” said Mr Oswald; “and yet how can its disappearance be accounted for? It must have been taken from the table or from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or I must have seen it at night. There can be no doubt it was brought to me on that day, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except young Inglis and yourself were gone. I was out, I remember, when it was time to go home. When I came in, there was no one in the outer office. You had sent David out, you said. He came in before I left—” And he went over the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the money that vexed him. Though the loss had been ten times as great, it would have been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss of confidence in those whom he employed.

“For some one must have taken the money, even if David Inglis be not guilty.”

Here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room.

“David Inglis, papa! What can you mean?” and Frank came hurriedly forward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from the light.

“My boy! are you here? What would the doctor say? You should have been in bed long ago.”

“But, papa, what is it that is lost? You never could blame Davie, papa. You could not think Davie could take money, Mr Caldwell?”

“No, I know David Inglis better,” said Mr Caldwell, quietly.

“And, papa, you don’t think ill of Davie? You would not if you knew him. Papa! you have not accused him? Oh! what will Aunt Mary think?” cried the boy in great distress. “Papa, how could you do it?”

Mr Oswald was asking himself the same question. The only thing he could say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thing to say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in David. But he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told Frank it was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in his discomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away.

“But I shall go to Davie the first thing in the morning, papa. I would not believe such a thing of Davie, though a hundred men declared it. I would sooner believe it of—of Mr Caldwell,” said Frank, excitedly.

“Be quiet, Frank,” said his father; but Mr Caldwell laughed a little and patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed, and then he, too, said good-night and went away. And Mr Oswald was not left in a very pleasant frame of mind, that is certain.

True to his determination to see David, Frank reached the bank next morning before his father. He reached it before David, too, and he would have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshine which had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made him dizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa in his father’s office for a while. He lay still after his father came in, and only moved when he heard David’s voice saying—

“Mr Caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir.”

Then Frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend.

“He does not mean it, Davie!” he cried. “Papa knows you never could have done such a thing. Don’t be angry, old fellow.”

And then he put out his hand to clasp David’s, and missed it partly because of their natural dimness and partly because of the tears that rushed to them. David regarded him in dismay.

“Are they so bad as that, Frank? Are they worse again?” said David, forgetting his own trouble in the heavier trouble of his friend. They were bad enough, and there was more wrong with the boy besides his eyes. He was ill and weak, and he burst out crying, with his head on David’s shoulder, but his tears were not for himself.

“You were wrong to come out to-day, Frank,” said his father, surprised and perplexed at his sudden break-down; “you must go home immediately.”

“Papa, tell Davie that you do not believe he took the money,” cried the boy. “Hecouldnot do it, papa.”

“Indeed, I did not, sir,” said David. “I know nothing about the matter except what Mr Caldwell has told me. You may believe me, sir.”

“I do not know what to believe,” said Mr Oswald. “It seems unlikely that you should be tempted to do so foolish and wrong a thing. But I have been deceived many a time. Who could have taken it?”

“It was not I,” said David, quietly, and while he said it he was conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen Mr Oswald in the first angry moment after he had known of his suspicion. An angry denial, he felt now, would have availed little.

“Papa, begin at the beginning and tell Davie all about it. Perhaps he will think of something you have forgotten—something that may help you to find out where the money has gone,” said Frank, earnestly.

But Mr Oswald would do nothing of the sort. He was tired and perplexed with the matter, and he had come to the determination to pay the lost money, and wait till time should throw light on the circumstances of its loss, or until the guilty person should betray himself.

“You must go, Frank. You are not fit to be here,” said he.

“I want to hear you tell Davie that you don’t believe he is a thief.”

A thief! That is a very ugly word, and David winced as it was spoken. Mr Oswald winced too.

“Money has been taken from this room, and until the manner of its disappearance be discovered, all who had access to the place must, in a sense, be open to suspicion. Let us hope that the guilty person will be found out, and in the meantime, let nothing more be said about it.”

“But why did you not tell me at once that you suspected me?” said David, in some excitement.

“It was not a pleasant thing to tell.”

“No, but it is not pleasanter to hear it now. There is less chance that the guilty person may be traced now, than if the loss had been declared at once. And must I lie under the suspicion always? I do not think you have been just to me.”

“That will do. The less said the better,” said Mr Oswald. “Frank, you must go home.”

“You will not go away, Davie?” said Frank.

“Not if I may stay. Where could I go?” said David.

“You will stay, of course. Let us hope the truth about this unpleasant business may come out at last. We must all be uncomfortable until it does.”

“If you had only spoken to David about it sooner,” said Frank, again.

But Mr Oswald would neither say nor hear more. Entreated by Frank, however, he asked David to go and stay at his house, till his mother returned home. But David refused to go even for a day, and no entreaties of Frank could move him.

“I don’t wonder that you will not come,” said Frank. “I don’t blame you for refusing. And oh! what will Aunt Mary think of us all?”

“She will know thatyouare all right, Frank,” said David, trying to look cheerful as he bade his friend good-bye at the door. He did not succeed very well, nor did Frank; and David, thinking of it afterwards, was by no means sure that he had been right in refusing to go to stay with him for a while, and thinking of his friend’s troubles did him some good, in that it gave him less time to think of his own. But he could not make up his mind to go to Mr Oswald’s house, and he did not see Frank again for a good while after that.

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