CHAPTER XII.

JACK caught Maimie’s little hand and kissed it. “To be sure,” he said. “Ask anything you like. I don’t see how you can help me, though.”

“What are all these mistakes that you make?” she inquired.

“Oh,—stupid things,—all sorts. In spelling,—words that I really know quite well I go and spell all wrong, and don’t see till the mischief is done. And then there’s scratching out, and spoilt paper, and wasted time. I’m an awful idiot, of course,—I know that well enough. You can’t think worse of me than I think of myself, Maimie.” And he sat as if he were awaiting her sentence.

“Jack,—” she said slowly. Then she stopped, and began again,—“But, Jack,—you know what it all means?”

He looked at her questioningly.

“It means want of attention,” she said. “It means that you don’t give your mind to what you are doing. And, Jack,—you can get over that.”

Neither Cherry nor I spoke. Jack stared hard at Maimie for some seconds.

“Yes,” he said presently. “Yes, of course I could get over that. It’s stupidity.”

“No, not stupidity. It is a bad habit of letting your mind wander. And bad habits may always be got over,—always,—only the longer you put off, the harder your fight will be. Jack, you can get over this, for Aunt Marion’s sake, and because it is right.”

“Yes; of course I can,” assented Jack, looking like one in a dream.

“It will be a fight,” repeated Maimie, standing by him still. “But you must fight it out, Jack. You must make up your mind that there SHALL NOT be one single more mistake from carelessness. I don’t mean only making up your mind to try a little more, but making up your mind to no. And, Jack,—if you pray to be helped—”

Jack looked up at Maimie, as if she had been a sort of guardian angel. “Yes, yes, I will really, Maimie, really and truly.”

“That would be like a man,” pursued Maimie. “But to be always blundering, and always saying you can’t help it, is not like a man.”

Jack stood up, and stretched himself. “Thank you, Maimie,” he said, in quite a different voice from his common voice. “I shan’t forget this. I will be a man now, God helping me; and I’ll fight against all this folly. I do really believe it has been half laziness.”

And where Cherry or I would have protested, and tried to make our dear Jack think better of himself, Maimie said quietly, “Of course it has. But you are not going to be lazy any more.”

“No, I’m not,” he said earnestly.

“Perhaps, though, there are some mistakes which you really can’t help making.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Jack said doubtfully. “I’m awfully stupid over figures, and I never can learn the multiplication table.”

“I have thought of that,” Maimie said. “I have often wished to help you there, Jack; only I didn’t quite like to propose it. But I know I’m good at figures, and I’m quite sure I could help you. There are all sorts of little catches and dodges for a bad memory at figures, and I could put you up to some of them. I don’t mean tricks, but real ways of helping you to be quick in calculation, and not to forget. I am quite sure you can learn the tables, and all the weights and measures too, if only you make up your mind not to be beaten.”

“Mother, you hear!” cried Jack.

“Maimie is right,” I said. “There is a wonderful difference between setting to work with 'I can’t’ and with 'I will.’”

“I’ll leave off saying 'can’t,’ and take to 'will’” said Jack. “But, Maimie, we mustn’t have you fall ill, teaching me.”

“O there’s no fear about that,” she said brightly. “I love books and teaching more than anything. It will be so nice to do something useful. Jack, I don’t see why we shouldn’t read history together too.”

Jack looked doubtful. “I’m not fond of history,” he said. “But I could read it with you.”

“If you don’t like it, you must learn to like it,” said Maimie. “I do wonder at you sometimes, Jack, when I see you wasting your whole evening doing nothing,—and you might be studying hard all the time.”

“I’ll begin to-morrow. I didn’t think before,” said Jack. “Mother has tried to make me read often enough, and I never took to it,—but I will now.”

And my love for Maimie was of such a nature that I could bear to see her succeed where I had failed, without even a temptation to jealousy.

“There’s one thing more,” she said slowly. “Jack, you must see your Mr. Morison to-morrow, and tell him you are sorry not to have done better, and beg for one more fair trial. Tell him you are going to make a fresh start, and really and truly to do your very best.”

“Well,—I will,” Jack said, though he did not look at all delighted with this last advice.

“And, Aunt Marion,” pursued Maimie,—“I want to ask something else of you. May I in a few days help with the boys’ lessons,—Bob and Ted’s, I mean? I should so like it. If you would only let me, I might take them quite off your hands. And that would leave you so much more time for other things. May I be your little governess? May I just try?”

I do not know exactly what answer I made at the moment; but before long this arrangement came to pass. The relief to myself was not small. I think I disliked teaching as much as Maimie disliked needlework. It soon became a settled thing that Maimie should give the two little boys their daily lessons, and should help Jack every evening with his studies.

ONE day, about four months after the visit which Robert and I had paid to “The Gables,” I was astonished to see a fly drive up to our door, and Aunt Briscoe descend from it.

She came slowly up the steps and into the house, panting a little, as she was given to doing. She had on a black silk dress, and a very handsome mantle, and a queer old-fashioned bonnet. Cherry had run to open the door, and I went quickly into the hall after Cherry.

“How do you do, niece Marion?” Aunt Briscoe said, in a short way.

“How do you do, Aunt Briscoe?” I said, hiding my surprise. “We are very glad to see you here.” And this was true, yet I could have wished for previous warning. An uneasy recollection of our larder came over me.

“I hope you are,” she said grimly. “Where’s Robert?”

“He will not be home for another hour. We have tea soon after six.”

“That will do for me,” Aunt Briscoe said. “I have ordered the fly to come again at seven. I don’t approve of late hours.”

“You will take off your bonnet,” I said.

“No, thanks. I’ve got no cap here. Where are all the children?” She was standing in the passage still, looking about her with sharp eyes.

“Jack is at his office.”

“Not turned off yet?”

“No; he has done much better lately, given satisfaction.”

“I always said he could if he chose,” said Aunt Briscoe.

I felt angry. Yet was it not quite true? But some people have a way of uttering truths which makes them distasteful.

“And the others?”

“Cress and Owen and Fred are at school.”

“Time Cress should be at work too!”

“Yes,” I said; “we are looking out for something that he can do. Poor Cress!”

“Poor!” she said sharply.

“He wanted so much to go to college.”

“Fudge! You have brought up your boys with ideas much too grand for their station in life, niece Marion.”

Now was this fair? Cress had ideas, certainly, which could not be carried out for lack of money; but none of the others had. I resented the words silently. Aunt Briscoe looked at me and laughed.

“You are like an old hen, my dear,” she said. “Always ready to cackle in defence of your chickens. Where are the little ones?”

“In the basement-room. Maimie is teaching them there; but lessons must be nearly over,” I said.

“Mary Browne, do you mean? Playing at lessons, I suppose.”

“O no; she makes them work hard. It is a great relief to me to have them off my hands; and Maimie is so clever at teaching. The boys get on capitally.”

“How old is the child? Fifteen! A chit of a girl! Why, she ought to be at school herself.”

“She does study regularly,” I said. “School for her is out of our power. She is making Jack study too.”

“Humph! Well, it’s a good thing she isn’t a few years older. I’ll take a look at the children in the basement-room, the first thing.”

I yielded, of course. We never opposed Aunt Briscoe. Otherwise I should have preferred first to put things tidy.

However, I needed not to have feared. Maimie never could work or teach in an untidy room.

She was at the table in the basement, with several books strewn over it, and a little boy on either side of her,—Bob reciting something in clear tones, while Teddie’s brown head was pressed lovingly against her flaxen waves of hair. Our entrance made her look round, and she stood up, flushing faintly, and looking her prettiest.

“So that is Mary Browne,” said Aunt Briscoe.

She drew nearer, and shook hands, giving each boy a nod, and then bringing back her attention to the young teacher.

“So this isn’t only play?” she said.

“O no; it is work, not play,” Maimie answered, smiling.

“What was the boy saying to you?”

“Some poetry.”

Aunt Briscoe despised poetry, and she gave a little sniff.

“What good will that do him, I should like to know?”

Maimie looked surprised at the question.

“Mother used to say no one was educated who had not a knowledge of the best poets,” she said. “And anything that exercises his memory, and makes him think, is good for him.”

“Makes him think!”

“We go into the meaning, line by line.”

“Humph!” Aunt Briscoe said again,—“I suppose you don’t attempt Latin?”

The boys exchanged looks, and blushed. Maimie said,—“A little,” half smiling.

“O Maimie, you didn’t mean to tell mother till we could say our declensions,” cried the children.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Maimie gently.

Aunt Briscoe looked hard at her again. “Who taught you all this?”

“My mother, partly,” said Maimie. “And I have been to a good school.”

“It’s you that have been so ill lately,” was Aunt Briscoe’s next remark. “Well again now, I suppose?”

“O yes, quite.”

“She is very far from strong,” I said. “The doctor wants her to get away for change; but just at present we can’t manage it.”

“Change wasn’t so much the fashion in my young days,” said Aunt Briscoe. “People are always wanting now to rush away somewhere. It’s a perfect mania.”

“I don’t want to go away,” said Maimie. But now that the little excitement of our coming in was over, she lost all her colour, and looked very tired and pale.

“You may as well leave the lessons, and come upstairs with us,” Aunt Briscoe said decisively. “I wish to see more of the girl, niece Marion.” Maimie looked at me, and I nodded assent, so she came, not without protests from the boys. She had such a curious power of making them love their books, unlike too many teachers.

We sat talking for nearly an hour, before Robert came in, and Aunt Briscoe paid more attention to Maimie than to any of us. Even her favourite Cherry was neglected; but unselfish Cherry never minded being in the background.

Maimie was put through quite a course of questions, as to her past life, her mother and her stepfather, how the marriage had come about, where they had lived, why Churton Hazel had sent her back, and much besides. Maimie bore the questioning patiently, though tears now and then came to her eyes.

“I always said Churton was a worthless fellow,” the old lady declared at length.

I could have contradicted this “always said,” but of course I did not.

A wave of colour rushed over poor Maimie’s face. She too was mute, however.

“We shan’t hear any more of him till he wants money himself. He had better not come to me then, that’s all.”

“Oh, I don’t think—” faltered Maimie.

“You don’t know him, child. Of course you don’t. How should you? He always had a smooth side to show when it pleased him. But see how he treats us now.”

“He will write some day,” murmured Maimie.

“I don’t say he won’t; but that isn’t the question. Why hasn’t he written already?”

Maimie could make no answer. She seemed a good deal upset, and I saw Cherry pass by, giving her a loving little squeeze of the hand.

“Worthless people are not worth crying over, child. It’s Churton all over, that’s all one can say.”

She then dropped the subject, and the two girls went away to prepare tea. Robert came in, followed by Jack, and Aunt Briscoe said—

“That girl looks frightfully delicate.”

“She has been ill lately,” I said.

“She will be ill again soon, if you don’t take care—fall into a decline, or something of that sort. You had better let me take her home for a week.”

Somehow I did not feel inclined to spring at the idea. There had been a time when I thought Aunt Briscoe ought to take in Maimie altogether. Now she was one of us, and I did not want to lose her. But my husband thanked Aunt Briscoe, and said it was the very thing Maimie needed, and I woke up suddenly to my own selfishness. Had I not been longing to give Maimie change? Well, here was change provided.

“She can come back with me this evening,” pursued Aunt Briscoe. “You had better tell her to put up a second dress.”

I went as directed, and said to Maimie that she was going home with Aunt Briscoe for a week. Maimie gave such a start, that the little toast-rack fell from her hand.

“But I don’t want to go,” she said, trembling. “O Aunt Marion, please, must I? There are the boys’ lessons—and Jack.”

“You will teach twice as well after a week’s rest,” I said. “'The Gables’ is a very pretty house, Maimie. We shall all miss you; still, I am sure you will enjoy yourself.”

“I would much rather not,” she said mournfully. “I am so happy here. It is like being cast adrift again.”

And she clung to me, and I found difficulty in comforting her. But neither Robert nor Aunt Briscoe would listen to any objections. So, at seven o’clock, Mamie drove off in the fly with aunt Briscoe. It seemed as if a shadow fell over the house with her absence.

AS Maimie went away, I had a conviction in my mind that her absence would not be only for one week. And my conviction proved true. The week grew into four weeks, before Aunt Briscoe would part with her.

It was strange how we all missed the girl. Jack was utterly miserable, and Robert seemed quite at a loss without her pretty caresses, and Cherry evidently found it not easy to be so cheerful as usual.

The month was one of trouble and anxiety to us, which made the matter wow. Bills had come in, which we could not tell how to meet, and worries and fears pressed heavily.

Then we heard of an opening for Cress in a mercantile house, and Cress fought against the notion, in a way that distressed us all much. I longed for Maimie to help us in persuading him. He was angry and excited. He said he had always hoped to go to college, somehow. Robert patiently explained to him the impossibility of any such thing. Cress argued and protested, and gave way to temper, and seemed thoroughly out of sorts. He had to go to bed at last for a whole day, to be nursed and comforted. But Robert would have no further putting off of the decision. He said it was an opening too good to be refused, and Cress must make up his mind to what was a necessity. Cress had to yield, but the boy looked wretched, and for days he spoke hardly a pleasant word to anybody.

So the month of Maimie’s absence was altogether a trying time to us.

Jack went once to see her, and found her very bright, only longing to come back to us. Aunt Briscoe seemed “awfully” fond of her, Jack said, and he thought Maimie liked Aunt Briscoe better than at first, only “not like mother.” And Aunt Briscoe had declared her intention of keeping Maimie exactly one month, which she did to the very day.

She brought Maimie back herself, at the month’s end, remaining again to tea with us. I never can forget how Maimie rushed into my arms, whispering. “O Aunt Marion, I thought I should never get home again!” Her sweet face was glowing with happiness, and the old look of health had fully come back. So I was very grateful to Aunt Briscoe.

While we were having our tea together, the postman came. Nobody seemed to notice the rap particularly, we were talking so much: but presently Ted ran out, and brought back a letter addressed to Maimie.

She sprang up with a little cry, as he dropped it on the table, and a glow flushed her cheeks.

“It’s from father!” she exclaimed. “Aunt Marion! A letter from father at last!”

There seemed no chance at first of the letter being read. Almost before I had gathered the sense of the words, Maimie was clinging to me, clasping the envelope, and sobbing violently. I had never quite known till that moment how the poor child had suffered under her stepfather’s long silence. Aunt Briscoe sat looking at her with an odd mystified expression.

“Don’t cry, Maimie,” I whispered. “You are not sorry, are you?”

She lifted her face, streaming with tears still, yet quivering with happiness.

“O no, no, no! sorry! no! He hasn’t forgotten me, you see. But oh, Aunt Marion—if he wants me—”

“Maimie, you shan’t go,” cried Jack hoarsely. “Nobody has a right to you now, except us?”

“Suppose Maimie sees what he says, before we go into that question,” I suggested.

“What does he say, Maimie?” cried two or three impatient voices.

“I don’t know. Only I am glad he has written.”

Poor Jack looked most gloomy. He evidently thought the loss of Maimie was becoming certain.

“Perhaps Uncle Churton is coming home,” said Cherry. “Do see, Maimie.”

Maimie heaved a sigh, stood up, and with trembling hands tore open the envelope. Something dropped out, and she stooped for it.

“A bank-note,” she said slowly, putting it into my hands. “That is for you and Uncle Robert.”

“Read the letter first, Maimie,” I said.

Maimie obeyed, not once only. A look of perplexity came over her face, and the bright look faded.

“The bank-note is for you, of course, Aunt Marion,” she said soberly. “He says it is a present towards expenses.”

“How much is it for?” asked Aunt Briscoe. Maimie glanced at it, and murmured something about “dollars.”

“We are not in America,” said Aunt Briscoe drily.

“O no,” and Maimie gave another look. “It is—twenty-five pounds.”

I could not but feel a throb of relief and gratitude. At that moment we were so needing help. I saw an echo of my own sensations in Robert’s face.

“Is your stepfather coming home?” asked Aunt Briscoe.

“He—doesn’t say,” faltered Maimie. “He only says he writes just to send a little present. He is going away somewhere else—I mean he was when he wrote,—so he couldn’t give his address.”

“Humph!” Aunt Briscoe said expressively. “Where is he now, child?”

“He doesn’t say.”

“No address on the sheet?”

“No,” Maimie said very low, and she gave the letter first to me, then to Robert.

“Well, my dear,” he said cheerfully, handing it back; “it is very evident that Churton means you to belong to us for the present.”

“It isn’t right,” she whispered.

“Bosh!” cried Jack, who had grown radiant. “As if we could ever bear to part with you!”

She really did smile then, and it was not a sad smile.

“But he might have told me a little more of his plans,” she said.

“You need never trouble yourself with thinking what a man 'might have’ done,” said Aunt Briscoe. “It’s sheer waste of time. They just care to please themselves, and that’s all.”

Maimie glanced at my husband, and shook her head.

“Maimie, you are happy here. You don’t really want to go to America?” Jack said wistfully.

“No,” she answered. “I am as happy as can be, and I don’t want to go. Only it is hard that I should be a burden on you.”

“If Mary Browne is a burden on anybody, she may come and live at The Gables,” said Aunt Briscoe.

Maimie looked from her to me silently.

“But she is not a burden,” I said. “She is our help and comfort. We really haven’t known how to get along without her this month.”

“Just as you please,” Aunt Briscoe said shortly. “I never press my favours on anybody. Only when you are tired of Mary Browne, you may send her to me.”

Then Aunt Briscoe rose to go away; and Maimie presently gave her a loving kiss, whispering gratitude, I suppose, for I heard the old lady answer, “There’s nothing to make a fuss about.” And when she was gone, Maimie came to my side, and sat down on a low stool, and laid her head on my knee, with a sigh of content.

“Aunt Briscoe is very very kind,” she murmured. “And I should like to hear more about father. But this is home, and no other place can ever be home to me, like it.”

Jack’s face beamed all over, and Cherry smiled, while I said, “We are all glad that you feel it so, Mamie.”

TWO years had gone by since Mary Browne came to us,—Maimie, the friendless and homeless girl, for a while unwelcome to my heart and reluctantly accepted, yet now completely one of us. I doubt if even my beloved Jack, even our good self-forgetting Cherry, would have been more missed from among our circle than flaxen-haired, black-eyed Maimie Browne.

Reluctantly accepted, for at first I would have done almost anything to be rid of the burden, anything short of sending Maimie to a workhouse. I could not resolve on that. Perhaps even from the first I was more under the sway of Maimie’s attractions than I at all guessed. At all events, not many months passed from the day of Maimie’s arrival, before we should have been grieved indeed to part with her. Poor as we were, Aunt Briscoe’s offer to give her a home was at once put aside.

I think it would have half-broken the child’s heart to leave us. Yet sometimes the wonder did cross me whether we were quite right. A home at “The Gables” meant ease and plenty. A home with us meant hard work and scanty fare.

But Maimie did not see things so. She said she loved us all more than anybody else in the world. She liked Aunt Briscoe and was grateful to her, but she counted me as a second mother. She said often that she knew she could be useful to us, and this was true indeed. But for her teaching, the two youngest boys must have gone to school months before; and though we now talked of sending them, she had them still in hand. Jack, too, had become quite studious through her influence. And though Maimie never was a good darner or mender, she had shown lately a new gift in the way of dressmaking and bonnet-trimming, which we found very serviceable.

Between all these employments and her own studies, it was no wonder that Maimie looked worn sometimes. She was taller and thinner than of old, with the same soft outline of features, the same pale skin and crimson lips. And the abundant flaxen hair was not a shade darker, and the black eyes were just as loving. I never saw a girl quite like Maimie anywhere—so very pretty, yet seeming to think so little about her own looks. She had a quiet, self-possessed manner, beyond her years. Many people took her at first sight for older than Cherry.

All through these two years, we had not heard a word of Maimie’s stepfather, my brother-in-law Churton Hazel. He had sent only the one cheque for twenty-five pounds, a few months after Maimie’s first coming to us; and that, I suppose, eased his conscience. No second cheque came; and we had not the very least idea where he was, or what he might be doing.

Early in June, Maimie’s seventeenth birthday would come. Jack was very anxious to make it a gala-day.

I ought to say here that my boys were doing well. Jack, at nineteen, was a fine broad-shouldered fellow, getting on capitally at his work, giving satisfaction, and really quite shaking off his old blundering ways, thanks chiefly to Maimie. Jack would never be brilliant, and we all knew that, but he was fast becoming as steady and dependable in his office as he had always been in his home.

He had never lost sight of his sudden resolution to “be a man,” and to conquer his faults. I am sure also that he had never forgotten Maimie’s suggestion that he must pray for help. I feel convinced that Jack did indeed pray, and that we saw the answer to his prayers in his life. We were all so fond and proud of Jack—Maimie as much as anybody.

Cresswell, at eighteen, had grown pretty well reconciled to office work. The old college dream had dropped into the background, and seemed forgotten.

He was rather small still, and handsome, and stronger in health than he used to be. People often said he was much better-looking than Jack. But Cherry and I never could understand how anybody could think so for a moment. Cress had straighter and thinner features, it is true; but Jack was so tall and manly, so protecting and kind to anybody weaker than himself, and so polite in his manners. Kindness and politeness are more to be admired than straight and delicate features. And poor Cress always seemed too much occupied with himself to have much kindness or politeness for other people.

The next two boys were off our hands, or at least away from home. There had come a good opening for Owen in a mercantile house in the north of England; and there our steady third son had been busy for nearly a year, winning good opinions from all around. And Fred had lately obtained the darling wish of his heart, by going on board a training-ship for the Merchant Navy. I did wish it could have been the Royal Navy; but this lay outside our means.

So the burdens of life seemed to be a little lessening, though perhaps it was so far more in seeming than in reality. For our absent boys were, of course, still a pull upon the home purse, and we often felt ourselves to be encompassed with difficulties. As one cloud went, another came. Yet always and always we were helped through.

Many a time, looking ahead, I have felt that the next step hardly could be taken. But when the step became needful, we found it to be possible. So, step by step, we not only went on our way through life, but step by step we were helped; and step by step we learnt more fully lessons of quiet trust in our Father’s loving care. I often thought in those days of Cherry’s favourite text, “All these things shall be added.” For they were added—all our real and actual needs, though not perhaps all the things we could have wished to possess.

But to return to Maimie’s birthday, a memorable day in my life.

After much talk and hesitation, Hampton Court was fixed upon as the scene for our excursion. Maimie’s birthday would happily be on a Saturday, so my husband and Jack and Cress could all accompany us. We determined to leave nobody at home, except a girl in charge of the house. Jack had put aside a little money, wherewith he undertook to treat us all; and he promised also to provide sandwiches and buns for the occasion.

The day came, bright enough to satisfy all hopes. I remember well what a glisten of sunshine was in the air as we rowed up the river, for the boys would not hear of going by train. This was far the pleasantest way, no doubt. My husband took an oar now and then, to relieve Cress; but Jack kept his untiringly the whole distance. Cherry and the little boys tried their hand at it, amid much fun; and Maimie proved herself an efficient steerer.

We were all very merry, Maimie being the merriest among us. I can recall how sweet and bright she looked, chatting and laughing, or sitting in a dreamy silence of complete enjoyment. I remember too how absorbed Jack and Cress were with her; how they seemed to think of hardly anybody or anything else, and how they were almost ready to quarrel for the honour of sitting near her, or lending her a helping hand.

After landing, we strolled first to a quiet nook, and there had our little meal together; for it was past two, and we were very hungry. There were sandwiches in abundance, and an ample supply of tarts, buns, cake, and soda-water. Jack had done the thing liberally; yet his provision proved not too great for our needs. Little remained over when we had all done eating.

We then separated, agreeing to meet at a certain part of Bushey Park, between four and half-past. My husband wanted to take a quiet dawdle through the grounds and in the palace. The other six went off together. But somehow they, too, fell apart, before they were out of my sight,—Cherry behind, with Bob and Ted; Maimie in front, with Jack and Cress.

I could not help sighing quietly. It seemed to dawn on me all at once that trouble in that direction might be lying ahead. Robert asked laughingly what the sigh meant.

“Only a mother’s worries,” I said. “I wish Jack and Cress were not both so devoted to Maimie.”

“My dear! Infants, all of them!” Robert said, in an amused voice.

“I don’t know about 'infancy,’” I said. “Jack is very fast becoming a man. And Maimie is as womanly as Cherry.”

“Maimie!” he said, in surprise.

“Yes; you don’t see it, of course, because she has soft clinging ways. But Maimie is grown-up in mind and character. Jack and Cress don’t think of her as a child. To them she is a woman.”

“You are a woman, my dear,” Robert said, smiling. “And women have fertile imaginations.”

“Women see further than men,” I answered. “I hope I am mistaken, Robert,—but I have a horror of brothers being rivals.”

I do not think we said any more then on the subject. It took us a good while to stroll through the gallery, and then we made our way to the beautiful lime avenue in Bushey Park. Robert and I sat down there under a tree, and presently he was dropping asleep. So I quietly got up, and walked about alone. It was just four, and I expected my children to appear before long.

WITHOUT thinking, I strolled some distance, till almost out of sight of my husband. Nobody else was near. And all at once I saw on the grass, a good way from the road, a prostrate figure,—somebody lying flat and still.

A tired excursionist, was my first thought; a sick man, my second; somebody in trouble, my third. For I noticed a slight writhing movement, suggestive of distress, and a low sound, much like a smothered sob, reached me.

I went slowly nearer, without knowing why, without thinking what I meant to do. And my attention was caught by a certain familiar look in the outline of the shoulders. I stood still, gazed hard for an instant, and then was kneeling beside the prostrate figure in alarm.

“Why, Jack! Jack?” I said breathlessly. “Jack, has anything happened? are you ill?”

“I wish I were,” groaned Jack.

“My dear boy, what is wrong?” I asked, relieved to hear him speak, yet frightened still.

“Nothing. I mean, nothing you can help. Mother, please go.”

“But you will tell me what it is,” I entreated. For hitherto Jack had always turned to me in trouble.

“No,—no use,—nobody can help me,—I only want to be let alone.” And then he actually broke quite down, and sobbed,—great strong fellow that he was. I put my hand on his, but he shook it off, as if hardly able to endure a touch.

“Jack, if anybody can comfort you, don’t you think your mother can?”

“Nobody can,” repeated the poor boy. “Mother, please leave me alone,—just a few minutes. I’ll come soon. I’ll meet you at the landing.”

“And you won’t tell me what is wrong?”

Jack rolled over and hid his face. “I’ve no hope of Maimie,” he muttered. “There! you have it now. I can’t talk about it.”

“No hope of Maimie!” I repeated, at the moment stupidly not understanding. Did he mean that he thought her ill,—hopelessly ill? This absurd idea actually occurred to my mind first.

“Yes,—no hope,” repeated Jack fiercely. “Isn’t that plain enough? She doesn’t care for me,—any more than for anybody else. O Maimie!”

The choking sobs came back. What could I do? To leave him was impossible; yet I hardly dared speak or touch him. After a minute I ventured to suggest,—“You are both so young,—Maimie almost a child.”

“Oh, I thought you were gone,” Jack said, with a kind of gasp, and he sat up, then started to his feet. “Mother, you needn’t say anything about me to the others. I’ll be at the landing—” and he rushed away.

Why Jack had come to Bushey Park at all, when he could not bear to be spoken to, was rather a mystery to me, since he knew we should be all there. But it was just like his simple and impulsive way of doing things. Probably he could have given no clear reason himself.

No others of our party were yet in sight. As I walked slowly back towards Robert, going through a motherly heart-ache on behalf of my boy, Maimie suddenly emerged from some trees, and flew rather than ran towards me.

“Where are the others?” I asked, surprised at her being alone, as well as struck by her crimson cheeks and bright eyes.

“Oh, they are somewhere,” she said breathlessly.

“I have not seen Cherry and the boys for some time. Cress is coming—and I don’t know where Jack is. Jack ran away from us, and I ran away from Cress. O please, Aunt Marion, I want so much to tell you something.”

“Tell me now,” I said, and I drew her arm within my own. “We will go for a little walk along the avenue. Uncle Robert is asleep, you see.”

She held my arm tightly, clinging with the air of one who needed protection.

“It has been such nonsense,” she said, breathless still. “I want to tell you everything at once, and then you won’t have any false ideas about me,—mistaken ideas, I mean. For indeed it has not been my fault. I never dreamt of such a thing. Why, I’m only seventeen to-day.”

“Yes, Maimie,” I said anxiously.

“Cress has been so absurd all the afternoon,—wanting to be by side, and trying to throw poor Jack into the shade. So I talked more to Jack than to him, and that, I suppose, vexed Cress. And at last it came to—to—I hardly know how to explain. It would take so long to tell exactly all that passed. But Cress said something about my being by-and-by 'his little wife.’ Jack laughed, and then Cress fired up, and said Jack might laugh if he chose, but it was no laughing matter, for I should be his wife.”

“Rather cool of Cress,” I said soothingly, for Maimie trembled like a leaf.

“Yes,—so I thought. And I said to him, 'I am not to be disposed of quite so easily, I can tell you, Cress.’ And he actually said,—I know you like me well enough, and I mean you to be mine some day. I’ll never give you any peace till you say 'Yes.’”

“And your answer?” I asked.

“I said I wished he wouldn’t be so ridiculous. As if we couldn’t be brothers and sisters all together, without such nonsense! Cherry was not at hand to help me, and Cress kept saying again and again,—'But you like me,—I know you like me,—say you like me, Maimie.’ And I said at last,—’ Yes, of course I like you,—and I like a great many other people too. I should like you much better if you did not tease me like this.’ And he said,—'It isn’t teasing, Maimie. I want you to say that you like me best,—better than anybody,—better than Jack.’”

“What did Jack say?” I asked.

“He said,—'Do you, Maimie?’ in a low voice. And I said,—'No, of course I don’t. I like you all,—Jack and Cress and Owen and all of you.’ I am afraid Jack didn’t like the way I spoke, he turned so white, and looked vexed. But what else could I say?”

“It was the best answer you could make, I dare say,” I said.

“Of course it was, because it was the true one,” Maimie said, with spirit. “Cress went on teasing me, and wanted to know if I was quite sure I liked him exactly in the same way as Jack. I said,—'No, because Jack is my pupil as well as my brother, and I am proud of his spelling.’ And Jack looked graver than ever. And Cress said,—'It doesn’t matter. You’ll never marry anybody but me, Maimie.’ And I said, 'Then I shall not marry at all, for I should never think of marrying you.’ I am afraid I was getting a little angry, for it really was too bad of him. I heard Jack say softly,—'Or me?’ and I wanted not to take any notice, but Cress said, 'You’ll not marry Jack!’ in a sort of threatening tone. And I said,—'I certainly shall not ask your leave, Cress. But I don’t mean to marry you or Jack or anybody. The whole thing is ridiculous. I love Aunt Marion more than anybody else in the world, and I don’t want ever to leave her.’”

“Thank you, Maimie,” I said, and I gave her a kiss; yet my heart was sore for poor Jack.

“Then you don’t think I answered too sharply. It was so provoking of them both. Jack must have been vexed, for he went straight off and left us. And Cress began upon me again, so I ran away in another direction and left him. I lost my way in the grounds, or I should have been here much sooner. I did so want to tell you first, before Cress.”

“I do not suppose Cress will say much to me,” I remarked. “He has behaved like a very foolish boy.”

“Yes, foolish,” repeated Maimie. “Just think of our ages—eighteen and seventeen. It is too absurd. There are all sorts of things I want to do and to learn before I even think of marrying.”

“I could never advise an early marriage upon poor means,” I said, speaking out of sad experience.

“No, indeed. And why should I? I am so happy as things are. I do wish Cress had let me alone. Cress, of all people! Of course I like him—as a boy, but that is all. I think a girl at seventeen is much older than a boy at eighteen or nineteen. And if I were to marry I must have somebody to look up to,—not a mere boy. Besides, they are both much too young to know their minds yet. Either of them might like me well enough now, and yet not care for me at all a few years hence. Do you think I did rightly?”

“Quite rightly,” I said. “Feeling as you do, I don’t see what other answer was possible.”

“Only they are your boys and I can’t bear to give pain to anybody belonging to you. But it always seems to me as if marriage were such a very solemn thing. To promise always to love and obey another, always to live with him, always to honour him and put him first,—oh, I couldn’t, unless I felt so very very sure of what he was. I should want such a good, good man, and so kind and pleasant,—somebody whom I could really love better than all the world beside. And, of course, it would have to be somebody I could look up to,—somebody cleverer and wiser than myself.”

Poor Jack!

“I don’t mean that I ever have thought very much about it,” she pursued. “Only, of course, I know the sort of people I like. Cress would never never do. He is kind to me, but he thinks much too much about his food, and his comforts, and having his own way. O no; I couldn’t be the wife of a person like Cress. I shouldn’t be able to look up to him.”

“You could look up to Jack more than to Cress,” I ventured to suggest.

“Yes,—perhaps. He is strong, and always kind. O yes, one does respect Jack’s strength, and the use he makes of it. Poor Jack is really good, I am sure; only he is rather slow over books. I can do a long sum in a quarter the time he takes.”

Alas, it was too true. And Maimie was devoted to books, and thought so much of knowledge.

“Anyhow, I don’t mean to think about marrying yet,” she said brightly. “Not for years to come. I shan’t mind now I have told you. Cress must learn to hold his tongue. I believe he was half in joke all the time.”

Cress might have been; but I knew it was not so with Jack.

We had gone some distance, and now we turned, Maimie continuing in the same strain, flushed and bright-eyed still. Cherry and the two small boys came to meet us, and Cress was sitting beside his father, looking moody and dismal. Poor silly boy! What could have become of Jack? That question rose next. I said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Jack was here before you all came back. He will meet us at the landing.”

Then Robert woke up, and we began to talk of going home.

Cress evidently wanted to show Maimie by his manner that he was very wretched. But Maimie hardly looked at him, and clung persistently to my side. On the border of the river we found Jack, looking so white and spiritless, that Cherry asked if he had a headache, and Maimie gave a guilty start, as if she felt herself to blame.

The return trip was not so cheery as the morning row had been. Jack worked at his oar persistently, saying little; while Cress chose to consider himself too tired for exertion, putting off his share of work upon other people.

Cherry was the merriest of the party, in her quiet way, but gradually she woke up to the fact of something unusual, and became silent like the rest. It was not till we had left the boat and were walking home that I found an opportunity to whisper a few words as to what had passed. She said only, “O dear, how silly! And poor Jack’s day is all spoilt!”

“We mustn’t let Maimie think we pity Jack too much,” I said. “I want her to feel perfectly free; and they are so absurdly young at present. The less we make of the affair, the better.”

“But it is no mere fancy with Jack,” Cherry said; and I felt sure from her manner that Jack had already confided to her his hopes for the future. “Mother she will learn to love him some day; don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know at all,” I said. “Maimie loves him now as a cousin,—as a brother, perhaps. But whether he could ever be anything more to her is another question.”

“Our dear good Jack,” Cherry said warmly.

“Yes; but Maimie is clever, and Jack is not. And for a wife to have more brains than her husband is—well, not always a thing to be desired.”

“O mother, you to say that of Jack,” Cherry murmured reproachfully. And then we were interrupted.

It was almost dark by the time home was reached. Jack opened the door with his latch-key, and disappeared. Maimie had been walking with my husband, and they came in close after Cherry and me. We made our way straight into the sitting-room.

“Cherry, do pull up the blind,” I said, “We must have lights directly. I suppose supper will soon be ready. You told the girl to lay the table, did you not?”

“How do you do, Maimie?” a man’s voice said.

I don’t think I am given to screaming, but I did scream then. I was dreadfully startled, never dreaming that anybody was in the room. Cherry had just pulled up the blind, and happily she had presence of mind not to let it drop.

A stout man with a black beard rose out of an easy chair, where he seemed to have been much at home, and came a step towards us. It was too dusk for any recognition of features.

“How do you all do?” he said again. “You don’t expect me, of course, Maimie,—why, how the child has grown! Much obliged to you all for giving her a home at a pinch. Well, Maimie, don’t you know me?”

“Father!” Maimie said hesitatingly. She did not greet him with delight, as she would once have done. His long neglect had naturally chilled her feelings of affection.

“To be sure! One would think you had lost your memory. It’s rather dark, certainly; but I knew you, child, in a moment. Haven’t you a kiss for me? Well, Robert, here I am at last.”

ROBERT found a box of matches, and lighted the gas; Cherry letting down the blind again. The brothers could see one another then.

I think Robert and Churton were always very different, even in their boyish days. Certainly it would have been hard to find any likeness between the two that evening.

For Robert was careworn and aged for his years, with grey streaks in his hair, and furrows in brow and cheek; and he had slow quiet manners, and a wonderfully good expression, always kind and thoughtful.

But Churton might have been twenty years the younger. His black hair and beard were quite untouched with grey; and he was stout and strong, with a loud voice. I do so dislike a loud voice, whether in a man or a woman. Churton had once been handsome. His good looks were gone now, however; for his features had grown coarse. While Robert’s had been a life of self-denial, Churton’s had been a life of self-indulgence. One could read the difference of the brothers’ lives in their faces.

“So you wouldn’t have known me?” Churton said to Maimie. She had let him kiss her, and now she was keeping close to my side, looking troubled and pale. “Nor you either, Robert?”

“No, I should not,” Robert answered. “You are a good deal changed. But we are glad to see you again, after all these years.”

“That’s as much of a welcome, I suppose, as the scapegrace of the family can expect,” Churton said, with his harsh laugh. I saw Maimie shrink under it. She had grown used to my husband’s quiet ways. And our boys, with all their high spirits, were not loud-voiced or noisy.

“What made you come to England?” asked Robert.

“What made me? Why, there was Maimie to see after, for one thing. And I wanted a look at the old country. I told the child I should come,—didn’t I, Maimie?”

“Yes, but you never wrote, father, so I thought you could not have meant it,” Maimie said, a touch of resentment showing in her manner.

“Couldn’t be bothered to write,—I never can,—it’s too much trouble.” There spoke the selfishness of the man. I looked back, in thought, to the first months after Maimie’s arrival, and remembered how happy a few lines might have made the poor child. But evidently Churton had no idea of blaming himself.

“Of course I meant it. You didn’t think I had forgotten my little dove.” He spoke the words in a manner more like the Churton of my young days. “Come here, child; I want a look at you.”

Maimie obeyed, not without an effort. He took hold of her arm, turned her round, and surveyed her from head to foot.

“Upon my word, you’re an uncommonly pretty creature; but London has left you no roses. You had plenty when I first saw you.”

“Never, since my mother’s death,” murmured the girl.

“To be sure,—yes,—that did knock you down a good deal. That was one reason why I thought a change to England would do you good. She was getting morbid,” he explained, looking at Robert:—“always crying, and going for long walks by herself, and poring over goody-goody books.”

Maimie’s eyes flashed. “Father, I used to be reading the Bible.”

“Quite right in moderation, of course,” Churton said.

“And if I loved it then, I love it more than ever now,” Maimie said hurriedly, her chest heaving. “I couldn’t live with dear dear Aunt Marion and Uncle Robert, and not love my Bible.”

Churton looked her all over again, as if he counted her a curiosity.

“That’s the worst of the matter,” he said to himself. “I might have known I was sending her into a hotbed of cant.”

“Father! if you say such things, I’ll not speak to you again.”

I had never seen Maimie in a passion before. It was not her way. She seemed completely upset,—probably from the shock of Churton’s sudden arrival, following close upon a trying afternoon. Churton said, “Hallo!” as if this were a new phase in the character of his “little dove.” My husband stood up, and went to her side.

“Maimie,” he said very low.

She turned and clung to him, with tears and sobs. But the very pressure of his arm seemed at once quieting. A few whispered words were spoken, too low to reach any ears except Maimie’s; while Churton sat looking in astonishment. Then Maimie had conquered her outburst, and stood upright, trembling.

“I was wrong to speak so,” she said. “I was wrong to give way to temper,—about that especially. But, father, please you mustn’t forget that Uncle Robert and Aunt Marion took me in when I had no home and no friends. And though they are poor, they have made me like one of their own children. And I love them—oh, more than I can tell—more than anybody else in the world. It is not cant in this house. It is real real religion.”

“Very pretty gratitude,” Churton said, after a pause, and I could see that he was not pleased. “Positively romantic and touching. I suppose the meaning of all this is, Robert, that you have been at more expense with the girl than you liked. Well, I’m ready to make it up to you. After that, we shall be quits, I suppose. I sent one cheque, and you shall have another.”

The manner of speech was very annoying,—almost offensive. I bit my lips to keep myself silent. Robert went back to his chair, followed by Maimie, and then said gravely,—“We can discuss that by-and-by.”

“As you like. I’ve not made up my mind yet about plans. Most likely I shall spend a few months in England. Maimie can do as she likes about coming to me directly, or staying a little longer with you,—if you don’t object to keep her, that is to say. I shall only be in lodgings at first,—not very comfortable for her.”

I could see Maimie’s shiver, and I heard more than one suppressed “Oh!” from other parts of the room. “Certainly we do not wish to part with Maimie a day sooner than need be,” I said.

“That’s as you like; I’m in no immediate hurry till I see my way. By-the-bye, what of the old lady—Aunt Briscoe? Alive still?”

“Very much alive,” Cress said, in answer to this.

“No signs of failing? She must be old. Worth a good deal, I suppose?”

“She has her house and garden, and a comfortable income,” Robert said.

“Where does it all go when she dies?”

“Where she chooses,” Robert answered.

“Wish she’d choose to leave it to me. I could settle down then in England with this child.”

“Really, Churton,” I could not help saying, “you seem to forget that you are the youngest son.”

“Not at all. But Robert says the old lady is free.”

“She is not actually bound; but of course she knows what her husband’s wishes were. Robert has always been looked upon as their heir.”

“There is no need to discuss the question,” my husband said. He always had a great dislike to counting for gain on the death of another. “Aunt Briscoe may live twenty years longer,—may live longer than either Churton or I.”

And the subject was dropped. But a strange feeling came over me, that Churton was harbouring secret designs upon the old lady’s property. I said nothing to anybody, and tried to put aside the suspicion as unkind. Yet it came back to me again and again.

“Oh, what a day this has been!” Maimie said, sighing, when I went with the two girls into their bedroom. “I am so tired.”

“I don’t wonder,” I said; and when she had dropped into a chair, I stood by her, stroking the soft flaxen hair.

“Aunt Marion, he wasn’t like that before,” she said, in a different tone.

“Not like what?”

“Like that—like what he is now. He seems so altered.”

“You were such a child then,—perhaps you did not notice.”

“No, no; he wasn’t the same. He was quieter; he didn’t speak in such a rough loud way. It isn’t like him. I think he must have had bad friends lately. O if only I were your child!” and she held me fast.

“I wish so too,” I said. “But I am sure we count you our child.”

“But father wants me, and he means to have me,” she said, a frightened look coming over her face. “He means it!”

“He seems in no hurry,” Cherry remarked.

“No, that is his way. He is never in a hurry. But he is set upon having me. Don’t you see it? Aunt Marion, must I go? I’m not his own child.”

“I suppose he is your natural guardian,” I said slowly. “If he really wished for you, I am not sure that we could refuse, or that we should be right to try.”

“To leave you and go to live with him! O Aunt Marion! It sounds dreadful. I would rather do anything. I’d almost rather—marry—Cress.”

“My dear child, if you cared for Cress, which you don’t, you could not marry for years. You are both far too young for even a serious engagement, and Cress has nothing to live upon.”

“No, I forgot that,” she said mournfully. “Then you think I must go, and there is no escape.”

“I think we shall see by-and-by,” I said. “We must not make up our minds in a hurry. You have to find out what is really your duty.”

“My duty is to stay and take care of you all,” said Maimie half-defiantly.

“Churton may think he needs taking care of.”

“Aunt Marion!” she sighed, in a reproachful tone.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” I said. “I can’t bear to think of losing you; and if I followed my own feelings, the matter would be very easily settled. But there are questions of right and wrong.”

“Yes, I know,” she said.

“I think we must wait to see what is right. We must pray to be shown. There must be one step which is the right one to be taken. And it is of no use for us to ask to be shown which it is, unless we are willing to take it.”

“Whatever it is?” Maimie put in sadly.

“Yes, whatever it is. I know you long to stay, and I am sure we long to keep you. But your stepfather has some claim on you,—some right over you,—not so much as if you were really his own child, but still some. We must not forget that.”

“If only mother had never married him!” whispered Maimie. “But I shouldn’t have known you then.”

“No, we should scarcely have met, but for their marriage: certainly you would not have come to live with us.”

“I’m glad she did,” Maimie said.

“It has all been so lovingly ordered for us up to this time,” I said, after a little pause. “We would not undo any of it if we could, even of what seemed trying at the time. Maimie, don’t you think we ought to trust still our Father’s care, and to believe that He certainly will still arrange for us as is really best?”

“That is just what I was thinking,” Cherry said.

Maimie looked seriously at me. “Yes; only things often do come as one doesn’t like.”

“As we do not like, perhaps,” I said, “but still as is really best. For, after all, we can’t see far with our short sight. When you first came to live with us, neither you nor I saw the arrangement to be 'best,’ yet we would not undo it now.”

“Wouldn’t you really?”

“Don’t you know better than to ask that question?” I said. “Maimie, I think we must take a lesson from the past. God always deals lovingly with His children, even when He sends things which at first they cannot see to be best.”

“I’ll try. I will try,” said Maimie gently. “I will try to trust.”

“And not be afraid,” added Cherry.

“Yes, I’ll try. But oh, I do hope I shall not have to go back to America with father.”

“Suppose we don’t even think of that at present, but just wait,” I said. “It will not be yet, Maimie.”

“No, and so much might happen first,” she observed dreamily.

THAT day seemed to work a change in our home. The peaceful monotony of our life was broken, and the waters could not get back to their former even flow. A kind of restlessness, of uncertainty, was upon us all, more or less. I do not think our placid Cherry was exactly restless, but she could not forget the fear of soon losing Maimie. And Maimie herself appeared to live in a state of chronic dread. The girl’s anxious looks and fluttering colour told of a constant strain.

Churton slept for some days in a room near. We could not have taken him in without much crowding. He was often in and out; but never “in” without putting our household into a flutter,—how or why I could hardly have told. To the younger boys he brought sweetmeats, and so won their hearts; but his visits meant no sugar-plums to us elder folks.

He seemed desirous to get hold of Maimie somehow, as if conscious that his former power over her was gone. I imagine that her extreme love for us was an annoyance to him. Sometimes he brought presents, which she accepted gratefully but not affectionately. Sometimes he tried petting, and Maimie visibly disliked it. Once or twice he gave way to positive anger, speaking roughly, telling her she was fickle and ungrateful Maimie attempted no defence, but only grew pale, and slipped away to my side as if for protection.

We had not seen anything of Aunt Briscoe for many weeks. Her Thursday letters came regularly still, so we knew that she was well. The next after Churton’s arrival mentioned him in a passing way, speaking of him as “much improved.” We could hardly have endorsed this opinion. But for the information thus obtained, we should not have known that Churton had been to “The Gables” at all. He made no mention of the call.

No further allusion had been uttered by him to the subject of Maimie’s expenses while with us. We were much pressed and harassed with need of money, hardly knowing how to get on, even with the strictest economy. I asked Robert one day whether he did not think of speaking to Churton about the offered cheque. He said, “Not yet.”

“It ought, of course, to come from Churton himself, without any reminder.”

“I doubt if it will,” Robert answered. “He has relieved his conscience by speaking once,—at a moment when I could not well take up the question. It is as likely as not that he will never bring up the matter again, of his own free will.”

“Then you will have to remind him, Robert.”

“I may have to do so. I am not sure yet,” Robert said, with a curious smile. “I don’t know whether you will agree with me, Marion. My own view is that if Maimie is to be our child still, we cannot claim Churton’s help. But if he demands her from us, as his child, then he becomes responsible for the last two years’ expenses, and I shall ask at least a measure of compensation.”

“I see,—yes, you are right. That would not pain Maimie?” I spoke questioningly, little knowing how the very same thought would later occur to Maimie herself.

“Maimie wishes nothing so much as that Churton should give us our due; for it is our due. Don’t you see, Marion, that this may supply us with a certain check upon Churton. It is the only curb we possess. Otherwise, if he chose to take her away to-morrow, what could we do? He is her natural guardian, undoubtedly. He has forfeited the poor child’s affection; but we cannot entirely fling away his right over her, if he insists on having his way.”

“And you keep this in reserve,” I said. “Yes; it is wise. I do agree with you, indeed.”

Jack and Cress were an additional care at this time.

A marked coldness had been apparent between the two brothers since Maimie’s birthday. Each knew the other to be set on the same object as himself; and while neither could boast of any encouragement from that object, each feared that the other might be his successful rival.

The thing sounds absurd, such boys as they were, and Maimie only seventeen. But the girl seemed growing each day prettier and more womanly. I could hardly wonder at my boys’ feelings about her.

She was the same as usual in her manner to them—kind and sisterly. But I could not help noticing that she no longer allowed a certain brotherly boyish freedom, which before had been natural enough. I saw Cress one day carelessly grasp her arm to enforce something he was saying, just as he might have done to Cherry. Maimie removed his hand, and drew back a step, looking at him gravely, in a way that could not be mistaken. Cress flung himself away in a pet; but from that moment his bearing towards her combined respect with admiration. There was no fear of Jack attempting to take any liberties. He never had thought and never did think of Maimie with merely a brotherly affection; and his manly strength made him gentle to all women and girls. To Maimie, of course, he was especially so. I wondered sometimes whether she noted, and in any degree appreciated, his patient reverent devotion.

Jack said not a word to me about his trouble after our brief meeting in Bushey Park; and I doubted much whether I could with wisdom be the first to speak. At all events, I resolved not to do so hastily. He went and came as usual; and worked and ate and talked as at other times. But I knew every turn of expression in Jack’s face; and I knew life was changed for him since that day.

I noticed that the evening readings were given up. Maimie made the excuse of feeling unsettled, and not knowing what her father meant her to do. Jack did not protest; but he locked up his books, and made no pretence at reading by himself.

More than a week passed thus. Then one day it came about that Jack and I had an evening alone together. It was a lovely evening, and everybody else had gone out. I was too tired to walk; and presently Jack came listlessly into the room, and sat down to watch me, just in his old style, propping his chin on his hands, and doing nothing.

“Don’t you mean to read this evening, Jack?” I asked quietly, though a little alarmed at my own boldness.

“Maimie has given it up,” Jack said, in a gloomy tone.

“She says she feels too unsettled.”

“Oh, it isn’t that. I know better.”

“And you cannot keep on for a time without her help?”

“It isn’t worth while. Nothing is worth doing.”

I looked up at him, and waited a few seconds before asking,—“Jack, is that right?”

Jack’s hands went over his face. Poor boy! I think he was longing for a little motherly comfort. I wondered what I might venture to say next. His face was hidden, with the exception of a flushed forehead.

“If I were you I would not think too much of what passed that day,” I said softly.

And then Jack, great broad-shouldered fellow, came down on the ground beside me,—just as Maimie herself would have come,—and laid his head on my knee and sobbed like a child. I left my work alone to pet and soothe him. “Don’t, Jack,—don’t, dear,” I said, more than once.

“O mother, it is hard! If you knew what she is to me!” he broke out at length.

“I think I understand.”

“I’m only a great stupid dunce, I know that,—and she’s too good, so clever and sweet. But somehow I did think she might care for me—just a little. And I could take care of her,—I could make her life easy.”

“No, Jack,” I said; “that is what no man can undertake to do for any woman. God chooses our paths. A husband can’t choose his wife’s path, though certainly he can make it harder or easier to walk on.”

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