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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43793
   :PG.Title: Lena Graham
   :PG.Released: 2013-09-22
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Cecilia Selby Lowndes
   :MARCREL.ill: Edith Scannell
   :DC.Title: Lena Graham
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1892
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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LENA GRAHAM
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      :alt: THE SLIPPERY ROCKS.  See p. 53.

      THE SLIPPERY ROCKS.  See p. `53`_.

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      LENA GRAHAM

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      BY
      CECILIA SELBY LOWNDES

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      AUTHOR OF
      "LINFORD GREEN," "NEW HONOURS," ETC

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      LONDON
      FREDERICK WARNE & Co.
      AND NEW YORK

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      (*All rights reserved*)  

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      Title page

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   CONTENTS.

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I.  `AT AUNT MARY'S`_
II.  `THE ARRIVAL`_
III.  `THE PETITION`_
IV.  `ON THE ROCKS`_
V.  `AUNTIE'S LETTER`_
VI.  `LEAVING MEADENHAM`_
VII.  `THE NEW HOUSE`_
VIII.  `MILLY'S NEW HAT`_
IX.  `THE SPOILT FEATHER`_
X.  `AT SIDCOMBE`_
XI.  `CONCLUSION`_





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.. _`AT AUNT MARY'S`:

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   LENA GRAHAM.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   AT AUNT MARY'S.

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"It does seem so strange not to know one's own
Papa and Mama and sisters; does it not, Auntie?"
remarked Lena Graham, leaning her arm on the
mantelpiece as she spoke, and gazing thoughtfully
at a photograph that stood there.

"You are not the only little girl in the world
that has had, from one cause or another, to be
separated from her parents, Lena dear," said her
Aunt, looking up from her work to answer her
little niece.  "And I think you have been very
happy with me, my pet," she continued.

In a moment Lena was beside her, saying,
"Happy! oh yes, there never was such a good kind
Auntie as you anywhere; but I cannot help
wondering if they will love me.  And"——

"Love you, Lena, your parents!" interrupted her Aunt.

"Not exactly that either, Auntie, for I know they
do from their letters, but you know they have Milly
and Lucy."

"And Aunt Mary has only her little Lena," said
Miss Somerville, stroking back her niece's hair, and
looking fondly at the young face lifted to hers.
"You will be so happy altogether, dear, that you
will wonder how you ever got on without
companions of your own age."

"I mean to be so kind to them, Auntie, and lend
them all my things, and help Milly with her lessons;
for you know I am much older than she is."

"Only two years; and I fancy, from all I hear,
that Milly is old for her age.  She has seen more
than my little girl, so I don't think you will find
her so much younger in her ways than yourself."

"I am two years and five months older than she
is," said Lena, who liked to have what she
considered the full advantage.

"We shall know all about it very soon, for,
if I am not much mistaken, there will be a letter
to-night saying when they will arrive here."

Lena was too excited and impatient to settle
down quietly that evening to either books or work;
even the doll was neglected, which was not often
the case, for Lena was devoted to this especial one,
who was called after her two unknown sisters,
"Millicent Lucy," as a special token of affection.

She wandered aimlessly about the room, now
stopping to gaze at the photograph on the mantel-piece,
and ask, for the hundredth time, "if it was
really like," then to the window to peep out and
wonder when the "postman would come," and if,
when he did come, he would bring a letter from the
expected travellers.

The photograph that engrossed so much of her
thoughts and attention consisted of a group of four
persons.  Mrs. Graham was seated, holding little
Lucy on her knee; at her feet, Milly was sitting
on a stool; while Colonel Graham stood, leaning
one arm on his wife's chair, and looking, Lena
thought, very grave and a little bit stern.  Perhaps,
thought Lena, "that was because he was accustomed
to command his soldiers, and had been in
battle."  She hoped he did not always look like that,
for if he did she might be a little bit afraid of him,
though Auntie did say, "there was no fear of such
a thing happening."

Lena Graham had only a very dim, childish
remembrance of her parents, for it was fully six
years since she had seen them.  Just half her
young life had been passed under Aunt Mary's
loving care.

Six years before our story commences, Colonel
Graham's regiment was ordered to India.  At first
both he and his wife had hoped to take their little
girls out with them, but just at that time Lena
was taken ill; and though better and stronger when
the time came for their leaving England, she was
not strong enough, the doctor said, to stand a hot
climate.  It was then that Miss Somerville,
Mrs. Graham's sister, had offered to take charge of the
little Lena.

Millicent was a strong, healthy child, and well
able to stand the climate, at any rate for a year or
two.  About a year after their leaving England,
Colonel Graham was offered an appointment for
five years at one of the hill stations, which he gladly
accepted, as the climate was as cool and healthy as
at home, and thus was able not only to keep Millicent
with them, but the baby sister that had been
born after their arrival in the far East.

The five years had now come to an end.  And
the day before we make the acquaintance of their
daughter Helena, or Lena as she was always called,
Colonel and Mrs. Graham had arrived in England.

The child was naturally all eagerness to see
them; not even the knowledge that in a few days
she would be separated from her Aunt could cast a
shadow over her, and, childlike, she was too much
absorbed in her own prospects of happiness, to note
the shade of sadness that sometimes crossed her
Aunt's kind face, as she listened to her merry
chatter, at the thought that would intrude itself,
of how sorely she would miss her little niece's
loving companionship, and how dull the house
would be when the sound of the bright young voice
would be heard there no longer.

The last few years had been very happy ones to
both aunt and niece, and Lena warmly returned all
the love and care that had been lavished on her.

Miss Somerville was not strong, and both from
this circumstance, and also from inclination, her life
had been a secluded one, and her whole time and
attention had been devoted to the education and
bringing up of her young charge.

It would be a different life, she knew, that her
niece would lead after this, for in the future she
would have to share not only her lessons but her
pleasures with her sisters, and instead of being the
first to be considered, as had been the case hitherto,
she would be one among others, and would have to
learn not only to take but give.  (And as our story
goes on, we shall see what fruits she will show of
the loving training she had received.)

As these thoughts passed through Miss Somerville's
mind, the postman's knock was heard at their
door.  With one bound Lena was out of the room,
exclaiming, "There he is at last!" returning in a
very short space of time with a letter in her hand.

"It's from Papa; I know his handwriting.  Do
make haste, Auntie, and read it.  I wonder Mama
did not write to me."

"They will be here to-morrow, darling.  Poor
Mama had a headache, from all the bustle and noise
of London, I should think.  The black nurse she
brought home with her has already got an engagement
to return with a lady to her own country, so
they will have to come without a nurse.  Hester
will be able to look after Lucy until Mama finds one
to suit her."

"O Auntie, I will look after Lucy; I am sure I
could do all she wants."

Auntie laughed as she answered, "I don't think
you quite understand the duties of a nurse, dear,
but you can be of great use and comfort to Mama,
I am sure."

"Yes, I mean to be," was the confident answer.

"You mean, dear, you will try to be."

But Lena did not wait to answer.  She left the
room, saying, "I must go and tell Hester that they
are really coming to-morrow."  And off she went,
only to return with some new question that she
wanted Auntie to answer.

Not until the bell rang for prayers did she quiet
down, and when she rose from her knees there was
a very grave, subdued look on her face.

As soon as they were alone, she flung her arms
round her Aunt's neck, exclaiming, "Ah, I do wish
you were coming too!  It won't be perfectly happy
without you, Auntie, darling."

"Dear one, you must not expect perfect happiness
anywhere in this world," she answered, returning
her embrace.

"But I shall miss you so."

"And I shall miss you sadly; but I cannot be so
selfish, as to grudge Mama the happiness of having
her eldest daughter with her."

"I do so long to see her, my very own Mama,
but I want you too."

"What a greedy little creature!  Why, you will
have Milly and Lucy, as well as Papa and Mama,
and not satisfied!"

"If I had you too, I should be perfectly satisfied.
I should not want anything else in the world."

"Ah, Lena dear, I fear that you would not find it so."

"Yes, I am sure I should."

Auntie shook her head.  "Don't be too confident,
dear; you must not expect that in the future you
will have everything you want.  You will have to
share your pleasures with Milly."

"Oh, I shall like that."

"I am very glad to hear it, dear," was the quiet answer.

"Now, Auntie, don't look so grave; for you will
see how well I shall behave, and show that your
child can be really good."

"Not my child, Lena dear.  To be really good you
must be the child of God."

Auntie spoke so gravely that Lena, humbled and
ashamed, whispered, "Yes indeed, Auntie, I will
try," as she gave and received her good-night kiss.

Miss Somerville lived in a pretty sea-coast town
called West Meadenham.  In truth, it was but a
suburb of Meadenham proper, but that town had
grown so large of late years that the numerous
streets, squares, and terraces that had sprung up
around it, considered themselves important enough
to have a name of their own; but as if to show to
the world in general, that they did not wish to
throw off all allegiance from the dear old town,
that nestled so comfortably at the foot of the high
cliff that sheltered it from the cold east winds of
spring, it modestly christened itself, West
Meadenham, instead of choosing a new name.

The next day arrived, fine as heart could wish,
a bright sun shining overhead, and a soft breeze
blowing from the sea.  No wonder that Lena
exclaimed, "How lovely!" as she came out of the
house and gazed around her as if drinking in the
beauty of the morning.

The trees were all decked in their first fresh
young green, the air scented with the sweet
perfume of the spring flowers, that made the garden
of Scarsdale Villa look quite gay even in April.
Their house was the last of a row of villas almost
in the country, and before and behind them stretched
green fields.

Let me describe Lena Graham to you, as she
stands, sniffing up the fresh air that brings the
healthy roses into her cheeks, and gives her a
hearty appetite for the bread-and-butter that she is
only waiting for Aunt Mary's appearance to attack
with good-will.

A sturdy little English girl, rather short for her
age, with rosy cheeks and bright intelligent brown
eyes, that glance here, there, and everywhere; long
light-brown hair, tied back from her face with a
blue ribbon, that matches in colour the blue serge
dress she wears.  The face has a bright, open
expression, and the girl's whole appearance speaks of
the happy, peaceful life she leads.  Shading her
eyes with her hand from the sun, she looks about
attentively.

"Yes," she remarks to herself in a low voice,
"I can get plenty for both rooms without
spoiling the garden.  I think Mama shall have the
violets, and Milly the primroses; and I shall ask
Auntie to let me run to the fields and get some
cowslips for Lucy; and Papa shall have some of
all, because he is the only man."  Here her
meditations were broken into by hearing Auntie's voice
calling—

"Lena, Lena, where are you, dear child?"

"Here; Auntie; it's such a lovely day, do come
out just for one minute."

"It must be only for one minute then," said her
Aunt as she joined her.  "Yes, it is a lovely day.
We can welcome Papa and Mama with both
sunshine and smiles."

"Sunshine in doors and out," said Lena, with
a beaming look as they entered the house together.

Lena always did lessons with her Aunt, but
to-day was to be a holiday, for Miss Somerville saw
that the child was too excited and nervous to settle
down quietly to work; and besides that, there was
a good deal to be done in the way of preparation
for the expected travellers, for it was not often that
so large a party as four people came to visit their
quiet household.

They were not expected until five o'clock, so
Lena had the whole day before her to wonder and
speculate in.  The morning passed away quickly,
as time always does when one is busy and occupied,
and in the afternoon Lena was to arrange the
flowers in the different rooms.  Aunt Mary quite
approved of the arrangement Lena had made as to
the ones each was to have, though she asked why
Lena had chosen those especial ones.

"Violets for Mama, because they are so sweet;
and they are getting scarce now, you know, Auntie:
they are nearly over in the garden."

"I didn't know that."

"Why, Auntie, we have picked them all; I wish
I had not now.  And then primroses for Milly,
because they are my favourite flower, and I want
her to like all I do."

"Or you could like what she does?"

"But she must like primroses, she couldn't help
it; then cowslips for Lucy, they are nearly as nice
as primroses; but I want Milly to have the nicest,
because she's to be my great friend; and I thought
Papa ought to have some of all."  Here Lena
stopped, and looked at her Aunt for approval.

"Very well, dear; come out and get them."

"And may I arrange them?"

"Yes, and put them in the different rooms."

"Thank you, Auntie dear.  And then may I put
on my best dress?  I do want to look nice when
they come."

"Yes, darling," said Miss Somerville with a
smile.  Then she went to the window and watched
the child as she gathered the flowers, flitting from
one place to another, as busy as a bee, looking up
every now and then, to nod smilingly to her Aunt,
or to hold up her treasures to be admired.

No fear, she thought, of her parents or any one
not thinking her nice, as Lena had expressed it.
She smiled to herself as she thought of the happiness
of the parents at getting back the child from
whom they had so long been parted; and much as
she would miss the cheerful, loving little companion
who had brightened her lonely life, she felt it would
be better for Lena herself to take her place once more
among young companions.  In the nursery or the
school-room, where there are two or three together,
it is, as it were, a little world of its own.  No one
in particular can have the entire care and thought
of the whole household.  All must take their place
and their share both in the duties and pleasures of
everyday life.  This was exactly what had been
wanting to Lena, and hers was a character that
especially required it.  It is so very easy for any
one of us to accustom ourselves to be the first to
be considered, and Lena was no exception to this.
She had a warm, loving heart, but a proud, wilful
temper; humility was a grace she sadly lacked.  A
loving word from Auntie would bring the ready
tears to Lena's eyes, but what she considered a
hard or disparaging word would make them flash
as quickly.  How she and Millicent would get on
together, was rather an anxious thought to Miss
Somerville, for dearly as she loved her little niece,
she was not blind to her faults; and if the sisters
were alike in character, there would not, she feared,
be always peace.  Lena had a very decided opinion
on the subject of elder sisters, and that she was the
eldest of the family, she always made a point of
dwelling upon.

Neither a cloud nor a doubt crossed the child's own
mind as to the future.  Of course Millicent and
Lucy would love her as much as she was prepared
to love them, and they would all be so happy
together, she knew.  The only shadow was the
thought that she would have to part with dear
Aunt Mary; but as that parting was not to be at
once, she cast the thought away with the happy
ease of childhood.





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.. _`THE ARRIVAL`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   THE ARRIVAL.

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As it struck five by the drawing-room clock,
Lena threw open the hall-door and ran to the
gate; and opening it, she went out and gazed eagerly
down the road.

Scarsdale Villa, as Aunt Mary's house was called,
was built on the top of a long hill that ran straight
down into the town.  As Lena now stood, the
town itself seemed to be at her feet, and beyond
the houses lay the sea, stretching away into the
distance, far as the eye could reach, and now
sparkling in the bright spring sunshine.  But its
beauty was quite thrown away upon Lena; her
eager gaze was fixed on one particular spot on the
road—the turning to the station.

She had not long to wait, for in a very few
minutes she was gladdened by the sight of a
cab, well covered with luggage, coming round
the corner, and commencing the ascent of the hill.

At this sight, she turned and darted back into
the house, calling loudly for "Auntie."

"Do you see them, dear?" Miss Somerville asked.

"There's a cab coming this way, and it has
luggage; it must be them, I am sure.  Do come
out and look."  Taking her Aunt's hand, they went
out together and watched the well-laden cab as
it came slowly up the hill.

Often and often had Lena grumbled at that
weary hill, when she came home, tired-out after a
long afternoon's ramble on the sands, or a walk
into Meadenham, but never before had she thought
it so long and tedious as that day.  She watched
the cab come "creeping along," as she called it.

Then as it drew very near, a new fit came over
her—a fit of shyness.  Clasping Auntie's hand very
tight, she crept very close to her, whispering, "I
do hope;" but she had no time to say more, for at
that moment a gentleman's head was put out of
the cab window, that Lena instantly recognised as
the same face whose photograph she had looked at
so often.  "Papa!" she almost gasped in her excitement.

"Here they are, waiting to welcome us home,"
called out Colonel Graham in a loud, cheery voice, and
then the cab stopped, and there came warm, loving
greetings.  Lena had no very distinct recollection
of all that was done or said for the next few
minutes, but among all the greetings and fuss of
arrival was one remembrance, that Lena thought
would never leave her.

It was Mama's soft voice, that said, "My darling
child; thank God for giving you back to me,"
so loving and tender, that Lena knew then how
dear she was to Mama.

Not till they were all seated quietly in the
drawing-room had Lena time to take a good look
at these dear ones.

Ah, she would have known Mama anywhere, she
was sure, for there was the same sweet gentle face,
that had looked at her from her picture, day after
day.  And Papa did not look one bit stern, or
grave, but was just the sort of papa she approved
of; and dear, fat, chubby Lucy, with her fair curls
and blue eyes—"a perfect pet" was Lena's verdict
of her little sister; but Millicent, who was to
be her own particular sister and companion, she
was not quite what she expected her to be.

As she sat on the sofa beside Mama, her hand
clasped in hers, she heard Aunt Mary say—

"They are very like, really; the same eyes and
hair, and the likeness will be more apparent when
Milly gets some of Lena's roses and plumpness."  What
Lena saw was a tall slight girl, as tall as
herself, though she had two years and five months
the advantage in age, with large serious brown eyes,
and a pale face.

"No."  Lena thought Auntie mistaken in this
matter; surely she and Milly were not alike.
As she gazed, or, I might say, stared at her sister,
their eyes met, and Milly smiled such a sweet loving
smile that lighted up her whole face, and that so
altered and improved it, that Lena was not so
much disposed to disagree with her Aunt's opinion
as before.

Tea was brought in, and Lena was too busy waiting
upon the travellers to think more about the likeness.
Milly was shy and quiet; but that Lena did
not so much object to, as it would enable her to
show her all the more kindness and attention, for
of course she was at home here, and the truth must
be told, liked doing the honours of the house.  Her
sudden fit of nervousness soon passed off, and she
was giving Mama her tea, and chatting away quite
at her ease before very long.

"Milly and I are to stay up and have dinner
with you to-night, Mama," said Lena.  "Auntie
thought Lucy would go to bed then, for it is not
till seven."

"I hope you have not altered your hours for us,
Mary?" said Colonel Graham.

"Now Papa, please," began Lena.

"No, no, my little girl," he said very decidedly,
"we cannot allow your Aunt to alter her hours; it
is very kind of her to have such a large party of us,
as it is."

"We will talk about that to-morrow," said Miss
Somerville with a smile.  "Now I think it is time
for you all to come and see your rooms; one little
pair of eyes is looking very sleepy."

Lucy, who was alluded to, was sitting by the
table, her little head nodding and her eyes
half-closed; but at the mere suggestion of bed she
protested crossly, "that she did not want to go to bed."

"We are all going upstairs, darling; you don't
want to stay down here by yourself, do you?"

No, Lucy didn't want that, so she consented to
go up with the others.

"Let me carry you," proposed Lena, lovingly.

Now Lucy was tired and sleepy, and, as very
often happens in these cases, very cross, so instead of
responding to Lena's kindly offer, she pushed her
away with, "No, don't want you; Milly must."

A shade came over Lena's face, she had meant so
kindly.  "O Lucy, what a cross little thing you are,"
said Milly.  "She doesn't mean it, Lena, only she
is accustomed to me; and last night I had to do it
because Nana was gone, and Mama had such a bad
headache," she went on to say, as she followed Lena
upstairs with Lucy in her arms.

"I will send Hester to help you, Milly," said her
Aunt; "you must be tired too."

"And Mama wants Lena to help her this first
evening," said Mrs. Graham, drawing the girl to
her side lovingly, for she had seen the shadow that
had come to the child's face at Lucy's cross words.
"You must not mind Lucy being cross, dear, for
the child has been excited and wearied with all the
changes and strangeness of her life the last few
days, and I am sorry to say has been rather spoilt
on board ship.  It is very difficult to avoid it there."

"And has not Milly?"

"Ah, Milly is such a quiet, staid little mortal,
she is not easily spoiled; she has been the greatest
comfort to me during the voyage, and now I have
you too, my little one," was Mrs. Graham's answer,
as she took Lena's face in both hands and kissed it,
then, looking at her lovingly, said, "I think I should
hardly have known you for the same white, delicate
little thing that I left with such a sad heart all
these years ago."

"Dear Mama," was Lena's only answer.

As they entered the bedroom, Mrs. Graham
exclaimed, "Ah what sweet violets, my favourite
flower!  I think I can guess who placed them here."

"I did not know they were your favourites, but
they are so sweet I thought you must like them."

"Such a pretty, homelike room," said Mama,
looking round.  "I often used to try and picture
to myself what my little girl was doing, and what
her surroundings were like."

"Wasn't Aunt Mary living here when you went away?"

"No, dear; she came here in hopes that the sea
air would make you strong and rosy again, as it has."

"O Mama, you can see the sea from the
windows in Papa's dressing-room; do come and
look at it."

Taking her mother's hand, they went into the
dressing-room, the window of which looked over
the garden and towards the sea.  Here they were
joined by Colonel Graham, and as Lena stood
between them, a hand clasped in each of theirs,
she thought that there was not a happier little girl
in the world than herself, and I think she was
right.  Silence fell upon them as they looked;
so long it lasted that Lena looked up at her
mother, and seeing her eyes full of tears, asked
anxiously—

"Mama, what is it; what are you thinking
of; aren't you happy?"

"Very happy, darling," said Mama, smiling
down on her through her tears.  "I was thinking
how good and grateful we ought to be to Him, who
has guarded us all these long years, and now
brought us together again.

"Safely and well," added Papa.

"And, my Lena, we all must try to show our
love and thankfulness not only in words, but in
very deed and truth."

At that moment a knock was heard at the door,
and Milly looked in.  "As you were not in your
room, Mama, I thought you must be in here,"
she said.

"Looking at your beloved sea," said Papa,
holding out his hand to her to come and join them.

"Is Milly so fond of it?" asked Lena.

"Yes, so fond that we were thinking of making
a present of her to the captain of our ship," said
Papa, laughing.

"I have the sea here, and you as well, and," she
added shyly, "Lena too."

"True, most sensible of little women; but, Lena,
you must not think she is always so alarmingly
sensible, for alas!"—and here Papa shook his head
with affected sadness,—"she does love fun and
romping sometimes."

Millicent laughed as Lena exclaimed eagerly—

"Oh, I am so glad, for I do, and I do want her
to be my companion; we can have such fun on the
rocks, Milly."

"Yes, dear; I trust you will be firm friends as
well as companions.  Milly has been longing for
sister Lena."

"And I have been longing for her," was Lena's answer.

"You have been very quick putting Lucy to bed:
was she good?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"Oh, Hester did that; she was quite good
with her, and Aunt Mary said I had better not
stay, for she wanted her to grow accustomed to Hester."

"And where are you to sleep?"

"In the room with Lucy.  I took off my things
there, and I thought you might want me to help you."

"Oh, let me do that to-night," pleaded Lena.

"I shall be glad of help from you both.  We
have been idling our time away here talking
instead of getting ready for dinner, and nothing is
unpacked."

So saying, Mrs. Graham returned to her room,
followed by the two girls, and very soon they were
both busily engaged, undoing parcels, and getting
out things that were required for the night.  At
first they delayed one another by both working at
the same box, and strewing its contents over the
floor.  Such dreadful confusion ensued from this,
that Mrs. Graham proposed that one should do the
unpacking, while the other put the things away
tidily in the drawers.

"Who shall unpack?" asked Lena.

"Well, I think you had better, and Milly can
put away, for she knows what we shall require
at first."

"I shall know soon, too, shan't I?" asked Lena;
"but I like unpacking best, and seeing what you
have got."

"You will never get through your work if you
stop to examine and admire everything," said
Mrs. Graham, as she watched her taking a good look at
each thing she brought out of the box.

Milly took the opportunity while she was stooping
down to take some clothes out of Lena's arms,
to whisper, "I like the flowers so much."

"Do you know which are meant for you?" she
asked, stopping in her work for a reply.

"Yes, the primroses, Aunt Mary told me.  I
think them lovely."

After this they worked away busily until dinner-time.
Then, when the bell sounded, Lena rushed
off to tell Aunt Mary what she had been doing,
and also to inform her that they were all dear
darlings; and, "what did Auntie think of Milly?"

Auntie's opinion was very favourable.

Then Lena suggested, "But don't you think she
is very quiet?"

"She is very sweet and gentle, and I think very
shy; but as you know, Lena, I do not dislike a
little bit of shyness in children; it is far, far better
than being forward."

"But not too shy?"

"Milly is not that; and I feel sure that you
will be great friends as well as loving little sisters
before long."

This conversation took place as they went down
to the drawing-room, Lena hanging on to her
Aunt's arm, as she eagerly questioned her.  Finding
no one in the drawing-room, Lena began again—

"Isn't she tall, Auntie, nearly as tall as I am?"—the
"she" alluded to being, of course, Milly.

"Quite as tall as you are, I think, though that
is not such an enormous height, for"——

"No, I know," burst in Lena; "I wish I was
taller, because people will never believe that I am
so much older than she is."

Miss Somerville laughed as she answered, "I do
not think that that need cause you unhappiness, dear."

The entrance of Mrs. Graham and Milly put an
end to their conversation; then Colonel Graham
came in, and they all went into the dining-room.

After dinner the two sisters went off together to
Lena's room, to see all her treasures.  There had
been a certain constraint and shyness between
them, as is so often the case with children in the
presence of their elders.  When they were alone,
this wore off very quickly, and soon they were
chatting away together, the best of friends; and
although Lena's tongue was going at a gallop, Milly
managed to keep up a very good second.

When Aunt Mary came to tell them it was time
to go to bed, she found them seated, side by side,
on the floor, Milly clasping in her arms "Millicent
Lucy," while Lena held forth on the doings and
sayings of Aunt Mary and herself; and promising
Milly all sorts of delights, in both their names.

"O Auntie, we are having such a nice talk."

"Which I have come to put an end to."

"Already?"

"Yes, dears; it is prayer-time now."

At this both girls jumped up, and Dolly being
put away carefully, the two girls followed their
Aunt downstairs, hand clasped in hand.

Later, Mama went up with her two girls to see
Lucy.  Such a pretty picture she made, Lena
thought, as she looked down on the chubby little
face, all flushed with sleep, one small arm thrown
over her head, and the fair curls all tossed about in
confusion.  As Mrs. Graham looked down on her
little one, her heart swelled with love and gratitude
at once more having all her children with her.
Putting an arm round each of the others, she said
in a low voice, "I trust, darlings, that you both
thanked Him to-night for His great mercy to us all?"

"Yes, Mama," Milly whispered, shyly.  "And
for letting Lena be so nice and kind, and Aunt
Mary too."

"And, Mama, I have to thank Him for double as
much as Milly has, for I have four of you all at
once, and you are all just as nice as I hoped and
expected."

"I am glad you are not disappointed in any of
us, darling," answered her mother with a smile;
"but we must not talk any more beside Lucy or
we shall awake her."

"I may give her one kiss, please, Mama," said
Lena; "she does look such a sweet!"

"Only one, and try and not to awake her, dear,"
was the answer.  Then they left Milly, and Mama
took Lena to her room, and said good-night.

Aunt Mary had been in and given her good-night
kiss, and Lena was just falling off to sleep, all sorts
of pleasant happy thoughts passing through her
mind, in the confused sort of way that so often
happens after anything pleasant has occurred—thoughts
half real, half dreams, all jumbled up together
in hopeless confusion, but very sweet withal,—when
the door of her room opened very gently, but
still making just noise enough to call forth the
sleepy question, "Auntie, is that you?"

"No, darling, it's Mama."

"Mama!" she exclaimed, raising her head and
rubbing her sleepy eyes.

"I could not go to sleep without one more look
at my newly restored treasure."

Throwing her arms round her mother's neck, she
said fervently, "I am so glad to have you, Mama;
and I will be a treasure to you and be so good,
indeed I will."

"God grant it, my darling," was Mama's answer
to her as she laid the sleepy little head on the pillow
again.  Then kneeling beside her child's little bed
she thanked Him, in a few heartfelt words, for having
watched over and guarded her little one, during
those six long years of separation.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PETITION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PETITION.

.. vspace:: 2

The next few days passed away very happily.
Having her sisters with her as companions quite
equalled Lena's fondest expectations.  Not a jar or
a discord had broken the harmony of those days as
yet.  Milly was so nice, and always ready to
admire and enjoy everything that Lena did or
proposed; and as to giving up things,—certainly little
Lucy did sometimes want what her elder sisters
were playing with, but it was very easy to please
and satisfy her, she was such a sweet little thing.
Lena often wondered how Auntie could have feared
her not liking to do it.

It was the end of April when the Grahams
came to West Meadenham, and now May had
arrived—bright warm sunshiny May, enabling them
to spend most of their time out of doors, either in
the garden or the fields.  And nicest of all, many
a happy hour was spent on the sands and among
the rocks, while their parents and Aunt walked up
and down the Parade, watching them, or would sit
with books and work on the shingle, ready to listen
to all their doings when they rushed up breathless
and eager to recount them.

But these bright delightful days could not last
for ever.  The first change was Colonel Graham's
leaving them for a few days on a visit to
some relations; and Lena had a shrewd suspicion,
from words that she had heard fall from Aunt
Mary, that other changes were in store for them
also; but at present she was too much occupied
with her sisters to think much about it.

The day after Colonel Graham left, Mama and
Auntie announced that they were going to be very
busy, preparing Milly's and Lucy's summer-dresses,
and that they wanted Hester's assistance, so the
three children might play out in the garden together
quietly.

"Not go to the beach to-day?"

"I am afraid not.  You can be very happy without
going there for one afternoon."

"But, Mama," argued Lena, "it is such a
pity not to go to-day, because it's low tide in the
afternoon, and we should be able to have such a
nice long time on the rocks—do let us go."

"Run away now and play in the garden, and we
will see what can be done about it after dinner."

"I do hope you will let us, Mama, Lena says."

"Never mind what Lena says, Milly.  You
must both do what you are told.  It is not the
way to gain your wishes by being disobedient."

The two girls went slowly and reluctantly from
the room, and taking their hats, went into the
garden.

What had come over them both I know not:
perhaps it was that the last few days had been too
pleasant, and they were beginning to think that
things were always to be so for them; or perhaps
it was that the first hot weather made them both
feel a little bit cross and languid—it has that effect
sometimes, I believe; but whatever the reason was,
the fact was what I have stated: they both were
feeling rather cross, and inclined to take a gloomy
view of things.  And their being told that they might
not be able to go to the beach that day was a
ready-made grievance for them.

They showed their feelings, however, in very
different ways.  While Milly went and sat down
quietly on a garden-seat, and gazed wistfully at the
object of her affections, the sea, Lena wandered
about the garden in a restless, disconsolate sort
of way.  Lucy was busy playing by herself with
a little cart and horse, and for a few minutes Lena
played with her; but seeing Milly leaning forward
and looking quite interested, she said hastily, "You
must play by yourself now, Lucy; I want to go and
speak to Milly."

It is a curious fact that when one is idle and
unsettled, one is apt to get a feeling of being ill
used at seeing any one else looking interested and
occupied.  This was what Lena felt when she saw
her sister not looking dull and wistful as before,
but with a bright and animated expression on her
face.  Going up to her she said, "Milly, what
are you looking at?"

No answer.  This was irritating, so she repeated
her question in a louder tone.  Instead of speaking,
Milly held up her hands, as if to impose
silence on her.

This was too much for Lena in her present mood.
Giving her sister a push, she exclaimed angrily,
"How rude you are not to answer me!  What *are*
you looking at?"

"There now, Lena, you have spoilt it all."

"Spoilt all what?  How tiresome you are, Milly!"

"I was counting the ships that passed, or that I
could see, and I wanted to count twenty, and I had
only got to fourteen when you disturbed me.  Now
I must begin again."

"Oh, that's silly.  It's all very well when you
are by yourself, but not when you have any one to
play with."

"What shall we do then?" asked Milly, who was
now getting over her disappointment; and as she
was more accustomed to give up her own wishes
than Lena was, she was naturally of a far happier
disposition.  Little Lucy had been her constant
companion; and Milly was so fond of her little
sister, that she never thought it hard or disagreeable
to put aside her own pleasures and wishes to please
Lucy.  So now she found it easy to give in to
Lena also.  Lena had not found out how much
pleasanter and happier life is when one studies the
happiness of others.  Her happiness had been so
studied by Aunt Mary that she took Milly's
good-natured assent as a matter of course.

"There is nothing nice to do here, the garden is
so small; and Milly, don't you think that Mama
might let us go to the beach?  Aunt Mary would,
I know."

"Mama will if she can; she always is good to
us," and she gave Lena a reproachful look for her
last words.

Lena noticed the reproach in both words and
look, but she answered, without remarking upon it,
"She would not even let us stay and ask about it.  I
always coax and coax Aunt Mary till she says 'Yes.'"

"Does she always say yes when you coax?" was
the surprised remark elicited from Milly.

"Not always," Lena had to confess, "but sometimes."

There was a pause for a minute or two, and then
Lena exclaimed eagerly, "Do you remember that
man coming with a paper for Auntie to sign, and she
told us it was a petition, and the man said the
more people that signed it, the more likely it would
be to succeed."

"Yes; what of that?" answered Milly in an
independent tone.  She had gone back to her occupation
of counting the vessels in sight and was once
more absorbed in it.

"I don't believe you listened to what I was
saying; I do think it unkind of you."

At this accusation Milly started, and turning
round, said gently, "I didn't mean to be unkind,
but what has the petition to do with us?"

"O Milly, you are stupid.  Don't you see what
I mean?  Wouldn't it be fine to write a petition
to Mama to let us go to the beach?"

"Yes, let us: it would be something to do."

"I will go in and get a sheet of paper and a
pencil, and then we will all sign it.  Do you
remember how it began?"

"Let me try and remember," said Milly with an
air of wisdom, covering her face with her hands, as
if to prevent any outside object from attracting
her attention, only looking up, as Lena ran off to
the house, to call out, "Mind and bring a pretty
piece, Lena."

"All right," was the cheerful answer.

A few minutes after she returned with a packet
of paper in her hand.  "Look, I have brought
'terra cotta;' it's a very fashionable colour," was
her announcement, as she held it out for her sister
to see.

"It is not a very pretty colour though?"

"No, but the woman in the shop said it was
very fashionable."  This was said in a tone that
admitted of no reply.

Laying the paper on the seat they both knelt
down upon the ground, and each began to write.
They decided on writing a rough copy first, and
then, as Lena said, "she, as the eldest, would copy
it out tidily."

"I took a look into the dictionary, to see that we
were spelling it all right, for we mustn't make
mistakes in that, or Mama and Auntie would
laugh at us."

There was silence for a little while, as both
heads were bent over their work: it was more
difficult than they expected.  At last Milly gave a
great sigh, "I can't think where humble came; it
did somewhere, I know."

"Yes, so it did.  Now I remember; of course it
ought to be at the end.  We must put 'Your humble
children.'  Let me have a look at your paper.  Why,
I've got much more scratched out than you have.
I've begun six times already."

"It's the beginning that is so difficult; but, Lena,
I feel sure 'humble' was at the top somewhere."

"Who was that petition to, I wonder?" said Lena.

"I am sure I don't know."  And they both burst
out laughing.  Their ill-humour had all vanished
by this time and they were in high spirits.

"It must have been to the 'Queen.'"

"Then they would not have put 'humble Queen.'"

At this there came another explosion of laughter.

"To our humble Mother and Aunt."  That
certainly sounded quite wrong.  They remembered
that the words "Most Gracious" were what they had
seen oftenest written before their Sovereign's name.

At last they decided to write one together; it
was more amusing in doing, and also more likely
to be successful.  Their continual peals of laughter
soon attracted Lucy's attention, and she hovered
about them, quite ready and anxious to assist, and
growing impatient at the long delay before she was
allowed to sign her name.

After nearly an hour's work they wrote the
following:—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   "To our Most Gracious Mother and Aunt.

.. vspace:: 1

"Please, dear darling Mama and Auntie—please
let us go to the beach this afternoon, because it
will be low tide, and perhaps we shall be able to
catch some little crabs.  We love playing on the
rocks, and do want to go so much.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Your loving and humble children,
   "HELENA MARY GRAHAM.
   "MILLICENT GRACE GRAHAM.
   "LUCY CAROLINE GRAHAM.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

"*P.S.*—We don't want anybody to go with us,
and we will be very good.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large

   "OUR PETITION."

.. vspace:: 2

These last two words were written in very large
letters at the bottom of the page.  They had an
idea that it ought to be written somewhere, so that
there would be no mistake as to the nature of the
document.

When this was all done, they surveyed their
work with great pride.  Then Milly ran in for an
envelope, and the petition was folded up and put
in, and the address written—

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: white-space-pre-line

   "Mrs. GRAHAM,
   "Miss SOMERVILLE."

.. vspace:: 2

Going into the house, they gave it to Emma the
servant.  Taking her into their confidence, they
easily obtained her promise to ring the hall-door
bell, and bring it into the dining-room on a salver.

"What time would you like it brought in?" she
asked with a smile, quite entering into the spirit of
the fun.

"Soon," said Milly, "or Lucy will let it all out."

"She had better not," began Lena.

"When I have handed round the plates I will
get master to ring the bell, and then I will go out
and bring it in."

That was a delightful arrangement, and now all
they had to do was to impress upon Lucy the
necessity of silence.

As they were still pointing out to her the dreadful
consequences that would follow, if she mentioned a
word about what they had been doing, Hester was
heard calling them in to get ready for their dinner.

That something was exciting the children, was
very quickly seen by both Mama and Auntie, from
the frequent and meaning looks they exchanged,
and from the state of suppressed excitement they
were all in.

The hall-door bell was heard to ring.

"There it is!" exclaimed Lucy, eagerly.

"Hush!" came immediately from the other two.

Then Emma went out and returned with a letter,
which she handed to Mrs. Graham, who on reading
the address had great difficulty in suppressing a
smile.

Opening the letter, she read it through carefully;
then handing it to Miss Somerville, said, "It will
require serious consideration before we give an
answer."

"Oh, please, don't say that, Mama; we want an
answer at once."

"Your Aunt has not even read it yet.  After
dinner my humble little children can come to me
in the drawing-room, and then I hope to give them
a gracious answer."

With this they had to be content, for not a word
more would Mrs. Graham say on the subject until
after dinner.  Lucy was carried off for an hour's
sleep; and Mama, seating herself on the sofa, drew
Lena to her side, while Milly installed herself on
the other side; then Mrs. Graham said—

"You are longing for an answer to your petition,
I know, dears.  First I must tell you that Auntie
and I graciously assent to it."

"That means we are to go, Mama?" asked Milly.

"Thank you, thank you," exclaimed Lena; "I
told you, Milly, if we coaxed them."

"No, Lena dear," interrupted her mother, "that
was the very thing that nearly lost it to you.  I
could not promise when you asked me before,
because I never like to break a promise, and I
was not sure whether it would be safe for you three
children to go alone."

"I could have told you it would," said Lena,
reproachfully.

"But I preferred Aunt Mary's opinion," was her
mother's answer, given with a smile.

"She thinks it safe, doesn't she, Mama?"

"Yes, but what I want to say to you now, is
particularly to you, Lena.  I saw my little girl
thought I was very unkind in not consenting to
her wishes at once, and now you think I have
given leave because you begged and coaxed."

Lena blushed furiously at this, but nodded her
head, as much as to say, "Yes, that is true."

"What I want you both, my children, to do, is
to trust me.  I think it gives me more pain to
refuse you a pleasure, than you to be refused; and
when I say No, try, darlings, and believe that
Mama has some good reason for it."

"Yes, we will," they both exclaimed at once.
Then Lena went on to say, "But, Mama, why didn't
you tell us that you were not sure, and the reason,
and then I could have told you it was quite safe to
go alone?"

"In fact, dear, why did I not ask your advice,
you mean?"

"No, I didn't mean that; only if you had said"——

"And what about obedience, Lena?"

Not receiving any answer, Mrs. Graham continued.
"Perfect obedience, dear, is what Papa
and I both expect from all our children; and by
and by, when you know us better, you will find out
that it is not only your duty but your happiness to
give it.  I think Milly knows that already."

"Yes, Mama, and I know how good you are, and
always try to do what we like."

"And I hope Lena will soon think so too."

"You talk as if Milly loved you better than I
do," said Lena jealously, "and I am sure she does not."

"No, darling, I did not mean that, for I am sure
you both love me dearly.  What I meant was that
Milly knows me best, and understands my ways."

"And Lena will soon," said Milly, stooping across
her mother to smile at her sister, "for we are going
to be the greatest friends, aren't we, Lena?  We
have settled that a long time."

Then, after a loving kiss from Mama, the two
girls went off together to get ready for their walk;
and by the time buckets and spades had been
hunted out, and they were both ready, Lucy had had
her sleep, and was waiting for them in the hall.

"Be sure and come in by half-past five or six at
latest.  Auntie won't mind putting off Lucy's tea
till then, I am sure."

No.  Auntie was quite ready to do anything she
was asked; and after many promises of being very
good and careful, they started, Lena calling back, as
they shut the gate, "You can trust them to me; I
will look after them."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE ROCKS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON THE ROCKS.

.. vspace:: 2

The three girls started off hand in hand; Lucy
between the two elder ones, holding a hand of each.
As it was all down-hill, they went at such a quick
pace that it was almost a run, and brought them
very quickly to the esplanade.  Here they stopped
and took a look round.

As they had told their mother, it was very
nearly low tide, and a long stretch of beach and
rocks lay temptingly before them.  Not a cloud was
to be seen in the sky; and the waves broke so softly
and gently on the shore, that it was hard to associate
the thoughts of storms and raging winds with that
sparkling, lake-like sea.

On either side of them stretched, as far as the
children could see, the broad, handsome esplanade,
now quite a gay sight with the many people who
had been tempted out by the warm sun, either to
sit or walk up and down, while enjoying the beauty
and freshness of the day.  In the distance a band
was playing, the soft strains of which were heard by
the children as they stood gazing about them.

"A band!" cried Lucy.  "O Milly, do let us
go and hear it closer—do come;" and she pulled
her sisters in the direction from which the sound came.

"Mama might not like us to go; and besides,
Lucy, there are such lots of people there," said
Milly.

Lena did not at all approve of this speech of
Lucy's.  It was not Milly's permission she ought
to have asked, but hers.  *She* was the eldest, and
had already said that she would take care of them,
or, as she would have expressed it, "had promised
Mama to take care of them."  And besides, she
knew the place, and was at home here, which
Millicent certainly was not.

So, as soon as Milly had spoken, she said—

"Why shouldn't we go?  The people won't hurt
us.  Come along, Milly," she added impatiently,
as the latter drew back.

"But, Lena, Mama didn't give us leave.  She said
we might go to the beach, and"——

"And so we are going.  We can go down to it
near the band, and Lucy can hear it, as she wants
to so much."

"Yes, I do want to," said Lucy, dropping Milly's
hand and going forward with Lena.

"We shall hear it just as well down here, and it
will be much nicer on the rocks than among all
those people."

"It's because you are shy and afraid.  You
want Lucy not to hear it."

Now like many shy, sensitive people, Milly
couldn't bear to be called so.  She felt as if it was
wrong and a disgrace to be shy.  So she said, "I
don't think Mama would like it.  I should like it
otherwise."

"I'm the eldest, and know that it's all right; so
come along, it's no good wasting all our time doing
nothing."  And she started off with Lucy, who was
delighted at the prospect of going to see, as well as
hear, the band.

It was a much longer walk than any of them
had expected, and by the time they got there, Lucy
was rather tired; so they found a seat and sat and
listened to the music for some time.  Milly's
shyness at finding herself among a number of people
soon wore off, when she found that no one took
any notice of them; and Lena's assurance that she
had often come, with only a companion of her own
age, reassured her as to the propriety of the
proceeding, so they all enjoyed themselves listening to
the music and watching the varied throng around
them, until Lucy became tired of sitting still and
proposed that they should go to the rocks.  It was
no use going back to those nearer home, so they ran
down the first steps they came to, and were soon
close to the water's edge, hard at work with spade
and bucket.

Leaving Milly and Lucy to play on the sand,
Lena wandered off to the rocks.  This was much
more exciting work, and she went back in a very
short time to invite the others to come there also.

.. _`53`:

"Bring your bucket, Lucy, and we will try and
catch you a dear little crab," promised Lena, as
they all went off together.  But very soon the rocks
proved too difficult for poor little Lucy; they were
rough and slippery, and she slipped about in the
most helpless manner.  With the aid of her sister's
hand she managed for a little, then, emboldened
by her success, she tried to go alone, but alas! it
was for a very little way.  Down she came on the
sharp wet stones, cutting both hand and leg in the
fall, raising a loud cry of pain and terror as she
did so.  Her sisters were beside her in a moment,
consoling and lifting her on to smoother ground.
But some time elapsed before she was comforted
sufficiently to be left.

"You are all right now, Lucy, aren't you?" said
Lena coaxingly.

"It hurts still," said Lucy mournfully.

"But, Lucy, if we don't go we shall not be able
to catch you a crab," continued Lena.

This was too tempting an offer to be refused;
even the injured hand was forgotten before such an
alluring prospect, and Lucy promised to stay and
amuse herself with her spade, until the others
returned with the promised crab.

"You will be sure and not leave this part until
we come back," said Milly.

"You are a good little girl, Lucy," said Lena,
giving her a kiss.

"Now, Milly, we will have a grand scramble.
Let us try and go out to those quite far out, the big
ones I mean, and let the water come all round us."

And she started off, jumping from rock to rock
with the confidence and surefootedness gained by
many a former scramble.  Not so Milly, who was
new to the work, and only too glad to avail herself
of Lena's hand and help.

Soon they were both at the furthest point,
proudly waving their handkerchiefs back to Lucy,
who, poor little body, sat quietly playing for some
time by herself, quite happy with her spade.  For
how long she did not know, but it must have been
for some time.  She could see her sisters at some
distance off, evidently very busy about something,
"catching the crab" they had promised to bring
her, she supposed.  It must be very interesting
work, she thought, thus to engross their attention,
and keep them away so long.  Why should not she
try her hand at it also? was the conclusion she
arrived at ere long.  Rising from where she was
seated, she wandered off, and very soon was searching
in the pools of water that lay, left by the
receding tide, at the edge of the rocks, quite happy,
and delighted with all the beauties she descried in
their clear depths.

Is it any wonder that we, as well as the children,
are enchanted, and forget the passing hours as we
search out "the treasures of the deep" that are left
by the receding waves, to give us a glimpse, as it
were, of the "wondrous things" that lie hidden
in their depths?  And above all, what mysteries
and beauties of God's love does the sea show forth
to the thoughtful mind; and who can help being
thoughtful and awed as they gaze on that mighty
work of the Creator, and think how He who rules
the raging waters, and who said of old, "Hitherto
shalt thou come, but no further, and here shall thy
proud waves be stayed," is the same loving Father
who watches over and guards the weakest and
smallest of His children, and without whose knowledge
not "even a sparrow falleth to the ground"?
No wonder then that Lena and Milly became so
absorbed and interested as they searched among the
pools, some of which were quite large and deep,
for the crab they had promised to catch and take
back to Lucy; though I fear this their original
intention was soon forgotten among all the new
delights that they discovered, and the time slipped
away as if it were a thing of not the slightest
consequence.

At first they often took a look to see if their
little sister was safe, and every time they did so,
they saw her sitting in the same place, busy with
her spade.  At last Milly exclaimed, "O Lena, I
don't see Lucy; we must go back and look for her."

Lena looked round, rather startled also.  Then
she answered, "How stupid of us to be frightened!
Of course she's hidden behind the rocks.  We have
moved ever so far since the last time we looked."

"I will go back and see.  I wish we had brought
her on with us."

"She couldn't have managed to scramble along
these rocks.  She is all right, I am sure."

"I won't be long going back to look.  Mama
trusted me to look after her."

Lena flushed.  This was her weak point, and as
Milly spoke, an angry feeling started up in Lena's
mind at the thought, perhaps "Mama had spoken
to Milly privately, and told her to look after
Lucy."  "She trusts her more than she trusts me," were the
words she used to herself.  Out loud she said,
"Mama said I was to take charge of you both.
What did she say to you, Milly?"

"To be careful of Lucy," said Milly, without
looking at her sister.  She was gazing earnestly
about to see if she could see Lucy, and so didn't
observe the changed expression on Lena's face.
When she did turn round, Lena was stooping down
peering into the water.

"You can go back then if you like.  I must
get that bit of seaweed for Auntie, and then I
will follow you," she said without raising her
head.

"Don't be long, will you, Lena?"

"No, and I will soon overtake you, if you go
slipping and stumbling about as you did coming."  The
words were not either kindly said or meant.

Milly looked vexed.  "I did not mean to put
you out by asking you to hurry, Lena."

Lena vouchsafed no answer to this; so Milly
went on, "I know I can't manage half so well as
you do—come and help me."

Still silence.  So after lingering for a minute or
two, Milly started off.

She had not gone very far when Lena heard a
cry of pain, and looking up, saw Milly raising
herself and looking ruefully at her hand.  She had
evidently hurt herself, and conscience gave Lena a
sharp prick, that recalled her to her better self.
Alas! poor Lena little knew to what a strong enemy
she was opening her heart.  She would have
indignantly denied that she was jealous of Milly,—no
one ever does like to confess that they are that
of anybody,—but it was the truth, and twice that
day had she allowed it entrance "only just for a
moment;" but it is quite wonderful how a very little
giving in to strengthens our faults.  "Ill weeds
grow apace" is only too true.  The sweet flowers
want a great deal of care and cultivation; but then
when they do come to perfection, how they repay
us for all the toil and care, and what happiness
they give, not only to the owner, but to all around!

Lena sprang forward, and was soon beside her
sister, whom she found tying up her hand with her
handkerchief and trying hard to keep back the tears.

"Have you cut it much, Milly? let me look."

Milly undid the handkerchief, and showed a
deep cut on the palm of her hand.  "The salt
water makes it smart so," she explained, blinking
her eyes fast to get rid of the tell-tale tears.

"It is a deep one.  Cover it up again; I will
help you," and she tied the handkerchief again.

"Thank you, Lena.  I have cut my leg too;
was not it stupid!  I was trying to hurry, and
forgot how slippery it was."

Together they went on, jumping and scrambling
from rock to rock.

"We ought to see her now.  I am sure that
is the place where we left her."

Yes, there was the place, and plenty signs in the
scattered sand, that some small person had been at
work; but no Lucy was to be seen.

They looked at one another in alarm.  What
could have become of her?

"Oh, I wish we had never left her!" burst out Milly.

"It's very naughty of her to Lave moved, when
we told her not to," said Lena.

There was no good standing there, wondering any
longer, so they started off to look for her.

"Let us ask those children near if they have
seen her," proposed Lena; and running down to
where they were at play, they inquired of them if
they had seen their little sister.  "She was sitting
playing there close to the rocks."

"Yes, they had seen her, but she had gone away
some time ago in that direction," pointing fortunately
to the direction that led towards home.

"And I don't wonder either; it must have been
jolly dull for her all by herself," remarked a boy
loud enough for the two girls to hear, as they were
hurrying off to look for Lucy.

They both blushed scarlet, as they heard these
words, and knew that they were meant to hear
them.  "What a horrid rude boy!  But, Milly, I
wish we had not left her now."

"So do I," was the answer given with a sigh.

As they skirted the rocks, they came upon a
long stretch of sand, now well covered with children.
Close to the water's edge were several of them
paddling, their bare legs gleaming in the water
as they danced and jumped about.  And there
among them, gazing with delight at their antics,
was the missing Lucy.  So close was she to the
water, that the little waves not only crept up close
to her feet, but rippled gently over them, much to
the child's delight, who clapped her hands and
screamed with pleasure at every wetting.

"You naughty child!" said Lena, as she rushed
up to her, followed more slowly by Milly, who was
limping from the cut on her leg.

Lucy turned round, her rosy little face beaming
with delight, not one whit abashed by Lena's angry
words.

"You naughty child! what made you leave and
give us such a fright?"  Lena was like many
other people who have been frightened; when once
their fears are removed, they give vent to their
feelings by being angry, and, strange to say, consider
they have a right to be aggrieved.  "You are so
wet, too; what will Mama say?"

"That you ought not to have left me," said
Lucy, with a saucy laugh.

Lena was too much taken aback to answer this,
and Lucy, seeing her advantage, continued, "You
and Milly are just as wet as I am;" and she pointed
to their feet and dresses, which certainly were both
wet and dirty.

Several of the paddlers had gathered round to
listen to the conversation, and as Lucy pointed
triumphantly to her sister's wet feet, they all raised
a laugh.  For a moment Lena looked very angry;
but catching Milly's eyes, which were dancing
with suppressed laughter, the absurdity of it all
struck her also, and she joined in the laugh.

"I expect you will all catch it, when you go
home," remarked one of the small bystanders in
a delighted tone.

"Come, Lucy, it is time to go home."

"Not yet; it's such fun here, I mean to stay,"
said Lucy, who was so elated at having silenced
Lena's scolding, that she thought she might do
what she chose.

A laugh from the listeners egged Lucy on in her
naughtiness.

Milly's "O Lucy, how can you be so naughty!"
was taken no notice of.

Lena, with heightened colour but in silence,
walked off to where a lady was sitting, reading,
and asked politely, if she would "tell her the time."

"Five-and-twenty minutes to seven," was the
answer as she looked at her watch.

As late as that, and they were told to be
home by six!  "Thank you," she said to the
lady, then hurried back to Milly and told her the hour.

"We must go home at once," she exclaimed.

"Will Mama be very angry?"

"Not when we tell her we did not mean to be
naughty, and did not know the time.  She will be
frightened though; I wish Lucy would be good
and come."

"She must," said Lena shortly.  Going up to
the child she took hold of her by the arm and
said, "We are going home now, Lucy; it's very
late, and Mama will be vexed."

Lucy looked up saucily—"That's to make me
come, but I am not going yet."

"Yes, you are; it's long after six."  She pulled
Lucy away from the water, Milly took hold of her
by the other hand, and together they dragged her
away, screaming lustily.

All eyes were fixed upon them, making both the
elder girls very uncomfortable.  They knew they
were right in going home, but still thus having to
drag their little sister away by main force made
them, they thought, appear very unkind in the
eyes of the bystanders.

"O Lucy, do be good and come quietly," entreated
Milly.

"You must come, Lucy, so there is no good
making all this fuss," added Lena.

"I am not going to obey Lena.  I'll go with
Milly, but I don't love Lena; she's horrid."  And
pulling her arm away from Lena's restraining grasp,
she struck wildly at her, to push her away.

Lucy's words were but added fuel to Lena's
wrath.  Seizing the child firmly by her shoulders
she gave her a good shaking, saying as she did so,
"I don't care if you like me or not, but you must
do what I tell you."

"O Lena, don't be angry; she does not mean
what she says, I know she doesn't," said Milly.

The shaking so took Lucy by surprise, for she
was unaccustomed to such strong measures, that
she stopped screaming, and gazed at Lena's angry
face in open-mouthed astonishment.

In the midst of this scene Hester's voice was
heard exclaiming, "Miss Lena, whatever is the
matter?  That's not the way to treat your little
sister.  I wonder at you, that I do!"

At the sound of Hester's voice, Lena quickly
removed her hands from Lucy's shoulders, and turning
to her said, "She has been so naughty, Hester; she
would not come home, though we told her it was
late, and she went on screaming."

"But you hurt me," sobbed the child.  "I would
have gone with Milly, because she's kind and nice."

"That's a wicked story, Lucy.  You know quite
well Milly had to drag you along as well as I;
hadn't you, Milly?"

"Yes," she asserted; "but, Lucy, you will be
good now?"

"You should not have been so rough with her,
Miss Lena; you don't understand how to manage
children."

"No, she does not," agreed Lucy.  "I will go
home with you, Hester," clinging affectionately to
her new ally, as she considered Hester.

"Your mother was so nervous at your being so
late, that Miss Somerville sent me to look for you."

"Come on, Lena," said Milly, and linking her
arm into her elder sister's, they hurried on first,
followed by Hester and Lucy.

At first neither of the two girls spoke as they
walked quickly along, but soon the steep hill, they
had to ascend, made them slacken their pace.

"Lena," said Milly, "you are not still angry with
Lucy; she is so dreadfully passionate sometimes, but
she does not mean all she says."

"Then she ought to be punished," was the short answer.

"So she always is.  And she does not get into
rages nearly as often as she did, because she knows
how wicked it is, and how it grieves the Lord Jesus,"
said Milly reverently, adding, as a sort of apology
for her little sister, "And she is very young, you know."

The life of a child in India is very different to
what it is in this country; and Millicent, thoughtful
and gentle by nature, had become more so, from
having been the constant companion of her parents;
for in the hill station, where their home was
situated, she had no companion of her own age.  The
few children that were near them were all quite
little, and looked upon Milly as "quite old" in
comparison.  Mrs. Graham had been very far from well,
the last two years of their stay, and when Colonel
Graham had to be away, as he often was obliged to be,
on duty, it was Milly's delight and privilege to be
her mother's loving little nurse and attendant.
And Mama loved to have her gentle little daughter
beside her, during the long days of weakness that
followed the attacks of fever from which she
suffered; and Milly would sit so quietly with her
work, or read out to her, but oftenest they spoke of
the dear child and sister in the English home.  In
this way, Mama soon began to depend upon her little
nurse, and even to consult her, when Papa was
away, upon many subjects; and she dearly liked to
be consulted and trusted by Mama, and would put
on an air of wisdom, and answer quite gravely and
sedately on such occasions, and was beginning to
think herself almost grown-up compared to little
Lucy, who was full of baby fun and frolic, and apt
to become so wild and noisy that she would disturb
Mama, if Milly did not amuse her and keep her
good.  "She was a pet and a darling, and didn't
know better," Milly would say at such times.  It
was only natural then, that Milly considered it her
duty to apologise for her little sister's outburst of
naughtiness.  As Lena made no answer, she went
on, "You won't mind, Lena dear, will you?"

"It's very hard," burst out Lena.  "Mama
trusted her to me, so she ought to have obeyed
me; and Hester blames me, I know she does, from
what she said, and she takes her part, and she has
been my nurse, and ought to like me best; but
nobody does love me but Auntie."

"O Lena, I do, and Papa and Mama, and Lucy."

"But they all love you best.  Mama always asks
you about things, and"——

Here Milly interrupted, with a look of distress—it
had never dawned upon her before that Lena
doubted her mother's love, or had what she called
such dreadful thoughts—"How can you say such
things, Lena?  It is not kind and it is not true,"
she added with spirit.

They had nearly reached the gate of Scarsdale
Villa by this time, and there stood Mrs. Graham,
looking out anxiously for them, and now hurried
to meet them, thus preventing any more conversation
between the sisters.

"Here you are, my darlings; I was beginning to
fear something had happened.  And there is Lucy
lagging behind, I see."  One look at her children's
faces, showed Mama that something had gone wrong.
Milly looked distressed, and Lena's usually bright
open countenance was now very clouded.  Putting
her arm round Lena, she drew her to her side, and
kissing her, said, "What has made you so late, dear?"

What power there is for good in the gentle word
or the loving gesture!  The mere fact of her mother
having put her arm round her, and having spoken
to her first, brushed away, for the moment, the hard
jealous thoughts, that had been finding room in
Lena's heart.

"I am so sorry, Mama, we are late," she said,
looking up with an altered expression.  "We were
so interested and happy on the rocks, we did not
know how fast the time was going."

"How did you find out at last?"

"We asked a lady, and it was five-and-twenty
minutes to seven; we were so astonished."

"Now run and take off your wet things, and
come down to tea.  Milly looks tired; are you,
darling?"

"A little, Mama, not very."

"She has cut her hand, Mama, and her leg too,
that is what makes her walk like that.  Fancy my
forgetting it!"

"I will tell Hester to take Lucy to the nursery
then.  I will come and see to you, dear," said
Mrs. Graham to Milly, as she watched them go up to
their rooms; then went out again to meet Hester
and Lucy, who by this time had also reached the
house.





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.. _`AUNTIE'S LETTER`:

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   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AUNTIE'S LETTER.

.. vspace:: 2

Wrong thoughts, when only sent away by a kind
deed or loving word, are not really rooted out;
they are, as it were, but expelled for a short time.
When we only thus send them away, we are like
the man in the parable spoken of by our Divine
Master.  The evil spirit certainly goes, but this is
not enough; we cannot sit down with folded hands
and say, "It is done—we can rest."  No, we have
our work still to do.  Now that the place is empty,
we must fill it anew, but this time with the good
and true, or else the evil thought will return, and
alas! not alone, but in the words of Holy Writ,
"He taketh with him seven other spirits, more
wicked than himself"—that is, the wrong thought
returns with sevenfold strength, and "the last state
of that man is worse than the first."

Thus it was with Lena Graham.  The jealous
thoughts, that had been showing themselves, were
put aside, as it were, for the time being, and
unfortunately she did not trouble herself any more
about them; and Milly, who was the only person
whom she had spoken or even hinted to, that she
had such thoughts, was only too glad to dismiss it
from her mind, blaming herself for having even
allowed the suspicion entrance.

"Lena," said her mother, later in the evening,
when she and Aunt Mary were sitting together
with the two girls in the drawing-room.

"Yes, Mama," she answered, looking up from the
book she was reading.

"What was the meaning of the scene that Hester
saw, when she found you on the beach this evening?"

Milly looked up hastily at these words, while
Lena said, "I will tell you about the whole afternoon
Mama.  It was this."  And she gave a long account
of their doings, appealing often to Milly to confirm
what she said; and if she did gloss over the leaving
little Lucy alone, it was done almost unconsciously,
so easy is it to see, when we wish it, a good reason
for our conduct.

When she had finished there was a pause for a
moment or two, during which the two girls looked
anxiously at their mother.

"Well, Mama?" asked Lena, who was growing impatient.

"I was wondering if either of my girls saw how
very selfishly they had acted this afternoon."

"In leaving Lucy alone?" they both said slowly.

"Yes, dears; don't you think it was very hard for
the child to be left all by herself? and from your
own account, you were away for some time."

"We didn't mean to be long."

"But that was not the first fault: disobedience
was that.  I gave you leave to go down to the
beach, but I did not give you leave to go and hear
the band play.  I thought I could have trusted you
both."

Milly's eyes filled with tears at these words, and
her heart swelled at the thought that she, "Mother's
right-hand," as she had often been called, could not
be trusted; but she said nothing, while Lena, who
was both truthful and generous, hastened to explain,
"It was not Milly's fault, Mama; she didn't want
to go, but I insisted on it."

"Ah, Lena, you see how one fault leads to another."

"But we were quite as safe there as at the beach."

"That has nothing to do with it.  You did
wrong, my child, and I am afraid, continued doing
so all the afternoon, for Hester tells me you were
very harsh and rough with your little sister."

"But Lucy was so naughty and cross, we could
not help getting angry."

"I know we ought not to have left her, Mama,"
said Milly; "but she was so provoking, screaming
so loud, it made everybody look at us.  Though we
told her it was late, she would not come home."

"And she hit me, and said all sorts of things."

"She was in one of her fits of passion," added Milly.

"I am very sorry to hear it," was Mrs. Graham's
answer with a sigh, for Lucy's fits of passion were
a great sorrow to her.

"If you had been gentler and kinder, would you
not have done more good?"

"I don't think so, for Milly didn't get into a
passion.  I did, Mama, and I am very sorry.  Oh
dear, it is so hard to be good!  And I wanted to
be so really, and now I have grieved you and
Auntie too.  I promised I would show how good
her child could be."

"O Lena dear, that is it: you forget what I said,
and what you promised; to try and be, not mine,
but"——and she paused, while Lena finished the
sentence in a low voice—"The child of God.  And
I have not been good, but I am so sorry, I really am."

"So am I," whispered Milly, nestling close to
her mother.  "Are you very grieved?  Will you
forgive us?"

"Fully and freely, dear; but there is One, whose
children you both are, whom you have grieved
more.  I want you both to ask Him to forgive you
before you go to sleep to-night, never doubting that
if you ask aright He will do so."

As the two girls went upstairs together, later on
that evening, Lena gave a great sigh as she said,
"Oh dear, I wish we had not taken Lucy with us
this afternoon; it quite spoiled all the pleasure."

"I wish we had not left her," said Milly, in her
gravest tones.

"I believe you think we are most to blame."

"We are the eldest, and she is such a little
thing; if we had stayed with her she would have
been good."

"Then I am most naughty, for I would go to
the band.  I wish one could always be good; it is
so horrible after being naughty."

When Lena was alone in her room, she went to
the window, and pulling up the blind, looked out,
but her thoughts were not on what she saw, fair
as the scene was, on which her eyes rested.  Beneath
her window lay the garden, now bathed in moonlight,
and in the far distance was the sea, shining
like a band of silver in the moon's rays.  How
often had she stood, as now, at this very window,
thinking!  Then, her thoughts had been of the
parents so dimly remembered.  What would they
be really like?  Ah, how good she would be to
them, and show how much she loved them.  Now
they had really come; and to-day, instead of all
this goodness, she had grieved her mother by her
disobedience and selfishness, and the little sister of
whom she had said, "She would like to give up
her pleasures to,"—she had quarrelled with her, not
only in word, but in very deed.  The tears filled
her eyes as she thus thought.  She did love her
mother just as much as she ever did, and—no, there
was no disappointment in her, but somehow things
were not quite what she had expected.  She had
pictured to herself a life with Mama, as something
of the same kind, she had led with her Aunt, being
her constant companion, and her one chief thought
and care.  Instead of that, she was more with her
sisters than her parents.  Kind and loving as
Mama was to her, she was equally so to Milly and
Lucy.  Poor foolish child, surrounded as she was
with every earthly blessing, she was not content.
Instead of a happy, grateful love for all she had,
she was groping after the impossible, and raising
up for herself all sorts of imaginary troubles, that
had no real existence but in her own wayward
fancy.  The opening of the door roused her, and
turning round, she saw that it was her mother who
had entered.

"Not in bed yet, dear?"

"No, Mama, I have been thinking," said Lena,
in a very grave tone, as she pulled down the blind.

"What were the thoughts that made you look
so grave, and forget to go to bed?"

"I was wondering why things are never so nice
as we expect them to be."

"Shall I tell you why that is the case, dear?"

Lena only nodded in reply, and Mrs. Graham,
looking down fondly on the girl's upturned face, said,
"Because we want things to be exactly as we wish,
instead of taking thankfully and contentedly what
God sends.  I fear we are all too apt to think we
know best what is good for us."

"Oh no, Mama," cried Lena in a shocked tone.

"We don't think or allow, even to ourselves, that
we do so, dear; but how is it that we so often
say—'If it had only been different, it would have been
so much nicer and better?'  I fancy that some such
thoughts were in my little girl's mind to-night."

"I did not know that it was so wrong.  Auntie
told me it would not be good for me to have my
own way too much; and I remember she once said,
'She was so glad she had not the ordering of her
own life.'  Are you glad too?"

"Yes, darling, very, very glad.  Ah, Lena dear, it
is such peace and happiness to know that all is
done for us by that loving Father, who gives us
more than we can ask or desire."

When Lena said her prayers that night, she
paused, in the Lord's Prayer, at the words, "Thy
will be done."  How often she had repeated them
slowly and reverently as she had been taught to do,
but to-night they seemed to assume a new and
deeper meaning; and when Mama had given her,
her good-night kiss, she repeated them over and
over to herself ere she fell asleep.  No wonder that
the next morning she rose bright and happy; and
when Lucy's voice was heard at the door saying,
"I want to speak to you, Lena," she opened the door
and greeted her little sister with a loving kiss.

"I am very sorry I was a naughty girl last night,"
she said gravely, as if repeating a lesson.

"Oh, never mind, dear."

"Mama said I was to beg your pardon; and, Lena,
I told a story, because I do love you."

"I was naughty too and unkind," said Lena, who,
when she was pleased and happy, was always ready
to be generous and kind.

In general, all Lena's troubles were self-made; she
wanted to be first, not so much in amusements,
though she certainly liked to take the lead there
also, but in every one's opinions and affections.
She wanted to be Milly's and Lucy's favourite, as
well as eldest sister.  And she would have also
liked to be the first in her parent's confidence and
affections, as well as the first of their children.

Aunt Mary called the two elder girls to her after
breakfast, and told them that she meant them to do
some lessons with her every morning.  Too much
idle time was neither good nor pleasant for them;
and she did not want the governess, under whose
care they were very soon to be placed, to find her
new pupils backward in their education.

The idea of a governess was quite new to them.
They would have liked to discuss the subject well
over with Auntie; but this she at once forbade—"Your
Mama will tell you all about it herself."

"Do just tell us when she is to come?"

"Not till your parents are settled into their own
house," said their Auntie unguardedly.

"Going to leave here?  O Auntie, you must
tell us—please, please do," Lena added coaxingly.

"I thought we were always to live here; I do
like this place.  Where are we to live?" said Milly,
adding her entreaties to Lena's.

"Not a word more will you get out of me," said
their Aunt laughing.  "What a foolish old woman
I was to let so much out."

"You are not old, and you are not foolish, but
a dear kind Auntie who is going to tell us all
about it."

"I am not quite so foolish as to be taken in
by all these blandishments; but, joking apart,
dears, I ought not to tell you more; your parents
will do so when they think right."

At this, both the girls returned to their seats, and
lessons went on quietly.  Milly was found not to
be so very much behind Lena, for she had been
well and carefully taught by her mother, who had
used the very same books of instruction that Miss
Somerville had taught Lena from.  So that the two
sisters would be able to go on together with the
same governess; and both girls were quite pleased
at the thought of doing the same lessons.  All was
as it should be.  Lena was a little advanced, but not
too much so to make it difficult for Milly to keep
up with her, but enough to spur Lena on to keep
in advance.

"Is it true we are to have a governess? and are
we going to another house?" were the questions
that were eagerly put to Mama on the very first
opportunity.

"I have been letting out secrets, I am afraid,"
said Miss Somerville.

"I meant to tell them what their Papa had
decided upon.  He has taken a house in the country—a
furnished one, near the friends with whom he
is now staying.  The people to whom it belongs
are anxious to leave as soon as they can, so Papa
says, he hopes we will be able to go there in a
fortnight."

"In a fortnight!"  This sudden move quite
took away Lena's breath; to leave Aunt Mary and
her own home! for Scarsdale Villa was the only
home Lena could remember.  Then she gave a little
laugh at this foolish thought of hers.  "Leave Aunt
Mary! of course she would go with them."

Milly was busy asking questions about the new
house—"Was it quite in the country? had it a
garden?"

All these questions were answered satisfactorily.
"It was quite in the country, with a nice garden,
and some fields attached to it," Mama said.

"What is to be done with this house?" Lena asked.

"I am going to let this," said her Aunt quietly.

So it was all right.  Aunt Mary was coming with
them; and Lena eagerly joined Milly in talking over
their new home.  How delightful it would be to live
quite in the country!  And very soon they were both
quite eager to be there, and were planning about the
gardens they were to have for their very own.

"You will find nice neighbours in the Freelings,"
said Miss Somerville to Mrs. Graham.

"Have they children?" was the eager question.

"Yes, six.  Two are grown up.  There are four
at home, two girls and two boys—at least not the
boys; they are at school."

"I wonder what they will be like—the girls I mean."

"The eldest girl is fifteen.  The youngest will be
a nice companion for you; she is only thirteen."

The prospect of the change gave the children
plenty to think and talk about for the next day
or two.  Lena went so far in preparation that
she went about collecting what she considered her
own property from the different rooms, and was
rather aggrieved that she was not allowed to pack
them all up in readiness.  Mama compromised the
matter by allowing her, with Milly's help, to fill
one box with the many books and toys that she
had outgrown, and were too numerous to carry
away; and this box, when ready, was to be sent
to the poor little suffering children in the hospital
How often that box was packed and unpacked I
should be sorry to say: it was a great amusement
and occupation to them for the next few days, as
the weather had changed, and instead of bright
sunshine and warm breezes, the rain came down
steadily; and Milly and Lucy would look mournfully
out of the window, thinking that here, as in India,
there was to be no more hot bright suns for some
time now that the rains had set in, though Lena
assured them fifty times a day it would be sure to
be fine to-morrow.  This was all very well the first
day; but when to-morrow came with clouded sky,
Lucy grew very very angry when she heard Lena
begin the same story "of to-morrow being fine," and
accused her of being wicked and telling stories.  A
stormy scene was fast brewing indoors as well as
out, when Mama heard the cause of anger, and
Lucy had the matter explained to her, and hope
once more "of seeing fair weather to-morrow"
sprang up in her small mind.

In the midst of this wet weather they were all
cheered and enlivened by Papa's return.  Now they
would be able to have all their questions answered
about Astbury, as their new home was called.
They had to curb their curiosity till after Papa had
had dinner.  Lena had still a little lingering awe
of her father; and when he told them that they
must keep all their questions until after he had
finished his dinner, she did not dare to disobey
him, as I fear her eagerness and curiosity would
have tempted her to do if it had been her aunt or
mother who had given the order.

As they were all seated round the fire listening
to his account of Astbury and its neighbourhood,
Aunt Mary, seeing her nieces' attention devoted to
their father, quietly drew a letter from her pocket.
Taking it out of the envelope, she began to read it.
Soon after the conversation turned upon some
matter that Lena did not think interesting, so she
turned to her Aunt to ask some question.  Instead
of receiving the answer she had expected, Aunt
Mary went on with her reading, evidently not
having heard what she had said.  "The letter seemed
to interest her very much," Lena thought.  She
wondered who it could be from, and why had not
Auntie told her of it, for during the time that
aunt and niece had lived alone together Miss
Somerville had got into the way of reading her
letters aloud before her niece.  It was a habit that
she had got into during the years when she was
quite alone and before she had taken charge of
Lena: gradually she had not only read out the
letters before the child, but as she grew older and
more companionable, had spoken and discussed
things that were in them before and with her.  It
was not a good thing for any child, especially for
one like Lena Graham.  Still it had been done in
all love and with good intention.  Rising from her
seat, Lena went and perched herself on the arm of
her Aunt's chair, so that she could read the letter
over her shoulder.  We must do Lena the justice
to say, that though it was a wrong thing to do, it
was not done with a wrong intention.  She had
always heard Auntie's letters, she would have told
you, so there could not be the slightest harm in
reading them.  It was a very interesting one she
saw at once; the handwriting was perfectly familiar
to her as being that of a great friend of her Aunt's,
who had often stayed with them—Miss Howard
was her name.  The contents puzzled Lena, for
Miss Howard wrote as if she and Aunt Mary
were going together somewhere, to a place called
"Lucerne."  Lena knew the name well, but for
the moment she was confused as to its locality.
As she tried to make out what it meant, she leant
forward to see more easily.  At that moment Colonel
Graham looked up and saw Lena doing what he
considered, and what certainly is, a most dishonourable
action, reading what is not meant for one to see.

"Lena!" was all he said, but the tone in which
it was said startled them all.

Lena looked up.  Never before had she heard
her name so spoken.  Startled and confused at the
suddenness with which she had been called, she
answered hastily and nervously, "Yes, Papa."

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"Lena knows," was the short reply.

Poor Lena was frightened, not only at the
sternness of the voice, but by her father's face.  It
seemed to her that it had the same look that she
had remarked in the photograph and had hoped
never to see shown towards her.  Her fear and
nervousness brought the colour to her looks and
gave her the conscious look of guilt.

"I don't know, Papa.  What is it?" she faltered out.

"You must know what a dishonourable thing
you were doing, reading your Aunt's letter over her
shoulder."

"Oh!" she said with a great sigh of relief, "is
that all, Papa?  Why, I always do it."

Here Aunt Mary interposed hastily, and said,
before Colonel Graham could speak the astonishment
he certainly felt at Lena's answer, "It is my
fault, Henry.  Lena always sees my letters.  I may
have been wrong; but remember she has been
niece and child and companion to me all in one.
I may have spoilt her in many ways, but I am sure
she would not do a dishonourable thing;" and as
she spoke, she pulled Lena on to her knee and
kissed the troubled little face.  "I ought to have
told her I did not wish her to read this quite yet,
and I am sure she would not have done it."

At her Aunt's kind words Lena burst out crying.
The child had been frightened, and the burst of
tears relieved her feelings.—"No, Auntie dear,
indeed, indeed I would not," she sobbed out.

"I think you have made a mistake about it,
Mary.  And I hope Lena will remember that
though you have allowed her to see yours, letters
are sacred, and she must never look at any without
leave that are not addressed to her."

"No, Papa, indeed I never will," she said earnestly.

"Come and give Papa a kiss," said her mother,
leading the still sobbing child to her father.

"You are not afraid of me, Lena?" he asked
kindly, as she shrunk from him, without lifting her
eyes from the ground.  "Come, look up, and give
me a kiss."

Lena looked up as bidden, and seeing nothing in
his face but love and kindness, summoned back her
courage as she said, "You looked so angry before,
and so stern."

"I am only angry when you do wrong and act
dishonourably; and you need not be afraid to look
even a stern man in the face if you have done
nothing to be ashamed of, my child."

As Lena returned to her chair she thought, "Oh
dear, I hope he will never speak to me again like
that.  Even if I was ever so naughty, I don't think I
could tell him, and ask him to forgive me."

Aunt Mary said quietly to Lena, "I will read
you all that Miss Howard says to-morrow, dear; it
will interest you, I am sure, and I meant you to
hear it soon."

"Where is Lucerne?" she asked in a low voice.

"In Switzerland," answered her Aunt.  And not
another word would she say that night on the
subject of the letter and its contents.





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.. _`LEAVING MEADENHAM`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


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   LEAVING MEADENHAM.

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"Switzerland!  O Auntie, that is such a long
way off!  You don't mean really that you are going
all that way from me," and Lena as she spoke these
words burst into tears, and clung tightly to her
Aunt, as if to prevent her leaving her.

"I am not going away to-day, dear," said Miss
Somerville, trying to speak cheerfully and brightly
as she fondly stroked the little head that was buried
on her shoulder.  "And, my child," she went on
more gravely, "this is no new thought to you; we
both knew this parting must come."

"But not so soon, and such a long way."

"You have Papa and Mama and your sisters, and
will be so happy with them, and will often write to
me.  And I shall hope for such good accounts of
my pet."

"You won't get them," said Lena in a most
doleful tone; "I shan't be able to be good without
you, I know I shan't."

"Lena, dear, that is not a right way to speak.
I shall think that I have taught you what is wrong
if you say such things."

"No, no, I did not mean that; but why can't
you always live with us?  What do you want to
go to that horrid place for?"

"It is not at all a horrid place, but a very nice
one.  Why I am going is this"——

Lena lifted her head to listen with such an injured
expression that her Aunt laughed.  "I believe
you are glad to go!" (indignantly).

"Yes, dear, I am glad, though very very sorry
to leave you.  I am glad because Miss Howard
has to go, and wants a companion; and you know,
dear, it is always pleasant to be able to do
anything for your friends."

"But I want you too."

"Not now.  You have wanted me, but now you
have Mama and Papa; and, Lena, you love them
both very dearly, I know."

"Yes, but I want you too."

"We none of us can have all we want in this
world.  Ask God, my little one, to make you
grateful and thankful for all the blessings He has
so liberally bestowed on you, instead of murmuring
for what you cannot have."

Before Lena had time to reply, Mrs. Graham
opened the door, asking, as she did so, if she might
come in.

"O Mama, why does Auntie want to go away
from us?  Mayn't she stay with us?"

"Of course she may, dear; but Aunt Mary thinks
Miss Howard requires her.  We want her, and she
requires her.  Now don't you see why Auntie has
decided on going abroad?"

"Yes, because she thinks it right;" adding, "but
couldn't Miss Howard come and live with her here?"

"Why do you wish that, Lena?"

"Because it's so much nearer, and we could
come and see her sometimes."

"Oh, so you don't want it for Aunt Mary's
pleasure, but your own," was the quiet rebuke.

Lena's face flushed scarlet as she murmured
some words in too low a tone for her mother to
hear.

"Listen, my child; do you not think that a
change would do Auntie good?  Think how much
more she would miss the little niece she has been
so good to, and has learned to love so dearly, if she
remained on here, than if she goes abroad, and sees
new sights and beautiful scenery."

"Yes, I see; but, Mama, I can't help being
sorry, and wishing changes would not come—at
least not nasty changes."

"I should be very much astonished and very
grieved too, if you were not sorry at parting with
Auntie, who has been so good and kind to you and
to me too.  Changes must come in this world, my
child; but we know that if we love our Saviour,
every one that comes is sent in love and for some
good purpose."

"I can't see why Auntie's going away can do us good."

"That is what the disciples said when their
Divine Master told them of His ascension: they,
like you, thought they knew best."  Mama spoke
the words so significantly that they at once recalled
to her the conversation they had held together
some evenings before, and when Lena had expressed
herself as so shocked at the idea of any one
thinking they knew better than God.  Humbled and
abashed, Lena promised to try and bear whatever
was sent for her, though she was quite sure it
would be dreadfully hard to bear parting with
Auntie, forgetting that it was harder for Auntie
than herself.  It was a great comfort to both
Colonel and Mrs. Graham, since Aunt Mary had
decided not to go and live with them, that she was
going abroad with her friend Miss Howard for a
few months.  It was very easy to let her house
for the summer, as West Meadenham was a
favourite resort for summer visitors, and Lena was
comforted by hearing that before Miss Somerville
settled down for the winter, she had promised to
pay a visit to her brother and sister at Astbury.

"We shall spend our first Christmas at home
altogether," said Colonel Graham cheerfully, as
Aunt Mary's plans were being discussed one day
openly, now that all was arranged.

Lena expected, and Milly also, that the former
would be quite heart-broken at the prospect of
parting from her Aunt.  Milly was of rather a
sentimental character, and had secret visions of herself
comforting and consoling poor Lena; and felt rather
disappointed, to say the least of it, when she saw
her sister interested and busy in the preparations
for their departure, and talking brightly and
hopefully of what was to be done at Astbury.  Not
that Lena was unkind or unloving.  She did love
her Aunt very very dearly, and felt really sorry
and unhappy at the prospect of losing her; but
with the buoyancy and cheerfulness of youth, she
soon learned to look on the bright and hopeful side
of things.  She had never written to Auntie in all
her life, and she talked much of the long letters she
would write to her, and then how nice it would be
to show her the new home when she came to see
them at Christmas.  So very soon she was the same
bright, lively little Lena of old.  Occasionally,
however, some little thought or action would cause
her to sigh, and wish that changes would not
come—at least she would add, "I wish people had not
to go away from one another.  I like going to new
places."

There were other changes in store also, for an
invitation came for Milly from her godmother, who
lived in London.  Mrs. Clifford wanted to see and
know her little namesake and godchild.  Would
Colonel Graham, who was going to Astbury a few
days earlier than the rest of the family, bring Milly
and leave her with Mrs. Clifford on his way through
London?  So ran the invitation.

"I wish she had asked me!" exclaimed Lena,
when she heard of the letter.

"O Lena, and leave Aunt Mary the last few
days!" said Milly reproachfully.

"No, of course not—I did not think of
that—but I should like to see London and all the
sights."

Milly was not at all of this opinion.  She shrank
from the very thought of going away to a strange
house without Mama.  She had never left her
before; and although she was called after
Mrs. Clifford, she had only seen her once when they
were in town, on first arriving from India.  She
begged very hard not to go, but her parents thought
it was right for her to do so.  Lena alternately
teased and laughed at her for being shy and stupid
for not wanting to go, and envied her for being
invited, and wished she was going, for she was quite
sure that Mrs. Clifford would take her to see all
sorts of things and be ever so kind to her.  If this
invitation had come to Milly at any other time, I
am afraid Lena would have been terribly
disappointed at not being invited also; but these last
few days at Aunt Mary's were too full of interest
and occupation to allow much time for regrets of
any sort.  There were so many people and places to
take farewell of, and so much to be seen to in the
house, that Lena was what she called "deliciously
busy."  Hester was to go with them as nurse to Lucy,
so she also was very busy, and also went away for
a day or two to say good-bye to her parents, who
lived in the neighbourhood of Meadenham.  During
those days Lucy was Lena's constant companion, and
on the whole they got on capitally together.  They
were very much alike in disposition; and although
Lucy was very fond of Lena, she found she was quite
a different sort of sister in authority than Millicent.

Time slipped away very fast, as it always does
when there is much to be done.  It is only with
the idle and lazy that time lags and creeps slowly
along.  How the minutes crawl while one is waiting
without anything to do—they seem to lengthen
themselves out in the most extraordinary manner.
Let one of my little readers remark the length of
five minutes when she or he, as the case may be, is
busy and interested, and five minutes when they are
standing idle, wondering what they shall do next,
or perhaps grumbling because they are prevented
doing something on which they had set their heart.
Once a very small child, who was told to wait ten
minutes for some reason, was seen to give the clock
a great push and call it "a stupid, tiresome thing"—she
was quite sure it had stopped just to tease
her.  She was too small to be able to tell the time
herself, but nurse had shown her where the big
hand would point when the ten minutes were up,
and, oh dear! they were so long to that impatient
little mortal who stood gazing up at it with such
interest and anxiety.  The last day came, and they
all—that is, Mama, Auntie, Lena, Lucy, and Hester—all
started for London, at which place they were
to meet Milly.  Mrs. Clifford was to meet them
with her at the station, and there also Aunt Mary
was to part from them.

On reaching London, they drove from the station
at which they arrived from Meadenham to one on
the other side of the town, from which they were
to go to the town near which their future home
was situated.  Aunt Mary was to drive with them
and see them off.  At first Lena and Lucy were in
the wildest of spirits, everything was new and
pleasant; but before they reached London they both
became tired of the monotony of being shut up in
one place; and as the train was a fast one, it whirled
along too rapidly for them to get more than a
passing glimpse of the different places on the road.

Most children delight in going away, but I never
yet met with one that liked being in the train.
The Grahams were no exception to this rule.  Lucy
first became restless and inclined to be cross, then
Mama seated her on her knee, to look out, and very
soon the rapid motion wearied the little frame, the
blue eyes began to blink, then close, the head fell
back on Mama's shoulder, and Lucy was sound
asleep, to the relief and comfort of her
fellow-passengers.  Lena nestled up against Aunt Mary,
and as she thus sat with the kind arm round her,
the remembrance came to her with startling
distinctness, that this would be the last time for many
months that she would feel the pressure of that
kind hand; and then thought after thought came
thronging into her mind of all the love and
goodness that Aunt Mary had showered upon her during
the last six years.  Her whole life, as it seemed to
the child, had been passed with Auntie, and now
that they were to be separated, she wished, oh so
much, that she had been a better and more obedient
girl.  When she came to them at Christmas she
would show her how much she loved her by being
so good, and all that she could wish.  And she
crept closer to her Aunt as she thus thought of the
past and of the future.  She would have liked to
throw her arms round her neck, and tell her how
much she loved her, and how sorry she was to part
with her; but there were strangers in the
compartment with them, and Lena did not like any one but
her own people to see her in tears, so she only
crept close, and squeezed the hand that clasped
hers very tight.  Lena's thoughts were good and
loving, but mingled with all the goodness was the
one thing that was so seldom wanting from her
good resolutions, and was the invariable cause of
their failure, self-confidence—she would be good
she was determined.  How often and often had
Auntie shown this to Lena, and now Mama was
trying to teach her the same lesson of humility and
trust in God.  If Lena had said to her own heart,
"I will try, by God's help, to be good and do
what I know will please Auntie," she would
certainly have succeeded.  But fortunately for Lena,
both Mama and Auntie were asking for her
what she forgot to ask for herself—the grace of
humility.

When the train reached its destination, it was a
very sobered, quiet Lena that got out of it; she was
so gentle, and waited so quietly, holding Lucy's
hand, while the luggage was being collected and
placed on a cab, that Mama said, "Why, Lena,
what a capital little traveller you are!  I shall tell
Papa that he need not be afraid of my travelling
without him when I have you."

Lena blushed with pleasure at her mother's
words, and when they were settling how to divide
their party—for they were obliged to have two
cabs—and Lucy said she wanted Lena to come
with her and Hester, she complied at once,
determining that from that very moment she would
carry out her good intentions of doing everything
that Aunt Mary would approve of; and that both
aunt and mother were pleased with her present
conduct, she saw at once.

It was a long drive from one station to the other.
The streets were so crowded that it took them a
much longer time than they expected, not that
either Lena or her little sister thought it too long,
for they were delighted with all the bustle and
noise around them, and especially with the passing
glimpse they had at the shops that they drove
past.  So long had been their drive across London,
that there was but little time to spare on arrival
at the station, where Millicent and Mrs. Clifford
were waiting for them—Milly all smiles and beaming
with pleasure at sight of the dear home faces.
Though so glad to see them, she had evidently
been very happy with Mrs. Clifford, to judge from
her friendly attitude towards that lady, and the
warm kiss and grateful words of farewell when the
time came for saying good-bye.

There was no opportunity for any private last
words between Aunt Mary and Lena in all the
fuss of starting: a fond kiss and a whispered
"God bless you, my darling," was all Auntie said
as she parted from her little niece.

"Good-bye, Auntie, darling; you will come back
soon, won't you? and I will be so good I promise you."

"Promise me to try, dear," laying a stress on
the word try, as she returned the kisses that the
now weeping Lena was pressing on her cheek.

Auntie's eyes were full of tears also as she stood
watching them all take their places in the train.

"You will let Milly come to me again, I hope,"
said Mrs. Clifford.  "She has been such a good
girl, I have quite enjoyed having her.  And Lena
must come too," she added, kindly laying her hand
on the girl's shoulder as she spoke, seeing her
struggling bravely to check her sobs, "Won't you, dear?"

A nod was all Lena could manage; speaking
was out of the question at that moment; but the
nod and grateful look showed Mrs. Clifford that
her kindness was appreciated.

"I won't forget your parcel, Milly," called out
Mrs. Clifford as the train began to move, slowly at
first, then quicker and quicker.

Lena stooped forward to take a last loving look
at Auntie, who stood waving her hand in farewell.
Then the train glided out of the station, and they
were fairly on their way to their new home.
Mama drew Lena down beside her, and with loving
words cheered and consoled the poor girl, who,
now that the excitement was all over, broke down
utterly, and laying her head on Mama's shoulder,
wept bitterly.  The tears came from many mingled
sources: first was sorrow from parting with Auntie,
and that sorrow was real and deep, but she had the
hope of seeing her again very soon, and she was
with the dear mother she loved so dearly, and had
so often and often longed to be with; fatigue and
over-excitement helped to cause the sobs, which
were in great part hysterical.  Lena had lived such
a quiet regular life with her Aunt, that she was
now feeling all the excitement and bustle of the
last week or two.  There had been all the packing
and good-byes, and the journey, and now, to crown
it all, was the parting from Auntie.

Mrs. Graham let her cry on quietly for some
time as she sat encircled by her arm, until the first
violence of her tears was over.  Then she spoke to
her a few caressing words, which helped to soothe
the weary child; gradually, as the sobs ceased,
the poor tear-swollen eyes closed, from sheer
"weariness of grief," and Lena fell asleep on
Mama's arm, while Milly, with frequent looks of
sympathy towards her sister, helped Hester to
amuse Lucy at the opposite window.

Thus they journeyed quietly on, until the train
stopping roused Lena.  "Have we arrived?" she
asked in a sleepy voice.

"No, dear, we are not half-way yet.  Edgerley
is a very small place, which this is certainly not."

By the time Mama had done speaking Lena was
wide awake, and the three girls crowded to the
window to look out, and also, as they said, in hopes
of preventing any one coming in.  Several people
peeped into the carriage, but whether it was the
sight of the small fellow-travellers, who, however
charming they may be, are certainly not appreciated
by the travelling public, or from some other
reason, they left our party to themselves, so that,
when they once more started off, it was in quite a
lively tone Lena exclaimed, "Oh, I am glad no one
came in, I was in such a fright they would!"  Her
sleep had done Lena good, although the ready
tears sprang to her eyes whenever the thought of
Aunt Mary was recalled.  She was calmer and
happier, and as the time wore on she soon recovered
her spirits, and was busy helping her sisters with
the buns and sandwiches that were in Mama's
basket, and eagerly talking about what they were
to see at their country home, and also listening to
Milly's account of her visit to Mrs. Clifford.

"I am to go next time with you, am I not,
Mama?" she asked.

"Perhaps Milly won't want you to," said Lucy
in a very grave tone.

"O Lucy, of course I shall.  It will be ever
so much nicer.  And there are such lots of things
to see and do."  And here she launched into an
animated account of all her doings.

"What is the parcel she is going to send?" Mrs. Graham
with a smile asked.

"I don't know, Mama, what it will be—it's a
present.  She said she would take me to the Bazaar
and buy me something; but we had not time
yesterday, so she said she would send it to me."

"I wonder what it will be!" said Lena, and
they all fell to conjecturing what Milly's present
would be, guessing all the probable and improbable
things they could think off.  Not satisfied with this,
they—that is the two who were not included—actually
talked themselves into the belief that Mrs. Clifford,
now she had seen them, would very likely
send them something also: in fact, it was not only
a probable thing, but "almost sure to be the case."

Thus they whiled away the time of their journey,
until Mama announced that the next station would
be Edgerley.

When the train drew up there, three little heads
were out of the window, and three shrill young
voices were shouting out words of welcome to Papa,
whom they at once caught sight of standing waiting
for them.

It was a very small station, as Mrs. Graham had
told them.  She had been to it before when she
had paid a visit, many years ago, to Colonel and
Mrs. Freeling, who were now to be their near
neighbours.  They were the only passengers who alighted,
and until their luggage was taken out there was
no time to speak with Papa; for, as it appeared to
the children, "the train seemed to be in a hurry to
rush off again;" and it certainly looked as if they
were right, for directly their luggage was taken out
of the van and safely deposited on the platform,
the guard waved his arm, the engine gave what
sounded like a very impatient shriek, and the train
rushed off again with its living freight, and left our
young people standing gazing after it, in a sort of
bewilderment, from which their father's cheery voice
roused them as he exclaimed, "Now, children, come
along; while you are being packed into the carriage,
I will give orders for the luggage to be sent up in
a cart."

"A carriage!" exclaimed Lena, as she caught
sight of a handsome carriage and pair of horses
standing outside the station.  "Is that ours? how
nice!  I am glad."  She asked the question of no
one in particular, and no one answered it, all being
busy and their attention occupied at the moment.
Milly did not feel the same feeling of pleasure as
her sister at the sight of the carriage, for during
their stay in India her parents had kept their
carriage, not as a luxury as in this country, and
one only to be indulged in by rich people, but as
a matter of necessity.  So she took her seat next
Lena without a word or sign of wonder.  "This is
nice," began Lena directly they started, though this
was not done for a little while, during which she
had been picturing to herself all sorts of wonderful
visions of a large house and future drives in this
comfortable equipage.  It was very strange why
Aunt Mary had always been so particular in
making her so careful of her things, and teaching
her to do so much for herself if her Papa was so rich.

"So you are pleased, little woman," said her
father.  "It was very kind of Colonel Freeling
to send his carriage and bring you home in state
like this," he added with a laugh.

"Colonel Freeling!" said Lena in a tone of
surprise.  "Is it not our carriage, Papa?"

"No, dear, of course not.  What put such an
idea into your head?"  At sight of Lena's
crestfallen looks at his answer, Colonel Graham burst
out laughing, in which the others joined, much to
Lena's secret annoyance.  Then he added gravely,
"I thought you knew, dear, that I was not a rich
man, only"—this with a laugh—"a poor soldier."

"But Colonel Freeling was a soldier too; you
said so," she persisted.

"Yes, with a private fortune, which makes all
the difference."

"Riches do not make happiness, darling," said
Mama kindly.  "We shall be very happy in our
quiet little country home without a grand carriage
like this, and we ought all to be very much obliged
to Colonel Freeling for having been so kind in
lending it to us to-day."

"Here we are," said Colonel Graham, as turning
the corner they came in sight of a small but very
pretty house standing within iron gates which
opened into the road.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE NEW HOUSE`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE NEW HOUSE.

.. vspace:: 2

As Mama had said, Astbury was a very small house,
but for all that it was a very pretty one, and looked
so homelike and inviting this fine spring evening.
The windows shone out, lit up by the rays of the
setting sun, from amid the green leaves with which
the house was covered, like friendly eyes of
welcome to the new-corners.  Roses and wisteria
seemed to vie with one another in beauty and
luxuriance on the walls.

They all exclaimed with pleasure and delight
at this first sight of their new home.  All Lena's
visions faded away of a stately mansion, and she
agreed with the others that nothing could be prettier
or nicer than their new home appeared to be, and
although it was small, how could they help being
happy in such a pretty place?  There was not much
garden in the front, but behind, as they soon
discovered, was quite a large one, and to the side was
a kitchen-garden, and beyond, stretching far away
on every side of them, was field after field.  The
children were so impatient to explore the garden
and shrubberies, and to wander forth into this
delicious green world around them, that it was with
extreme unwillingness that they received the
summons to tea, which ought to have been a welcome
one to such young travellers.  Lena and Milly were
to share a room together in their new home, while
Lucy still occupied one with Hester, who had come
as nurse.  There was no fear of their getting into
trouble or difficulties here, Mama thought, so they
were allowed to ramble off at their own sweet will
the next morning; and what wonderful discoveries
they made, to be sure; everything was new and
delightful to them.  Although Lena had never
lived quite in the country before like this, she had
been so many country rambles with Auntie, that
most of the wild flowers that grew in such
profusion round Astbury were known to her by sight
and name.  Milly and Lucy considered her as quite
an authority on the subject, and consulted her
about every new floral treasure they acquired.
Returning home with hands full of bluebells and
anemones, they met the first living human creature
they had come across in their rambles.  Cows and
sheep they had seen in plenty—almost too many of
the former for their perfect comfort—but none of
their own species till this young girl, who returned
their looks of curiosity with one equally as curious.
She was taller and bigger than either of the elder
Graham girls, with short curly hair and sun-browned
face, dressed very plainly in blue serge with a plain
sailor-hat perched on the top of her curls, rather,
Milly thought, because it was necessary to wear
a hat than to shelter her face from the sun, for it
was pushed well back, which quite accounted for
the young face being so sun-burnt and rosy.  She
hesitated as she met our young people as if about
to speak, then drew back with a sort of cold
shyness and hurried on.  Not so a little dog she had
with her.  At sight of the Graham girls, he stood
still and set up a series of shrill barks.  Lena and
Milly hesitated whether to attempt to pass him or
not.  Lucy settled the matter by retreating
backwards into the hedge, dragging Milly with her and
screaming with terror.  At the noise the girl turned.
Seizing the dog in her arms, she exclaimed, "Don't
be frightened, he won't hurt you."  Then giving the
dog a good hard slap, added, "Be quiet, you stupid
little thing."  And without another word she hurried
on again.

Lucy soon recovered from her terror, and the
incident of the dog and the unknown girl was an
engrossing subject of conversation for the remainder
of the walk, and was eagerly related to their parents
at dinner.

"It must have been Bessie Freeling, I fancy,"
said Colonel Graham; "she answers to your description."

"Would not she be afraid to go about by herself?"
asked Milly.

"No, I fancy from what I have seen of her that
she is only too fond of roaming about in the fields;
likes it better, I suspect, than staying in the
schoolroom and learning her lessons," said their
father with a smile.

"I don't wonder, Papa," was Lena's emphatic
remark; "I could be out in the fields all day long."

"You must be careful what fields you go into,
children, for some of them are set aside for hay,
and you would be doing sad mischief if you went
wandering about there."

"Had not you better go with them and show
them where they may go and where not?" said
their mother.

"Yes," said Colonel Graham, "we will all go
together this afternoon, Mama and all, later in the
day, I mean when it is cooler."

"May not we go out now?" asked Milly.

"No, dear, it is too hot; besides, you have not
put your books and things away tidily in your
room.  I thought you both had decided on making
your room pretty and keeping it so."

"So we did.  Let us go and do it now, Lena,
while Lucy has her sleep."  For little Lucy
always required a sleep in the middle of the day,
for however much she wished to be running
about, her eyes would grow heavy, and her little
feet weary after spending the morning trotting
about.

Lena and Milly were very busy in their room
when they received a summons to the drawing-room
to see Mrs. Freeling, who, with her two girls,
had come to call.  It was Hester who had come
to tell them, and on seeing Lena jump down from
the chair she was standing on, so as to enable her
to reach the bookcase, where hers and Milly's books
were to be kept, she exclaimed—

"Why, Miss Lena, you are not going to leave
your work unfinished, now it is so nearly done,
are you?"

"We can do that afterwards; I do so want to
see Bessie Freeling."

"There are so few books left, you had better put
them all tidy; I know you will forget afterwards."

"Well, give them to me, Milly.  We will stick
them up anyhow now, and put them right by and by."

"It is as easy to put them in tidily as untidily,"
said Hester; "and I don't mean to let you go down
till you have done it, and seen that you are tidy
also."

So, very unwillingly, Lena had to wait till
Hester considered they were fit to go down, for
both children's hands showed they had been at
work.  When they were ready Lena said, "Come,
Milly; how slow you are!  I don't believe you
want to go," and she turned to Milly, who was
still lingering at the table.

"I do hate going down to see new people.  I
never know what to say to them first."

"I like it when there are children, and I do
want to know if Bessie is the same girl we saw
this morning.  Come on, Milly."

"Curiosity" gained the day, and overcame
Milly's shyness, for she too wanted to see if
Bessie and their unknown friend were the same.

Yes, Papa had been quite right in his surmise,
for when they entered the room, they at once
recognised the young girl sitting so quietly and
demurely beside Mrs. Freeling to be the same one
they had met in the morning.  Gertrude, the elder
sister, was there also.  Much taller than Bessie,
with long fair hair, and a quiet self-possessed
manner, that made both our little friends decide
that she was almost grown up, though Milly
thought she must be very nice, she had such a
sweet gentle look.  Lena did not trouble very
much about her, as she saw she was so "grown-up
looking;" all her looks and interest were centered
upon Bessie, who looked very rosy and uncomfortable,
for she was as shy nearly as Milly, and
only answered Lena's friendly advances with short
low monosyllables, until the door opened and Lucy
entered.  At first she did not recognise Bessie as
the owner of the little dog that had so frightened
her, but the moment she did so she ran to her with
outstretched hand, asking, "Where is your little
dog? haven't you brought him, 'cause he was
naughty?"

Bessie's eyes brightened as she greeted the child,
and very soon Lucy was on her knee chattering
away quite at her ease, and Bessie soon forgot her
shyness also in the delight of the little one's
company.

"How nice for you to have a little sister!" she
said, looking at Lena.

"Yes, she is a dear little thing.  Are you so
fond of little children?"

"Yes, I love them.  I hate dolls; they can't
speak or anything, just pieces of wood.  I would
rather have Dash than any doll; but Lucy is
better than Dash," she added with a low laugh.

Lena looked rather disgusted at her words, and
said in an aggrieved tone, "We all love dolls;
don't we, Milly?"

"Love dolls," said Gertrude, joining them, "so
used I; and I am not sure that I don't still, at
any rate I like dressing them."

"Gerty has got a whole drawerful at home.
I think it is so silly to like them," said Bessie
scornfully.

Mrs. Freeling rising at that moment to leave,
there was nothing more said about the dolls.

"Bessie, we must ask Miss Gifford to give you
a half-holiday to-morrow."

"It is Wednesday, Mama, so I have one,"
interrupted Bessie hastily.

"Ah yes, so it is, I had forgotten.  Mrs. Graham
has promised to bring her children to-morrow to
spend the day with you and Gertrude."

"How nice!  And, Mama, mayn't Lucy come too?"

"Of course, dear, she was included;" then she
added, turning to Mrs. Graham, "We will expect
you by one o'clock.  You are sure you prefer to
walk up?"

"Yes, we shall all enjoy the walk across the
fields."  And she looked at her children, whose
beaming faces showed they were delighted at all Mama's
arrangements for them.

As the carriage drove away, the three children all
began a chorus of remarks upon their late visitors.
Lucy was unqualified in her praises, but not so
Lena and Milly; they were neither of them sure
whether they liked Bessie quite so much as they
expected.

"Gertrude was very nice," said Milly.

"What fault have you to find with poor Bessie?"
said Mrs. Graham.

"Why, Mama, she turned up her nose at our
liking dolls, called them pieces of wood, and spoke
as if she thought we were silly," said Lena indignantly.

"Well, dear, you cannot expect to find
everybody with exactly the same tastes as yourselves.  I
daresay you will find she is really very nice; she
looks a bright frank girl, and she must be kind,
judging from the way she treated Lucy."

"She loves little girls," said Lucy with a toss of
her small head.  "She likes me better than Dash; she
said so."

Mrs. Graham was right.  The girls found out the
next day that they had very many tastes in common
with Bessie.  Although she did not like dolls, there
were a great many things she did like, especially
playing in the garden and the fields, and before
they separated that evening they were all the closest
of friends.  But Lucy was prime favourite with
Bessie; everything that the child wanted was done
at once, nothing was too much to give the little
one pleasure.  Bessie had spoken the truth when
she had said that Gertrude had a drawer full of
dolls, and as they were looking at them—for Bessie
condescended to be one of the party, as Lucy
expressed a wish to see the "dear dollies"—she
exclaimed, "Don't you think it silly of Gerty
keeping those dolls when she is so old?  And then she
is so fond of books, she is always at them.  Miss
Gifford says she knows three times as much as
I do."

"That is your own fault, Bessie, you know; for
you won't try to learn, so how can you get on?"

"How can one think of lessons when one wants
to be out of doors?  I don't mind them on wet
days, but on fine ones I cannot bear the sight of a
book.  I envy you," looking at her friends as she
spoke, "for you have holidays and no governess."

"But only for a week longer.  Our new
governess is coming then, and we are not to have
any more holidays this summer, except a fortnight
in August."

"What a shame!"

"Mama says we have had so many lately; but
we shall have the same half-holidays as you."

"Then we can be out together, and the summer
evenings are lovely for the fields."

"Don't you like your lessons at all, Bessie?"
asked Milly.

"No.  How can I, when I feel I am such a long
way behind Gerty?  It's no good my trying to get
on—I can't," and a shade passed over the bright
face as she sighed.  Bessie was in fact disheartened
and disappointed.  She had been, when younger,
considered quicker at her work than Gertrude, and
when she found she could learn so much sooner the
lessons set them, she had become idle and careless,
thinking she could easily catch up Gerty, though
she did work so hard and was so fond of her books.
But Bessie soon found she had made a mistake, for
the careless roving habits she had given way to
grew fast upon her, and soon her sister outdistanced
her on the path of learning.  So Bessie grew
disgusted and disheartened.  Instead of trying to
make up for lost time, she said "It was of no use,"
and grew fonder, or said she did, of shirking her
work.  The Graham girls often wondered that
Mrs. Freeling allowed her so much liberty, for not only
on the summer evenings, but every spare hour she
could get, Bessie made her way to the Grahams,
and would coax Mrs. Graham to let her carry off
little Lucy to the garden, much to the child's
delight.  The reason of this was that Mrs. Freeling
had come to the decision that Bessie must go to
a boarding-school.  She had watched with sorrow
how the girl's idle habits were increasing, and she
also saw that a good deal of it was caused by her
being so thoroughly put out of heart about her own
doings and work.  It would be better for her,
Mrs. Freeling knew, to have a change, and she hoped
that being with other girls, with whom she had not
lost ground, would give her courage to make a fresh
start.  Little did Bessie guess, as she played with
Lucy or her sisters, that very soon all this wild free
life was to be exchanged for the routine and
discipline of a school.  Gertrude knew of it, and over
and over again would she try and persuade Bessie to
settle down more steadily to her lessons; but
argument and persuasion were alike in vain.  She was
always unprepared and in trouble.  "You will be
sorry for it," Gertrude would many a time say; but
Bessie's answer was always the same, "It is no
good trying; I can't get on."  Thus the next week
or two slipped away.  Miss Marshall had arrived,
and lessons were begun regularly, when one
morning Lucy rushed in, throwing the door wide open,
and forgetting in her excitement that she was
breaking through all rules by thus disturbing her
sisters during working hours.

"O Miss Marshall, Lena, Milly, what do you
think?" she exclaimed eagerly, her eyes sparkling
with delight.  Then without waiting for an answer
she went on, "We are all to have tea in the
hayfield.  Mrs. Freeling has asked us, and Mama says
we may go, and this afternoon Bessie is going to
buy me a little rake, and I shall make hay."  Here
the child stopped for sheer want of breath, while
Lena and Milly both exclaimed in tones of delight
at the proposed treat.

Fortunately lessons were nearly over for the
morning, for Miss Marshall found it very difficult
to restrain her pupils' eagerness to get them finished,
and go and hear all about the treat in store.  Bessie,
who had brought the news to Lucy, was quite ready
and able to give them all particulars.  And the
two elder girls looked wistfully after the carriage
that conveyed Mrs. Graham and Lucy with Mrs. Freeling
to the neighbouring town when they
began afternoon lessons.

"Lucy gets all the treats," murmured Lena
crossly, while Milly added with a little sigh, "I
wish I was her."

This was to be a day of surprises for them, for
when Mama returned she told them she had heard
from Mrs. Clifford, who wrote she had that day
sent off a box.  "It is addressed to you, Milly
dear," she continued.

"When do you think it will come?" asked Milly.

"It has arrived at the station, dear.  Mrs. Freeling
kindly called, meaning to bring it back with her;
but we heard then that it had been sent by the
carrier, so I expect it will soon be here."

After tea and lessons were over, the three girls
went down the road to look if they could see the
carrier's cart coming.  Lena and Lucy were both
as excited about the expected parcel as Milly
herself, for they had quite talked themselves into the
belief that Mrs. Clifford would be sure to send them
something.  Mrs. Graham had repeatedly told them
that it was not at all probable; but they thought
otherwise, and as they wished to think so, Mama's
warnings were all thrown away upon them.  Bessie,
too, had helped to increase Lucy's confidence, for
she had said, "Of course she would not forget to
send such a little darling as you something nice."  So
all three were in a state of great delight when
they saw the cart coming towards the house.  They
all scampered back to call to Mama that the
precious parcel would very soon arrive, and to entreat
her to come and see it opened."

"You can bring it into the dining-room and open
it there," said Mrs. Graham to the eager party.

"Such a nice big one, Mama," said Milly, appearing
with a box in her arms, done up in brown paper,
and addressed to "Miss Millicent Graham."

"It must have more than one thing in it," said
Lena anxiously.  Then the string was undone and
the paper taken off, and a square card-board box
was displayed to view.

"I see two parcels," said Milly excitedly as she
opened it.

"Mine will be in the corner or underneath!" cried
Lucy, as she danced about in her excitement.

Milly took out the first thing, and taking off the
paper coverings that were round it, held up a very
pretty white hat, trimmed with lace and a large
white ostrich feather.

"Oh, how lovely!  I hope mine is the same," said
Lena, putting down the hat on the table.

Milly took out the other thing.  It was not a
hat she felt at once.  Uncovering it, she saw a
white straw work-basket, and opening it they
further saw that it was lined with blue satin, and
filled with all the necessary things for working with.
Laying that on the table beside the hat, she dived
again into the box.  A look of disappointment crept
over her face as she felt, for nothing more was there
but the paper which had been placed in it to keep
the hat from being hurt by the basket.

"That's all," she said at length.

Lucy stood the picture of disappointment, and
screwed up her little face ready for a good cry,
when Mama said, "Look, dear, here is a note in the
work-basket."

Lucy waited for her cry to hear if there was any
good news in the note.

"Read it, please, Mama," said Milly, putting the
paper into her mother's hands.  She had caught a
glimpse of what was written, and she could not bear
to read out the words which she knew were coming.

"For dear Milly, hoping she will like her god-mama's
choice."  Not a word about either Lena or Lucy.

The latter set up a howl of disappointment, but
Lena said never a word.  Her disappointment was
very great—she had so made up her mind that she
would be remembered, and had spoken so decidedly
on the subject before them all.  Her heart swelled
with feelings of wounded pride, disappointment, and
anger, for at the moment she was angry, not only
with herself for having so hoped for it, but with
Mrs. Clifford, who she considered had behaved very
unkindly to her.  Though why Mrs. Clifford should
have sent her a present she could not have told
you herself.

"May Lena have the hat, and me the basket,
Mania?" asked Milly pleadingly.  "You like the
hat best, don't you, Lena?"

Mrs. Graham was trying to comfort the weeping
Lucy, who refused to be comforted, and wept and
raved at the cruelty of every one in general and
Mrs. Clifford in particular.

"No, Milly, I don't want the hat: they were
both sent to you; of course she likes you best—every
one does."  And with these words, and without
a kind look or word of thanks to her sister, Lena
left the room.

Poor Milly!  Her eyes filled with tears as she
looked at the presents that but a few minutes
before she had thought of with such pleasure.

Mrs. Graham came to her side, and lifting up
her face, kissed her, and whispered, "My poor
little Milly, this is a sad way to receive your present."

"O Mama, I wish it had never come.  I can
never wear the hat."

"No," screamed Lucy, "it's a nasty hat—I'll
spoil it," and she seized the unoffending hat
roughly; but Mrs. Graham at once took it from
her, and handing it to Milly, said, "Put it in the
box again, and take it to my room."

"Nasty horrid thing!  I'll spoil you," screamed
Lucy again, and thus, screaming and struggling,
the passionate child was taken by her mother to
the nursery, while Milly put the hat and work-basket
away in the box, and carried it up as told
to her mother's room.  Opening the wardrobe she
put the box into it, and then shut and locked the
door.

"There, you are out of sight now," she said as
she did so.  Then sitting down on the sofa she
gave way to a burst of tears.  She had looked
forward with such pleasure to receiving her promised
present; in her secret heart she had hoped that it
might be the very work-basket that had come, for
she had admired it so much in the shop one day,
and Mrs. Clifford had alluded to it before she left.
Now it had really been given to her, and had
brought her nothing but sorrow.  Why would not
Lena take the hat? for she had said she hoped
there would be one for her the same, and Milly
couldn't wear it after what Lena had said.  She
was sorry there was nothing for Lucy, but she
knew she would soon be comforted by some small
present, and that she should have something Milly
quite settled in her own mind; but she felt that
with Lena it was very different, nothing she had to
give her would make up for the disappointment and
the wound to her self-love.  It was not thus that
Milly called it; she so dearly loved her sister that
she made excuses for her in her own mind and also
to her mother, who very soon came to seek for and
comfort her.

"Mama, Lena says she won't have the hat—do
make her take it."

"No, dear; I don't wish her to have it.  It was
sent to you, and I want my children to learn to see
each other given pleasure without coveting it for
themselves or being jealous about it."

"O Mama, but it was such a disappointment to her!"

"Yes, I know it is; but Lena has brought it on
herself, for I have told her over and over again that
she was raising false hopes both for herself and
Lucy, and so it has ended in sorrow to you all."

"Can't I leave it in your wardrobe and say
nothing more about it?"

"The hat you may leave in my wardrobe, and
you needn't wear it just yet,—indeed there won't be
an opportunity for doing so,—but the work-basket
must be taken down to the drawing-room.  Both
Lucy and Lena must learn to see it, dear, without
wanting it."

Milly felt somehow that Lena wouldn't mind
the work-basket so much, especially as she had a
nice one of her own, while Milly's was an old and
rather shabby one, so she took it down more
contentedly; now that the hat was well out of sight,
she hoped that it would soon be forgotten.

Lena walked out of the dining-room with a
swelling heart and clouded brow.  She had been
very unkindly and ungently treated, she considered.
It was very hard that Milly should have
everything.  What right had she to have a godmama
who gave presents when she herself had not,
forgetting that the Aunt who had done so much for
her was her godmother as well as Aunt, and had
done for her far more than Milly's had ever done.
Running up to her bedroom for her garden-hat, she
opened the drawer where her best hat was kept.
She had thought it very pretty and nice when it
was given her, but now, as she looked at it, and
compared it with Milly's new one, she thought how
shabby and plain it was.  "Not even a feather!"  And
she shut to the drawer with a slam, and seizing
her garden-hat ran downstairs again and out of the
house.  As she wandered on by herself, all the
jealous fancies that had raised their heads before,
now began slowly to return and show themselves
once more.  Ah me!  Lena was not only allowing
them to do so unopposed, but encouraging them
both to come back and remain with her.  Looking
back at the house, she saw, through the open
window of her mother's room, Milly standing up,
and beside her stood Mrs. Graham.  If Lena had
only heard the words her sister was saying, her
heart would have softened.  "It was such a
disappointment to her," the gentle voice pleaded;
but unfortunately, the words were unheard, and
Lena, turning her back to the sight, walked on
hurriedly.  "I knew she was Mama's favourite,
she has got everything; it is me Mama might be
sorry for.  Oh, I wish Aunt Mary was here!"  At
this thought the tears filled her eyes, but she
pressed them back; if any one saw her crying, they
would think it was because she was sorry for the
hat, and she would not let them think that Very
soon she caught sight of Bessie coming across the
fields.  As soon as the latter saw her, she hurried
on, calling out the moment she was within hearing,
"Has the parcel arrived?"

"Yes," said Lena, trying to speak indifferently.
"But it was only for Milly—a hat and a work-basket."

"Nothing for you?"

"No," said Lena with a shaky voice, which
Bessie seeing, she slipped her arm in hers, saying,
"What a shame!  And nothing for little Lucy; she
will be disappointed!"

Lena began to walk off in the direction away
from the house; and Bessie, who was always
good-natured, especially when any one was in trouble,
walked beside her, and began telling her what they
hoped to do the next day, when they were to spend
the afternoon in the hay-field.  "Mama wants
Mrs. Graham to let Hester and the other servants
come too—every one ought to help in the hay-field."

Lena did not return home until as late an
hour as she dared to, but nothing was said by either
Mama or Miss Marshall at her being a little late,
both hoping that she had had time to reflect on
what had passed, and that by this time she knew
she alone had been to blame for the false hopes
she had raised for herself and her little sister.
Not one word did Lena say about the parcel or
her disappointment.  She would show them she did
not care.  And when Milly, who was longing for
an opportunity to say something kind about it, saw
that Lena did not wish the subject mentioned,
she kept silence, only trying, by being extra kind
and loving to her, to show she felt with and for
her.  When they were alone in their room Lena
said she was tired and sleepy, hurrying over her
undressing, and, alas! her prayers also.  She did
not wish to forgive, and the girl's mind was so
clouded by her wrong and jealous thoughts, that
she would not allow that she herself had any need
of forgiveness.  With a cold kiss she returned
Milly's clinging, loving embrace; and prayerless—for
no mere formal words, repeated from habit only,
can be called prayer—and unhappy,—for how could
she be otherwise with such thoughts as hers?—she
closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.  So
still did she lie, that when Mrs. Graham came in
to see her little girls, as was her custom every
night, Milly said softly, "Lena was tired, Mama,
and she is asleep already."

"Poor child," said her Mother, "I won't stay
and talk to you, dear, for fear of waking her.  I
am glad she has taken the disappointment so
quietly."  After kissing Milly, she stooped over
Lena, and with a tender "God bless you, my child,"
she kissed her forehead softly, and left the room.

The tears forced themselves under the closed
lids, but Lena gulped them back, and with them,
all the softened thoughts that began to rise at her
mother's words; and as she drove back the good,
the wrong thoughts returned and filled the child's
mind with seeds that were to reap a bitter harvest
ere long.





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.. _`MILLY'S NEW HAT`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   MILLY'S NEW HAT.

.. vspace:: 2

"I shall be sorry to have to keep you in this
afternoon, Lena," said Miss Marshall; "but if you
do not pay more attention to your lessons I shall
be obliged to."

"They are so difficult," grumbled Lena.

"That is nonsense.  Milly has said hers correctly,
and surely you can do so also; you are not paying
the slightest attention this morning."

"Of course Milly does it best when you help
her," muttered Lena, but in tones loud enough to
be heard by her governess.

Things went on from bad to worse.  Lena was
in a cross, stubborn mood.  She was hugging to
herself, as it were, the disappointment of the
afternoon before, dwelling upon it, and looking at it over
and over again in the light of her own wounded
pride and vanity.  This was the morning of the
day they had all looked forward to with such
pleasure, the day when they were all to have tea in
the hay-field; and now, instead of getting through
her lessons well and quickly, she was allowing her
thoughts and attention to wander anywhere they
would, except to the one place they ought to have
rested on.

"Have you got a headache, Lena?" asked Miss
Marshall at length, when her patience was nearly
exhausted.

"No," was the short answer.

"Then what is the matter with you, dear?" she
asked kindly.

"Nothing, only my lessons are so difficult."

"Let me try and explain them to you again,"
said Miss Marshall; and taking the book she went
over the prescribed task.  But all her kindness was
thrown away; it was not that Lena could not, it
was that she would not learn.  When the usual
hour for ending morning lessons arrived, Lena was
all behind, and there was nothing to be done
except to excuse her them altogether, or to keep
her in for part of the afternoon.  The latter course
was what Miss Marshall resolved on.

"Lena must stay in alone," said Mrs. Graham,
when she heard of this resolution.  "I am very
sorry for it, my child, but I cannot help myself.
It would not be fair to deny any of the others
their pleasure because you choose to be so naughty
and wilful."

All but the cook were going to the hay-field.
She was remaining to look after the house during
the absence of all the others, and so Lena would
not be quite alone in the house.

"Directly you think you know your lessons you
may come and join us.  I know I can trust you,
my little one," said her mother kindly to the child
as she left her sitting alone in the schoolroom.  For
a little while Lena sat leaning her elbows on the
table and gazing into vacancy, as she heard the
voices of her mother and sisters gradually dying
away in the distance.  It was very hard, she
thought, sitting here all by herself, when they
were all enjoying themselves out of doors, forgetting
that it was all her own doing.  Suddenly a new
impulse seized her, and bending down over her
book, she began to read over her lesson.  The door
opened, and Hester came in.

"Have you not gone yet, Hester?" asked Lena
in surprise.

"No, Miss, I had to finish my work first.  I am
ready now, only waiting for Emma.  She has gone
to put the salt into Miss Milly's bath.  Oh, Miss
Lena, do make haste and do your lessons: only
think what your Auntie would say if she saw you now."

"She would not have been so cross and kept me in."

"Well, dear, show that you can do them as well
as Miss Milly."

Hester had touched her pride with this speech,
and tossing back her head she answered, "Of course
I can if I choose."

"Well then, dear, I would choose; it's a pity to
lose all the fun of the haymaking, and such a lovely
afternoon as it is, too."

"I won't be long now, Hester; I will learn them."

"Shall I wait for you?"

"No, thank you, Hester, I will soon follow you."

Then with a few kindly words of encouragement
Hester left the room, and Lena applied herself to
her task with such goodwill that very soon she had
learnt it correctly.

Putting away her books, she went up for her
walking things.  As she passed her mother's room,
the door of which was left wide open, she went in,
and going to the window looked out to see if she
could see them in the field.  Not a person was to
be seen—all lay so still and peaceful in the bright
sunshine, the silence only broken by the song of a
bird or the distant lowing of cattle.  Turning from
the window, Lena's eye fell on the box that had
come from Mrs. Clifford.  It had been taken out
for some reason from the wardrobe, placed on the
bed, and evidently forgotten to be put back.  Lena
lingered a moment beside it.  She had not seen it
except for the few moments that Milly had held it
before her on first taking it out of the box.  She
would like to have a good look at it, and here was
an opportunity for doing so privately and without
having to ask Milly to allow her to do so.  Opening
the box, she lifted the paper and looked in.
Then taking it carefully out, she turned it round
and examined it more attentively.  "What a nice
feather!" she murmured.  "I wonder if it looks
nice on."  That was very easy to decide.  Placing
it on her head, she walked to the looking-glass.  It
was a very becoming one, she considered, as she
turned her head from side to side to see it to every
advantage.  A sudden noise made her start guiltily
and turn quickly round, "for a fearful conscience
makes cowards of us all."  So quickly had she
turned and with such a jerk, that off went the hat.
Lena made a dash at it, but it was too late, she could
not save it.  With a splash it went into the salt bath
prepared for Milly's weak ancles, and which was
always taken into her mother's room.  With a cry
of horror Lena snatched it out, but alas! the mischief
was done, the beautiful curly feather was soaking.
Such a miserable-looking object it was, as Lena
gazed at it in dismay.  Hastily taking a towel from
the rack, she rubbed away at the unfortunate hat;
then when the straw was dry, or looked nearly so,
she shook it vigorously, hoping in this way to
restore the feather to its former beauty.  All the
shaking and rubbing was of no use, for the feather
still remained all wet and uncurled.  Holding it
before the fire sometimes did a wet feather good,
Lena knew; should she take it down and ask cook
to let her hold it before the kitchen fire?  As she
stood meditating she saw through the open window
her father and Milly coming towards the house.  If
Milly had been alone she would have run and told
her all, for all anger and pride had died away in
her fright and sorrow, for she was sorry for the
mischief she had caused, but the sight of her father
made her hesitate.  "He would be so angry," she
thought, and the remembrance of the stern way he
had spoken to her the night she had looked over
Aunt Mary's shoulder and read her letter, came
back to her.  "She could not tell him."  She
would wait and tell Milly afterwards, or Mama.
She would understand it was not done intentionally.
Thrusting the hat hastily into the box again, she
hurried to her room, trembling and almost in tears.

"Lena, Lena, where are you?" shouted Milly,
as she bounded upstairs to look for her, after
having failed to find her in the schoolroom.
"Getting ready?  Oh, I am so glad you have done.  I
have come back to bring you—we all want you so
much.  Crying, Lena?" she continued, and receiving
no answer—"Oh, don't cry; it is all right now."

Here was Lena's opportunity to confess all, and
this she determined to do.  Bursting out afresh
into tears, she sobbed, "Oh, Milly clear, do forgive
me; the hat"——she went on incoherently.

Here Milly interrupted her with a kiss—"Never
mind the tiresome old hat; I never want to see
it again.  I love you better than all the hats in
the world."

"But, Milly, I must tell you"——

Here Colonel Graham's voice was heard calling
in rather impatient tones for them to make haste.

"There, Lena, you must come; I won't listen
to one word more about the hat;" and dragging
her after her, she hurried down to join her father.

No one took any notice of Lena's tear-stained
face, all attributing it to the fact of her having been
kept in; and when Mama, greeting her with a
loving kiss, the tears welled up afresh, they were
thought to be only signs of sorrow for her conduct
during the morning, and only drew forth another
kiss and kind words of forgiveness, "Now, darling,
run and join the others, and all enjoy yourselves."

Though Lena joined in all the games and
pleasures of the others, it was not with the full
enjoyment with which she usually did so.  No one
alluded either to her having been kept at home,
or to the disappointment of the day before, except
once, and that was done by Lucy, who said, "Milly,
Bessie says she expects that my present was small,
and must have got hidden among the paper."

"No, Lucy dear, I am sure there was not anything
more in the box."

"Yes, so am I," said Lena, flushing scarlet, "it
is very stupid of Bessie saying such things to you."

"I believe Bessie, and she is not stupid; she is
very nice—nicer than you," and the child walked
off, indignantly murmuring to herself, "I mean to
look and see, for I believe Bessie."

"I wish she would not tell Lucy such things;
she never thinks how bad it is for her."  The one
she alluded to being Bessie, who petted and spoiled
the child, giving her everything she asked for, and
never allowing either of her sisters to contradict
her; or when they did so, she made up for it by
an extra petting.

Lena was ill at ease, and looked so tired when
evening came that Mama sent her off to bed,
attributing the weary looks and subdued manner
to over fatigue from running about in the heat.

As Lena lay waiting for Milly to come to bed—for
Lena had been sent off first by Mama—she
decided that she would tell Milly when she came
in, and then together they would tell their mother;
but all her plans were frustrated by the weary eyes
closing in sleep before her sister came in, and so
quiet was Milly that she did not awake her.

The following morning doubts and conjectures
began to trouble Lena.  Milly made such a fuss
when she began to speak of the hat, and say she
would not hear a word more about it; she had
said she did not care one bit about it.  Still conscience
kept telling her over and over again, that there
was but one path before her, and that was a very
plain and straight one, called Truth.  The longer
she put off telling, the more difficult it became.
She would tell her while dressing.  "Milly," she
began, just before they left the room, "I want to
speak to you about the hat."

"O Lena, please don't say anything now about
it, or I shall hate it.  Mama and I decided last
night that it is to be left in its box, and I shall
forget all about it: I could not wear it now."

"Could not wear it now," Lena repeated, but
no one heard her, for Milly had left the room.
"Could Mama and Milly have opened the box last
night and seen what had happened?  Yes, that
must be it; how good and kind Milly was to forgive
her so easily.  She would show her how grateful
she was, and how much she loved her and Mama
too for forgiving her."  She felt she did not
deserve this kind treatment, but she would try to
in the future.  All that day Lena expected her
mother to say something about the feather, but not
one word was said, not even when they were alone.
Lena tried very hard all that day to be good, and
was gentle and affectionate to both her sisters,
especially Milly, who was so glad to have Lena
once more on amiable terms with her that she was
in the best and highest spirits.

When Mama gave her little girls their good-night
kiss, Lena said, "How good you are to me, Mama!"

"When one tries to be good oneself, darling, one
always finds that others are trying to be the same;
as when one is cross, one thinks everybody is cross too."

Lucy had not forgotten Bessie's remark, that
perhaps Milly had overlooked her present, and that
very probably it had got among the paper that
formed the wrappings of the hat and work-basket.
To find this out Lucy was quite determined, but
how to do so was the difficulty.  She had asked
Mama if she would look, but her answer had not
been satisfactory to the child—"Milly had looked,
and the paper from Mrs. Clifford proved that only
Milly was to receive anything."  Lucy wanted to
see for herself.  The box was in Mama's wardrobe
she knew, and could be very easily got at and
searched, if only she could do so without being
seen.  Some days passed away, and no opportunity
occurred.  One was sure to come, for it is
wonderful how opportunities do occur, for either good
or evil, when eagerly watched for.  It was the case
with Lucy.  Colonel and Mrs. Graham had gone
to return a visit some distance off; the two elder
girls had gone with Miss Marshall, Gertrude
Freeling and her governess for a long walk to some
woods in the neighbourhood.  This walk had long
been talked of, but it was too far to go in their
usual walking hours, so had been arranged for a
half-holiday.  When Gertrude and Miss Gifford
called for the Grahams, Astbury being on the way,
they brought word that Bessie was not going with
them; she would come down later and take Lucy
for a play in the fields.  This was a splendid
opportunity for Lucy to search the box.  Hester was
busy in the nursery, so Lucy asked leave to go and
meet Bessie.  This was at once accorded, for the
time fixed on for her coming was close at hand.
Instead of going out at once, Lucy went to her
mother's room.  Shutting the door quietly, so that
she should not be seen, she opened the wardrobe.
The box was too high for her to reach, so putting
a chair close she mounted on it, and was thus
enabled easily to reach the desired object.  Placing
it on the floor, she opened it, and lifting the hat out,
put it on the floor beside her, without uncovering
it from the paper in which it was wrapped.  Then
she made a careful but unavailing search.  The
child's face grew longer and longer as the conviction
was at last forced upon her, that there was really
nothing more there.  It was quite true then that
she had been told the truth by Milly, and Bessie
was wrong.  Anger succeeded to disappointment.
Without waiting to remove the chair or to replace
the box, she turned to go; the paper containing the
hat lay before her: giving it a kick with her foot,
for Lucy had worked herself into a rage by this
time, she sent hat, paper, and all flying across the
room.  Then, without waiting to see the effects of
the kick, she rushed out of the room, down the
stairs, and into the garden.  Bessie had not arrived,
so she started off to meet her, and pour into her
ever-friendly ear her tale of woe.





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.. _`THE SPOILT FEATHER`:

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   CHAPTER IX.


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   THE SPOILT FEATHER.

.. vspace:: 2

Lucy had not gone very far when she saw Bessie
coming towards her, not walking along briskly and
brightly as usual, but with a lagging step and
drooping head, so unlike her usual self that even
Lucy, full as she was of her own grievance, was
struck by it.

"O Bessie, what is the matter? what have you
been doing?"

"Nothing, except I am miserable," was the
gloomy answer.

Awed and subdued, the child walked beside her
in silence, until they came to a favourite
resting-place of theirs—an old tree that had been blown
down in some winter storm and still lay beside
the hedge.  The branches had been chopped off,
and grass and wild flowers had grown up around it,
making it both a comfortable and picturesque seat.
On this Bessie seated herself with Lucy beside her.

"Do tell me what is the matter; why are you
so unhappy?"  Placing her little hand on her
knee, she looked up affectionately into her
companion's face.

"They are going to send me away from here,
all among strangers in a horrid town, and I shall
be wretched."

"Send you away, your Papa and Mama!  Why,
what have you done?" the child asked in surprise.

"Nothing."  And as she spoke the word she
began to laugh in an hysterical, nervous sort of
way.  Then seeing the child's bewildered look she
said, "Yes, Lucy, that's really why, because Mama
says I am not getting on with Miss Gifford, that
I do nothing, so they are going to send me to school."

"How unkind of them!"

"No, Mama could not be unkind, nor Papa
either; they say it's for my good."

"Like what they say when they give you nasty
medicine."  This was not said saucily, but very
gravely, for Lucy was not in a merry mood; the
news she had just heard was too serious for a joke.

"Only think," said Bessie, looking round her
with loving, admiring eyes, "to live among streets
and houses, and to leave all these beautiful fields
and trees—oh, it is cruel!  I can never be happy
away from here."  Sure of a sympathising listener
in her little companion, she poured forth all her
sorrows for the present and fears for the future.

The prospect of dear kind Bessie going away
saddened little Lucy, and so filled her thoughts
that it drove away the remembrance of her own
disappointment, and she quite forgot to tell her of
all that had happened, and that she had come out
to meet her with the full intention of telling.
When they parted at the garden gate, Bessie looked
happier, though I fear not one whit more resigned
to the prospect in store for her.

Lucy watched her away, and then turned and
ran back to the house.  Though she was very very
sorry about it, still it did not prevent her from
being eager to tell her sisters the news, sad though
it was.  It gave her a feeling of importance to
know something the elder ones did not, so she felt
quite disappointed at finding that none of the others
had come in.  She must tell her tale to some one,
so running up to the nursery she found Hester,
who listened to her news and was as interested
and sympathising as her small charge desired.

Lucy was already dressed and waiting for tea,
when Lena came in, saying, "O Lucy, there you
are!  Mama wants you; she is in the drawing-room;
come along quickly."

Together they entered the drawing-room, where
they found Colonel and Mrs. Graham and Milly.
The latter looked very distressed, and both parents
very grave.

"What is it, Mama?" they both exclaimed.

"Have you been in your mother's bedroom
to-day, Lena?" asked Colonel Graham.

"No, Papa," was the immediate answer, and she
looked frankly into her father's face as she spoke.
Not a suspicion of what was coming dawned upon
her, she had so completely made up her mind
that both her mother and sister knew of her
wrong-doing and had forgiven her.  At first she had
often wondered that her mother had said no word
to her on the subject.  Then as the days wore on,
she was only too glad to forget all about it, and
she had tried to be very good and obedient, to
show her gratitude.  It was the old story with
Lena, trusting to her own efforts to repair the
wrong, forgetting that there is nothing that we
can do that will cleanse us from sin; there is
only One who can do that, and He was now going
to give her the opportunity to confess her fault,
and to show true repentance.

As Colonel Graham asked Lena this question,
Lucy coloured and cast down her eyes.  She
suddenly remembered what she had done, and how
she had left her mother's room.

"Lucy, have you been in?"  There was little
doubt what would be the answer.  Conscious guilt
was stamped on every feature of the child's face.

"Yes, Papa," she said timidly.  Then bursting
into tears, she rushed to her mother's arms for
refuge and comfort.

"Tell us all about it, my child; what did you
go for?"

"To see if there was not a present for me," she
sobbed.

"But Milly told you she had searched the box."

"Bessie said perhaps it had got among the paper,
and you had not seen it."

"Well, when you found it was not there, what
did you do to the hat?"

"Kicked it," she murmured very low.

"Nothing else?"

"No, I did not even look at it."

"You must have done something more, Lucy,"
said her father.  "How else could it be in this
state?"  And he held out Milly's unfortunate hat.

Lucy lifted her head from her mother's shoulder
and looked.  "O Papa, what a pity! how did it
get like that?"

The child spoke with such an accent of truth,
that the parents looked at one another in surprise.
That Lucy had not done it intentionally there could
be no doubt.

"We thought you had done it, Lucy.  We found
it in this state under the washing-stand."

"I am so sorry.  I never meant to spoil the
hat; I only kicked it because I was so angry;" for
Lucy immediately jumped to the conclusion that
she had done the mischief, though unintentionally.
Springing forward she flung her arms round Milly,
saying, "Please, please forgive me, Milly; I did not
mean to spoil your hat really."

"No, I know you did not, Lucy.  I don't mind
one bit now; I did at first, because it was such a
pretty one.  I don't mind now; and Lena and I
will have the same like always—won't we, Mama?"
said Milly sweetly as she kissed her little sister.

What were Lena's feelings during this time?
Very conflicting ones.  So Mama and Milly had
not known of it all along, and now she must
confess that she had not only done the mischief, but
had concealed it all this time.  Would they believe
her when she told them the whole story?  She
had not really meant to deceive them, she repeated
over and over again to herself.  The others were
too much taken up with Lucy to notice her, or else
her varying looks must have betrayed the struggle
that was going on within.  As Milly ceased speaking,
Lena started forward.  "O Milly," she began,
when her father's voice arrested her.

"I am glad, my child, you told me the truth at
once, for if you had tried to deceive me and denied
your fault, I should have been very angry.  You
see what sins jealousy and passion lead you into."

"I could not tell before Papa," thought Lena as
she drew back; "if he would be angry with little
Lucy, how much more so would he be with me
who am older?"  Then as Lucy sobbed out, "I
really did not mean to spoil the feather," and her
mother answered, "No, dear, that must have been
an accident," the temptation that rose to Lena's
mind was too strong to be resisted by her feeble
strength, and on that strength alone had she been
and still was relying.  So she held her peace and
let Lucy bear the blame.

"You need not stay, dears," said Mrs. Graham
to the two elder girls.  "Go to your tea; I want
to have Lucy with me alone for a little while."

How the feather had been spoiled still remained
a mystery.  Lucy fully and firmly believed that
she had been the cause, by throwing it under the
washing-stand, though unless the floor had been
wet it would not have been so utterly ruined.  It
was an unsatisfactory solution of the difficulty, but
as no other could be found, they had to be satisfied
with it.  How thankful Lena was when tea was
over, and Miss Marshall gave them leave to go out
into the garden for half an hour.

"May I go up and see Lucy?" asked Milly.

Gaining permission, she ran after Lena to tell
her where she was going, and to ask if she would
come with her.

"There is no good both going, and I want to
finish my book."  But not much of the book was
read that evening, when, out of sight of every one,
Lena sat down and tried to arrange her thoughts.
What had she done?  Though no one was by to see
her, her cheeks flushed with shame at her
conduct.  What cowardice and meanness had she not
been guilty of!  Oh, if she had only spoken out at
the beginning, all this misery and wickedness would
have been saved.  "It was not too late yet,"
conscience whispered.  Then the thought of what
her father would say when he heard that she had
deceived them.  If it was only Mama, I should not
mind, so ran her thoughts; but I dare not tell Papa,
he would be so angry.  Oh, if only Aunt Mary
were here I could tell her everything, forgetting,
or rather pushing away the remembrance, of One
nearer and dearer than any earthly friend, who
never turns a cold or deaf ear to any of His
children, and who ever has the gentlest and most
loving answer for His repentant little ones.  How,
over and over again, we dread the anger of some
earthly friend, forgetting that some day we must
face the just anger of an offended God if we
continue in our hardness and sin.  As Lena sat thus
thinking, we may be very sure that excuses, and
what she called good reasons for keeping silence,
were not long in making their appearance.  Lucy
had been forgiven, and nothing more would be said
on the subject.  Why should she open out such a
painful thing again?  She had not told a falsehood;
if Papa had asked her, she would have acknowledged
doing it.  He had only asked her if she had
been in her mother's room that afternoon, and she
had spoken the truth when she said "No."  Then
what would Aunt Mary feel if she heard that she,
her pet and darling, had got into trouble and
disgrace?  No, this must never be, and so on and on
went the struggle between right and wrong, ending,
alas! in Lena's leaving it to be settled some other
time.  "I could not do it to-night, I will the first
opportunity;" and somehow, when an opportunity
offered itself, it was not a right one—Lena would
wait for a better.  So day followed day, and still
the secret was locked up in Lena's bosom, and it
seemed probable that it never would be told.
Nothing was ever said about the feather, and to all
appearance no one remembered anything about it.
Still Lena was not happy.  How could she be, with
such a weight at her heart?  Aunt Mary had
striven to train her niece not for this life alone;
and the good seed that had been sown in love and
faith was not dead, and the better thoughts would
make themselves heard.  Lena was not callous or
hardened; no, she was very miserable, poor child,
as all of us must be who carry about with us an
unconfessed and unforgiven sin.  As day after day
she kneeled, as she had ever done in prayer, and
listened to, or read God's Word, her heart grew heavier,
and sometimes the longing to tell all was so strong
that she would start up to go, then her courage
would fail, and she was afraid of what they would
say; and the remembrance of her father's words,
both to herself and Lucy, would come back, and
she would shrink from the task, thinking, "I will
be very good and obedient, and make up for not
telling by good conduct."  At times she would
forget all about it, and be the bright, lively Lena we
first knew; but some word or deed would be sure
to recall her secret, and she would have the same
struggle over again.

Her mother was sure that something was amiss,
and would watch her troubled, anxious face with
loving eyes, fearing that her child was either ill or
unhappy.  Could it be, she would wonder, that she
was fretting at the loss of Aunt Mary? and at this
thought she would be, if that were possible, when
she was always kind and loving to her children,
more so than usual to Lena.  Strange to say, that
when this was the case, it made Lena only stronger
in her determination not to tell, for she would
think, "She would not be so kind to me if she
knew how naughty I had been."  So day after day
passed and her secret was still untold.

"Where is Lena?" asked Mrs. Graham,
coming into the garden, where Milly and Lucy
were busy working at their own especial little
garden.

"On the lawn, Mama.  She wanted to finish a
book Gertrude lent her.  Shall I call her?"

"No, dear, I will go to her," and she moved away.

Throwing down the rake with which she had
been working, Milly followed.  "Mama," she began,
when she was out of ear-shot of Lucy; "I don't
think Lena is very happy here."

"I am afraid, dear, that she is not well," answered
her mother.

"She is so much quieter, and she is not half so
fond of running about and romping as she used to be."

"I am beginning to think this place does not
suit her.  It's a change from the sea-air she has
been accustomed to.  I have a letter for her from
Aunt Mary; that is what I want her for."

"Oh, that will please her.  There she is.  Lena!"
she called out as they came in sight of her lying
flat on the grass, intent on a book she was reading.

Lena looked up as they joined her, saying,
"It is such a nice book!  Milly, you ought to
read it."

"I have brought you something else to read,
dear," said her mother, holding out a letter which
Lena sprang up to receive; for what child is not
delighted at receiving a letter, especially if directed
to itself!

As Lena was opening the envelope, Mrs. Graham
said, "I heard from Mrs. Clifford to-day.  That will
interest you, Milly.  I wrote and asked her to come
and stay here."

At these words Lena turned round hastily, and
listened anxiously to hear the answer from
Mrs. Clifford.  As her mother had paused and was
looking for the letter in her pocket, Lena asked
impatiently, "Is she coming?"

"Yes, dear, in a fortnight."

Lena's cheek flushed crimson, for the thought
flashed through her mind, "She will inquire about
the hat."

At sight of her crimsoned cheeks Mrs. Graham
and Milly at once came to the same conclusion—"Lena
has not forgotten her disappointment at not
receiving a present;" but neither took any notice
of her confusion in words.

"Shall I read you your letter, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"Please, Mama," she answered, placing the letter
in her hand.  Then walking slowly up and down
the lawn, Mrs. Graham read the letter aloud to the
two girls, who were walking one on each side of her.

After telling her niece about the many new and
interesting places she had been visiting, she went
on to say what pleasure it had given her to hear
from Mrs. Graham, how good and obedient Lena
had been, ending with, "Nothing can give me so
much happiness as hearing this, dear Lena, and I
trust that I may continue to have equally good
accounts until we meet again in the winter."  Lena
listened to these words in silence as her mother
ended the letter.

Bessie Freeling rushed out of the house to join
them, exclaiming as she did so, "O Mrs. Graham,
I came with Mama; she is in the drawing-room;
she wants to see you."

This was a happy interruption for Lena.  She
dreaded hearing some words of praise from her
mother, for she knew how little she deserved them.
Handing her the letter with a smile, Mrs. Graham
answered Bessie, and hurried back to the house to
see Mrs. Freeling, leaving the three girls together.

Bessie was in a state of excitement, and the
moment Mrs. Graham disappeared into the house
she burst out with, "What do you think she has
come for?  To ask if your mother will let one of
you go to the seaside with Gertrude and Miss
Gifford, instead of me.  I want to stay here all
summer.  I don't want to lose a day when I have
such a miserable winter before me."

"I thought your Papa and Mama were going
away too," said Milly.

"Yes, to take the boys to see Uncle Henry; but
I want to come and stay here while you go with
Gerty."

Milly's face fell: she did not want to leave
home.  "But we can't—we have no holidays," she
said, brightening up at this thought.

Here was an escape for Lena from meeting
Mrs. Clifford.  Was ever anything more fortunate? she
thought, for she dreaded any remarks or inquiries
from that lady.

"I should like to go to the sea," said Lena; "I
hope Mama will let me."

"Want to go away, Lena?" said Milly reproachfully.
"And when Mrs. Clifford is coming; I do so
want her to know you, as well as me."

"I do hope Mrs. Graham will say 'yes.'  Now,
Milly, don't you go trying to persuade Lena not
to—I shan't let you speak to her until it is all
settled;" and she laughingly dragged her away,
calling loudly to Lucy to come and help her, which
the moment Lucy heard her voice, she hastened to
do.  And a merry struggle went on between them,
in which Lena, rejoiced at the prospect of escaping
Mrs. Clifford's promised visit, joined in, and it
was in the midst of all the fun and noise that
Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Freeling joined them.

"You will consent, won't you, Mrs. Graham?" said
Bessie, leaving Milly and looking up coaxingly at her.

"Consent to have you here?  Yes, with pleasure;
and I think, as your mother has kindly asked one
of my children to go with Gertrude, that it would
do Lena good.  She has not been very well lately,
and the sea-air may strengthen her."

"But our lessons, Mama?" said Milly.

"She will do them all the better when she is
strong and well; won't you, Lena dear?"

"I am not ill, Mama, but I should like to go to
the sea."

"And I do so want to stay here," said Bessie.
"O Lucy, won't we be happy?  I shall have no
lessons, and we will live out of doors."  Seizing the
child as she spoke, she danced her round.

"When are we to go?" asked Lena.

"In a few days," said Mrs. Freeling.  "I have
written about the rooms, and we shall hear to-morrow."

"And how long shall we be away?" asked Lena
nervously.

"About three weeks or a month, I hope.  Will
that be too long?" asked Mrs. Freeling of her
mother.

"I am afraid you will miss Mrs. Clifford's visit,
dear; perhaps she will stay longer than she says
when once she is here."

Lena made no answer; and Mrs. Freeling then
spoke on some other subject, and the girls wandered
off together to another part of the garden.

The few days before they were to start passed
away quietly.  Lena was very glad to escape
Mrs. Clifford, for she quite made up her mind that the
subject of the spoilt hat would be brought forward
again during her stay, and perhaps, in some way,
her part in the proceeding might be brought to
light.  This she dreaded happening more than
anything.  It would be worse, far worse, than telling
it herself, for in this case who would believe that it
was an accident and not done intentionally?  Oh,
if she had only told it at first!  Now each day
made it more difficult.  How true it is that "The
wicked flee when no man pursueth."  Lena was
running away from an imaginary enemy.  If she
had remained she would have heard no word
mentioned on the subject, for Mrs. Graham had written
the whole story to Mrs. Clifford, saying, as she
believed was the case, that little Lucy had done it
in a sudden fit of passion, but without any real
intention of destroying it, simply kicking it out of the
way as it was the nearest thing on which to spend
her anger.  And an answer had come from Mrs. Clifford,
regretting all that had happened, except
the amiable and forgiving behaviour of her little
friend Milly.





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.. _`AT SIDCOMBE`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   AT SIDCOMBE.

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Miss Gifford and the two girls, Gertrude and
Lena, had been now for some days in their
comfortable lodgings at Sidcombe, and Lena was fast
becoming very fond of her new companion.
Although they had seen a great deal of Gertrude
during their stay at Astbury, both she and Milly
had looked upon her as being nearly grown up,
and though liking her very much, for she was
always kind and good to them, they looked upon
her in quite a different light to that in which they
looked on Bessie, not considering her, as they did
the latter, as a companion and playfellow.  There
seemed to Lena more difference between her twelve
and Gertrude's fifteen years, than there was between
Milly and Bessie, though the actual difference in
age was much the same.  Gertrude was very different
from her sister, Bessie being much gentler
and quieter in disposition.  But now, in the quiet
and daily companionship of their life, the two
girls were fast becoming firm friends.

The life at Sidcombe was very pleasant, and
Lena was enjoying it much.  There was nothing
here to recall the secret trouble that had been
haunting her at home, and no word was ever said
to call forth the struggle between right and wrong,
between deceit and truth, that had been of daily
occurrence when with her mother-and sisters.  She
was only too glad to think that her secret was
to remain one for ever, and that the whole thing
was an affair of the past, never to trouble her
any more.

Both Miss Gifford and Gertrude were very kind
to Lena, and the days passed in a simple but
happy manner.  Their mornings were spent on
the sands, and there was nothing Lena enjoyed
more, when the morning bath in the sea was over,
than to lie under shelter of some rock, and listen
to Gertrude as she read aloud, for Miss Gifford
said something in the way of lessons must be done,
so had fixed upon this plan, of reading out for a
certain number of hours each morning from an
interesting and improving book, certainly the
pleasantest of all ways of gaining knowledge.

The afternoons and evenings were devoted to
long rambles, either along the sands, or through
the pretty lanes and fields of the country round.
At first both girls were eager to wander about
and explore the neighbourhood, but very soon they
grew either too lazy, or the weather became too
hot, or for some reason Lena began to tire of
long walks, and she would ask Miss Gifford and
Gertrude to spend their evenings on the water,
being rowed about in the cool evening air, chatting
to one another, or listening to the many tales that
their boatman, who was an old sailor, delighted to
tell them of the many places he had visited.

One afternoon Miss Gifford said she had letters
to write, so the two girls started off together for
a walk.

"Where shall we go?" asked Lena.

"Suppose we go to the wood.  We have only
been once since we came."

"Right past that little white cottage where we
saw that pretty little girl who sold us flowers?"

"Yes, and perhaps we shall see her again.  Now
don't be lazy, Lena; it will be a lovely walk."

"Can we buy some more flowers?  David says
that she and her mother are very poor."

"I will run and ask Miss Gifford," said Gertrude,
turning back and re-entering the house she soon
came out again, saying, "Yes, we may; and Miss
Gifford says she will come and meet us when she
has finished her letters."

They started off again, this time without returning,
talking of the little girl, whose sweet looks and
gentle manner had interested them all, and of whom
their boatman David had often spoken to them,
her father, who had been a sailor like himself,
having been drowned a few years before, leaving
his widow and children very poor, and in a certain
degree to David's care.

Their way lay along a shady lane, bordered with
ferns and wild flowers, tempting both girls to stop
to pick and admire them more than once.  Before
they reached the end of the lane, Lena said, "O
Gertrude, let us wait here for Miss Gifford; it's so
hot, and I am so tired;" and she seated herself on
the bank as she spoke.

"You lazy girl!" laughed Gertrude; then seeing
that she looked really tired, added, "You take a
rest, dear, while I pick some flowers and ferns, and
then I will bring them to you and we will arrange
them together."

Gertrude had joined Lena, with both hands full
of floral treasures, and they were busy arranging
them into a pretty nosegay, when the sound of
footsteps caused them to look up.  They so seldom
met any one in these quiet lanes, that both the
girls stopped their work to see who was coming.
In a few moments their curiosity was gratified by
seeing their old friend the boatman coming towards
them from the direction of the White Cottage.

"Halloa, David!" called out Lena, "have you
been for a walk?"

"Yes, Missie," answered the old man as he
touched his hat.

"We are going to the wood, and to call and buy
some flowers from that little girl, Mary Roberts,"
said Gertrude.

"I would not go that way to-day, Miss," he
answered gravely.

"Oh yes, but we want to—we mean to," said Lena.

"What is the matter, David?" asked Gertrude,
seeing he looked troubled.

"I've just came from the cottage, Miss, from
seeing little Mary.  She's down with the fever."

Both girls exclaimed in tones of pity, "Poor
Mary!" and Gertrude added, "Is there nothing we
can do for her, David?  Is she very ill?"

"Yes, Miss, she's terrible bad, and her mother
is in a sad way about her."

"Oh, do take her this," pressing into his hand the
money Miss Gifford had given them to pay for the
flowers.  "And we will go back and ask Miss Gifford
to help her.  Come, Lena."

Both the girls were eager to hurry back to ask
for assistance, but David would not let them go
until they promised they would not go near the
cottage, as he feared the fever might be infectious.

When they gave the desired promise, he thanked
them, and said he would return with the money
they had given him, for small though the coin was,
it would be a help to the poor hard-working mother.

"Is she very ill, David?" asked Lena in an
awed tone; "will she die?"

"She is in God's hands, Missie; the best and
safest of all," he answered reverently, adding, "She's
very young, and it's wonderful what a deal of illness
young things can bear."

"How old is she?" asked Gertrude kindly.

"Twelve years, that's all."

"Just your age, Lena."  Then with a friendly
good-bye to the old man, the two girls hurried off
to meet Miss Gifford, and tell her of the sad trouble
that had overtaken Mrs. Roberts and her child.

They had gone but a very little way when they
met Miss Gifford hurrying towards them.  When
she went to post her letters, she had heard a
rumour of there being fever at Mrs. Roberts' cottage,
and she had hurried after the two girls, hoping to
overtake them before they reached the cottage, for
she dreaded their running into any danger of
infection.  Her first question was as to whether they
had been, and it was with deep thankfulness she
heard how they had loitered on the way, and that
they had met David, who had stopped their going on.

"We may send them something, may we not?"
they both asked eagerly as they walked home.

Very soon a basket was despatched under David's
care, filled with things that Miss Gifford thought
would be good for the sick child.  There was no
boating that evening, both the girls declaring it
would not be fair upon their "own man," as they
called David, to employ any one else, when he had
gone on an errand of kindness and mercy to his old
friend's widow and child.

Miss Gifford was naturally very anxious about
the health of her two pupils, and she remembered,
with a feeling of uneasiness, how much Lena had
complained the last few days of being tired; and
as she looked white that evening after the great heat
of the day, she hurried her off early to bed, much
against Lena's inclination.  But Miss Gifford was
firm, and she had to obey.

The next day came news that little Mary was
still very very ill, and there was but small hope of
her recovery.  And the two girls spoke and thought
much of the poor little sufferer, who but a few
days ago had brought them flowers, apparently as
well and with as fair a prospect of living as either
of themselves, now lying tossing restlessly about in
the clutches of that cruel fever, in the small close
cottage that was her home.

"She is not going to die, is she, Gertrude?"
asked Lena.  "She is so young—only twelve."

It was not Gertrude, but Miss Gifford, that
answered this remark with, "Age has nothing to do
with it, Lena dear.  It is not only the aged that
God calls away.  We ought all, even children, try
to live good lives, so that when our summons
comes we may be ready and glad to go."

"But we can't; at least children can't always be
good," said Lena.

"No, dear; but we can all try, and if we do fall,
we can repent, and ask God's forgiveness, which He
never withholds, and then we need not fear."

"But David says little Mary is such a good girl,
so truthful and honest, and always been so kind to
her mother and everybody; he says she is a real
little Christian," said Gertrude.

"Yes, so I was very glad to hear," answered
Miss Gifford.

"It would be a dreadful thing," said Gertrude,
thoughtfully, "to die when you were doing a wrong
thing."

"Little Mary is not going to die," said Lena
almost passionately, bursting into a flood of tears
as she spoke.

Miss Gifford looked surprised but said nothing
except, "We hope not, dear Lena."  Then drawing
the weeping child to her side, she soothed her
with gentle words, until she had recovered, and
regained her composure once more.

Nothing more was said on the subject of little
Mary that morning.  Gertrude opened her book
and read out until it was time to return to the
house, while Lena leant with her head against Miss
Gifford's shoulder, apparently listening intently,
but in reality thinking and wondering over many
things.

After dinner Miss Gifford announced that it was
too hot for a walk; and as Lena complained of
having a headache, she was to lie down until it
was cool enough for them to go out, adding, as
she left the room, "Poor child, I had no idea she
would have felt for others so very strongly."

As Lena lay on the bed in the darkened room,
sleep was very far from her.  Although her eyes
were shut, her thoughts were very busy.  Gertrude's
words came back to her over and over again, "To
die doing wrong."  Her head ached dreadfully,
which was not to be wondered at after her passionate
fit of crying; and as Lena was not often troubled
with a headache, she began to grow nervous and
frightened.  Could it be that she was going to get
the fever also, like Mary Roberts?  If she had it at
twelve years of age, why should not she?  Yes, she
was sure she was going to be ill too; and her
mother would soon be in as sad a state about her,
as David said Mrs. Roberts was about her little
girl.  Poor Lena! she began to cry softly out of
sheer fright.  Suddenly jumping up, she went to
the table, and taking up a small hand-glass that
lay there, she took it with her to the window, and
lifting the blind, looked at herself.  Such a
miserable, flushed, tear-stained face she saw.  Yes, it
must be the fever that made her cheeks so red.
Laying down the glass, she flung herself on the
bed.  Oh, if she had only told Papa and Mama
that it was she who had destroyed Milly's hat, and
not little Lucy, as she had allowed them all to
believe, how much happier she would be now!  How
weak and wicked she had been and still was!  Oh,
if Mama was only here, she would go and tell her
all; but it was too late now, Mama was far away,
and couldn't hear or see her child's sorrow, and
alas! it was her own doing, and by her own wish, they
were not together.  Then there crept into her heart
the sweet loving words that had been so familiar
to her all her life, but now seemed to come back
to her with a stronger power and deeper meaning
than they had ever had to her before.  "I will
arise and go to my Father," were the words that
were ever before her as she lay sobbing bitterly.
Yes, she too would do that.  Springing up, she
knelt down and prayed earnestly and truly for
strength to do what was right—to tell the truth,
and remove the blame from poor innocent little
Lucy.  Lena prayed as she had never prayed before
in her young life, and being calmed and comforted,
she was standing meditating how she was to carry
out her good resolutions, when the door opened
softly, and Gertrude looked in.

"I came to see if you were asleep; how is your
headache, dear?" she asked.

Here was a way opened to her—an answer, as it
seemed, to her prayer.  She would tell Gertrude
all, and be guided by her as to the best way
of acting.  Without answering her question, she
sprang forward, and throwing her arms round her
friend's neck, sobbed out, "O Gertrude, I must tell
you—I spoilt the hat; I am so wicked and so
miserable.  Do you think Papa will ever forgive me?"

"Spoilt what, Lena?  Whatever is the matter,
dear?" asked Gertrude in amazement, and a little
bit frightened at the excited state Lena was in.  She
had heard about the hat being destroyed, and
thought, as they all did, that Lucy had done it;
but as it was now some time since it had happened,
she had forgotten all about it.  So when Lena
sobbed out again, "I spoilt the hat," she began to
think it was some hat she had destroyed belonging
to herself.

"What hat, dear, do you mean?"

"Milly's; I did it, not Lucy."

"O Lena!" she exclaimed in a shocked voice.

"Don't speak like that, Gerty, please.  I can't
bear you to be angry with me; I didn't mean to
do it really."

"I am not angry, Lena dear; but I don't understand
about it.  Come and sit down and tell me
what you mean."  Going to the window, she drew
up the blind and drew a chair up for Lena as well
as herself; but Lena would sit nowhere but on the
floor.  Crouching down at Gertrude's feet, and hiding
her face on her lap, she told her tale in broken
words.  Gertrude listened, without saying one
word until she had ended; then stooping down
and putting her arms round her she said, "Poor
Lena, how unhappy you must have been all this time!"

"Not since I have been here; but before it was
dreadful.  Do you think they will ever forgive me?"

"Of course they will, Lena; how can you doubt it?"

"But Papa said he couldn't bear us to do a
dishonourable, wicked thing; and Gerty, he spoke so
sternly, that I was afraid to tell him.  And then
I thought Mama and Milly knew, and had forgiven
me without telling him," repeated Lena again.

"Poor Lena!" was all Gertrude said again, as
she stroked back the child's hair from her flushed
face, for by this time Lena had found her way
from the floor to Gertrude's lap.  A long silence
fell upon them.  Lena lay very still, resting her
head against her kind companion's shoulder, feeling,
oh, so thankful! that the wretched secret was no
longer locked up in her own heart.  At last she said,
"How can I tell them?"

"You must write to them, dear, to-night; don't
put off, for it only makes it more difficult."

"I am sure I don't know what I shall say.  I
shall never be able to write it."

"Yes, you will, dear.  I will help you.  What
made you tell me to-day, Lena?"

"O Gerty!" she exclaimed, sitting up and looking
very grave, "I have got such a headache, and
I am so hot and my cheeks so red, I am sure I am
going to have the fever like little Mary Roberts."

"O Lena, what nonsense!"

"It is not, Gertrude.  I never had such a bad
headache before, and I am so hot, and I thought
about what you said about dying when you were
doing wrong, so I felt I must tell; and, Gerty"—here
she lowered her voice—"I asked God to help
me, and then you came in."

"Darling," was the only answer.  Then a knock
came to the door and the servant's voice was heard
saying, "Tea is ready."

Gertrude helped Lena to get ready, and together
they went downstairs.

Miss Gifford called out in surprise as they entered
the room, "My poor little Lena, I am afraid your
sleep has not done you any good.  Are you feeling ill?"

"Yes, Miss Gifford, my head aches, and I am
so hot I could not sleep."

"You shall sit in the arm-chair by the window;
it is so pleasant now with the cool sea-breeze
coming in, and Gerty shall give you a cup of tea."

Lena sat very quietly, accepting all Miss Gifford's
kindness in silence; but when Gerty took her a
cup of tea she whispered, "Must I tell Miss
Gifford?"

"I will tell her, dear, and how sorry you are."

"Perhaps she won't be so kind to me then; she
will think me so wicked."

"She was never unkind when Bessie and I were
naughty: I am sure she won't be to you."  Then
raising her voice she said, "Lena wants to write a
letter home to-night, please, Miss Gifford."

"No, dear, that must wait till to-morrow; little
girls with headaches must keep quiet," was the
answer.

With this Lena had to be content.  In truth she
was not sorry to have nothing more to do that
evening but rest quietly, feeling thankful that she
had taken that difficult first step in the right
direction.





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.. _`CONCLUSION`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CONCLUSION.

.. vspace:: 2

Lena's fears that she too was going to have the
fever proved only too true, for by the next day
she was really ill.

All she had gone through for the last few weeks—the
fear of discovery, and misery of concealment,
joined with the knowledge of how wrongly she was
behaving—had tried the child.  Though, alas! she
had been, as all children are, naughty over and
over again, she had never before concealed a fault
and continued to do so, as she had now done week
after week; and the continual struggle that had
gone on in her mind between truth and right, and
the pride and jealousy for love, that were such
strong features of her character, had told upon
body as well as mind, and made her fall an easy
prey to the low fever that had broken out in the
village and neighbourhood of Sidcombe; and for
the next few days she had but a very dim and
hazy idea of what was going on around her.

Fortunately the attack was in a mild form, and
the weather was much cooler than it had been
before the fever broke out, heavy rain having
fallen, which cooled the air and revived the sick
and drooping, and the doctor was soon able to
pronounce his little patient on the high road to
recovery.

When Lena first began to take notice of who
was beside her, she expressed no astonishment at
seeing her mother's face bending over her and
hearing her whisper a few loving words in answer
to her.  "What is the matter, Mama?"

"You have been ill, dear, but, please God, you
will soon be well again."

Lena was quite satisfied, and asked no more
questions—it only seemed natural to have Papa
and Mama beside her; but gradually the recollections
of the day before she was taken ill came
back to her, and she remembered that it was
Gertrude and Miss Gifford who had been with her
then.  The latter was still constantly beside her,
but it was Gertrude she wanted to see and speak
to, as she remembered everything clearly.  Had
she told Miss Gifford?  She wondered if she
had; she certainly was not angry, for she could
not have been kinder to any one than she was to Lena.

"Mama, where is Gertrude?" she asked.

"Gone home, dear, for we were afraid of her
being taken ill also if she remained."

After a few minutes' silence Lena murmured,
"My letter; I never wrote it."

"My darling," whispered Mrs. Graham, leaning
over her child and placing her hand lovingly on
her forehead, "There is no need to
write—Gertrude has told me all."

"O Mama, and are you angry?  Do you still
love me, when I am so wicked?"

"Still love you, my little one!  You cannot
doubt that we all forgive you fully and freely.
O my child, never fear to tell us everything and
anything you do or think."

Lena's arms were round her mother's neck in a
moment, and she said, as she clung fondly to her,
"No, Mama, I never, never will.  It was not you
I was afraid of, but Papa.  I thought he would
be so angry."

Lena did not think Papa stern, or one likely to
cause any one fear, when later that day he spoke
a few loving words to his child; and as she kissed
him, she felt that never again would she think him
stern.  Her only wonder was how she could ever
have feared him, or doubted the love of either of
them ceasing because she had done wrong.

As Lena lay still that evening, her hand clasped
in Mama's, and her eyes fixed upon Papa, who was
reading out her letters from Milly and Gertrude,
Lena felt so happy and contented.  There was no
longer any fear in her heart, for there was nothing
to be hidden, and the child's heart swelled with
gratitude as she thought how good every one had
been and now were to her.

When the letters were finished, Lena asked
suddenly, "How is little Mary; is she better?"

A moment's silence followed, and then Mama
said, "Little Mary has gone to that home where
she will never have pain or suffering more, my
Lena; she is with her Saviour now, dear."

"Dead, Mama—dead! and she was only twelve
years old, just my age.  Her poor mother"——

And her eyes filled with tears as she added, "And
David, how sorry he must be, he was so fond of her!"

"Yes, dear, we must pity them, but not little
Mary herself; she is happy, perfectly happy now."

"O Mama, I am so glad I did not die too, for
I was not good like her, and I hadn't told you and
Papa.  I meant to that very night, but Miss Gifford
would not let me write."

"God has been very good to us all, as He always
is, Lena, and has spared my little girl to us, and
given her another opportunity of living and working
for Him."

"Indeed, indeed I will try."

"Now, dear, you must not talk any more or get
excited.  We feared to tell you about little Mary,
in case it should upset you while you were so weak,
but Papa and I decided that if you asked we would
tell you the truth; for we have all decided, have we
not, that we are to have no concealments or deceptions
any more,—have we not?" she repeated.

"No, I never will; I mean," she added humbly,
"I will try not to."

After that day Lena grew rapidly better, and was
soon able to be taken down to the sitting-room,
where she could lie on the sofa before the open
window, inhaling the cool sea-breezes that brought
back health to the weakened frame, and colour to
the pale cheeks.

Soon the day arrived when the doctor pronounced
the invalid strong enough to undertake the journey
home; but before they started she begged for and
was allowed to see Mrs. Roberts, the poor widowed
mother, who gladly spoke of her little Mary, and
she told Lena much of the simple holy life her
child had tried to lead; and it comforted the poor
mother to hear how her child had been, although
unconsciously, instrumental in leading and strengthening
another in the right way; and it interested
Lena much to hear of the girl who, though she had
seen her but once or twice, had still been able to
exercise such an influence for good on her life.

It was the contrast between her own feeling of
wrong-doing, and the account David gave them of
how Mary had tried to act, that made such a deep
impression on Lena's mind, and had been the means
of bringing her, in the true spirit of humility, to
sue for pardon and strength to do what was right.
How thankful and happy Lena now felt that she
had told all, and that there was no longer in her
heart or life anything that she desired to hide from
her parents.

Oh, if children would only remember that the
good or evil they do affects, not only themselves,
but may, both by example and bearing, have a
powerful influence over their companions, I am
sure one and all would strive to deserve the name
that David had bestowed on Mary Roberts, and be,
in deed and in truth, little Christians.  How
happy they would be, not only themselves, but
would make all around them equally so!

Long ere the autumn passed into winter, Lena
was well and strong, and Astbury was no longer
looked upon or called a new home; and although
they were not able, now the cold and wet weather
had set in, to spend their time in the fields and
garden as at first, they found there were pleasures
and joys in a country life in winter as well as in
summer, and sunshine reigned indoors, for Lena
and her sisters were very happy and loving
together.  Storms came occasionally, as among all
small people; but there was not only love, but
perfect trust and confidence between them all now;
and when that is the case, there must be happiness
in the home circle.

Christmas was drawing very near, and with it
the prospect of Aunt Mary's promised visit.  No
word had been said to Miss Somerville about Lena's
wrong-doing and its long concealment.  Mrs. Graham
wished Lena to tell her Aunt herself, and
though at first she shrank from the task, she
acknowledged that she ought to do so, for, as she
said to her mother, "I know I ought to, Mama,
for Gerty saved me the pain of telling you, though
now I should not want any one to tell you or Papa
anything for me, but then it was different."

Christmas also brought back, for her first holiday,
Bessie Freeling from the boarding-school that
she had looked forward to with so much dread,
and that she had found was not so dreadful in
reality as in anticipation.  Like many other things
in this world that we dread and think of as misfortunes,
it turned out, as is so often the case, to be a
real blessing when it came.  Bessie was beginning
to see that running about wild in the country was
not all that was required to make life either useful
or happy.

The first evening of Aunt Mary's arrival Lena
joined her in her own room.  Miss Somerville sat
quietly in her chair before the fire, and listened
to Lena as she poured forth the account of her
doings since they had parted in the summer,
ending with, "I know, Auntie, that you must be
disappointed and grieved with me after all my
promises."

"I did not expect those promises to be quite
fulfilled, Lena," was her Aunt's answer.

"Did you think so badly of me as that, then,
Aunt Mary?"

"Not badly, darling.  I fear I thought too much
of my little niece, and helped to spoil her by being
too indulgent and easy."

"Then why,—what do you mean, Auntie?"

"I mean, darling, that you spoke so confidently,
and as if you were so sure of your own strength;
and Lena, you know now that our own strength is
but utter weakness when we are tempted."

Lena's eyes filled with tears, but she made no
answer as her Aunt, drawing her close to her, went
on lovingly to say, "However sorry I am about
the past, I am now much more happy and hopeful
about your future than I was when we parted in
the summer, for I feared you would have many
trials and temptations to go through, that you little
dreamed of in the quiet life we led together."

"You warned me, Auntie; you said I must learn
to give in, and share with Milly and Lucy."

"Yes, dear, experience teaches us many lessons,
and God has been very good to you: He has shown
you the misery of wrong-doing."

"Yes indeed, Auntie, I was very miserable,"
interrupted Lena.

"But, my darling, if that misery has taught you
to be humble and trust less in your own strength,
I cannot be sorry, but thankful for it."

"And you won't love me less?"

"Lena!" was all her Aunt said, but it was enough.

"No, no, Auntie, I didn't mean that; I know
you won't.  You will be like Papa and Mama, who
only seem to love me more, if that is possible;
only," she added with a smile, "Mama says the
love was always there, but I wouldn't see it."

"Thank God, dear Lena, that you do see it at last."

"It was only sometimes I didn't, when I thought
they liked Milly best, but she deserved it if they
had.  O Auntie, she has been so good, and so has
little Lucy; they never said one unkind word when
I came home, though I had behaved so badly."

A loud knock, and an impatient "Do let us in,
Aunt Mary," from Lucy, interrupted them.

Lena ran and opened the door, and there stood
Lucy, all eagerness and excitement, and beside her
was Milly, holding a big parcel in her arms, her
face beaming with delight.

"It's for you, Lena; see, it is addressed 'Miss
Graham.'  It's from Mrs. Clifford," she added softly.

"Then it must be meant for you," answered Lena,
flushing scarlet and drawing back.

"Never mind, Lena; open it quickly, do, and
see what is inside," burst out Lucy impatiently.

"It is meant for you, Lena dear, so don't be
afraid to open it."

"I heard from Mrs. Clifford this morning that
the box was sent," said her mother, coming in.

Thus bidden, Lena, with her sister's help, undid
the string and took off the paper.  Opening the
box, Lena took out and laid on the floor two parcels
directed to Milly and herself.  Then she drew out
one with Lucy's name on it.  There was no mistaking
what Lucy's was.

"A doll for me!  Oh, how lovely!  My first
Christmas present!" she exclaimed in delight.

Lena looked at hers.  On the paper was written,
"For dear Lena, from Milly's godmama."  Opening
it, she saw a pretty soft brown hat, with a long
curling ostrich feather of the same colour, and
looking up she saw Milly holding one exactly the
same in her hand.

"O Lena, how nice!  We shall be exactly like,
I am so glad.  Aren't they lovely?"

"Mama," said Lena, after a pause, "may I give
Lucy the feather?  she deserves it, I don't;" and she
tried to unfasten it as she spoke.

"Wait a moment, my child.  Ask Lucy first if
she would like it."

It was difficult to get Lucy to attend to anything
they said, so absorbed was she in the delights of
her new doll; when she did hear, she asked in
surprise, "Give it me! what for?  It's your present,
Lena; you should not give away presents—it is wrong."

"But, Lucy, you forget what I did to Milly's
white one, and let you bear the blame."

"Oh, I didn't mind; at least, I knew I did not
mean to spoil the feather; but I kicked it, you know."

"Do let me give it to her, Mama," Lena pleaded.

"I don't want it, Lena, I don't want it; you
and Milly will have hats alike.  I mustn't speak
of the white one.  Milly and I decided we never
would; and Bessie said she would think me very
mean if I did, and I won't."

"How good you are all to me!" said Lena, giving
her little sister a kiss.

"That's because you are so much nicer now than
you used to be—you are not always"——  Here
Lucy stopped, abashed at Milly's indignant
exclamation.

"Always what?" asked Lena after a moment's pause.

"Always wanting to be first, and going on about
being the eldest.  I love you ever so much more
now since you have been to Sidcombe;" and the
child looked round at them all, as much as to say,
"There now, I have spoken out what I really think."

"Dear Lena, I should rather have had that testimony
to your character than all the promises of last
summer, and I am sure Mama agrees with me," said
Aunt Mary.

Mama's answer was a loving kiss as she placed
the hat on Lena's head.  Then doing the same to
Milly, said, "Now run down together, and show
them to Papa, and ask what he thinks about them;
and then put them away in your own room until
Christmas morning, that day of joy, peace, and
good-will towards man."

As the two girls left the room together, Miss
Somerville said to her sister, "They are very fond
of each other."

"Yes, dear," was the answer.  "It makes me very
happy to see their affection.  I know the value of a
sister's love, and I trust that no root of jealousy
may ever again spring up to interrupt their perfect
friendship."

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