Part 2, Chapter 11 of the Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part 2, Chapter 11. If to do were as easy as to know, what were good to do? Chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. Merchant of Venice. Dick, said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary swooned, you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters. It does not hurt them, said Dr. May, carelessly. Pretty well, after the specimen of today. That was chance. If you like it, I have no more to say. But I should like to make you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine, very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You don't know that girl, Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm, rather good. Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine? Can't be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last? What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand? The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair. The only result of which, here too, has been the taking away my flora. There is some money, but the land can't be had. Why not? Tied up between the dry-dale estate and college, and in the hands of the quarrymaster, Nicholson. There was an application made at the college, but they did not begin at the right end. Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy, cried his friend, rather dignitly. I own, I have not stirred in the matter, said Dr. May. I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with, and, as he heard a sound a little like, psh, he continued, and that, O'Ramston, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head, or no head. There's nothing for it but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action.  The cure is worse than the disease. There spoke the corporation. Ah, it was not the way you said to work in Poonchitagore. Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindus praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honor of the apanuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming at too strong when I was requested to lend my own stepladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides. Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station, and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and example of the English physician. Well, I have lashed about me at abuses in my time, said Dr. May. I daresay you have, Dick, and they both laughed, the inconsiderate way was so well delineated. Just so replied Dr. May, and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right, I have not, but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don't write easily. I have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been. I see, I see, said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, but must Coxmore be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to hers? The vicar won't stir, he is indolent enough by nature, and worse, without, and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, Nicholson, by finding him for cheating his unhappy laborers on the avomitable truck system, and he had rather poisoned me than do anything to oblige me, and, as to the copy-holder, he is a fine gentleman who never comes near the place, nor does anything for it. Who is he? Sir Henry Walkingham. Sir Henry Walkingham? I know the man. I found him in one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, led up with a fever nearly ready to be a mummy himself. I remember bleeding him. Irregular, was it not? But one does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh's tomb. I got him through it. We came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is your man. Something might be done with him. I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance. Two days after, Ethel came down and equipped for Coxmore. It was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for anything but a salamander. Dr. Spencer was in the hall with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and grey loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books. No, thank you. He had them by this time. But I am going to Coxmore. Will you allow me to be your companion? I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in the least afraid of going alone. Said she, smiling, however, so as to show that she was glad of such pleasant company. I forewarn you, though, that I have business there. I will find occupation, and you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I can't have Papa said against it again. Besides, he would mind you more. Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable. When strange wagoners might be on the road, though she had never let them be lions in the path, the walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into explaining many of her Coxmore perplexities. If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it? He asked. You know it will not do to go and say, be pleased to give me a piece of land without specifying what, or you might chance to have one at the land's end. I see, that was one of the blunders, said Ethel, but I had often thought of this nice little square place between two gardens and sheltered by the old quarry. Ha! Hardly space enough, I should say, replied Dr. Spencer, stepping it out. No, that won't do, so confined by the quarry. Let us up farther. Mr. Myers crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself, but that was too wild a supposition. She knew he had nothing of his own, only a moderate pension from the East India Company. What do you think of this, he said, cupping to the slope of a knoll, commanding a pretty view of the abbeyed-stope woods, clear from houses, and yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and he kicked up a bit of turf and pried into the soil, pronouncing it dry and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making a circuit that amazed her, but he said, it is of no use to do it at twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you had better have room, enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in the meantime. He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school. She found him, when she came out, sitting the arbor smoking a cigar, rather shocked to her feelings, though he threw it away the instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits. In the evening he brought down a traverse case of instruments, and proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of coxmoor, where it seemed that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty orial window and bell gable that made Ethel sigh with delight at the bare idea. Next day he vanished after dinner, but this he often did. He used to say he must go and have a holiday of smoking. He could not bear too much civilized society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down long before he said, Now I know all about it. I shall pack up my goods and be off for Vienna tomorrow. The Vienna was the general and Dolores outcry, and Gertrude laid hold of him and said he should not go. I am coming back, he said, if you will have me. The college holds a court at Fordham on the third, and on the last of this month I hope to return. College? Court? What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left your senses? Asked Dr. May. I find Sir Henry Walkingham is there. I have been on an exploring expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business and where he is to be written to. The college holds a court at Fordham, and I hope to have our business settled. Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the shortness of the time. Plenty of times said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able to travel comfortably and have four days to spare at Vienna, a journey which he seemed to think less of than Dr. May did of going to London. As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor indeed notion, though Ethel did not know quite how to believe in it, nor that the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time. By her vigorous efforts she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in what was passing, and though now and then Norman's letters, carrying sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady to her resolution that she averted all traffic and messages through her brother's correspondence, and in that fear allotted to lapse into Margaret's hand more than she had ever done. Indeed no one greatly liked writing from home. It was heartless work to say always no news from the Alcestus, and yet they all declared they were not anxious. Hector Ernst Cliff knelt a great while beside Margaret's sofa on the first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low voice talk between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off for Margaret looked much more harassed and anxious after having heard the outpouring of all that was on his mind. Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse when he came, as he did, on the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkingham's full consent to the surrender of the land, drawn up in such form as could be acted upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicholson, he was a worse dragon near home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May. However, said Dr. Spencer in Eastern form, have I encountered Rajas and spoked pipes with three-tail pashas that I should dread the face of the father of a quarryman? What he did with the father of quarryman was not known whether he talked him over or bought him off. Margaret hoped the former, Dr. May feared the latter. The results were certain. Mr. Nicholson had agreed that the land should be given up. The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to the college authorities when they should come to hold their court. The land must be put into the hands of trustees, he said. The incumbent, of course? Then yourself, and we must have another. Your son-in-law? You I should think, said Dr. May. I? Why? I'm going. Going but not gone, said his friend. I must go. I tell you, Dick.  Is that all, said Dr. May? I think you might be accommodated here unless you wish to be near your sister. My sister is always resorting to watering places. My nieces do nothing but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only place I have not seen yet, and I, more than half engaged, to go and help add Poonchita Gore. Better order your coffin, then, muttered Dr. May. I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps, and go and turn over the British Museum Library. Look you here, Spencer. I have a much better plan. Do you know that scrap of a house of mine by the Batgate, just big enough for you and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school built without you. Oh, that would be capital, cried Ethel. It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the last old woman never did, continued Dr. May, garden the length of this one. But I say I want to be near the British Museum. Take a season ticket and run up once a week. I shall teach your boys to smoke. I'll see to that. You have given Coxmore one lift, said Ethel, and it will never go on without you. It is such a nice house, added the children in chorus. It would be such fun to have you there. Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor, said Margaret, smiling. Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key, said Dr. May. There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked down the garden to inspect the house, a matter of curiosity to some, for it was where the old lady had resided, on whom Harry had played so many tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George Larkins. It was an odd little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow. Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, harler, museum, smoking din, while Dr. Spencer listened and answered doubtfully, and the children's clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent. Hector Ernst Cliff discovered a jackdaw's nest in the chimney, whereupon the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and Ethel standing together in the empty parlor, Dr. May pressing, Dr. Spencer raising desultory objections, but so evidently against his own wishes, that Ethel said, now indeed, you must not disappoint us all. No, said Dr. May, it is a settled thing. No, no thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go, and he spoke with emotion. You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of. Why not, said Dr. May, Spencer stay with me, and he spoke with a pleading, almost dependent air. Why should you go? It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do to encumber you with a lone man growing old. We have been young together, said Dr. May, and you must not leave Papa, added Ethel. No, said Dr. May, trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it. Remember, these children have no uncles. You will stay, said Ethel. He made a sign of ascent, he could do no more, and just then Gertrude came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody's attention. Hector had been shoving Tom halfway up the chimney in hopes of reaching the nest, and the consequences of this amateur chimney sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators with soot that so greatly distressed the young ladies that Mary and Blanche had fled away from public view. Dr. Spencer's first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general acclimation, and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times when the jackdaws in the Minster Tower had been harried. Ah, said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, lacker than the outraged jackdaws, and half-choked. What do you know about jackdaws' nests? You that are no witch-coach scholars. Don't wait, Cret Hector, when there is a jackdaw's nest in eaten chapel 20 feet high. Old Grey made that, said Tom, who usually acted the part of a spree for to Hector's credulity. Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse's book, said Hector. But may not we get up on the roof to see if we can get at the nest, Papa, said Tom. You must ask Dr. Spencer, it is his house. Dr. Spencer did not gain say it and proceeded even to show the old witch-coat spirit by leading the assault and promising to take care of Aubrey while Ethel retained Gertrude and her father, too, for Dr. May had such a great inclination to scramble up the latter after them that she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the gossip hood of Stoneborough if their physician were seen desporting himself on the top of the house. Ah, I'm not a physician unattached, like him, said Dr. May, laughing. Hello, have you got up, Tom? There's a door up there. I'll show you. No, don't, Papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich and asking her to see two trustees up there, said Ethel. Ah, Mrs. Ledwich, what is to be done with her, Ethel? I am sure I can't tell. If Laura were but at home, she would manage it. Spencer can manage anything, was the answer. That was the happiest chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by the same train. Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted, but the best men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so, have the boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures to be a great provocation to a woman kind, and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit till the brood of the Jack Gauze had been discovered and two gray-headed nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education. Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of outrageous classical names from them, till politely told by Tom that he would make them as great prigs as himself and that their names should be nothing but Jack and Jill. There's nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school, cried Tom, sententiously turning round to Ethel. I, to stone borough, said Dr. Spencer. Tom colored, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives. Dr. Spencer began to rethink him of the paper that he had been so eagerly drying up, and, looking at his own begrimmed hands, asked Ethel whether she would have him for a trustee. Will the other eight ladies, said Ethel, that's the point. Ha, Spencer! You did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to be let off, said Dr. May? Not I, said the undaunted doctor. Come, Ethel, let us hear what should be done. There's no time, said Ethel, bewildered. The court will be only on the day after tomorrow. Ample time, said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into it with all his might. What we have to do is this. The ladies to be propitiated are. Nine muses, to whom you will have to act apollo, said Dr. May, who, having put his friend into the situation, had a machivious delight in laughing at him and watching what he would do. One or two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers. Rather eight and nine, said Ethel, though Flora may be somebody now. Seven, then, said Dr. Spencer. Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call the meeting tomorrow, and sanction their three trustees.  Or how many notes Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished. Fade heart, you know the proverb, Ethel. All on, I'll call on Mrs. Lagwitch. Stay, said Dr. May, let Ethel do that and ask her to me, and we will show her your drawing of the school. So the remaining ladies were divided. Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson, Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Lagwitch, Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if possible, be appointed for the next day. Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had been a subject of much mysterious speculation in stone borrow, and to gain any intelligence respecting him was a great object, so that she was extremely welcome wherever she called. Mrs. Lagwitch promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk to Miss Rich, and authorize her to send out the notes of summons to the morrow's meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and Miss Rich in a flutter after Dr. Spencer's call. The daughter just going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Lagwitch, and both extremely enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who would be such an acquisition. The hour was fixed, and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at the garden gate. Well, he said, smiling, I think we have fixed them off. Have not we? Yes, but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so much nonsense? Did you ever hear why the spire of Olm Cathedral was never finished, said Dr. Spencer? No, why not? Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbors. I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good motives. There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education, and you have some perception of the system by which things like this should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the like among them, but for their own sakes we should rather show them the way than throw them overboard. If they will be shown, said Ethel, I can't say they seem to me so very formidable, said Dr. Spencer, gentle little women. Oh, it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stares them up. I hope you are prepared for that encounter. Mrs. Ledwich came to D. sparkling with black bugles, and was very patronizing and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great dread, for she talked unceasingly, lay down the law, and overwhelmed Margaret with remedies, but tonight Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It was not that he went out of his ordinary self. He was always the same simple-mannered, polished gentleman, but it was this that told. She was evidently somewhat in awe of him. The refinement kept her in check. She behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich. You will get on now, Ethel, said Dr. May afterwards. Never fear but that he will get the ladies' committee well in hand. Why do you think so, Papa? Were you fear? That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The ladies' committee accepted of their representatives with full consent, and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hand up the fellow-trustee. He finally contrived to collect everyone he wanted at Fort Holm. The case was laid before the college. The college was propitious, and by four o'clock in the evening Dr. Spencer laid before Ethel the promise of the peace of land. Christ's joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed and tried to thank. This would have been the summit of Felicity a year ago, and she was vexed with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy, the attainment of her object, would once have given to her. Then she would have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything. Now she took it so compulsively as to annoy herself. We think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head of mine. Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glen Brocken, but though the zest of Coxmore might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion. Never did man plunging to business more thoroughly than he, when he had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to, and building was not new to him, though his former subjects, a church and mission station in India, bore little remembrance to the present. He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony and trotted all over the country in search of building materials and builders. He discovered trees in distant timber yards. He brought home specimens of stone, one in each pocket, to compare and analyze. He went to London to look at model schools. He drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the last. He compared builders' estimates and wrote letters to the National Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring. In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice, either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of inspection to Whitford, to Melbourne, and to London, and these seemed to make him the more content with stone borough. Sir Matthew Fleet had evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting place in the gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or of going back to India in hopes of assisting his beloved mission to add Poonchitagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him. It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as could anywhere be seen, in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a grand tea party for all the ladies' committee when he should borrow her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical apparatus, a telescope, and microscope of great power, wherewith he tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel, and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent an evening without special and earnest invitation. He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking off Dr. May's hands such as his gratuitous patience as were not averse to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in Shepherd's plaid and panel hat. Interestingly sociable, he soon visited everyone far and wide and went to every sort of party from the grand dinners of the country families to the tea-drinkings of the stone-borrow ladies, a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way. English life was so new to him that he entered into the little accessories with the zest of a youth, and there seemed to be a curious change between the two old fellow students. The elder and more staid of former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows. It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer's histories of his adventures, and that the new aspects in which his own well-trieden district appeared to travel to ice, and not less amusing was Dr. Spencer's resolute defense of all the nine muses, generally and individually. He certainly had no reason to thank ill of them. As one woman they were led by him and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle, and, indeed, the more youthful race to whom Harvey was a glass of fashion, uttered disrespectful opinions as to the doctor's age, and would not exceed to his being, as Mrs. Lidwich declared, much younger than Dr. May. Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr. Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. Very clever, but an old world man, said Harvey. He is made up his bundle of prejudices. Clever sort of lad, said Dr. Spencer, a cool hand, but very shallow. Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed out the powers of argument that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice, and to one young, struggling in self-formation, and more used to theories than to realities. End of Part 2, Chapter 11, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Part 2, Chapter 12 of The Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part 2, Chapter 12. The heart may ache, but may not burst. Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake. Kristen Yeer. Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning's shooting at the Grange. Dr. May, promising to meet them, and let them drive him home. Mada was out when he arrived, and repairing to the library, he found Mr. Rivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in September, with the newspaper before him, but not reading. He looked depressed and seemed much disappointed at having heard that George and Flora had accepted some further invitation in Scotland and did not intend to return for another month. Dr. May spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness they had met, but failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign some cause for his vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began to dread an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the Arctic regions. He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora and speaking of the great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so admirable a person. He only wished it could be the same with his daughter. You are a very unselfish father, said Dr. May. I cannot imagine you without your little fairy. It would be hard to part, said Mr. Rivers sighing, yet I should be relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging as she is, and something of an heiress. With our dear Flora she is secure of a happy home when I am gone, but still I should be glad to have seen, and he broke off thoughtfully. She is so sensible that we shall see her make a good choice, said Dr. May, smiling. It is, if she choose it all, for I do not know who is worthy of her. I am quite indifferent, asked of fortune, continued Mr. Rivers. She will have enough of her own. Enough not to be dependent, which is the point, said Dr. May, though I should have few fears for her anyway. It would be a comfort harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on the subject, as if he wanted to say something, if she were only safe with a man who knew how to value her and make her happy. Such a young man as your Norman, now, I have often thought, Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent himself from blushing his crimson as if he had been the very Norman, as he answered, going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers' had been unmade. She is the brightest little creature under the sun, and the sparkle is down so deep within that, however it may turn out, I should never fear for her happiness. Flora is my great reliance, proceeded Mr. Rivers. Her aunt, Lady Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit with Meadow. Oh, ho! thought the doctor. Have you made that discovery, my good friend? The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining their achievements to Meadow, and Dr. May took his departure, Hector driving him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own affairs as if he had quite forgotten that the doctor was not his father, and going on emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind, now and then betrayed by his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer's door, exclaimed, Stop, Hector, let me out of here. Thank you, and presently brought out his friend into the garden, and sat down on the grass, talking low and earnestly over the disease with which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected, for though Dr. May could not perceive any positively unfavorable symptom, he had been rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that blanche was sent out, primed, with an impertinent message that two such old doctors ought to be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in the dew. Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had been just merrily concluded when the doorbell rang and a message was brought in. The carriage from the Grange, sir. Miss Rivers would be much obliged if you would come directly. There, said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to say, I told you so, in the first triumph of professional sagacity, but the next moment exclaiming, Poor little Meda, he hurried away. A gloom fell on those who remain, for, besides their sympathy for Meda, and their liking for her kind old father, there was that one unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general bravely combated, lay in wait always ready to pray on them. Hector stole round to sit by Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, This will never do, and sent Tom to fetch some papers lying on his table, once he read them some curious accounts that he had just received from his missionary friends in India. They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the servant from the Grange said his master was very ill. He had brought a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from our father, and contained these few words. Dear E, I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meda, and bring my things. R. M. Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness. But it was but for a moment. The next she was in a state of overbustle and eagerness. She wanted to fly about in a hastily held Meda, and could hardly obey the word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her sight. Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use. I. I can't be of any use. Oh, if you could go. If Flora were but here. But I must go, Margaret. I will put up your father's things, said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing tone. The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be full time. Mary and Miss Bracey prepared Ethel's own goods, which she would otherwise have forgotten. And Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of counsel, that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless. Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory overhead, and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a shooting star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east and bringing to her mind the sailor boy under the southern sky. If indeed he were not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that thought came more as soothing than as acute pain. She could bear to think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to talk of him. After those solemn stars the life everlasting seemed to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel's agitation was calmed away. The old cedar tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and the lights in the house glanced behind it. The serpents looked rather surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary from the glare of lamp-light, falling on the empty seats which Ethel had lately seen filled with a glad home-party. She was looking around, thinking whether to venture up to Metta's room and there some in Bel Airs, when Metta came gliding in and threw her arms round her. Ethel could not speak, but Metta's voice was more cheerful than she had expected. How kind of you, dear Ethel! Papa sent for me, said Ethel. He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you? Oh, yes, but you must leave me. You must want to be with him. He never lets me come in when he has these attacks, said Metta, if he only would. But will you come up to my room? That is nearer. Is Papa with him? Yes. Metta won her arms round Ethel and let her up to her sitting-room, where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner hour when he seemed to be think himself of dressing and had risen. She thought he walked weakly and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on her, which he did as far as his own room door. There he had kissed her and thanked her and murmured a word-like blessing. She had not, however, been alarmed until his servant had come to tell her that he had another seizure. Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her father. She had, but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these attacks that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more than a few days weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing tomorrow, and of her great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the two girls sprang to their feet as Dr. May opened it, and Ethel read his countenance at once. Not so made a. How is he? May I go to him? cried she. Not now, my dear, said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. Yes, my dear, the struggle is over. Ethel came near and put her arm round Mata's waist, as if to strengthen her, as she stood quite passive and still. Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told, but though intently watching Mata, he directed his words to his own daughter. Thank heaven it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared to hope. Mata tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her, she inarticulately murmured, Oh, why did you not call me? I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not to let you see him suffer. Mata rung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to rouse her that she said, I should like to go to bed. Right, the best thing, said Dr. May, and he whispered to Ethel. Go with her, but don't try to rouse her. Don't talk to her. Come back to me, presently. He did not even shake hands with Mata, nor wish her good night, as she disappeared into her own room. Belair's son dressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head, under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Belair's asked her if she would have a light. No, no, thank you, the dark and alone. Good night, said Mata. Ethel went back to the sitting room where her father was standing at the window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her in his arms, and kissed her forehead.  He asked. The same, said Ethel. I can't bear to leave her alone and to have said nothing to comfort her. It is too soon as yet, said Dr. May. Her mind has not taken it in. I hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when she wakens. She was utterly unprepared. I could not make her understand me, said Dr. May. And oh, Papa, what a pity she was not there. It was no sight for her till the last few minutes, and his whole mind seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been. Must we leave her to herself all night? Better so, said Dr. May. She has been used to loneliness, and to a thrust companionship on her would be only harassing. Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did not understand. I used to try to force consolation on people, said Dr. May. But I know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent. You have seen so many sorrows, said Ethel. I never understood till I felt, said Dr. May. Those few first days were a lesson. I did not think you knew what was passing, said Ethel. I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than those two days, said Dr. May. Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan sitting by me. But I don't believe I had any will. I could no more have moved my mind than my broken arm. And I verily think, Ethel, that, but for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never to disturb grief. And what shall we do? You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased. If only I were anybody else! Dr. May again threw his arm round her and looked into her face. He felt that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else. And together they sat down and talked of what was to be done, and what was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the House of Death. Ethel felt and showed it so much in her subdued, awestruck manner, that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his ordinary manner, familiarized, as he necessarily was, with the like scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble and their conversation occurred to those days, so that each gained a more full understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning. Belayers promised to call Ethel to be with her young lady as early as might be, reporting that she was sound asleep, and sleep continued to shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up and had been with Dr. May before she was summoned to her, and then she found her half-dressed and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down, nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, altered, as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not to mind, Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients, but she did not seem to recollect at first who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being reminded. Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted to take the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She sat behind her urn and asked about tea or coffee quite accurately, in a low, subdued voice that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the meal was over, and she had rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her daily work, she turned round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and stood for a moment as if confused. Can't we help you, said Ethel? I don't know. Thank you. But Dr. May, I must not keep you from other people. I have no one to go to this morning, said Dr. May. I am ready to stay with you, my dear. Medic came closer to him and murmured, Thank you. The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and Mede, looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, in a low voice, Now tell me. Dr. May drew her down to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in his soft, sweet voice, told her all that she had wish to learn of her father's last hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome tears drop freely down, but without violence, and she scarcely attempted to speak. There was a pause at the end, and then she said gently, Thank you, for it all. Dear Papa, and she rose up and went back to her room. She has learned to dwell apart, said Dr. May, much moved. How beautiful she bears up, said Ethel. It has been a night which, as she has used it, has taught her strength and self-dependence in the midst of prosperity. Yes, said Ethel, she has trained herself by her dread of self-indulgence, and seeking after work.  I cannot think how she holds up. Shall I go to her? I think not. She knows the way to the only Comforter. I am not afraid of her after those blessed tears. Dr. May was right. Mede presently returned to them in the same gentle, subdued sadness, in folding her, indeed, as a flower weighed down by mist, but not crushing nor taking away her powers. It was as if she were truly upheld, and thankful to her friends as she was, she did not throw herself on them in underdependence or self-abandonment. She wrote needful letters, shedding many tears over them, and often obliged to leave off to give the blinding weeping its course, but refusing to impose any unnecessary task upon Dr. May's lame arm. All that was right, she strove to do. She saw Mr. Char's well-mott, and was refreshed by his reading to her, and when Dr. May desired it, she submissively put on her bonnet and took several turns with Ethel in the shrubbery, though it made her cry heartily to look into the downstairs rooms. And she lay on the sofa at last, owning herself strangely tired, she did not know why, and glad that Ethel should read to her. By and by she went to dress for the evening, and came back, full of the tidings that one of the children in the village had been badly burned. It occupied her very much. She made Ethel promise to go and see about her tomorrow, and sent billiards at once with every comfort that she could devise. On the whole those two days were to Ethel a peaceful and comfortable time. She saw more than usual of her father, and had such conversations with him as were seldom practicable at home, and that chimed in with the unavowed care which hung on their minds. While Mayna was a most sweet and loving charge, without being a burden, and often saying such beautiful things in her affectionate resignation, that Ethel could only admire and lay them up in her mind. Dr. May went backwards and forwards, and brought good accounts of Margaret and fond messages. He slept at the Grange each night, and Mayna used to sit in the corner of the sofa and work, or not, as best suited her, while she listened to his talk with Ethel, and now and then herself joined. George Rivers' absence was a serious inconvenience in all arrangements, but his sister dreaded his grief as much as she wished for his return, and often were the posts and the journeys reckoned over, without a satisfactory conclusion, as to when he could arrive from so remote a part of Scotland. At last, as the two girls had finished their early dinner, the butler brought inward that Mr. Norman May was there. Mayna at once begged that he would come in, and Ethel went into the hall to meet him. He looked very wan, with the dark rings round his eyes a deeper purple than ever, and he could hardly find utterance to ask, How is she? As good and sweet as she can be, said Ethel warmly, but no more, for Mayna herself had come to the dining-room door, and was holding out her hand. Norman took it in both his, but could not speak. Mayna's own soft voice was the first. I thought she would come. He was so fond of you. Poor Norman quite gave way, and Mayna was the one to speak gentle words of soothing. There is so much to be thankful for, she said. He has been spared so much of the suffering Dr. May feared for him, and he was so happy about George. Norman made a great effort to recover himself. Ethel asked for Flora and George. It appeared that they had been on an excursion when the First Letter arrived at Glenbrocken, and thus had received both together in the evening on their return. George had been greatly overcome, and they had wished to set off instantly, but Lady Glenbrocken would not hear of Flora's traveling night and day, and it had at length been arranged that Norman Ogilvy should drive Norman across the country that evening to catch the mail for Edinburgh, and he had been on the road ever since. George was following with his wife more slowly and would be at home tomorrow evening. Meenheim he sent full authority to his father-in-law to make arrangements. Ethel went to see the Burns' child, leaving Meded to take her walk in the garden under Norman's charge. He waited on her with a sort of distant reverence for a form of grief, so unlike what he had dreaded for her, when the first shock of the tidings had brought back to him, the shattered bewildered feelings to which he dared not recur. To dwell on the details was, to her, a comfort, knowing his sympathy and the affection there had been between him and her father, nor had they parted in such absolute brightness as to make them unprepared for such a meeting as the present. The cloud of suspense was brooding lower and lower over the May family, and the need of faith and submission was as great with them as with the young orphan herself. Norman said little, but that little was so deep and fervent that after a time Meded could not help saying when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was nearly over. Oh, Norman, these things are no mirage. It is the world that is the mirage, he answered. Ethel came up, and Dr. May also, in good time for the post. He was obliged to become very busy using Norman for his secretary, till he saw his son's eyes so heavy that he remembered the two nights that he had been up and ordered him to go home and go to bed as soon as he was over. May I come back tomorrow? Why, yes, I think you may. No, no, he added, recollecting himself. I think you'd better not, and he did not relent, though Norman looked disappointed. Meda had already expressed her belief that her father would be buried at the suburban church, where lay her mother, and Dr. May, having been desired to seek out the will and open it, found it was so, and fixed the day and hour with Meda, who was as submissive and reasonable as possible, the much grieve that he thought she could not be present. Ethel, after going with Meda to her room at night, returned as usual to talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meda was. And I think Norman's coming did her a great deal of good, said Ethel. Ha! Yes, said the doctor thoughtfully. She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers having been fond of him. Yes, said the doctor he was. I find, in glancing over the will, which was newly made on Flora's marriage, that he has remembered Norman, left him a hundred pounds and his portfolio of prints by Raphael. Was he indeed? How very kind! How much Norman will value it! It is remarkable, said Dr. May, and then, as if he could not help it, told Ethel what Mr. Rivers had said of his wishes with regard to his daughter. Ethel blushed and smiled, and looked so much touched and delighted that he grew alarmed and said, You know, Ethel, this must be as if it never had been mentioned. What? You will not tell Norman? No, certainly not, unless I see strong cause. They are very fond of each other, certainly, but they don't know, and I don't know, whether it is not like brother and sister. I would not have either of them guess at this, or feel bound in any way. Why, Ethel, she has thirty thousand pounds, and I don't know how much more. Thirty thousand, said Ethel, her tone one of astonishment, while his had been almost of objection. It would open a great prospect, continued Dr. May complacently. With Norman's talent, and such a lift as that, he might be one of the first men in England, provided he had nerve and hardness enough, which I doubt. He would not care for it, said Ethel. No, but the field of usefulness. But what an old fool I am, after all my resolution is not to be ambitious for that boy, to be set a goal by such a thing as this. Still, Norman is something out of the common way. I wonder what Spencer thinks of him. And you never mean them to hear of it? If they settle it for themselves, said Dr. May, that sanction will come in to give double value to mine. Or if I should cease for Norman hesitating as to the inequality, I might smooth the way. But you see, Ethel, this puts us in a most delicate situation towards this pretty little creature. What her father wanted was only to guard her from fortune-hunters, and if she should marry suitably elsewhere, why, we will be contented. I don't think I should be, said Ethel. She is the most winning of hummingbirds, and what we see of her now gives one double confidence in her. She is so far from the petted, helpless girl that he, poor man, would vain have made her. And she has a bright, brave temper and elastic spirit. That would be the very thing for him, poor boy, with that morbid sensitiveness. He would not hurt her, and she would brighten him. It would be a very pretty thing, but we must never think about it again. If we can help it, said Ethel. Ah, I am sorry I have put it into your head, too. We shall not so easily be unconscious now, when they talk about each other in the innocent way they do. We have had a lesson against being pleased at matchmaking. But turning away from the subject, you shall not lose your coxmore income, Ethel. I had never thought of that. You have taken no fees here since we have been all one family. Well, he has been good enough to leave me five hundred pounds, and coxmore can have the interest, if you like. Oh, thank you, Papa. It is only at stew, for I suppose that is for attendance. Personally, to myself, he has left that beautiful clod which he knew I admired so much. He has been very kind. But after all, we ought not to be talking of all this. I should not have known it, if I had not been forced to read the will. Well, so we are in Flora's health, Ethel.  I wish that boy was three or four years older. I should like to take her straight home with us. I should like to have her for a daughter. I shall always look on her as one. As a daisy, said Ethel, don't talk of it, said Dr. May hastily. This is no time for such things. After all, I am glad that the funeral is not here. Flora and Mita might be rather overwhelmed with these three incongruous sets of relations. By their letters those rivers must be quite as queer a lot as George's relations. After all, if we have nothing else, Ethel, we have the best of it, in regard to such relations as we have. There is Lord Gosham, said Ethel. Yes, he is made as guardian, as well as her brother, but he could not have her live with him. She must depend upon Flora, but we shall see. Ethel felt confident that Flora would be very kind to her little sister-in-law, and yet one of those gleams of doubt crossed her, whether Flora would not be somewhat jealous of her own authority. Late the next evening the carriage drove to the door, and George and Flora appeared in the hall. Their sisters went out to meet them, and George folded Mita in his arms, and kissing her again and again, called her his poor dear little sister, and wept bitterly and even violently. Flora stood beside Ethel, and said, in a low voice, that poor George felt it dreadfully, and then came forward, touched him gently, and told him that he must not oversit Mita, and, drawing her from him, kissed her and said what a grievous time this had been for her, and how sorry they had been to leave her so long, but they knew she was in the best hands. Yes, I should have been so sorry you had been overtired. I was quite well off, said Mita. And you must look on us as your home, added Flora. How can she, thought Ethel? This is taking possession and making Mita a guest already. Flora made it do not seem to feel it. She replied by caresses and turned again to her brother. Poor George was by far the most struck down of all the mourners, and his whole demeanor gave his new relations a much warmer feeling towards him than they could ever have hoped to entertain. His gentle refined father had softly impressed his duller nature, and his want of attention and many extravagances came back upon him acutely now, in his changed home. He could hardly bear to look at his little orphan sister, and lavished every mark of fondness upon her, nor could he endure to sit at the bottom of his table, but when they had gone into dinner he turned away from the chair and hid his face. He was almost like a child in his want of self-restraint, and with all Dr. May's kind, soothing manner he could not bring him to attend to any of the necessary questions as to arrangements, and was obliged to refer to Flora, whose composed good sense was never at fault. Ethel was surprised to find that it would be a great distress to Meta to part with her until the funeral was over, though she would hardly express a wish lest Ethel should be needed at home. As soon as Flora perceived this, she begged her sister to stay, and again Ethel felt unpleasantly that Meta might have seen, if she had chosen, that Flora took the invitation upon herself. So while Dr. May, with George, Norman, and Tom, went to London, she remained, though not exactly knowing what good she was doing, unless by making the numbers rather less scanty, but both sisters declared her to be the greatest comfort possible, and when Meta shut herself up in her own room, where she had long learned to seek strength and still communing with her own heart, Flora seemed to find it a relief to call her sister to hers, and talk over ordinary subjects, in a tone that struck on Ethel's ears as a little incongruous, but then Flora had not been here from the first, and the impression could not be as strong. She was very kind, and her manner, when with others, was perfect, from its complete absence of affectation, but, alone with Ethel, there was a little complacency sometimes betrayed, and some curiosity whether her father had read the will. Ethel allowed what she had heard of the contents to be extracted from her, and it certainly did not diminish Flora's secret satisfaction in being somebody. She told the whole history of her visits, first how cordial Lady Leonore Langdale had been, and then how happy she had been at Glenbrocken, the old lord and lady, and Marjorie, all equally charming in their various ways, and Norman Ogilby so good a son, and so highly thought of in his own country. Did I tell you, Ethel, that he desired to be remembered to you? Yes, you said so. What has Corley done with it? continued Flora, seeking in her dress in case. She must have put it away with my brooches. Oh no, here it is. I have been looking for Karen Gorm specimens in a shop, saying I wanted a brooch that she would wear, when Norman Ogilby came riding after the carriage, looking quite hot and eager. He had been to some other place, and hunted this one up. Is it not a beauty? It was one of the round brooch brooches of dark pebble, with a silver-firm leaf lying across it, the dots of small Karen Gorm stones. The Glenbrocken badge, you know, continued Flora. Ethel twisted it about in her fingers and said, What's not it meant for you? It was to oblige me if you choose so to regard it, said Flora, smiling. He gave me no injunction, but, you see, you must wear it now. I shall not wear colored brooches for a year. Ethel sighed. She felt as if her black dress ought, perhaps, to be worn for a nearer cause. She had a great desire to keep that Glenbrocken brooch, and surely it could not be wrong. To refuse it would be much worse, and would only lead to Flora's keeping it, and not caring for it. Then it is your present, Flora. If you like better to call it so, my dear, I find Norman Ogilvy is going abroad in a few months. I think we ought to ask him here on his way. Flora, I wish you would not talk about such things. Do you really and truly, Ethel? Certainly not. At such a time as this, said Ethel. Flora was checked a little, and sat down to write to Marjorie Ogilvy. Shall I say you like the brooch, Ethel? She asked presently. Say what is proper, said Ethel impatiently. You know what I mean in the fullest sense of the word. Do I, said Flora? I mean, said Ethel, that you may say, simply and rationally, that I like the thing, but I won't have it said as a message, or that I take it as his present. Very well, said Flora. The whole affair is simple enough, if you would not be so conscious, my dear. Flora, I can't stand your calling me, my dear. I am very much obliged to you, said Flora, laughing, more than she would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister's look. Ethel was sorry at once. Flora, I beg your pardon. I do not mean to be cross, only please don't begin about that. Indeed, I think you'd better leave out about the brooch altogether. No one will wonder at your passing it over in such a return as this. You are right, said Flora thoughtfully. Ethel carried the brooch to her own room, and tried to keep herself from speculating what had been Mr. Ogilvy's views in procuring it, and whether he remembered showing her, at Woodstock, which sort of fern was his badge, and how she had abstained from preserving the piece shut up in her guidebook. Meta's patient sorrow was the best remedy for a prongness to such musings. How happy poor little Meta had been! The three sisters sat together that long day, and Ethel read to the others, and by and by went to walk in the garden with them, till, as Flora was going in, Meta asked, Do you think it would be wrong for me to cross the park to see that little burned girl, as Mr. Willmutt is away today, and she has no one to go to her? Flora could see no reason against it, and Meta and Ethel left the garden, and traversed the green park in its quiet home beauty, not talking much, except that Meta said, Well, I think there is quite as much sweetness as sadness in this evening. Because of this calm autumn sunset beauty, said Ethel, look at the golden light coming in under the branches of the trees. Yes, said Meta, one cannot help thinking how much more beautiful it must be. The two girls said no more, and came to the cottage, where so much gratitude was expressed at seeing Miss Rivers that it was almost too much for her.  It is odd, said Meta, as they went back. It is seeing other people that makes one know it is all sad and altered. It seems so bewildering, though they are so kind. I know what you mean, said Ethel. Why not not to wish it to go on, because there are other people in other duties, said Meta? But quietness is so peaceful. Do you know, Ethel, I shall always think of those two first days before anybody came, with you and Dr. May, as something very, very precious, she said at last, with the tears rising. I am sure I shall, said Ethel. I don't know how it is, but there is something even in this affliction that makes it like a strange sort of happiness, said Meta, musingly. I know what it is, said Ethel. That he is so very good, said Meta reverently. Yes, said Ethel, almost rebuked for the first thought, namely, that it was because Meta was so very good. It does make one feel more confidence, said Meta. It is good for me to have been in trouble, repeated Ethel. Yes, said Meta, I hope it is not wrong or unkind in me to feel it, for I think dear Papa would wish it, but I do not feel as if, miss him always as I shall, the spring of life were gone for me. I don't think it can, for I know no more pain or trouble can reach him. And there is, don't you think Ethel, that I may think so? A special care for the orphan, like a compensation. And there is hope and work here. And I am very thankful. How much worse it would have been if George had not been married. Dear Flora, will you tell her, Ethel, how really I do wish her to take the command of me? Tell her it will be the greatest kindness in the world to make me useful to her. I will, said Ethel. And please tell her that I am afraid I may forget and take upon me as if I were still lady of the house. Tell her I do not mean it, and I hope that she will check it. I think there is no fear of her forgetting that, said Ethel, regretting the words before they were out of her mouth. I hope I shall not, said Meta. If I do, I shall drive myself away to stay with Aunt Leonora, and I don't want to do that at all. So please to make Flora understand that she has had, and I am ready to be handed foot, and made his bright smile shone out, with the pleasure of a fresh and loving service. Ethel understood the force of her father's words, that it was a brave, vigorous spirit. Dr. May came back with George and stayed to dinner, after which he talked over business with Flora, whose sagacity continually amazed him, and who undertook to make her husband understand, and do what was needed. Meta, meanwhile, cross-questioned her brother on the pretty village by the Thames, of which she had a fond, childish remembrance, and heard from him of the numerous kind messages from all her relations. There were various invitations, but George repeated them unwillingly. You won't go, Meta, he said. It would be a horrid nuisance to part with you. As long as you think so, dear George, when I am in your way, or Flora's, that will never be. I say, Flora, will she ever be in our way? No indeed. Meta and I understand that, said Flora, looking up. Well, I suppose Bruce can't be trusted to value the books and prints. Dr. May thought it a great relief that Meta had a home with Flora, for, as he said to Ethel as they went home together, certainly, except for Kaushum. I never saw such an unpresentable crew as their relations. You should have heard the boys afterwards. There was Master Tom turning up his eatin'-nose at them, and pronouncing that there never were such a set of snubs, and Norman taking him to task, as I never heard him do before, telling him that he would never have urged his going to eatin' if he had thought it would make him despise respectable folks, probably better than himself, and that this was the last time in the world for such observations, where poor Tommying was quite annihilated, for a word from Norman goes farther with him than a lecture from anyone else. Well, I think Norman was right as to the unfitness of the time. So he was, but we had a good deal of them waiting in the end, Parler. People make incongruities when they will have such things done in state. It could not be helped here, to be sure. But I always feel, at a grand undertaker's display like this, that, except the service itself, there is little to give peace or soothing.  Better be little folk. One would rather think of our own dear Cloyster and those who cared so much, said Ethel. Ah, you are happy to be there, said Dr. May, but it all comes to the same. Pausing he looked from the window, then signed to Ethel to do the same, or I am glittered in the darkness. One may sleep sound without the lullaby, said Dr. May, and the waves. Oh, don't, Papa. You don't give up hope. I believe we ought Ethel. Don't tell her, but I went to the Admiralty today. And what did you hear there? Great cause for fear, but they do not give up. My poor Margaret. But those stars tell us they are in the same hand. End of Part 2, Chapter 12, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Part 2, Chapter 13 of The Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part 2, Chapter 13. Shall I sit alone in my chamber, and set the chairs by the wall, while you sit with lords and princes, it have not a thought at all? Shall I sit alone in my chamber, and duly the table lay, whilst you stand up in the diet, and have not a word to say? Old Danish ballad. Oh, Norman, are you come already? Are you, Margaret, as her brother opened the door, bringing in with him the crisp breath of December? Yes, I came away directly after collections. How are you, Margaret? Pretty brave, thank you! But the brother and sister both read on each other's features that the additional three months of suspense had told. There were traces of toil and study on Norman's brow. The sunken look about his eyes, and the dejected outline of his cheek, Margaret knew, butokened discouragement. And though her mild serenity was not changed, she was almost transparently thin and pale. They had long ago left off asking whether there were tidings, and seldom was the subject adverted to, though the whole family seemed to be living beneath a dark shadow. How is Flora, he next asked? Going on beautifully, except that Papa thinks she does too much in every way, she declared that she shall bring the baby to show me another week, but I don't think it will be allowed. And the little lady prospers? Capitally, though I get rather contradictory reports of her, first Papa declared her something surpassing exactly like Flora, and so I suppose she is. But Ethel and Manna will say nothing for her beauty, and Blanche calls her a fright. But Papa is her devoted admirer. He does so enjoy having a sort of property again in a baby. And George Rivers, said Norman smiling, for George he is very proud of her in his own way. He has just been here with a note from Flora, and actually talked. Between her and the election he is wonderfully brilliant. The election? Has Mr. Estelle resigned? Have you not heard? He intends it, and George himself is going to stand. The only danger is that Sir Henry Walkingham should think of it. George is in Parliament. Well, sound men are wanted. Fancy Flora, our member's wife. How well she will become her position. How soon is it likely to be? Quickly I fancy. Dr. Spencer, who knows all kinds of news, Papa says he makes a scientific study of Gossup as a new branch of comparative anatomy, found out from the Cleveland's that Mr. Estelle meant to retire, and happened to mention it the last time that Flora came to see me. It was like firing a train. You would have wondered to see how it excited her, who usually shows her feelings so little. She has been so much occupied with it, and so anxious that George should be ready to take the field at once, that Papa was afraid of his hurting her, and Ethel comes home declaring that the election is more to her than her baby. Ethel is apt to be a little hard on Flora. They are too unlike to understand each other. Ethel is to be godmother, though, and Flora means to ask Mr. Ogrely to come and stand. I think he will be gone abroad, or I should have asked him to fulfill his old promise of coming to us. I believe he must be lodged here, if he should come. Flora will have her house full, for Lady Leonora is coming. The baby is to be called after her. Indeed, exclaimed Norman. Yes, I thought it unnecessary, as she is not George's aunt, but Flora is grateful to her for much kindness, and she is coming to see Meada. I am afraid Papa is a little hurt that any name but one should have been chosen. Has Meada been comfortable? Dear little thing, everyone says how beautifully she has behaved. She brought all her housekeeping books to Flora at once, and only begged to be made helpful in whatever way might be most convenient. She explained, what we never knew before, how she had the young maids in to read with her, and asked Leif to go on. Very few could have been set aside so simply and sweetly in their own house. Flora was sensible of it, I hope. Oh yes, she took the management, of course, but Meada is charmed with her having the girls in from the village, in turn, to help in the scullery. They have begun family prayers, too, and George makes the stablemen go to church, a matter which has been passed Meada, as you may guess, though she had been a wonderful little manager, and Flora owned herself quite astonished. I wonder only at her being astonished. Meada owned to Ethel that what had been worst of all to her was the heart sinking, at finding herself able to choose her occupations with no one to accommodate them to, but she would not give way. She set up more work for herself at the school, and has been talking of giving singing lessons at Coxmoor, and she forced herself to read, though it was an effort. She has been very happy lately in nursing Flora. Is Ethel there? No, she is, as usual, at Coxmoor. There are great councils about sending Cherry to be trained for her new school. Would Flora be able to see me if I were to ride over to the Grange? You may try, and if Papa's not there I dare say she will. At least I shall see Meada, and she may judge. I want to see Rivers, too, so I will ask if the bay is to be had. Ah, you have the Claude, I see. Yes, it is too large for this room, but Papa put it here that I might enjoy it, and it is almost a companion. The sky improves so in the sunset light. Norma was soon at Abbot Stoke, and, as he drew his reign, Meada's bright face nodded to him from Flora's sitting-room window, and, as he passed the Conservatory, the little person met him, with the summons, at once, to his sister. He found Flora on the sofa, with the table beside her, covered with notes and papers. She was sitting uprighting, and, though somewhat pale, was very smiling and animated. Norman, how kind of come to me the first thing! Papa encouraged me to try whether you would be visible. They want to make a regular prisoner of me, said Flora, laughing. Papa is as bad as the old nurse, but he has not been here today, so I have had my own way. Did you meet George? No, but Margaret said he had been with her. I wish he would come. We expect the second post to bring the news that Mr. Estale has accepted the children hundreds. If he found it so, he meant to go and talk to Mr. Bramshaw, for, though he is so dull, we must make him agent. Is there any danger of opposition? None at all, if we are soon enough in the field. Papa's name will secure us, and there is no one else on the right side to come forward, so that it is an absolute rescue of deceit. It is the very moment when men of principle are most wanted, said Norman. The questions of the day are no light matters, and it is an immense point to save Stoneboro from being represented by one of the Tomkins set. Exactly so, said Flora, I should feel with a crime to say one word to deter George at a time when every effort must be made to support the right cause. One must make sacrifices when the highest interests are at stake. Flora seemed to thrive upon her sacrifice. She had never appeared more brilliant and joyous. Her brother saw, in her, a Roman matron, and the ambition that was inherent in his nature began to find compensation for being crushed as far as regarded himself by soaring for another. He eagerly answered that he fully agreed with her, and that she would never repent urging her husband to take on himself the duties incumbent on all who had the power. Highly gratified, she asked him to look at a copy of George's intended address which was lying on the table. He approved of the tenor, but saw a few phrases susceptible of a better point. Give it, she said, putting a pin into his hand. And he began to enter line and erase her fair manuscript, talking earnestly and working up himself in the address at the same time till it had grown into a composition far superior to the merely sensible affair it had been. Silence and thought were now in the language, and substance, and Flora was delighted. I had been very disrespectful to my niece all this time, said Norman, descending from the clouds of patriotism. I do not mean to inflict her mercilessly on her relations, said Flora, but I should like you to see her. She is so like Blanche. The little girl was brought in, and Flora made a very pretty young mother as she held her in her arms with so much graceful pride. Norman was perfectly entranced. He had never seen his sister so charming or so admirable between her delight in her infant and her self-devotion to the good of her husband and her country, acting so wisely and speaking so considerably and praising her dear Metta with so much warmth. He would never have torn himself away had not the nurse hinted that Mrs. Reverse had had too much excitement and fatigue already to-day. And besides, he suspected that he might find Metta in the drawing-room where he might discuss the whole with her and judge for himself of her state of spirits. Flora's next visitor was her father, who came as the twilight was enhancing the comfortable red brightness of the fire. He was very happy in these visits. Mother and child had both prospered so well, and it was quite a treat to be able to expend his tenderness on Flora. His little grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he delighted to take her from her mother and fondle her. No sooner was the baby in his arms than Flora's hands were busy among the papers, and she begged him to ring for lights.  I want you to hear George's address. Norman has been looking at it, and I hope you will not think it too strong, and she turns so that the light might fall on the paper. Let me see, said Dr. May, moving out his hand for it. This is a rough copy, too much scratch for you to make out. She read it accordingly, and her father admired it exceedingly. Norman's touches, above all, and Flora's reading had dovetail also neatly together than no one knew where the joins were. I will copy it fairly, she said, if you will show it to Dr. Spencer and ask whether he thinks it too strong. Mr. Doddsley, too, he would be more gratified if he saw it first, in private, and thought himself consulted. Dr. May was dismayed at seeing her take up her pen and make a desk of her blotting book, and begin her copy by firelight. Flora, my dear, he said, this must not be. Have I not told you that you must be content to rest? I did not get up till ten o'clock and have been lying here ever since. But what has this head of yours been doing? Has it been resting for ten minutes together? Now I know what I am saying, Flora.  Flora smiled and said, I thought I had been very good. But what is to be done when one's wits will work and there is work for them to do? Is not their work enough for them here? Said Dr. May, looking at the babe. Her mother used to value such a retirement from care. Flora was silent for a minute, then said, Mr. Estel should have put off his resignation to suit me. It is an unfortunate time for the election. And you can't let the election alone? She shook her head and smiled a negative, as if she would, but that she was under a necessity. My dear, if the election cannot go on without you, it had better not go on at all.  Her father was grieved. My dear, he added, I know you desire to be of use, especially to George, but do you not believe that he would rather fail than that you or his child should suffer? No answer. Does he stand by his own wish or yours, Flora? He wishes it. It is his duty, said Flora, collecting her dignity. I can say no more except to beg him not to let you exert yourself. Accordingly, when George came home, the doctor read him a lecture on his wife's over-busy brain, and was listened to, as usual, with gratitude and deference. He professed that he only wished to do what was best for her, but she never would spare herself. And, going to her side, with his heavy, fond solicitude, he made her promise not to hurt herself, and she laughed and consented. The promise was easily given, for she did not believe she was hurting herself, and, as to giving up the election, or ceasing secretly to prompt George, that was absolutely out of the question. What could be a greater duty than to incite her husband to usefulness? Moreover, it was but proper to invite Midas and Cousin to see her, and to project a few select dinners for their amusement and the gratification of her neighbors. It was only grateful and cousinly, likewise, to ask the Master of Glenbrocken, and, as she saw the thrill of color on Ethel's cheeks, at the sight of the address to the Honorable Norman Ogilvy, she thought herself the best of sisters. She even talked of Ogilvy as a second Christian name, but made it observed that old Aunt Dorothy would call it Leonore-Rogilvy Rivers, and thus averted it somewhat to Ethel's satisfaction. Ethel scolded herself many times for wondering whether Mr. Ogilvy would come. What was it to her? Suppose he should. Suppose the rest. What a predicament! How unreasonable and conceited even to think of such a thing when her mind was made up. What could result? Save tossings to and fro, a passing gratification set against infinite pain, and strife with her own heart and with her father's unselfishness. Had he but come before Flora's marriage? No, Ethel hated herself for the wish that arose for the moment. Far better he should keep away, if, perhaps, without the slightest inclination towards her, his mere name could stir up such a tumult. Oh, it might be, founded in vanity. Rebellious feelings and sense of tedium had once been subdued. Why should they be roused again? The answer came. Norman Ogilvy was setting off for Italy, and regretted that he could not take Abbot Stoke on his way. He desired his kind remembrances and warm Christmas wishes to all his cousins. Ethel breathed more freely. There was a sense that tranquility is uninteresting. It was, it must be confessed, a flat end to a romance, that all the permanent present effect was a certain softening, and a degree more attention to her appearance. And after all, this might, as Flora aveared, be ascribed to the Paris outfit having taught her to wear clothes, as well as to that which had awakened a feminine element, and removed that sense of not being like other women, which sometimes hangs painfully about girls who have learned to think themselves plain or awkward. There were other causes why it should be a dreary winter to Ethel, under the anxiety that strengthened by duration and the strain of acting cheerfulness for Margaret's sake. Even Mary was a care. Her round-rosy childhood had worn into height and solanness, and her languor and indifference fretted Miss Bracey, and was hunted down by Ethel, till Margaret convinced her that it was a case for patience and tenderness, which, thenceforth, she hardly gave, even encountering a scene with Miss Bracey, who was much injured by the suggestion that Mary was oppressed by perspective. Poor Mary, no one guessed that tears nightly shed over Harry's photograph. Nor could Ethel quite fathom Norman. He wore the dispirited, burdened expression that she knew too well, but he would not, as formerly, seek relief and confidence to her, shunning the being along with her, and far too much occupied to offer to walk to Coxmore. When the intelligence came that good old Mr. Wilmot of Settlesham had peacefully gone to his rest, after a short and painless illness, Tom was a good deal affected in his peculiar silence and ungracious fashion. But Norman did not seek to talk over the event, and the feelings he had entertained two years ago. He avoided the subject, and threw himself into the election matters with an excitement foreign to his nature. He was almost always at Abbott Stoke, or attending George Rivers at the committee room at the swan, talking, writing, or consulting, concocting swibs, and perpetrating Wilmot that were the delight of friends and the confusion of foes. Floor was delighted, George adored him, made his eyes dance whenever he came near, Dr. Spencer admired him, and Dr. Hoxton prophesied great things of him. But Ethel did not feel as if he were the veritable Norman, and had an undefined sensation of discomfort when she heard his brilliant repartees, and the laughter with which he accompanied them, so unlike his natural, rare, and noiseless laugh. She knew it was false excitement to drive away the suspense that none dared to avow, but which did not press on them the less heavily for being endured in silence. Indeed, Dr. May could not help now and then giving way to outbursts of despondency, of which his friend, Dr. Spencer, who made it his special charge to try to lighten his troubles, was usually the kind recipient. And though the bustle of the election was incongruous and seemed to make the leaden weight the more heavy, there was a compensation in the tone of feeling that it elicited, which gave real and heartfelt pleasure. Dr. May had undergone numerous fluctuations of popularity. He had always been the same man, excellent in intention, though hasty in action, and heeding neither praise nor censor. And while the main tenor of his course never varied, making many deviations by flying to the reverse of the wrong, most immediately before him, still his personal character gained esteem every year. And though sometimes his merits and sometimes his valence gave violent umbridge, he had steadily risen in the estimation of his fellow townsman, as much as his own inconsistencies and theirs would allow. And every now and then was the favorite with all, save with the few who abused him for tyranny, because he prevented them from tyrannizing. He was just now on the top of the wave, and his son-in-law had nothing to do but to float in on the tide of his favor. The opposite faction attempted a contest, but only rendered the triumph more complete and gave the gentleman the pleasure of canvassing and hearing, times without number, that the constituents only wished the candidates were Dr. May himself.  Dr. Spencer, much struck, rallied dick on his influence, and Dr. May, the drops of warm emotion trembling on his eyelashes, smiled and made his friends see him making a church-rate. The addresses and letters that came from the Grange were so admirable that Dr. May often embraced Norman's steady opinion that George was a very wise man. If Norman was unconscious how much he contributed to these compositions, he knew far less how much was Flores. In his ardor he crammed them both and conducted George when Flore could not be at his side. George himself was a personal man, wrote a good, bold hand, would do as he was desired, and was not easily put out of countenance. He seldom committed himself by talking, and when a speech was required, was brief and to the purpose. He made a very good figure, and in the glory of victory Ethel herself began to grow proud of him, and the children's great object in life was to make the Jack-Daws cry, River's forever! Flore had always declared that she would be at Stoneboro for the nomination. No one believed her until three days before she presented her self and her daughter before the astonished Margaret, who was too much delighted to be able to scold.  To come home in this manner, after having read, River's forever, on all the dead walls, might be called that for which she had lived. She made no stay. She had only come to show her child, and established a precedent for driving out, and Margaret had begun to believe the operation of the dream when the others came in, some from Coxmore, others from the committee room at the swan. So she brought the baby, exclaimed Ethel. I should have thought she would not have taken her out before her christening. Ethel, said Dr. Spencer, permit me to make a suggestion. When relations live in the same neighborhood, there is no phrase to be more avoided than, I should have thought. The nomination day brought Flora, Meda, baby and all, to be very quiet as was said, but how could that be when every boy in the house was frantic and the men scarcely less so? Aubrey and Gertrude and the two Jackdaws each had a huge blue and orange rosette, and the two former went about rowing River's forever without the least consideration for the baby, who would have been decked in the same manner if Ethel would have heard of it without indignation, and are wearing any color before a christing white. As to Jack and Jill, though they could say their lessons, they were too much distressed by their ornaments to do ought but lurk in corners and strive to pick them off. Flora comforted herself in her usual quiet way and tried to talk of other things, though a carnation spot in each cheek showed her anxiety and excitement. She went with her sisters to look out from Dr. Spencer's windows towards the town hall. Her husband gave her his arm as they went down the garden, and Ethel saw her talking earnestly to him and pressing his arm with her other hand to enforce for words, but if she did tutor him it was hardly visible and he was very glad of whatever counsel she gave. She spoke not a word after the ladies were left with Aubrey, who was in despair at not being allowed to follow Hector and Tom, but was left, as his prematurely classical mind expressed it, like the gallish woman with the impedimenta in the marshes, whereas Tom had had an insult to injury by out farewell to Jack among the maidens. Mida tried to console him by persuading him that he was their protector, and he began to think there was need of a guard when a mighty chair cost him to take refuge behind Ethel. Even when assured that it was anything but terrific, he gravely declared that he thought Margaret would want him, but he could not cross the garden without Mida to protect him. She would not allow anyone else to relieve her from the dowdy champion, and thereby she missed the spectacle. It might be that she did not regret it, for though it would have been unkind to refuse to come in with her brother and sister, her wound was still too fresh for crowds, turmoil, and noisy rejoicing to be congenial. She did not withdraw her hand, which obviously squeezed harder at each resounding shout, nor object he has conducting her to see his museum in the dark corner of the attics, most remote from the tumult. The loss was not great, the others could hear nothing distinctly, and see only a wilderness of heads, but the triumph was complete. Doctor May had been cheered enough to satisfy even Hector. George Rivers had made very fair speech, and Horace had covered all deficiencies. Hector had shouted till he was as hoarse as a Jack does. The opposite candidate had never come forward at all. Tompkins was hiding his diminished head, and the gentleman had nothing to report but success, and were in the highest spirits. By and by Blanche was missing, and Ethel, going in quest of her, spied a hem of blue marino peeping out under all the cloaks in the hawk cupboard, and found the poor little girl sobbing in such distress that it was long before any explanation could be extracted, but at last it was revealed. When the door had been shut, and they stood in the dark, half stifled among the cloaks, that George's spirit had taken his old facetious style with Blanche, and in the very hearing of Hector. The misery of such jokes to a sensitive child, conscious of not comprehending their scope, is incalculable, and Blanche having been a baby coquette, was the more susceptible. She hid her face again from the very sound of her own confession, and resisted Ethel's attempts to draw her out of the musty cupboard, declaring that she could never see either of them again. Ethel, in vain, assured her that George was gone to the dinner at the swan. Nothing was effectual but being told that for her to notice what had passed was a sure way to call Hector's attention there too, when she bridled, emerged, and begged to know whether she would possess she had been crying. Poor child, she could never again be unconscious, but, at least, she was rendered peculiarly afraid of a style of notice that might otherwise have been a temptation. Ethel privately begged Flora to hint to George to alter his style of wit, and the suggestion was received better than the blundering manna deserved. Flora was too exulting to take offence, and her patronage of all the world was as full-blown as her ladylike nature allowed. Ethel, she did not attempt patronize, but she promised all the sights in London to the children and masters to Mary and Blanche, and she perfectly overwhelmed Miss Bracey with orphan asylums for her sisters. She would have liked nothing better than dispersing cards with Mrs. River's prominent among the recommenders of the case. A fine coming out for you, little lady, said she to her baby, when taking leave that evening. If it was good luck for you to make your first step in life upwards, what is this? Excelsior, said Ethel, and Flora smiled, well pleased, but she had not cut half the meaning. May it be the right Excelsior, added Ethel, in a low voice that no one heard, and she was glad they did not. They were all triumphant, and she could not tell why she had a sense of sadness, and thought of Flora's story long ago of the girl who ascended Mont Blanc, and for what? All she had to do at present was to listen to Miss Bracey, who was sure that Mrs. River's thought Mary and Blanche were not improved, and was afraid she was ungrateful for all the intended kindness to her sister. Ethel had more sympathy here, for she had thought that Flora was giving herself airs, and she laughed and said her sister was pleased to be in a position to help her friends, and tried to turn it off, but ended by stumbling into allowing that prosperity was apt to make people overlavish of offers of kindness. Dear Miss Ethel, you understand so perfectly.  If Ethel had not spoken rightly of her sister, she was sufficiently punished.  I am the worst person in the world for it. I have offended. Can I feel with me? Yes, I can, when it is sense, but please don't treat me like a heroine. I am sure there is quite enough in the world that is worrying, without picking shades of manner to pieces. It is the sure way to make an old crab of me, and so I am going off. Only one parting piece of advice, Miss Bracey.  And thinking she had been savage about her hand, Ethel turned back and kissed the little governess's forehead, wished her good night, and ran away. She had learned that, to be rough in Mary, was the best way of doing this braced a good in the end, and so she often gave herself the present pain of knowing that she was being supposed careless and hard-hearted, but the violent affection for her proved that the feeling did not last.  It was the first time that she had seen much of her little niece. She was no great baby handler, nor had she any of the phrases adapted to the infant mind, but that pretty little serene blue-eyed girl had been her chief thought all day, and she was abashed by recollecting how little she had dwelt on her own duties as her sponsor, in the agitations excited by the doubts about her co-agitor. She took out her prayer book and read the service for baptism, recollecting the thoughts that had accompanied her youngest sister's orphan christening. The vain pomp and glory of the world and all covetous desires of the same. They seemed far enough off then and now, poor lowly Adora. Ethel knew that she had judged her sister hardly, yet she could not help picturing to herself the future. A young lady, trained for fashionable life, serious teaching not omitted, but right made the means of rising in the world, taught to strive secretly, but not openly, for admiration, a scheming for her marriage, a career like Floresone. Ethel could scarcely feel that it would not be a mockery to declare, on her behalf, that she renounced the world. But alas, where was not the world? Ethel blushed at having censored others, when, so lately, she had herself an oblivious of the higher duty. She thought of the prayer, including every Christian in holy and loving intercession. I pray not that thou wouldst take them out of the world, but that thou wouldst keep them from the evil. Keep her from the evil.  His grace can save her, were there surrounding evil far worse than ever it is likely to be. The intermixture with good is the trial. And is it not so everywhere, ever since the world and the church have seen fused together? But she will soon be the child of a father who guards his own, and, at least, I can pray for her, and her dear mother. May I only live better, that so I may pray better, and act better, if ever I should have to act. There was a happy family gathering on New Year's Day, and Flora, who had kindly felt her way with Meta, finding her not yet ready to enjoy a public festivity for the village, added a supplement to the Christmas beef, that a second dinner might be eaten at home in honor of Miss Leonora Rivers. Lady Leonora was highly satisfied with her visit, which impressed her far more in favor of the Abbotstoke neighborhood than in the days of poor old Mr. Rivers. Flora knew everyone, and gave little select dinner parties, which, by her good management, even George, at the bottom of the table, could not make heavy. Dr. Spencer enjoyed them greatly, and was an unfailing resource for conversation, and as to the Hoxton's, Flora felt herself amply repaying the kindness she'd received in her young lady days, when she walked down to the dining-room with the portly headmaster, or saw his good lady sisterly admiring the handsome rooms. A very superior person, extremely pleasing and agreeable, was the universal verdict on Mrs. Rivers. Lady Leonora struck up a great friendship with her, and was delighted that she meant to take Mina to London. The only fault that could be found with her was that she had so many brothers, and Flora, recollecting that her ladyship mistrusted those brothers, avoided encouraging their presence at the Grange, and took every precaution against any opening for the suspicion that she threw them in the way of her little sister-in-law. Nor had Flora forgotten the ladies' committee, or Coxmore. As to the Muses, they gave no trouble at all. Exemptory civilities about the chair passed between the members' ladies and Mrs. Ledwich, ending in Flora's insisting that priority and office should prevail, feeling that she could well forward to yield the post of honour, since anywhere she was the leader. She did not know how much more conformable the ladies had been ever since they had known Dr. Spencer's opinion. And yet he only believed that they were grateful for good advice, and went about among them easy, good-natured, and utterly unconscious that for him Sparkle misses Ledwich's bugles, and for him waved every Spenster's ribbon from Miss Rich down to Miss Boulder. The point carried by their united influence was Charity Outwoods being sent for six months finishing at the Diocesan Training School, while a favourite pupil teacher from Abbott Stoke took her place at Coxmore. Dr. Spencer looked at the training school and talked Mrs. Ledwich into magnanimous forgiveness of Mrs. Outwood. Charity dreaded the ordeal that she was willing to do anything that was thought right and likely to make her fitter for her office.