The Doctor's Daughter

LONELY.

"WELL, my dear!" said a quick, rather pleasant voice. "Here you are!"

"Yes, father, always here," answered another voice, as a young girl emerged from behind the curtains of the bay window, where she had been standing gazing out on the pretty garden. "What a wet day you have had!"

"Pretty well," he answered, as he came forward to the fire, "but I do not feel it in the carriage as other folks do who have to trudge along in the mud."

"No," she assented, helping him off with his coat and carrying it into the hall; "are you ready for your tea, father?"

"I should think 'you' are," he answered, glancing at the clock. "Such a list of patients as I have had to-day. I thought I should never get through."

"I suppose it is the wet weather," she remarked as she rang the bell. "It is wonderfully cold for April!"

Her father sat down in the armchair she had placed for him, and warmed his hands in a placid way, looking round on his daughter with contented eyes.

"Is Dr. Arundel come, father?"

"Not yet; he arrives this evening. Heigho! I'd sooner have rubbed along by myself, I do believe, than to undertake to get someone else into the work."

"Oh! But, then, see how the work keeps on increasing, and now we live up the hill, it is such a long way from the town. You could not do it all."

He smiled a little. "You know best, don't you?" he said fondly. "Here is the teapot; pour out a cup, there's a dear; I'm weary."

She handed it to him, pressing him with pretty persuasion to take something to eat.

She was a dainty little thing, with wavy hair, small hands and feet, and an engaging manner.

He watched her as she moved quickly and noiselessly about, and then he sighed.

She turned her head quickly.

"Is the tea not good?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, perfectly. Very nice, my dear."

She sat down by his side, with her own cup in her hand, and looked into the fire. She was always disturbed if her father sighed. "I was thinking, Ruth, that it was a mistake to have come up here to live; I wish we had not."

"Then we will go to the town again," she answered decidedly; "it is nothing to move."

"Nothing!" he responded. "That is all you know!"

"Why do you regret it, particularly?" asked Ruth.

"I came up here for your mother's sake, and after all, it did not save her. Nothing could, as far as that went; but I wish I had not moved from the town."

There was an instant's pause.

"Oh, well!" she said brightly. "We can think it over. I like being at The Firs ten times as much as in the old frowsy town, but if you do not, we'll go back there. I love the dear old house! See, your tea is getting cold; let me give you another cup. Perhaps Dr. Arundel's coming will make ever so much difference."

"I should not wonder." Then there was another sigh, and after a moment he asked, "Let me see, how old are you, Ruth?"

"I am seventeen—" she hesitated an instant—"to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he exclaimed, rousing himself. "Why did no one tell me, or remind me?" Then, with the heaviest sigh he had yet given, he went on, "It was your mother who always thought of these things."

Ruth had privately wondered if he would remember. He was so clever in all outside things. But as long as she was cheerful, and in her place to welcome him, he seemed to think very little about her, or so she thought.

Perhaps she was mistaken. But sometimes when she had finished a long day of pretty ministry to him, and was shut up in her own room at night, she would lay her head in her mother's chair and cry bitterly for the want of she knew not what. Whether it was the lack of mother-love or sympathy, or simple desolateness, she could not tell.

"What would you like me to give you, my dear?" asked her father, turning round abruptly.

And Ruth's thoughts came back to the present.

"I do not know, father," she answered colouring. "Anything you like—or nothing—"

"That is likely, is it not, my precious?" he said fondly. "Well, I must 'cudgel my brains,' as people say; girls are curious creatures. I expect you will have to help me?"

ARTHUR ARUNDEL.

AFTERNOON tea was scarcely over when the telephone bell was heard. And in a few moments, the parlourmaid came in to say the doctor was wanted at once.

"Oh, dear!" said Ruth. "I did hope you would have had a little peace! However, that's the way, isn't it? There's James with the carriage; I expect he and Dobbin have had a cup of tea, too!"

She laughed merrily, and her father, with a hasty kiss, hurried off, and she was again alone.

Presently, after a slight knock, a pleasant elderly person entered and came forward.

"I thought you must be lonely this wet afternoon, Miss Ruth, so I came to see if I could do anything for you."

"No, Morris, I do not think I am. I was just going to practise my violin."

"Master has been down on his way out to ask me what you would like for your birthday present, miss. He's really put about that he has nothing ready. I told him if he'd excuse my saying so, I expect you would like to be consulted better than to have something as a surprise that you did not exactly want."

"Yes," said Ruth, looking up, "that is just what I do feel; but I do not know what my father would like to spend upon it! Do sit down, Morris. Will it be too cold for you with this window open? It has almost left off raining. But see, I will shut it. Can you spare time to have a chat?"

The housekeeper had intended nothing else. When Ruth had no other visitors, she often came up and did her best to pass away some of the long, lonely afternoons.

So she sat down by the window and answered comfortably, "Well, Miss Ruth, if I might suggest, I think it would be a good plan for the master to tell you what he thought of spending, and then for you and me to go to Worcester to-morrow to buy it."

Ruth smiled. "All right," she said: "that would be lovely. But you must tell him, Morris, because if I did—well, it would seem like asking him for a present, would it not?"

It was long past seven before the wheels were heard again, and the carriage came up the drive. Dinner had been kept back, and Ruth had sat with her fancy work, waiting and wondering.

To her astonishment, she heard two voices in the hall, and a great bustle of hanging up coats. Then her father threw open the drawing-room door, and said cheerfully, "Dr. Arundel, my dear! Dr. 'Arthur' Arundel, as he likes to be called. I have brought him to stay with us. I thought it was dull for him in a new place this first evening."

Ruth shook hands, and privately hoped Morris would have arranged enough dinner for three, and that the room was ready.

It came out that her father had driven to meet his new partner at the junction, and thinking it would be but lonely in lodgings that first evening, he had decided to get to know him at once. Ruth was accustomed to chance guests, and took it all calmly, listening to the conversation very quietly, but following it with interest, her bright eyes sparkling at anything that amused her, while her father said a word now and then in a fond, teasing way to include her, but otherwise was absorbed in his guest and his politics.

When dinner was over, Dr. Brown turned to her. "You have your German to prepare, my dear, I expect. We will join you in the drawing-room presently."

Ruth made her escape, and sat down by her little table, and tried to busy herself with her preparation, but she found it hard work. She forgot for a moment about the new partner, and her thoughts flew to her birthday to-morrow, and of this time last year, when she had not been motherless.

It seemed like a dream. She wondered if she had done everything she could to make home happy for her father. Had she done all she could? Morris thought she had, but then Morris could not know how often her father gave those weary sighs. Besides, Morris thought "religion" could ease every care under the sun, and Ruth did not see that; she could not understand it. Her father and she did very well without it, she thought. And even if her mother had been influenced by Morris to think of such things, why, of course, invalids always must, and that was only natural.

She did not know that Morris would have been shocked if she had been told that in Ruth's thoughts what was her joy and comfort could be called "religion!"

"It's just having Christ in your heart and in your life," she would say to herself, as she sat in her sitting-room downstairs, "and I can but pray that they may understand it for themselves; for it is eternal life to them that know Him!"

"SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR."

DR. BROWN and his guest came to the drawing-room for a cup of coffee, but quickly went back to the library to talk over "the practice," and Ruth was alone once more.

Were all her days to pass thus? A music or German lesson in the morning, a few odd callers in the afternoon varied by an occasional cycle ride with an old schoolfellow, then back to be ready for her father's cup of tea, then violin practice till it was time to dress for dinner. After which, if her father were at home, she would listen to his paper, or hear his news of his patients. But if he were out, a long, dreary solitude, with nothing to relieve it.

When the library door shut, Ruth's first impulse was to lean back in her chair and enjoy her own thoughts. But she was an energetic girl, and she shook off her dreaminess and turned to the piano, choosing a difficult sonata that would be real hard work.

An hour passed thus, and then she heard Dr. Arundel go out at the front door, and she went to the library at once to find her father.

"Well, little girl," he said briskly, "I think I shall get on with him. Now we will go and have half an hour's music. I have heard you practising."

"But, father, I thought he was going to stay the night here!"

"So he is. But he has taken some lodgings for a week, and he has had to go back to tell them he will not be there to-night."

"Taken them for a week! How did he know of them?"

"Well, my dear, I did not ask him that. I suppose he knew someone here; he did not say. Now, if you have done questioning me, can I have some music?"

"Oh, I have not heard anything yet! Do tell me—"

"Eh? There is nothing special to tell you. He is very nice, and much more friendly than I expected."

"Yes—but 'is' he married? Did you find that out?"

"Married? Yes, I told you so. I thought when I saw him in Northampton he said so. He has taken these lodgings here that he may look round, and then his wife will come, and they will choose a house together."

"Oh, I see! Well, I'm glad. I wonder what she will be like?"

"He speaks very highly of her. She was a Miss Linthorpe. Do you not remember that my cousin, Mr. Brown, of Grange Park, married one of those girls? Very nice people, I believe."

"Oh, I know! Alice—that was the name of the one who married Mr. Brown. I have heard ever so much about them. Is this one young or old?" asked Ruth eagerly.

"Young, I should think. It seems he had fixed his heart on her years ago."

"Now, that is nice," said Ruth enthusiastically. "I shall like them, I do believe."

"May I have my music now?" he asked, smiling a little.

"Oh, yes! But you cannot wonder that I wanted to know about Dr. Arundel and his wife! Why, father, to have a friend will be something to live for!"

"Something to live for?" Dr. Brown looked at her anxiously for a moment.

Was her life too cramped and dull up here at The Firs? Was he keeping his treasure to himself to her detriment?

That must be thought of in those long hours when she was gone to bed, and when he generally paced sorrowfully up and down his lonely library.

So, putting aside the anxious thoughts till another time, he said cheerfully: "By the bye, Morris says I am to tell you what I am going to spend, and she thinks you would like to get your birthday present yourself. That's a good idea. Let's see. Would this get anything you want?"

He fished in his pocket, and laid two sovereigns in her palm.

"Oh, father!" said Ruth, colouring. "Not all that!"

"Too much, is it? Then put some in the bank. No, I'm not going to take it back. Cannot you think of anything you want?"

"Oh, I never thought of so much as this," exclaimed Ruth, "but I do want—only I am afraid it seems grasping of me—but I think this would buy a little silver watch! My old one is quite worn out. Would it, father?"

"I really do not know. You and Morris find out at Worcester to-morrow. And if it will not, I'll tell her she can spend a little more."

"Oh, no," said Ruth. "I feel sure it would."

"That is all right, then. Now play me something soothing, and then you shall go to bed. I shall be up for Dr. Arundel."

Ruth kissed and thanked him.

And soon after, she bade him good-night, and went to her room.

There stood Morris waiting for her.

"Look, Morris!" exclaimed Ruth. "Am I not a lucky girl?"

"Very, Miss," smiled Morris; "what a nice treat for us to go to Worcester. And to get your present, too!"

For Morris was very anxious that this birthday should be as cheerful as possible, for she thought sadly what a change had come over the bright prospects of her young lady in that short, and yet long, year.

She often looked in the sweet girlish face and wondered how things were prospering within. She had a vague idea that Ruth's life was too monotonous and quiet; that the girl wanted something more than to go for her occasional lessons in the morning, practice all the afternoon, and fill her time with gentle ministrations to her bereaved father. No outside life seemed to touch her. Dr. Brown discouraged visitors, and Ruth confided to Morris that she found he was more weary and depressed after anyone had spent the evening with her than he was when they two sat together quietly.

Ruth was busily thinking her own thoughts, and she burst out with unusual eagerness:—

"And what do you think, Morris? Dr. Arundel 'is' married, and his wife is one of those Miss Linthorpes that live near father's cousin, Mr. Brown! Don't you remember he married one of them?"

"Oh, I know! The one that lost his two sons on the ice. Well, to be sure!"

"Yes, and Dr. Arundel is going to telegraph for his wife to-morrow, and if she is nice, I shall have a friend!"

"I hope she will be, miss; you must not be in too great a hurry," smiled the housekeeper.

"No—but, Morris, I can't tell how lonely I am. I do hope she will be nice, but I feel sure she will!"

Morris had not seen her so animated since the beginning of her mother's illness.

And when she left Ruth that night, she saw that her birthday and going to Worcester had faded into the background, while the new hope of a human friendship had done her all the good in the world.

What would this friend be? wondered the steady old servant, as she made her way to her own domain.

"Well, well! The Lord knows," she said to herself, resting her anxiety on Him who cared for her: "Old Morris doesn't know everything, that's certain, and somehow or other He'll see to my young lady for me! I haven't prayed for her since the day she was born for nothing! The Lord doesn't disappoint His children so!"

THE LETTER THAT WAS POSTED.

WHEN Ruth went upstairs, Dr. Brown crossed the carpeted hall and shut himself in his study. He paced up and down the floor for a long time, with his head bent down and his hands clasped behind him.

Presently, he unlocked a drawer and took out a thin, closely written letter, and after reading it carefully, he resumed his walk up and down again.

Was Ruth lonely? Was he allowing his own desolate feeling to injure the child whom he loved so tenderly?

"I'll write," he ejaculated, half aloud; "I'll write this very night! My only brother has a great claim on me, and some bright young people will do Ruth good! I'll write to-night and make them welcome. I can't say it is what I should have chosen, but there is no one to advise me now. It will be some young life for Ruth, and, after all, this house is very large and empty for two!"

He sat down to his desk and wrote busily for half an hour. Then he chose a thin envelope, stamped it with a foreign stamp, and, putting on his hat, took it to the post himself, thinking with a grim little smile, "Ruth is always coaxing me to go for 'constitutionals,' so now I will carry out her wishes!"

Little did the sleeping girl upstairs know that the whole course of her life was to be altered by that letter!

Dr. Brown managed not to forget the birthday greetings, even though he was decidedly full of his new partner, and was discussing possible houses with Ruth and Dr. Arundel all breakfast-time.

Dr. Arundel left the moment after, having some letters to write at his lodgings.

And Dr. Brown turned to Ruth with, "Well, my dear! He's a nice fellow, isn't he?"

"Oh, I like him!" she exclaimed warmly.

Before Dr. Brown went out on his rounds, he had a moment's private conversation with Mrs. Morris, which resulted in nods and smiles on her part and on his, while he added, "Go to Hickson's; they are trustworthy."

"Good-bye, my precious," he said, more cheerily than usual, to his daughter as he ran down the steps. "Take care of yourself, and come back to your old father as soon as you can!"

"So I will," she answered brightly, "and to-morrow, I shall have a friend!"

"Eh?" he asked, pausing with the carriage door in his hand. "Eh?"

"Young Mrs. Arundel—"

"Oh, don't fix your hopes too much," he answered, with the caution of experience; "new friends are not always what you expect—"

"But I've heard of those girls—and somehow anybody Mr. Arundel had liked so long—"

"Yes, yes! Good-bye; I must go."

It was afternoon by the time Ruth and Mrs. Morris had done their shopping, and they timed their return so that the carriage should take them up on its way home, and thus save them the long walk up the hill to The Firs.

They found Dr. Brown seated in it.

And the moment Ruth got in, she exclaimed: "Oh, you dear, naughty extravagant father! To think of such a present as this! Oh, I feel as if I had asked for more than I ought! 'Did' you think it was nasty of me?"

She drew out of her little handbag a morocco case, and on opening it, displayed a lovely little gold watch.

"So you like it?" asked her father.

"Like it? Why I can't tell you—"

"Then do not. I thought you and Morris would be able to find something—"

"But fancy your giving her all that money! I shall value it so much."

"Now I suppose the next thing will be a chain?" he said, pretending to be grim.

"Oh, no—I can—I can work one, or—"

"I'll see to that. 'I' must go into Worcester now, I suppose, and see what I can get."

So they talked on, until Ruth exclaimed suddenly, "What about Dr. Arundel?"

"Oh, he's all right. The patients seem pleased with him, and there's something so straight about him that I think he will take."

"When is he going to send for Mrs. Arundel?"

"He has sent already. The lodgings seem to be comfortable, and she will be down to-morrow, I think."

"Then will he come up to dinner to-night?"

"No; he wants to make the rooms a little bright for her, and has ordered in a few things, a plant or two, and so on."

"I wish I could help—"

"Oh, there is nothing much can be done with apartments, but what can be, he has done. It will not be for long, you see."

"Did you show him those two houses?"

"Yes, and when she comes, she will choose. He would not even go to see them till she came."

"That's nice!"

"You think so? Well, that is evidently what he thinks. Here we are at home. Morris, I expect you are tired?"

"Thank you, sir; I've enjoyed myself very much," answered the housekeeper, delighted at the brightness of Ruth's face, and that the dreaded birthday was passing so happily.

Dr. Brown had a call that evening, so that there was no time to tell his daughter of the new plans which filled his thoughts, and of which that letter, on its way to India, was the expression. And as he walked down to the town so as not to use the carriage again, he had plenty of time to think over what he had done.

"After all, I do not think I shall say anything about it till I hear from my brother George; it is not worth while," he thought. "George may not be willing to part with them after all, and if he does not, it would be a pity to raise Ruth's hopes. I wonder if she will like it?" He paused a moment, almost with a start. But he was accustomed to think that whatever he liked, Ruth would like, and wondering within himself that he could have had a momentary misgiving, he dismissed it, and went on with his soliloquy.

"It will be very nice for her to have companions, and they are near enough her own age, too. There's Heston, the eldest boy; he's fifteen. He'll have to go to school at Worcester, and come back for week-ends. Then there's Judith; she's twelve, he says. And there is little Norman; he's eight. Heigho! It's a pretty great care! But George is in ill-health, and he is anxious about these children, and I am afraid he does not expect to get better. I'd like to do anything I could for him, poor fellow!"

"So Ruth is seventeen to-day! She is getting quite a little woman! But, really, she's not much more than a child! No—she has a year or two yet before her."

He strode on. He almost began to wish he had not posted that letter without asking Ruth what she thought of it. But it was gone, and now there was nothing but to wait.

"Dr. Arundel will take these evening calls for me by and by," he went on to himself, "and I am sure he will be liked. How kindly he sat down this morning by that young man. And while we were talking about the case, I saw him soothing the man's pain by passing his hand up and down his spine as he lay there. I wondered what made the poor fellow's face change, and a look of relief come into it. Dr. Arundel had no need to do it, and yet—yes, that was a bit of his character that came out unexpectedly. If I do not mistake, he will not let anyone have any suffering that he can relieve! But I greatly fear he is—rather too religious!"

But Dr. Brown had come to his patient's, and went in from the darkness to try to relieve another case of suffering.

A CHAIN.

MEANTIME, Ruth was once more alone, and as her father had gone out directly he had swallowed his dinner, she knew she must settle herself for a long, lonely evening. She made up the fire and sat down on the skin rug, resting her elbow against a soft armchair in her favourite position. If it had not been that her mind was full of her father's partner, and where he would live, and what his young wife would be like, her thoughts would have wandered sorrowfully over her dull, cramped life; for unless she was rousing herself to be cheery with her father, there was ever present with her a certain undefined feeling that it was hard of him to frown upon all her friends, and to think that she could do very well without them.

But to-night her little ticking watch, her change of scene at Worcester, her anticipations of an outside interest, and her hopes of a friend made her quite happy. And she sat there dreaming of what she would do, and how she would plan, till her head sank on her arm and her day-dreams lost themselves in a real sleep.

"Hullo! All in the dark!" said Dr. Brown's voice. "Where are you Ruth? Ring for the lights, my dear. Why, I've something to show you!"

Ruth sprang up, and soon there was a blaze of light, and the maid brought tea.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I got thinking, and fell asleep, I believe."

"I believe you did! Well, there is a man waiting in the servants' hall who has an interesting parcel under his arm!"

Ruth looked amazed. What could her father mean?

"And if he is to catch the last train back, we must release him. I determined I would not be 'done,' even if I had forgotten your birthday!"

"But you had not! See here?"

"Tell him to walk up," said Dr. Brown.

So the young man came in, and the parcel was opened on the ottoman, and its contents spread out before Ruth's astonished eyes.

"I thought I should not be in Worcester for a long time, so I telephoned to Hickson to send me over some chains, and here they are! You can choose the one that pleases you best, for I told Hickson they were all to be within the price I named."

"Oh, father! But may Morris come up? I should like her to help me choose. She was so kind over my watch."

"Certainly."

So Morris was sent for, and a happy three bent over the glittering cases, while Ruth, satisfied that she might suit her taste without any fear of being what she called "grasping," chose the very chain of all others that she had wished to possess—a long, delicate one which she assured her father would keep her dear watch much safer than one that would let it fall out of her belt.

"If you are pleased, I am!" he said, and took the man into the library to settle the bill, while Morris stood by with beaming smiles.

"When master sets at a thing, he does it quickly, doesn't he, Miss Ruth?" she said. "To think of his having telephoned for them."

"Indeed he does! Has the young man had any supper?"

"Oh, I've seen to that while he was waiting for master. And he was grateful, for he had had nothing since midday. He missed the train through a mistake, or he would have been here at seven."

So ended Ruth's birthday; for as soon as her father had taken his tea, she wished him good-night and went up to her room.

There she found Morris making up the fire.

"Oh, Morris! How kind of you! Did Jane forget it?"

"No, miss; she was just coming up, but I said I would come as it is your birthday."

Ruth stood looking into the fire for a moment in silence, and Morris turned over her pretty presents thoughtfully.

"You have been very kind to me to-day, Morris, and I appreciate it. I've had a very nice birthday."

"I'm so glad, my dear," said Morris, in her comfortable voice.

But as she kissed her dear young lady and went downstairs, she said to herself, "Well, well! There's no one but Jesus can comfort her truly; and if she will not allow me to say much to her, she cannot hinder me from praying. And the Lord can draw her to Him in His own time and way; and I believe He will!"

MARY.

"FATHER!" said Ruth at breakfast the next morning. "I want to go and make Mrs. Arundel's acquaintance. What time is she coming?"

Dr. Brown looked up from his paper with some surprise in his eyes.

"To-day?" he asked.

"Yes, to-day!" answered Ruth decidedly. "I am hoping to have a friend to-day, father!"

"My dear child, do not be in such a hurry. Wait till you get to know her. She may be the sweetest girl in the world (except a certain little girl that I love), but then, she may not. Do not be in such a hurry!"

"But I am in a hurry," persisted Ruth, smiling. "If you knew how I have longed—at least, if you could understand what I feel, you know—you dear old father, you would let 'your duckling swim on the pond'!"

"Well!" he answered good-humouredly. "The old hen, as I conclude you consider me, must stand and watch at the edge, I suppose."

"The duckling did not come to any harm, now did it, father?"

"No-o," he said reluctantly, "but the old hen never had it as her own afterwards!"

"Oh, you naughty father!" exclaimed Ruth, jumping up and coming round to kiss him. "Just as if I should be anything but your own little girl, however many friends I had!"

"Yes, yes," he assented rather absently, which Ruth instantly perceived, for he was thinking about that letter already on its way in the mail steamer to India.

"Then," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "what time is she coming? Did you hear?"

"By the four o'clock train from London."

"Then I will go down with you in the carriage and call upon her about five. Will you tell Dr. Arundel if you see him?"

"Oh, I shall see him! We shall be about together all the morning."

"Have you told him what a dear old house ours was in the town?"

"Yes; for many reasons that would be the wisest for him to take. But he will not express an opinion till his wife has seen it."

"There is that villa on the Worcester road that is very nice and modern—I wonder if he will take that?" said Ruth.

Dr. Brown was so astonished at what he called Ruth's "curiosity," that he went on reading his paper without answering, to give himself a little time to think.

This was Ruth in a new light! Perhaps he had kept her too closely shut up. It rather dismayed him.

"There! I will not worry you!" she exclaimed, quickly perceiving his troubled look, and jumping up to kiss his puckered forehead. "I shall find out all about it myself. You need not fear that I shall be too full of 'curiosity' when I see her. That is only for your benefit."

So she relapsed into silence, and soon he finished his breakfast and went to his study, where he busied himself with his books, or studied his cases, unless a chance patient should come from the country round, or make his way up from the town to catch the doctor before he started on his rounds.

Ruth meanwhile made a pretence of ordering dinner, which her mother had told her it was her duty to do. She generally went to Morris's sitting-room, and together they planned the day's doings, set the accounts right, and paid the bills. Then she went back to the preparation of her German, and at eleven o'clock was ready to start in the carriage with her father to take her lesson, walking home in time for her solitary lunch. Her father had his in the town at a pastry-cook's near his surgery, where now he had a comfortable, quiet room and nicely cooked meal ready at one o'clock.

Just outside the town, at one of the houses along the Worcester road, Dr. Brown's carriage stopped about five o'clock.

With a nod and smile at her father, Ruth alighted and ran up the flight of steps to the door. Her father, as he drove off, did not guess what a very pit-a-pat heart was beating beneath that arch, half-audacious little look!

And then, Ruth found herself being welcomed by Dr. Arundel with the words, "How kind of you to look us up! Mary, this is Miss Brown."

Then, as Mrs. Arundel came forward, he added, "I shall leave you to make acquaintance, as I have to meet Dr. Brown at the surgery at five."

He was gone in a moment, and Ruth found herself in the presence of a pleasant, rather pretty girl, with frank, dove-like eyes, and gentle, straightforward manners.

Whether she thought all that in the one shy glance she gave her, or came to the conclusion afterwards, she was not sure. But she told Morris when she reached home that she fell in love with her on the spot.

IN THE SUNLIGHT.

"SIT down," said Mary, when Dr. Arundel had left them. "How very kind of you to come so soon—"

"I hope I am not intruding! But indeed I do want to know you; I have been so looking forward to your coming—and—and—I do want a friend so badly!"

Mary looked at the young face, at the deep mourning dress, and could not withstand the appeal of the glistening eyes.

She bent her taller head, and kissed Ruth gently. "I feel sure we shall be friends," she said.

There was a moment's silence, as if both of them were a little astonished at the unconventionality of their greeting. Mary found a lump in her throat, and Ruth brushed away two tears which had somehow got into her eyes.

"You have not seen our rooms, have you?" asked Mary, recovering her voice. "I think they are very nice till we get our own house; do not you?"

"I was admiring this very much," said Ruth. "How bright Dr. Arundel has made it."

"Yes he is very clever at that sort of thing," said his wife, smiling, "they all are. He seems to know by intuition what will make people comfortable."

"How nice," exclaimed Ruth. "I can well believe it from what my father said."

"It is a great gift," said Mrs. Arundel.

"I do hope you will be comfortable—"

"We advertised for rooms in the local paper; my husband thought we should enjoy furnishing our house together."

"I think that is a lovely way," said Ruth.

"We have bought most of the furniture in London during our honeymoon," said the bride, blushing; "we have had such a busy fortnight! But it was all fun."

"And the things will be sent when you have found a house?"

"Yes—Dr. Arthur has not had time to tell me much, but you will know the district and can tell us the advantages and disadvantages."

"Our old house is empty!" said Ruth. "That is in the very middle of the town, and is a dear old house, with a nice surgery and old-fashioned rooms, and—oh, a lovely garden!"

"A garden!" said Mary, with brightening eyes.

"Yes, you would not think it from the street, but it slopes away behind, a narrow piece at first, and then it widens till it is quite large, ending with a meadow and the river."

"Oh!" was all Mary could say.

"Yes; my father always has regretted leaving it, but I like being up on the hill myself. I love wide views, and the Welsh hills in the distance, and the feeling of liberty. Do you know that feeling?"

Ruth paused, blushing at her candid speech. Was she sailing out on the pond her father talked of, too suddenly?

But Mary answered thoughtfully—

"I think I know what you mean! But I am not quite sure whether it is wise to encourage too much dreaming—"

"Is that dreaming?" asked Ruth, her thoughts on the wide prospect, the green fields and hedges, the undulating hills near, the changing colours and the blue distances.

"Though I am not 'very' old," said Mary, smiling, "I have thought a great deal, and gradually my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ has filled all my life with the desire first of all to be His, and to live for Him—"

Ruth was silent, but she turned very white. Perhaps she had never had such a shock in her life before, as those tender, gently spoken, earnest words.

Was this her friend? Was there at the outset a barrier to the friendship which she had been so counting on? Her heart sank.

Mary saw the change in her face instantly.

"Dear Ruth, may I call you Ruth? I see you have not thought about this, and it shocks you. But it is my greatest joy, and by and bye it will be yours, I hope."

Mary got up and kissed her again, a kiss full of something which Ruth felt was like a blessing.

"Now come and see my little domain," said Mrs. Arundel brightly. "You will excuse the number of boxes, for I have only been here an hour, and have not unpacked a thing. There! I have never thanked you for those lovely flowers you sent."

"Oh, that is nothing—"

"You and I shall have to 'learn' each other, you know, and I shall have to introduce you to my brothers and sisters—Harry and Alice and Flora, and Vincent, my twin; and Archie and Rose. My sister Alice is Dr. Brown's cousin. Is it not strange? I mean, how circles meet."

"Yes; I expect I have heard more about you than you about me," said Ruth, smiling. "Our housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, comes from your part, and was there when there was that dreadful accident on the ice—oh, I should not have said anything about that!" exclaimed Ruth, stopping short at the change in her companion's face.

"Ah!—" said Mary. "I can never think of that day without such a pain at my heart as seems to give me a sort of blow."

"I did not know you—?"

"That I had anything to do with it? No, I daresay not. But those were the days in which I was living, not 'In the Sunlight' of God's love, but 'out of it.' If I had stood up for the right that day, that accident might never have happened."

"Oh, I am so sorry I so thoughtlessly alluded to it!"

"No, do not be sorry. We shall be the better friends. For you will see in knowing me that I am full of faults—but oh, I do want to please God!"

Just then a carriage was heard drawing up at the door, and Dr. Arundel came in to announce to Ruth that her father was waiting for her.

With a hasty, but very warm good-bye, Ruth hurried off. At the door, she turned back to Mary for one moment, and said earnestly, "Thank you for telling me; I shall never forget your confidence!" And then she was gone.

"A nice little girl," said Arthur Arundel.

"A very nice little girl," answered Mary. "Oh, Arthur, I pray to be made a blessing to her."

THE BAY WINDOW.

"WELL?" asked Dr. Brown, as the carriage rolled swiftly homewards, Dobbin as well as the coachman knowing that they had done for the day. "Well?"

Ruth knew that question would come, and she was not prepared to answer it at the moment.

"Is she all you expected?" he asked, as she did not volunteer any answer. He had anticipated a stream of enthusiastic delight, and was surprised and almost dismayed.

"She is far more than I expected," said Ruth slowly, as if making up her mind as she went along. "Quite different—and nicer in every way than I expected—"

"Then you are not disappointed?"

"No, I am not disappointed," said Ruth, "but do you know, father, I can hardly tell you yet what I feel. With Mrs. Arundel, you come down to the heart of things; you do not just skim the surface."

They relapsed into silence; Dr. Brown because he was so surprised at all Ruth said, and Ruth because her mind was full, and she could not forget the look of that earnest face, which had seemed like a glimpse into a new world.

After dinner, Ruth told her father that Mrs. Arundel had asked her to come and show them the old house, and that she had promised to go directly after her violin lesson in the morning.

Her father was interested in this, and reminded her of different excellencies to be pointed out.

"I wish he would take it," he said, "for numbers of people feel as if the practice clung round that house, and if any strange doctor set up there, we should lose half the patients, I believe."

"I hope he will," said Ruth, "but these rainy days will not show it off."

However, the morrow turned out sunny, to Ruth's great joy.

And when she called for Mrs. Arundel, she found her with her hat on ready, and Dr. Arundel came in almost directly, and proposed to set out at once.

"Have you been over the house in this road?" asked Ruth, a little timidly, as they shut the gate behind them.

"Yes, we have already been this morning. It is on the same plan as our lodgings," said Mrs. Arundel, "so we could judge pretty well. But we do not like that flight of steps up to the door."

"No," answered Ruth, "and Morris says they do take up a servant's time, and a doctor has to have them so clean!"

She laughed and blushed. "Please excuse me if I give advice! My father says I know everything! He is laughing at me, of course. But indeed I do not mean to be interfering!"

"I am quite sure of that," said Dr. Arundel heartily, "and we shall be most grateful for any hints. We are young at it, besides being strangers here."

They had already turned their steps to the old house, and in a few minutes were standing at the familiar door, and Ruth produced her father's latchkey.

"Father has kept on this house till he had a partner," she remarked, as they stepped into a square hall, which opened flat from the street.

"This is the dining-room," said Ruth, turning to a pleasant room on the right. "It is very cheerful at breakfast, because it faces east, and people cannot see in much with wide thin curtains. We used to have a plant in each window which made a nice shield."

Then she opened a door at the back of the room, and Mary gave an exclamation of delight, for the whole of the end of the room they entered was filled up with a low bay window opening with French doors out to the lawn, which sloped gently away from the house, down and down, till it was lost in graceful shrubs and foliage, between which could be seen a green meadow and the glittering water of the river.

"How lovely!" Mary exclaimed, turning to her husband. "Oh, Arthur!"

"Does it suit you better than the Worcester Road, Mary? Because, as far as we have seen, it suits me."

"Then there is the surgery on that side," pursued Ruth, "and the kitchens behind it. I will wait here while you look at the rest of it, for you will like to be able to take it all in quietly. My father hardly liked my coming, for fear I should be too enthusiastic—"

Dr. Arundel smiled. "I do not mind a little enthusiasm in this workaday world. Come, Mary, as Miss Brown wishes it, we will go up 'and take it all in' as she suggests."

Ruth sat down on the window seat, and looked out over the well-remembered prospect. She had never entered the old home since her mother's death, and every corner of the rooms was associated with her presence, not as the invalid which she had been at The Firs, but as the mother who had been the centre and joy of her father's life, and of hers.

And then her mind flew to those brief weeks in which sudden illness had come on, and though they had moved to high ground, how all had been unavailing. But it was not that which Ruth dwelt on now; somehow the sloping garden and the gleaming river had brought back one memorable day.

It was about a week before they moved, and Ruth remembered afterwards that her mother had latterly got used to sitting in the garden a great deal, and even had a couch lifted out there to rest on. It had also become the practice for Morris to bring her work out to keep her mother company. But Ruth had never guessed what it meant. She was busy with her lessons, and went in and out to the High School only full of the absorbing interest of her education.

But one Friday afternoon, when she came through the house to find her mother in the garden and ran to her with the exclamation, "There! I'm 'off duty till Monday,' as the nurses say," she noticed that her mother looked up at her more earnestly than usual, and that Morris got up with her needle in her hand, and began to move towards the house.

"Don't go, Morris!" she had said.

But Morris murmured something about "Your mother's tea."

And Ruth threw her bag of books down on the grass, and bent and kissed her mother in her usual careless, loving little way.

Ah, the last time that kiss was ever careless!

"Sit down, dear," said her mother gently, and something in the tone struck Ruth as unusual. "I wanted—I wanted to see you—"

"Why, little mother, you see me often enough, don't you?" Ruth had answered. "Have I been too full of my girls and my music?" she added, with compunction. "I did not mean it."

"No, dearest—oh, no. But, Ruth—I do not know how to tell you—but I must—I have not been very strong lately."

"No; but the new house is to make you well, you know! We shall soon be up there, and father thinks—"

"He 'hopes,' Ruth—he does not think. But in case I do not get well, in case I get more weak, I wanted to tell you something—"

Ruth heard as if in a dream. There was a sound of rushing in her ears, and she felt cold chills creeping over her.

"Ruth, dear!" The thin hand was put out and took hers. She had never noticed how thin it was till that moment. "Ruth, dear, there is something I want to say to you very much. Lately I have been thinking—thinking about preparing to meet God! At first, when I began to be ill, it was a very dreadful thought. I remembered so many things that I wished had been different. I was overwhelmed at first to remember that I had lived without thinking much about God at all, or trying to please Him; I had never given it a thought. Oh, Ruth! What I felt when I had to confess I had never given God a thought!

"And then Morris tried to comfort me. She read me a verse out of her little textbook:

   "'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'

"And she told me how she had found Jesus Christ 'faithful to forgive,' and how glad and happy she had been ever since.

"And, Ruth, I was so miserable and so hopeless, that I just did as dear old Morris read from that text. I confessed everything to my Saviour, Who had died for me, and I found Him faithful to forgive—"

And then Ruth remembered how she had burst away from the detaining hand, and had rushed indoors and up to her own room. She remembered flinging herself down by her window, and looking at that prospect!

She remembered how green the trees were, how the river had sparkled in the sunshine, and how she had cried out in her bitterness that God was hard and cruel, for did not her mother mean that she was surely going to die?

From that day, Ruth was an altered girl. Her school life, her interest in the town doings, everything seemed swept away by the thought that God was cruel, and if it was necessary to love Him, she never would have that eternal life which her mother spoke of with such growing joy.

She shut her heart up, and nothing that her mother or Morris could say seemed to make the least impression.

"I did without it before, and I must do without it now," she once said to Morris, in a hard tone, "so let me alone, Morris!"

So as Ruth gazed at the prospect, all that scene swept over her. If ever it had come across her, she dismissed the unwelcome thought as quickly as she could, rushing at her German or music with all the energy of her young, strong nature, and striving to forget that she had ever had a mother who had looked at her out of wistful eyes, and who had whispered that last day:

   "'We love Him, because He first loved us!'"

But her reverie was interrupted, and she was brought back to the present by voices on the stairs. With a sudden start, she thought—

"And now, when at last I have got a friend, she thinks the same as—'that!'"

PROUD.

DR. ARTHUR ARUNDEL did take the house in the town, and Ruth found that her life was no longer without interest.

Mary, as she begged Ruth to call her, was delighted to have her society, and claimed her help in arranging the dear old rooms, so that in a few weeks everything was done, and they had "settled in," as Ruth called it.

She and Mary had, of course, often had a good deal of talk, but after that first day there had been no great confidences between them. Ruth held back, as she had held back with Morris, all that sad year since her mother's death, and Mary saw that her heart was not yet ready to open out. She was affectionate, saucy, matter-of-fact, and even brilliant by turns, but Mary knew she had only seen the real Ruth once, and that once was nearly two months ago now.

One morning, she saw Ruth pass with her violin-case, and ran to the window to wave her hand to her. She was surprised to see a very pale, set little face turn round, and then a pair of dark, almost glittering eyes met hers.

Mary opened the casement, and said: "Shall you be in afterwards?"

And Ruth nodded without a word, and hurried on.

"Mary!" exclaimed Arthur, coming in presently, "What are you looking at, my dear?"

"I was watching for Ruth! Somehow, she looks as if she had had some blow—"

"Oh! I thought Dr. Brown seemed rather disturbed this morning, and I asked him if he felt well. He replied a little testily that he had received a letter from India which had—had—worried him. But he did not explain."

Mary turned from the window, where she had been eagerly watching the door of the High School, which could be seen across the road.

"New friends?" he smiled, as he put his hand on her shoulder. "Poor little Mary!"

"But they were not of my seeking," she answered quickly, "and I can only do with my life what God sends into it."

"Yes, indeed, dearest! I am glad He sent 'me' into it," he added gently and reverently.

"So am I," she answered.

"I must be off—I hope the news little Miss Brown may bring will not really be serious. Good-bye, my dearest!"

Mary put the room straight, and did not look anxiously from the window any more. Those few words with her husband had made her recall what was her life motto: "Bless me, and make me a blessing." So with rested heart, she put herself afresh into God's Hands to be used as He wished, and then her path seemed clear before her.

She took her work into the cosy drawing-room, and placing the chair Ruth liked by the window, she sat down to wait. It was not long before the light, quick steps were heard in the hall, and after a slight tap, Ruth entered.

She put her violin-case in its accustomed corner, and came to Mary's side without speaking. Once or twice she tried, but the voice did not come.

"I am afraid something is the matter, dear?" said Mary, kissing her. "Sit down here on your own little chair, and tell me if you can."

Ruth stood looking out of the window, and after some moments' silence, she said, with husky voice, "I have quarrelled with my father—"

"'Quarrelled?'" echoed Mary. It seemed such an impossible word.

"Yes," assented Ruth. "I never in my life had a wry word with him before. We both got angry and lost our tempers, and he shut himself up in his study till he went to his patients, and never came to wish me good-bye; and I—"

"And you?" asked Mary, too dismayed to waste words.

"I sat for two hours as if I were turned to stone—and then came out to my lesson."

"But what could be the cause," said Mary, "if I may ask the question?"

"You may ask," answered Ruth, in a hard tone. "He has written to India without consulting me, inviting my uncle's three children to come over to live with us, and they will be here in a week!"

"And that causes your grief? I see it does, poor Ruth—"

"Grief?" echoed Ruth in her turn. "It has spoilt my life!"

Mary did not attempt consolation in words yet. Swiftly her heart rose in prayer to Him who was her "Strong habitation, whereunto" she "continually resorted." And then, putting her hand softly on the rigid little ones, she said tenderly, "Come and sit down. How came it about, dear?"

Ruth shook her head. Then, after a moment, she said, as if her tongue were parched: "Uncle wrote, two months ago—he asked for them to come. My father said yes—and that is all."

"I suppose your uncle needed to send them very much, or he would not have parted—?" Mary hesitated.

Ruth gave a short gasp. "I suppose he did—he is dying."

"Dying!"

"Yes," she burst forth, "and you will think I am a cruel, cruel girl! But if only—oh, Mary, if only my father had asked me—had taken me into his confidence! If only we had tried to bear it together, I should not have minded so much!"

"It is a great blow for you," said Mary, slowly. "I can understand a little about it, because when I was younger, I had something like it. Not so bad as yours, but very bad to me at the time. And it turned to blessing, Ruth! Indeed it did."

"This never will," exclaimed Ruth, passionately. "If only he had not kept it to himself all this time, I could have borne it—"

"'If onlys' lead to distraction," said Mary, very softly. "I have learned by many ups and downs that, somehow or other, God turns things to blessings to them that love Him."

"Ah!" said Ruth, withdrawing her hand hastily. "But then, you see, I don't."

"Not yet," said Mary gently, "but I have hopes—"

There was a long silence. Then Ruth burst out impetuously, "I hate to trouble you with all this! I think I will go home now, Mary, and when I have got over the shock and am more myself again, I will come back. I have no one to speak to—"

Then she broke down, and, laying her proud little head in Mary's lap, she wept and wept till some of the anger began to die down in her heart.

"What must your dear father be feeling?" said Mary at length, as she smoothed the wavy hair, and ever and anon kissed the bowed head.

Ruth started. "He should not have used me so," she said bitterly.

"I am sorry he did," said Mary. "I dare say he is sorry, too. I dare say he never thought it would hurt you so."

Ruth shook her head.

"I have a very tender father at home," said Mary, and as she said it she could hear his gentle 'What is it, Molly? There is nothing too hard for God!' And her eyes filled with soft tears. "And he told me, Ruth, that children have no idea of the love their fathers and mothers bear them: have no idea of the pain that they feel if any alienation arises between them and their children."

"I never thought it could," said Ruth, very low. "I thought it was as impossible for me to be angry with my father, as for the sun to fall from the sky. And yet—yet I am more angry—I have been more angry than I have ever been in my life."

Her face, which had been raised for a moment in her eagerness, was buried again, but her hand in touching Mary's gave it a little pressure.

"Dear Ruth!" said Mary lovingly, "Will you not go to him and try to comfort him?"

"I do not think I can—yet."

"Think how sad he must be about his brother!"

"Yes," said Ruth, "I know that. But he ought to have told me."

"I think he ought," said Mary, hesitating a little, "but I cannot think that, even if he had made an error in judgment, it could justify a daughter in feeling as you have. Forgive me, dear; I should not be a true friend if I did not say so."

"You are a true friend," said Ruth brokenly, "and I thank you. But all the same for that, I can't make myself feel right, and so it is of no use saying I do."

"Certainly not," said Mary decidedly, "but—"

Ruth was a little startled.

"What do you mean?" she asked, raising her head, and her eyes meeting Mary's.

"I mean that what is utterly impossible to us, God can do."

"Not this," said Ruth. "As you say, it is utterly impossible, with my present feelings."

"If we were to ask God, it would be done," said Mary firmly. "Are you willing to 'ask?'"

Ruth could not answer. Thought after thought chased through her heart and her brain. Could she, would she? How could that proud, stubborn will, which since she could remember had never allowed itself to bow, how could she voluntarily ask God to bow it for her?

But her father! Her dear, bereaved father! Could she hold out against Mary's loving persuasions? Could she dare to estrange herself one moment longer from that dear father whom she had vowed to cherish and comfort?

And then God! She who had never asked a single favour of God, could she ask now to have her will made ready to do His will? But Mary was speaking softly, and the words that reached Ruth's astonished ears were these—

   "Oh, dear Lord Jesus Christ, Thou who knowest how hard it is to say 'Thy Will, not mine, be done,' bring us both to desire from the heart that which Thou dost command. Amen."

And Mary heard a broken whispered echo of her Amen, just before Ruth flung her arms round her neck, sobbing out: "Oh, I will go, I will go! How could I stay away from him like this!"

THE HARDEST THING.

WHEN Ruth stepped into the carriage which called for her at four o'clock, to her surprise her father was not seated in it. Concluding that he had been detained somewhere, she sat buried in thought till they drew up at The Firs.

Directly she got in, instead of going upstairs which was her usual custom, she rang for Mrs. Morris, who came at once.

"Oh, Morris," she exclaimed, "I suppose father has been detained. Will you come and have a cup of tea with me?"

"Master came home at one o'clock, Miss Ruth," she answered; "he is gone to lie down."

Ruth's heart stood still. "Was he not well?" she asked hurriedly.

"So he said, dear. He would not have anything, but just wanted to be quiet, he said."

Ruth was already half-way to the hall, and then she disappeared up the stairs, and Morris heard her tap softly at her father's door.

A voice said, "Come in."

And Ruth advanced to the sofa, where her father was lying with a rug over him.

She knelt down by his side, and put her arms round his neck. "Oh, father, father!" she whispered. "I never meant to grieve you! Is it what I said that has made you feel ill? What is it?"

He did not respond very heartily to her beseeching tone; she felt his head withdrawn slightly from her kisses, and he turned his face away.

"Can't you tell me?" she urged piteously.

"You would not understand," he answered slowly.

Ruth clasped him the closer, sorrow and dismay in her voice, as she exclaimed, "I never meant it! I was only thinking of my own disappointment. It was very cruel of me—I never thought! Can you not forgive me, father?"

"I will try," he said huskily, sitting up and shivering a little. "Go down now, and I will come presently."

Thus dismissed, she found herself once more in the drawing-room, looking with blank face into Morris's anxious one.

"Morris! You know about it?" she said, almost inarticulately.

"Yes; Master told me. He was very grieved, dearie, and very sorry to have hurt you."

"But he is angry, too, is he not, Morris?" she asked, with burning cheeks.

"I think so, Miss. Oh, my childie! What did you say to him to vex him so?"

Ruth hung her head. "I was in a passion, and I said he had spoiled my life—"

"Oh, my dear!"

"It was very wicked of me! He did not mean it, he did not know. Mrs. Arundel has shown me that; and I came back to ask him to forgive me—but, Morris, he hasn't."

She sat down utterly crushed, while Morris poured out some tea for her.

"Drink this, dearie, then you will be more fit to be cheerful when he comes down! You must remember that men are not always just like women. They do not take so much notice of little things, but if a thing does hurt them, they are much harder to come round than we are. At least, that is what I have noticed."

Ruth looked hopeless. Her passion and her unforgiveness seemed to look worse than ever.

"Morris, what can I do?" she asked, imploringly.

"Only ask God, dearie, to make a way out of it for you."

"But it was so wrong of me! So thoughtless of his sorrow; so selfish!"

She broke off suddenly, for there was a step on the stairs, and the Doctor came in, looking as if ten years had been added to his life since that morning.

"Oh, father, father!" again said Ruth. "I will try to make it up to you! But oh, do forgive me when you can—"

She looked pitifully in his face, and he allowed her to nestle in his arms. But after a momentary pressure, he turned to the fire, and said: "I should like a cup of tea, if you do not mind; and then you can read the paper to me."

Thus ended Ruth's hopes of a downright reconciliation. She had said she would never forgive him, but little did she think, when those hasty words crossed her lips, that it would be he who would find it so hard to forgive her!

From that time, quiet preparations were made to welcome the new inmates. Morris only remarked to Ruth and to the servants that they must all remember it was Master's house; and he could do what he thought best with his own: and she set about all matters connected with their visitors with cheerful alacrity.

Ruth was too sorrowful to care now for anything except to see to the necessary work of getting the rooms ready, and to arrange with her father, and then with Morris, where her cousins were to sleep and what they would do.

Dr. Brown gradually resumed almost his ordinary manner, but Ruth knew the difference, and it cut her to the heart.

Mary gave her the same advice as Morris did. "You can pray, now, dear Ruth," she said, "so pray every time it crosses your mind, and somehow or other God will bring light out of darkness!"

"If I could only think so!" she would mourn.

"Have you not seen 'the impossible' done once?" asked Mary, in that little blunt tone that Ruth had got to love.

So Ruth began to pray. And though she knew but little of God, her faith, by the very exercise she gave it, began to grow.

One morning, she called to see Mary, and directly she had greeted her, she exclaimed, "I cannot stay a minute. We have had a telegram to say they will be here with their Ayah by the four o'clock train.

"You will find, I hope, that it is not as bad as you expected—it is very bad for you to-day, dear."

Ruth shook her head. "I feel as if their coming is positively nothing to the fear I have that my father is angry with me still—"

Mary looked in her face with loving solicitude. "That will be better by and by if you go on praying about it."

"Yes," answered Ruth, sorrowfully, "but it is so bad to live through. He does not say anything, but he is never cheery now. He is quiet and grave, and sits in his study instead of the drawing-room. I feel more lonely than ever. Why, it was only yesterday that I asked him if he were coming for some music, and he just gathered up his papers, and said he should be busy. Do you think it would be of any use to try to make it up—I thought I had said all I could—"

Mary paused before answering, and after a moment or so, she said slowly, "I 'think' I should just be as dutiful as ever you can, show him by every action that you love him dearly and want to be the same as ever. I cannot help hoping that it will be better in time, if you can be patient."

"I know it was mostly my own fault, for being so angry and saying those hard things."

"Yes—"

"I did ask him to forgive me, and yet he has not!"

"Forgiveness is sometimes the hardest thing! Only God can soften his heart. When it comes, there will be no doubt about it."

Ruth threw her arms round Mary's neck.

"Ah! You do comfort!" she exclaimed. "How is it?"

"Because I've been 'comforted of God' myself," she answered simply.

THE ARRIVAL.

RUTH and Morris stood at the window overlooking the drive, long before the travellers could by any possibility arrive from the station, were the train never so punctual.

Ruth was pale and flushed by turns, and Morris had hard work to cheer her into any degree of pleasant anticipation. Her father's continued depression, and the feeling of his displeasure, weighed on her spirits like a gloomy cloud over what might otherwise have been a bright prospect.

Old Morris held her hand, softly stroking it with her fingers, ever and anon suggesting gentle little hopeful sentences in answer to Ruth's doleful prognostications.

"I know they'll be horrid!" she exclaimed at last.

"At any rate, they are almost as bad as orphans, dearie," said Morris in answer.

Ruth drew her hand away quickly.

"Perhaps you will be able to comfort them? I expect they will be home-sick—" said Morris.

"'Home-sick'? This will be their home now."

"Ah! But they will not feel it so at first. They have left their father and all they love—and their mother's grave—"

Ruth turned startled eyes on the housekeeper's face.

"I never thought of them as anything but a bother—"

"No, dearie; but it makes such a difference if we think we can do something to make them happy—and to make their lives seem a little less forlorn in a strange land."

"'A strange land,'" echoed Ruth again. But after a moment she added, with a heavy, weary sigh, "Oh, I don't care one way or the other! If my father is dull and vexed with me, what is there to care about? It makes all the rest of little consequence."

The housekeeper ventured to put her arm round Ruth's shoulders as she used when she was a little girl. "Dearie," she said softly, "I know it is very hard for you, but do go on as if all were just as it used to be. The dear master is as sorrowful as you, but ask God to help you to be your bright self, and by and by, you will see that the Lord 'will turn darkness into light before you.'"

"That is what Mrs. Arundel says," answered Ruth, turning to kiss the faded cheek of her old friend; "I will try, Morris, indeed I will—"

Her sentence was broken short, for at the moment, the station fly turned in at the gate, piled up with luggage, and several young faces peeped out of the window.

"Here, Ruth!" called Dr. Brown. "Where are you?"

But Ruth was already at the door, and found a tall boy shaking hands with her, and an ayah dressed in Indian costume helping a delicate looking little boy from the cab, who seemed hardly to have strength to walk up the two broad steps to the door.

A little girl with a proud little head and dark flashing eyes followed, carrying a dainty basket and a light Indian shawl.

Ruth bent and kissed the two children much more warmly than she could have done half an hour ago, and then, motioning them to follow Morris to the dining-room, she ran up to her father and flung her arms round his neck.

"'Dear' father!" she said earnestly.

He glanced at her hastily, and then followed the party into the dining-room, where a pleasant meal was spread ready for them.

"I will show you where to hang your coat, Heston," said Ruth.

He followed her through the hall, and hung up his coat as directed, while she managed to ask if they had had a nice journey.

"From India?" he questioned.

"I meant from London," answered Ruth, smiling. "I suppose that is nothing after all your travels?"

"No," he responded.

And Ruth wondered what next she could say to interest him if the first question fell flat like this.

Morris now suggested that they should be shown their rooms, while the maid brought in the meal.

So Ruth took Norman's hand, and was going on before, when the ayah interposed.

"He not walk quickly," she said; "I bring him. Will you go on, missy?"

Norman shrank to the ayah's side, and Ruth went on, followed by Judith and Heston.

"This is your room, Heston, next to my father's, and we have put Norman in this little room next to you."

Heston looked so dismayed that she broke off abruptly.

"He used to sleep in a room adjoining Mala's. He isn't strong," said Judith almost reproachfully.

Ruth turned to Morris. "What shall we do, Morris? How can we manage?"

"Let them take off their hats, Miss Ruth, in the rooms we have got ready, and we can ask the Doctor what he would think best."

Ruth gladly assented, and then conducted Judith to a sunny dressing-room which opened from her own chamber. It had cost her a great deal to give up that dressing-room, but her father had objected to the little stranger being put on the upper floor far away from her brothers.

Mala looked rather glum, but she began taking off Norman's gloves in the little room apportioned to him, brushing his hair and making him ready for tea.

Ruth went downstairs with a heavy heart. This beginning was worse even than she had anticipated.

Her father was waiting with an expectant look. "Well," he asked, "do they like their quarters?"

"They have hardly settled in yet," answered Ruth, who had been used for the last year to make the best possible of everything. "They are taking off their things now."

"Yes—yes. I expect they are shy."

"Very shy; and Morris thinks they will be home-sick—"

"Eh? Oh, perhaps they will. He's a big boy, Heston, isn't he? And looks as if he knew his own mind."

"Yes, I daresay he does," she assented, thinking that at any rate Judith did, and so did the ayah!

They soon came down. The ayah put Norman comfortably at the table, and gave him a footstool, which she produced from beneath her flowing garments, one he had evidently used on the journey. After which, with a comprehensive glance all round, she silently and noiselessly left the room, and the meal began.

Dr. Brown busied himself with helping his young guests, and Ruth poured out the tea and tried to make conversation.

Heston responded quite pleasantly to all that was said, and seemed accustomed to talking to older people, so that he and Dr. Brown plunged into the topics of the day, which the boy had evidently heard discussed on board the steamer, and his observations were modest and acute. Dr. Brown decided in his own mind that his nephew had good sense worth cultivating.

Judith sat in silence, her dark eyes scanning the faces of each in turn. She answered Ruth's remarks politely, but in a condescending way that made poor Ruth's cheeks burn. Her one thought seemed her little brother, and life to her was how it might affect him. While Ruth saw this and respected it, she thought that she might have waited to see how they all treated Norman before she decided that he would be neglected.

Dr. Brown, busy as he was with talking, kept his observant eyes on the pale little guest whose appetite seemed to fail him after the first few minutes, and who turned whiter and whiter as the meal progressed.

"My dear," he said at last, in the tone Ruth was accustomed to hear when he spoke to his little patients, "you look tired; would you rather lie on the sofa, or go into the other room?"

Norman started on being spoken to, but did not answer otherwise than by looking appealingly towards Judith.

She sprang up and came and bent over him.

After an instant, she answered, "He feels rather faint and sick. I will take him to Mala," which she proceeded to do before Ruth could have presence of mind to ring the bell.

She came back very quietly in a few moments, and finished what was on her plate, refusing any more rather abruptly.

Ruth would fain have made things go more smoothly, but the discomfort of the situation was becoming almost unbearable.

"Shall we go upstairs and unpack, Judith?" she asked, as they rose from the table.

"Mala will do all that," said Judith, "but I will go up and see Norman to bed. That is, if I know where he is to sleep."

"I will ask my father," said Ruth. "Will you and Heston go to the drawing-room while we speak about it?"

"He has to have Mala in the same room," exclaimed Judith, "she is his nurse; he never sleeps alone! My father said before we left India that he had written to uncle all about it. He's an invalid—I never thought anyone could be so unkind as to put him to sleep alone!" she concluded passionately.

Ruth turned toward Dr. Brown in dismay.

"I will see to it," said Dr. Brown gravely and firmly. "You two go into the drawing-room, as Ruth said, and I will come to you there when I have spoken to her."

Judith looked in two minds whether to obey, but Heston hastily drew her into the other room, and Ruth and her father found themselves in the study.

"This is a 'kettle of fish'!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea the poor child was an invalid, or that we were going to be saddled with that ayah—"

"Don't you think I had better go up and begin to help them unpack? Perhaps we shall get more sociable so?"

"Yes, perhaps you had better do that. Send Heston to me. My brother ought to have told me more about them. I feel weary with it all."

Ruth looked longingly at him, but he did not respond as he once would have done.

"Bring Heston," he repeated. "I must find out what they think is wrong with the child—"

Ruth turned to the door with her message, and in a moment, Heston came in with some anxiety in his eyes.

"I must go to Judith," said Ruth, turning to the door. "I will come down again presently."

"My boy," said Dr. Brown kindly, as he put his hand on his nephew's shoulder, "I was unprepared for your little brother being such an invalid. What is it?"

"Did not my father write to you? Has not the letter reached? It was that which made him so anxious about our coming, that Norman might have the best advice. Did not the letter come?"

"No letter has come about him—no particulars about any of you."

THE LOST LETTER.

"COME, Judith," said Ruth, when she went back to the others, "we will go upstairs and put away some of your things, shall we?"

"Just as you like—"

"Then we will. There is a dear little chest of drawers in your room, just what will suit you! I had them when I was your age."

"I do not much mind," said Judith. "I wish I knew where Norman is to sleep—"

The ayah looked up eagerly, and was going to explain her view of the case, but Ruth stopped her at once. "My father will hear all about it, and will then decide. He is a doctor, and is sure to be kind."

With this Mala had to be satisfied, though she submitted with very bad grace, fussing over her little charge ostentatiously, and asking him if he were not tired, and did not want to go to bed?

To all of which he seemed to reply very little, but sat patiently on the sofa, holding something evidently very precious in his arms, and peeping in at the side of the parcel very often.

Ruth had never been used to opposition or contradiction since her babyhood, and it made her blood boil to have the ayah defy her in manner, if not in words.

"How shall I bear it," she thought. And then, with a sense of relief, she remembered Mary Arundel's words, "Nothing is impossible to God," and then all at once the acuteness of the burden seemed lifted. "I'll try to be loving to her," she said to herself, and turned to Judith, who was standing near her, with her dark eyes fixed upon her face.

"Judith, dear!" she exclaimed, in a gentle beseeching tone.

Just at this moment, they heard Heston's step springing up the stairs. He entered the open door and seated himself, as if quite at home, upon one of Judith's trunks. Then after a glance at the other two, he bent forward to undo the fastenings of a Gladstone bag in front of him.

Ruth had wound herself up to a great effort; a sudden hope had sprung up in her heart that she might win this proud little cousin, instead of almost hating her.

"Judith, dear," she said, almost in a whisper, "can you not try to love me? Indeed, I mean to be kind, and do all I can to make you happy—"

Ruth's eyes were full. She sat down on the edge of a chair, and took the child's delicate little hands in hers, and looked up in her face.

"You can treat me as you like!" exclaimed Judith. "I can bear it. It is Norman, poor little afflicted Norman, who cannot stand up for himself, that I care about—"

"But, dear, Norman shall have every care—"

"What!" exclaimed his sister passionately. "And the very first thing you do is to put him in a room by himself, away from everybody, when he may be frightened, and cannot call if he were! I think it is cruel—" and she wrenched away her hand.

"Cannot call?" echoed Ruth, turning her eyes appealingly to Heston, who suddenly exclaimed, "Dry up this fuss, Judith. Cousin Ruth, I'm awfully sorry, but my uncle never had the letter; so of course you don't know."

"Know what?" asked Ruth, with sinking heart at she knew not what.

And then Judith's little fingers were laid on hers with trembling eagerness, and the dark eyes were raised beseechingly, as she said with a sob—

"He cannot speak—he is dumb!"

Ruth had enough tenderness and womanliness to gather the trembling child into her arms, as she exclaimed, "Oh, I never knew! How is it we did not know? I cannot believe it—"

"The letters did not reach uncle," said Heston, coming to their side, "but don't take on, Cousin Ruth. Perhaps something may be done for him. That's partly why my father was so glad for us to come to England."

"But when?" asked Ruth, looking up and wiping her eyes.

"While I was at school in Germany. It was a sudden fright. My father always hoped he would outgrow it, so very little was said about it at the time. But it is four years now."

Judith was still standing within Ruth's arm; Mala was bustling about from room to room, carrying clothes and belongings to their different places.

How much she took in of the facts of the case could not be guessed from her impassive face.

Suddenly Judith moved. She had not spoken one word hitherto since her outburst. She had only scanned Ruth's face to see there, perhaps, the truth or falsehood of this astonishing situation. Apparently having satisfied herself, she stepped in front of her cousin, and said humbly, "Cousin Ruth, I beg your pardon for what I said—I was mistaken—" And with that, she fled into the other room, and was found kissing her little brother and making much of him.

"He want to open his mice, missy Ruth. But he tired now—where I put him to bed?"

"It's all settled," said Heston; "at least, you are to go down, please, Cousin Ruth, and see uncle. I forgot to tell you before. Come along, Norman, I'll undo the mice, and we'll see if they are all right. You will soon be in bed now, and can have them by you, as usual, uncle says."

As Ruth went down the stairs, she felt as if a great piece of life had passed since that afternoon. But she had the warm feeling at her heart that once again she had been "helped," and this gave her fresh courage for the future.

AN ANGRY ELEPHANT.

RUTH opened the study door.

Her father was seated by his writing-table with his head on his hands. When he looked up there was a haggard expression on his face.

She came close and put her arms round his neck. How could she comfort him, when her own heart felt so heavy?

But another thought came, a thought of forgiveness. She bent and kissed his forehead.

"Father," she said, in a tremulous voice, "we must make the best of it, must we not? If you and I can face it together, it will not seem so bad!"

"I'll try, my dear," he responded. And then suddenly, he turned his head and kissed her warmly—as he had not kissed her since the sorrowful day that she had said he had spoilt her life.

Ruth's heart beat. She managed to whisper, "You have forgiven me then? I may be sure that no cloud is between us now?"

There was a moment's pause, and then he kissed her again with the greatest tenderness.

"My dear, you have something to forgive too; but we will begin again."

Ruth swallowed her tears, and tried to recover her voice so as not to grieve him.

"I came down to ask you about the bedroom for Norman. Is it not dreadful about him?"

Her father rose and led the way back to the drawing-room, and sat down in his usual chair with a sigh of relief. Ruth remembered that he had not once been in there since that day.

"Well!" he said. "We will make the best of it, as you said—after all, many people would say that a pretty little girl and a bright boy were not such a terrible task, and as to the poor little fellow, if only he gets good, and is happy—"

He broke off, and looked meditatively at the fern-filled fireplace.

"Yes—oh, yes!" said Ruth eagerly, "I mean to make up my mind to it happily. I feel sure I shall, if you are not—worried."

He smiled a little sadly.

"Well, about this room? We shall have to give them up the spare room, Ruth!"

"We seldom use it—"

"No; at any rate, we can say he and the ayah shall have that for the present. How would that be? I would give something if that ayah had not come. I do not trust her face."

"I cannot say I like her."

"Well—we shall see. The child could not have travelled without her, that is one thing."

So Ruth sped upstairs, for she felt anxious that the little invalid should be able to go to bed as soon as possible.

She went straight to where she heard Heston's voice.

"Heston," she said, "we are going to put Norman into the spare room for the present, and Mala can have her bed brought into the corner; there is plenty of room. Come, Norman dear, I am sure you are tired with your journey. Shall I show you where it is? The room is next to Judith's!"

She bent over him and kissed his forehead, then offering her hand, she led him gently along the landing to the back of the house, where the view over to the Welsh hills was now fading into purple mist.

Norman looked round with a pleased expression, and Judith glanced gratefully at Ruth.

"He likes it," she nodded. "Thank you."

"Mala can put him quietly to bed, and when he is comfortable we will come in and have a little look at him," said Ruth, kindly. "Meanwhile, the servants shall bring down Mala's bedstead, and have it ready to wheel in."

"Can I help?" asked Heston. "You see, Cousin Ruth, I've been used to brisk Germany, and not lazy India! I can do all sorts of things in a handy way."

"I am so glad!" exclaimed Ruth. "That will suit my father. Thank you, then, if you would direct the maids how to bring it down the back stairs. And please, Heston, call me Ruth! I'm only a year older than you, and have only just got out of a school-girl."

"All the better," said Heston, bluntly. "I was almost afraid, by your looks, you were a young lady!"

Ruth laughed merrily. She felt so lighthearted at her father's having cheered up, that the whole world wore a different aspect.

At length all was done, the little pale face on the white pillow was smiled upon, and Ruth had whispered to the dumb child that she should soon learn how to understand his finger-talking, and with another good-night to Judith, who also wished to go to bed, Ruth and Heston went down to find Dr. Brown.

He had, however, been called out, so they sat down in the drawing-room and began to get acquainted.

Heston had plenty to tell her of his school in Germany, and the reasons why his father had decided against his coming to England; and it was some time before Ruth could lead him back to what her mind was so full of—the cause of the sad affliction that had come to little Norman.

"You see, it was like this," explained Heston, who, having lately told his uncle, felt as if it were rather an old tale—"sometimes my father's official business gave him occasion to go into the jungle; he often used elephants on these journeys. My mother before her death, four years ago, accompanied him when she could, and on the particular journey which we have such cause to remember, she took Norman with her.

"He was an extremely sensitive child, and, we remembered afterwards, had always been timid of the elephant rides. One day, my father had a call to make at one of the outlying residences, and my mother decided not to alight, so the elephants waited with their drivers beneath the shade of some trees.

"The driver of mother's elephant was very partial to one of the other drivers, who was not a favourite with anyone.

"Mother noticed that this man kept on teasing her elephant, and that the animal was growing very restless.

"They remember that Norman's eyes were wide open with fear lest the elephant should get really angry, when suddenly he turned on the man and caught him up with his trunk, and made off with him towards the river!

"Our driver's frantic efforts to stop him were unavailing, for the elephant took no notice of him, nor of the full howdah on his back. He made straight for the river and our mother thought they would all be drowned.

"When he reached the edge of the water, he splashed down into it up to his knees, and proceeded to plunge the man in three times over! Then, satisfied that justice had been awarded, he turned and deposited the man on the bank, himself quietly walking back to the shade of the trees and to the other elephants.

"When Mala and mother recovered from their terror, our little Norman was found to have fainted, and from that time to this he has never spoken a word."

"Oh, how sad! Does my father think that anything can be done for him?" exclaimed Ruth.

"He is going to watch him carefully before he gives any opinion. But I think—I hope I was not mistaken in thinking—that he does not consider it quite hopeless."

"Poor little boy!" said Ruth, pitifully.

There was a pause, and at length Heston said, with frank earnestness—

"Cousin Ruth! I'm afraid we have been an awful bother coming like this! We do appreciate Uncle's kindness and yours, though our first beginning does not look much like it. I hope you'll understand that we meant to be nice."

He held out his hand, and Ruth shook it with a grateful look in her clear eyes.

A DREAM.

IT was late when Dr. Brown came in, and long before that, Heston had suggested that he should go upstairs to write to his father, and then go to bed.

"You look tired, cousin Ruth," he had added solicitously. "I am sure this has been a hard day to you, so I will leave you in peace."

"You will come down and have some tea with me presently? Perhaps my father will be in."

"Thank you—but I think I will let you be quiet?"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Ruth. "Come back at nine, and we will be cosy."

So when the clock in the hall chimed nine, Heston came bounding down the stairs.

"I have finished my letter, and now I shall not stay long! You and uncle have had no time together."

Ruth smiled. She had wanted a talk with her father very much, but she thought it was very thoughtful of Heston to think of it.

He soon wished her good-night, and she was left alone.

Morris came up then, but after a few words, she said Ruth looked tired, and she also went.

Ruth was tired. She sat motionless in her chair with her hands in her lap. And then her mind went back to her father and to his changed attitude towards her. What had caused the sudden difference? And had he meant by what he had said that he should explain it to her?

Her heart bounded at the thought that God had heard her prayer, and that the sorrowful estrangement seemed to have passed away.

She sat so for a long time, her mind reverting to Judith, and Mala, and Norman, and then coming back with a sense of relief to the thought of Heston's friendliness. Truly, to-night she had many things to be thankful for, as Morris had whispered with her good-night kiss.

At length her father's latchkey was heard, and his step in the hall, weary enough she knew.

She sprang up and welcomed him, and he came in to the pleasant, bright room where his delayed meal was spread ready for him.

He was very silent, but not a silence that grieved her. She was sure it was only that he had much to think of.

Presently he began to talk about Norman, but she was sure he had something else to say, and that this was only while the maid went in and out in waiting on him.

"I have been to see Dr. Arundel," he said, "and he looks hopefully upon Norman's recovery, as far as he can judge from my account. He wants to thoroughly go into his case with me as soon as the child has got used to us. It is of no use to be in a hurry in these nervous cases."

"Oh, no; and he is so shy yet."

"Just so."

The cloth had been removed by this time, and they were now alone. The clock had just struck eleven, and they felt as if the house were to themselves.

"Oh, Ruth, my dear, I am glad to have you to come back to!" said her father fondly. "Come and sit by me; I want to tell you something."

How gladly she ran to him, and sat down on her low chair by his side. How naturally her head sought its old place on his shoulder, and how inexpressibly comforting it was to feel his arm put round her once more.

There was a long silence. Ruth knew he had something to say, so she waited patiently, and at length he spoke.

"I have had a very strange experience to-day, Ruth, and I do not know that I can properly tell you about it. But I must try—"

"About one of your patients, father?"

"Yes; about that man who has been ill so long out in the village yonder—up by the farmhouse—you know—"

"Oh, yes—Smith—I know!"

"Well, yes. He has been ill for three months, and he has fretted dreadfully about what is to become of his wife and children—but that is by the way, it has nothing to do with to-day. Well, the district nurse has been caring for him very nicely, and lending him good books and talking to him; but it all seemed of very little use, as he was just the same, and nothing seemed to comfort him at all.

"This morning, knowing that he had been suffering all yesterday, I drove round there as early as I could.

"His wife met me at the door, and she said at once, 'Oh, doctor, he's better; he's had such a wonderful dream!'

"'I am glad if he is better,' I said, entering.

"'The nurse is up there, and he's telling her about it.'

"So I went up, and, to my amazement, the man's face was altered, and his whole bearing different.

"'Doctor,' he said, holding out his hand, 'I'm telling nurse my wonderful dream. May I tell you?'

"You know, Ruth, as a rule I am too busy to listen to dreams, but something impelled me to stay and hear what had made all the difference to poor Smith.

"'Tell on, my friend,' I said, and sat down behind the nurse, so that he continued to address himself to her.

"'Listen,' he said, 'nurse, do you remember saying to me yesterday, "Prepare to meet thy God"?'

"So the nurse said, 'I remember very well—'

"'After you were gone, I couldn't get those words out of my head. "Prepare to meet thy God!" I knew I was not prepared, and I did not know how to prepare! All was dark and gloomy, and yet over and over in my heart rang those words, "Prepare to meet thy God!"

"'While I was thinking ever so sorrowfully about them, I seemed to fall asleep, and yet what I saw was as clear as if it were happening before my eyes.

"'I saw the cross of our Saviour set up right in front of me! And on the cross I could see our Saviour hanging. Think of it! To see our Saviour nailed to the cross in front of me!

"'And close to the cross, between me and it, there was a great, deep hole—a dark pit—and I found myself moving nearer and nearer to that deep pit.

"'But though I could not but see that pit, and knew that I should fall into it because I was not prepared to meet God, yet I could not but look on our Saviour's face. For as He hung there, tears rolled down it, and I did not like to see Him cry!

"'So I said to someone standing by me, "Why does our Saviour cry?"

"'And the one who stood by answered, "Because you will fall into that dreadful pit. He is dying to save you, and you will not come to Him to be saved!"

"'And I said, "Oh, dear Saviour, I do not want to make you cry, I 'will' come and be saved! You shall not die in vain for me!"

"'And then when I looked for the pit, it had gone all away; it was filled quite up! And then I began to wake up from my dream, and I found my wife was shaking me by the arm, and she said, "Smith, Smith, you are singing in your sleep!"

"'And I said, "What was I singing?"

"'And she said, "The hymn that was in that book nurse lent you—

"'"Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,
   And I shall be whiter than snow!"'"

"'And so, nurse, I woke up! But instead of saying over and over to myself "Prepare to meet thy God," I'm saying all the time—

"'"Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,
   And I shall be whiter than snow!"

"'And nurse,' he added, 'I'm not going to fret about my wife and my children any more, nor about the rent either, for my Saviour's going to see to all that for me!'"

•••••

Ruth hid her face in her father's breast. To her had come in this story a new revelation of her own sinfulness and of her Saviour's love. Hitherto Mary Arundel's words had helped her to a living contact with Christ, but her knowledge had been small, both of Him and of herself. Now she realised how little she had loved Him, who had borne so much that she might be saved!

But her father was speaking, while he pressed her tenderly to his heart.

"Ruth, my darling, I want you to forgive your father all his hard thoughts and unkind ways for the last month! I never saw it in its true light till I stood, as it were, by that cross this morning, and the moment I saw my own sinfulness, then I found I could forgive those words of yours that had cut me to the heart—

"Oh, father, father!" sobbed Ruth.

"Forgive my mentioning them, my dear! Only this once, and then never again. We were both in fault; I far more than you. Will you forgive me?"

Ruth raised her lips and kissed him. "I never ought to have said it. Oh, father, do not speak as if I had to forgive you—it was all my fault—"

She could not go on, and nothing but speechless caresses of tenderness sealed the pardon on both sides.

"Now, my dear," he said at last, "we will go hand in hand towards your mother's home, as she begged us. I've been looking up a text she wrote with trembling hand in her Bible for me—

   "'Thou hast cast all my sins behind Thy back.'

"He's done that for me and for you, I know, and now life is a different thing for us henceforth."

AT RIVERSIDE.

"MARY, this is the prettiest place, I think, that I have ever seen!"

They were standing at the bottom of the garden, looking down the stretch of shining river, which shone like silver in the morning sun.

"Lovely! Is it not, Vincent? Who would have thought after all my grumbles, and want of faith, that I should be given my heart's desire like this!"

"Oh, well, Mary, I don't know about grumbles and want of faith! We all have our little grumbles at times. But one thing I do know, and that is that when once you set out to do God's will, you went at it."

Mary smiled at her twin, while she shook her head.

"I don't know, Vincent; sometimes I think God has had more patience with me than with any of His children!"

Vincent pondered. But after a moment or two, he answered, "Don't you think we all of us feel that, knowing a little of our own hearts? He has patience with us in our different ways, and leads us on that we may be 'conformed to His image' more and more."

"Yes—" she answered slowly. Then turning to him, she said—

"Let us go up and sit on the garden-seat where the maids will see us. They will think I am lost to be out at this time in the morning."

She led the way back over the field and through the pretty shrubbery till they came in view of the house.

"Now, Pollie!" he exclaimed. "Tell me all about yourself."

"I don't know where to begin," she answered, smiling. "I'm so happy, Vincent!"

"You look it," he answered.

"Yes, I never guessed that I should have His 'more abundantly,' as Arthur says, like this—"

"Well, I'm glad," he answered heartily.

"But tell me about your doings," she responded. "Mine are all summed up in what I have told you, and you see the filling in of it all in this sweet house and garden, and my happy surroundings."

"My doings are on the old style. Mr. Brown is very kind, and I am getting on first rate. How funny, Pollie, that Arthur's partner should be my Mr. Brown's cousin!"

"Yes, is it not? You have heard that Dr. Brown's daughter is my little friend?"

"A rival to Ada?" he asked mischievously.

"I don't deal in rivals; I never did. My heart has got sort of chambers, Vincent, which hold different people. No one takes from anyone else! The more people I love, the bigger my heart grows."

Vincent laughed. "What's she like?" he asked.

"Not like anyone we know at home," she answered, shaking her head. "But you will see for yourself, I expect. She is sure to come in presently if she can."

Then Mary told him about Ruth's trouble over the Indian children, and also that she had not seen her since their arrival.

"How long can you stay?" she asked at length. "You have never told me that."

"Perhaps I was waiting to be asked," he answered.

"Oh—well," laughed Mary, "perhaps you were! That would not be like the Vincent of old days."

"But then you see you've got a 'better half.' Suppose he does not want me?"

"Nonsense!" said Mary. "Think how he greeted you last night. You are a naughty boy, Vincent."

"Well, if I am to tell you how long I can stay, I can be here over Sunday, if you'll have me. Mr. Brown had a particular parcel he wanted to send to your Dr. Brown, and he thought I should like to see you, and so—here I am."

"I never was more surprised, or I think more glad. I have been longing to see you."

Meanwhile, Ruth had despatched her housekeeping duties, and had seen her cousins comfortably settled in the garden, and excusing herself for a short time, she drove down as usual with her father.

"I shall have to give up my lessons, father," she said, as she sat by his side. "I shall not be able to be out all the morning, shall I?"

"I am afraid not," said Dr. Brown slowly. "But we will talk that over this evening. You and I shall quite value our little bits of time together, my dear!"

"Ah! Shall we not," answered Ruth happily.

"How have you got on with them this morning?"

"Quite nicely. Heston is so kind; and Judith means to be nice, but she is evidently rather suspicious. Norman is a dear little fellow. I have learnt some of his finger-talking already."

"It is not difficult; but I am glad you have taken to him."

"He is so helpless! And he looks so pitifully at you when he wants you to understand."

"I am longing to have Arundel up to see him. But we must not be in a hurry."

"No—I want him to feel confidence in us. If it were not for Mala, I think all would be smooth. The servants cannot bear her, Morris says."

Dr. Brown looked earnestly at her, but at the moment, the carriage drew up at Riverside, and Ruth wished him a hasty good-bye and sprang out.

The maid seemed surprised to see her so early, but on her enquiry for Mrs. Arundel she answered, "She's in the garden, miss; shall I call her?"

"Oh, no, I will find her," said Ruth.

And so it came to pass that Mary and Vincent, still sitting on the sunny seat, saw a vision of a little figure coming through the garden door and flying over the lawn towards them.

When Ruth paused in front of them and looked up from under her shady hat, her amazement knew no bounds.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she faltered. "I thought you were sitting with Dr. Arthur—"

"It is my brother Vincent," said Mary, smiling; "you have often heard of him—"

Ruth shook hands, but she was much annoyed with herself for her mistake, and it was some moments before she had recovered sufficiently to bear her part in the conversation.

Mary, however, was always too natural and downright to let small mishaps trouble her long. She laughed the matter off, and begged Ruth to tell her how she had fared with her guests from India.

We know the story, and Ruth soon began to lose her shyness in telling Mary about the ayah and about Norman, so that before very long they were chatting away as if they had known each other for years.

"There will be something for you to do," said Vincent, in his straightforward way.

"For me?" asked Ruth. "Did you mean that I could aid in his recovery?"

"I was thinking so too," said Mary.

Ruth coloured with pleasure and surprise.

"I should 'like' to—"

"No one will have so much chance, I should think," said Mary.

As Ruth went home, walking up that long hill, she pondered very deeply on what the brother and sister had suggested.

She had taken a great fancy to Norman, and he evidently had taken the same liking for her. If she could indeed be the means of doing him any good, what a joy and delight it would be! But what could she do?

She set herself to consider the matter in all its bearings. She thought if she were dumb, what would she wish done for her—how would she like people to treat her?

All at once, the instinct of nursing seemed to spring up in her heart. She had never guessed at its presence till now, and it came as a revelation. Her mother used to say she nursed beautifully, but all the sorrow and misery she had gone through had made her forget it till this moment. She remembered now that if her father had been indisposed, she had always been able to devise palliative measures, and to carry them out with great comfort. Could it be that this was a gift?

And if a gift—her heart leapt to another thought. She would thank the Giver of the gift, and ask Him to bless it!

She stood still beneath the fir-trees, and looked over the lovely prospect to be seen between them.

"Help me to be the means of blessing to Norman!" she prayed with clasped hands.

INVADED.

THE next morning when Ruth went, as usual, to speak to Morris about the dinner, she found the housekeeper unusually perturbed, and it did not take long for her to discover the cause of it.

The cook had just been in to say she and the other servants wished to give notice in a body because of Mala! They declined to let her share their kitchen or their meals.

Ruth felt as if the cares of the world were on her shoulders.

"What 'shall' we do?" she exclaimed, almost piteously.

She had just settled her three cousins in the dining-room with the bagatelle board, while Mala had crept upstairs in her usual silent fashion to see to her children's rooms.

Ruth had thought that she need not think about them again for an hour perhaps, and now this was worse than ever!

"I believe it often is an objection," was Morris's hardly consolatory answer; "and I am afraid, Miss Ruth, that we shall have to tell the Doctor. Something must be done, and it would be a pity to lose all our nice maids for the sake of one!"

"But my father says Mala must stay till Norman gets used to us—for ever so long, I am afraid."

Morris was silent. She shared in the trial it was to have their quiet home broken up, and she felt it keenly. All had been working so well, and they had been so happy.

"My father has enough to worry him without this," Ruth went on, looking up in her old friend's face.

"Yes, dearie," answered Morris, slowly. "I've been thinking a good bit all night of any way out of it, that is, if the Doctor does not wish to part with her, and the only way I can see is this—"

There was a momentary hesitation, and Ruth felt sure that the plan which was going to be proposed would cost Morris a great deal.

"Yes?" she said, gently.

"After all, dearie, though we don't like Mala very much at present, she's one for whom Christ died, and it doesn't do for us to despise each other. He did not wait till we were worthy before He loved us!"

"Oh, no!" assented Ruth. "And you thought—what, dear Morris?"

"I thought, dearie, that as we could not give her a sitting-room to herself—we have not one—that if the other servants will stay, I will have Mala with me."

"In here?" asked Ruth, looking round blankly on the cosy little room which had been the old housekeeper's sanctum and chief joy.

"Yes, in here," said Morris, more steadily. "I think I can put up with her and make her happy, and the question has seemed to come to me all night, 'Can you not do it for Christ's sake?'"

"Oh, Morris, dear, I do not think my father will ever allow it!"

"Oh yes, he will, if you put it before him in the right light. It may not be for very long; but, anyway, we shall do nicely. Will you go up and ask master about it, and I'll see to the dinners to-day, because something must be settled at once."

So Ruth kissed Morris affectionately, and ran up to the library with her unpleasant budget.

Her father's answer when he had heard it was very calm. "I'm not surprised," he said.

The end of it was that Dr. Brown accepted Morris's self-denying plan, "for the present," and before lunch-time, a carpet chair and a little table were placed in a corner of the housekeeper's room for Mala, and she brought down her basket and settled herself silently there as if it had been her home for years. Whenever Morris saw the black head bending over her work, or caught sight of the bright flowing garments coming and going, she said to herself, "For Christ's sake," and it was wonderful how that helped her to be not only patient, but happy.

The morning had been showery, but towards twelve o'clock, the sun came out on a refreshed and beautiful world, and Heston said he was sure Dr. Arundel would consider it fine enough to drive.

However, just as they were talking about it, the servant announced, "Mr. Vincent Linthorpe."

And there was Mary's brother with a note for Ruth, and with Mr. Brown's packet for Dr. Brown.

"Have you walked all this way?" asked Ruth, shaking hands.

"I came on Arthur's bicycle. But I cannot say I did much but walk up these hills!"

"No, indeed! It will be much better going down," laughed Ruth.

"The view is worth it all though! I do not think I ever saw finer country."

"We are very fond of it."

"Mary has sent this note, and a message to say the wagonette will be here at half-past two; will that suit you?"

"How very kind! I was planning how I could get Norman to Riverside, but have been so busy this morning that I have not ordered the fly. That did not matter, as the man who keeps them lives very near. You see, we are a little colony up here all to ourselves. A butcher, a general shop 'with candles and other pickles,' including bread! and a tiny draper's. All else we have to 'shift' for."

"What is 'shifting?'" asked Vincent, smiling.

"Don't you know? We once had lodgings at an out-of-the-way seaside place, and when the butcher did not arrive with the meat, the landlady suggested, 'Can't you shift?'"

"I see," said Vincent, laughing heartily; "but that is not pleasant if it happens often."

"But it doesn't," said Ruth; "Morris and I are far too good managers for that!"

AT THE FARM.

PUNCTUALLY at half-past two, a wagonette and pair drove up at the front door of The Firs. Seated in it were Dr. and Mrs. Arundel and Vincent Linthorpe.

Ruth had tried to coax her father to accompany them, but he said he was too old for that sort of thing, and he should be happier seeing after the patients.

Ruth looked wistfully at him; he gave her a tender kiss, but would not be moved from his decision.

Dr. Arundel placed them all in the seats which Mary and he had arranged. He told Heston he was sure he would like the box seat, and by the sparkle of Heston's eye, nobody doubted but that he had guessed right.

Mala was packed in first, with Norman and Judith opposite to her, and then the rest got in and found themselves pleasantly disposed, the two gentlemen against the door, and the two girls opposite each other.

"I call this nice!" said Mary, when the horses were fairly off.

"How beautifully you have arranged us," said Ruth, with a glance towards the upper end. "They are so cosy there."

Norman's eyes were watching everything with interest, and as he could not see the horses, or feel responsible in any way, he forgot to be nervous.

Vincent produced some chocolates, which he passed up to the other end after offering them to Ruth and his sister. And under the influence of these, the little party began to be sociable.

"We are going to have tea at a cottage," said Mary presently, when they had exhausted all the exclamations there were at the lovely scenery, the hills and valleys, the river winding in and out, and the blue distances crowned by the Welsh hills.

"A cottage!" exclaimed Ruth. "Where?"

"Ah! Where, indeed? Vincent has been scouring the country on Arthur's cycle this morning, and he has found a lovely sort of farm up ever so far in the hills, where we shall find tea, and bread and butter, and cream!"

The horses were walking up a long hill at the moment, so Heston heard this part of the conversation.

"Cream!" he echoed. "That's prime."

"And under your seat, Heston, unless they have been left behind," laughed Mary, "there are sundry cakes! The landlady at the farm looked askance at the idea of cakes at a moment's notice, so Vincent told her 'we could buy up the confectioner's.'"

"What 'did' she say?" asked Ruth, of Vincent.

"She looked me up and down to see if I were a duke or somebody of the millionaire kind, and then she saw my eyes, and she laughed. 'All right; "you" see to the cakes and I'll see to the bread and butter,' was her final shot."

After about an hour, they reached the farm, and they all got out. The cakes were found to be safe, and a man came forward to help with the horses.

Wraps and coats were taken into the house, and the landlady told them where the best view of the mountains was to be obtained, "or they could go round the farm if they pleased, and see the creatures, as all the young folks likes to do."

Heston decided on the latter plan, especially as the landlady had remarked that "there was their old pony that the young lady or gentleman could ride if they pleased."

Judith's eyes brightened: it reminded her of India, and she went with Heston with more alacrity in her step than she had shown since her arrival.

Ruth looked undecided whether to follow her charge or not, but Mary whispered, "Let them go, dearest, they will be safe with Heston; and, poor children, it must be very perplexing to have to see so many strangers!"

"Yes," said Ruth, with filling eyes, "I am so sorry for them—and for myself!"

"It will be better soon," said Mary.

"Oh, yes, and it is all right even now; but sometimes, it seems to surge over me that the comfort of being alone is gone."

"That will be better too, presently, when they go to school."

Vincent and Dr. Arundel had been watching the horses put up, and now returned, and they all started to see the view.

How lovely it was! Ruth held her breath as she stood silently gazing.

"Doesn't it make you feel like heaven!" she said to Mary, in a low tone.

But not so low but that Vincent caught it, and smiled. "I think so, too," he said, and then coloured at having seemed to intrude.

"Vincent and I have always shared these sort of things together," said Mary, "and it seems strange for me to be away from him. Sometimes I can hardly believe it can be true."

"I believe it, I can tell you," said Vincent, "for not one of the others is 'my' sister like Mary," he added, turning to Ruth. "Mary and I had no need to talk much, we understood without."

"I have never had a sister or a brother," said Ruth, slowly. "Mary seems the nearest to it that I know, and she is—inexpressibly dear!"

Vincent could quite believe it, as he knew what Mary was.

"Well, I will go and see about tea," said Mary. "You come when you have had enough view!"

She ran off, laughing, and Ruth wanted to help her, but Vincent said he must just show her a discovery he had made that morning, and invited Arthur to come and see it too.

But Arthur said he was lazy, and meant to have a doze.

So he led the way round the barn, and in another moment, he and Ruth came upon a bit of ivy-covered ruin, standing on the very edge of a sharp, precipitous piece of ground, which sank away down and down without a break right to some green meadows far beneath, where the cows and sheep looked like little red and grey dots.

"There!" said Vincent. "How does that make you feel! Though, indeed, I must apologise for having spoken of what was not intended for my ears!"

"Oh, never mind," said Ruth. "No, this has not the same feeling as that other view for me. I think this reminds me of earth more—and—do you think, one might say it reminded one a little of the twenty-third Psalm—

   "'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.'

"It is so peaceful down there with those sheep."

Vincent looked in silence after one glance at her face.

"Yes, I think you are right," he answered, quietly.

"I am going to find the children," said Ruth, after they had looked for a few moments. "I hear their voices quite near. Perhaps they are in this barn?"

And there they were found, watching the milking of the cows with intense interest.

"We are to have the pony after tea," said Heston, "the men were busy just now!"

Oh, what a farmhouse kitchen that was! How their eyes went round and round, admiring the bright pewter plates and shining candlesticks on the high mantleshelf; and the low, latticed windows stretching the whole length of the southern wall, and open now on to the old-fashioned garden, where stocks and roses and Sweet Williams, lilac and guelder roses, made up the soft summer fragrance that seems to rest the spirit and speak of peace.

Ruth could hardly bear to turn her eyes, even to the welcome tea.

But Heston told her she must not go dreaming in daylight, and Vincent handed her a knife, and told her to cut Mary's cakes, and see if he had bought nice ones!

NORMAN'S SUPPER.

AFTER tea, the pony was bridled, and the three Indian children enjoyed a ride. Heston tried it first and pronounced it very nice, but not quite up to his pony in India, and yielded it up to Judith, who was not so particular as to pony breed. She in her turn quickly yielded it to Norman, who stood looking longingly at the sleek little white creature, who was as quiet as a lamb, Judith said.

So Heston lifted him up, and with promises not to let go, led him up and down the quiet lane for half an hour.

"How kind he is!" said Ruth, looking after the party as they turned for the third time.

"Very," responded Dr. Arundel; "in fact, I never saw such devotion as they all show."

"Do you think 'massage' would do him good?" asked Ruth, rather shyly, drawing nearer to Dr. Arundel. "And if so, could I learn to do it? I think I could."

"Quite easily," he answered.

"I have not had time to speak to my father, yet," said Ruth, blushing as if she had been interfering, "but I keep on thinking of all the things that might help him. And being so much with my father, I pick up a few stray bits of information!"

Arthur smiled. "Do not hesitate to tell us any suggestion. This is a case apparently of a purely nervous nature, and ordinary means will not be so likely to do good."

Vincent and Mary had strolled on in front, and were going to see the ruin. And Ruth proposed that "as they had done their medical talk!" she and Dr. Arundel should follow them.

At length, there seemed to be a great stir in the yard, with sounds of the horses being led out, and then one of the men came forward to ask if Dr. Arundel was ready to return.

"Why, it is seven o'clock already!" exclaimed Vincent. "How quickly the time has gone."

"That is better than its dragging," said Ruth. "I have not enjoyed anything so much since—oh, not for years! I only wish my father had come."

They all packed into the wagonette again, and with pleasant farewells to their entertainers, the happy party turned homewards.

When they reached The Firs, Mary and Dr. Arundel would not alight, but said they would be taken home at once. So with good-byes and earnest thanks from Ruth and Heston, there was great waving of hands and hats, and Ruth found herself standing on the steps in the soft evening light with her little family round her.

"What shall we do next, Heston?" she asked, as they turned to the dining-room.

"Oh, Ruth! Here is supper spread, and I am so hungry! Mrs. Arundel's tea was splendiferous, but I declare I could eat a—a haystack!"

"You shall have something better than that! But I suppose farm talk will be the order of the day till the next excitement! Judith, what could you eat?"

But Judith was too dignified to respond to the joke. She hardly answered, but acknowledged on being pressed by Heston that she should not mind some supper.

Norman asked in his silent finger-talk to go to bed, and Ruth promised to bring him some supper when Mala came to announce his being ready.

"'I' take him his supper," said Mala.

Ruth glanced at her in surprise, and then said gently and firmly, "Let me know when he is ready, Mala," and took her place at the head of the table.

Judith sat very silent, and evidently was uneasy. Mala had hitherto ruled them all, and it was too astonishing for anyone to rule Mala!

Ruth saw what it involved, and inwardly quaked. Then she remembered that Mary had said, "In every difficulty, ask for counsel of God; He will help you."

So she sat silent, thinking of Mary's advice, and trying to follow her in her straightforward desire to please God and do the next thing.

At that moment, her father entered, and Heston was pleased to tell him all the delights of the day.

"Judith," whispered Ruth, "would you go up and tell Norman what is on the table, and ask him what he would like best? You and I will take it up to him, while Mala has her supper."

Judith's eyes looked grateful. She softly left the room, and then Ruth breathed more freely. She hoped the difficulty had blown over.

At length, Judith came down, her face rather pale, and her eyes looking anxious again.

"Norman would like some apple and custard," she said, hesitating, "but Mala says she is sure he cannot eat it without her, and she would rather stay and see to him—if you do not mind, Cousin Ruth."

Judith added the last sentence in a beseeching tone.

"I think you and I can manage," said Ruth.

And then she went over and held a whispered conversation with her father, which resulted in his saying, "I'll see it through. If there is any trouble, just call me!"

"But we have to think of Norman," whispered Ruth.

"Indeed we have. I'll not forget that."

So she and Judith and the apple and custard went up together.

Norman was in bed, and Mala was seated by his side with a stony look on her face.

"Take it in, dear," said Ruth, pausing at the door, "and tell Mala I want to speak to her."

Ruth stood within view, silently waiting. And after a few moments, in which Judith had evidently whispered advice to Mala, the ayah got up slowly and glided to the door.

Ruth stepped across to her own room, and then spoke in an undertone, which she feared was trembling, though there was no hesitation in her intentions.

"Mala," she said, raising her eyes and looking full into the dark face, "if you wish to do Norman a kindness, and to remain here to attend upon him, you will have to do exactly as you are told! My father hopes we may be able to do him good, and make him happier than he has ever been—but remember what I have said."

With a stately tread, Ruth passed the astonished ayah, and before she could recover her surprise, Ruth was already seated by her little cousin, asking him smilingly how "his" "haystack" tasted!

How her heart was beating!

But Norman responded with a bright look, and Judith waited upon him and put his food temptingly ready, and all went well.

When at length he would take no more, Judith carried away his tray, and Ruth bent over him to wish him good-night.

"Dear little boy," she said, lovingly. "I do love you! And I have thought of ever so many things that may do you good! You will trust me, will you not?"

Norman squeezed her hand for Yes, and with a pleased look lay back on the pillows.

When Judith returned, he took her hand eagerly and rapidly spelt out—

"Ask her if she thinks I shall some day be able to talk?"

"We have great hopes of it," said Ruth, tenderly, "if it is God's will."

The child understood.

"You know, Norman," Ruth added, "since I have begun to love Jesus, I pray about everything! So we can pray about this, and if God sees it is good for us, and best, He will give it to us!"

Judith came close to Ruth's side, and put both her arms round her neck.

"Oh, Cousin Ruth, Cousin Ruth," she whispered, with a sob, "I'll pray too, though—though—I never have before!"

CONFIDENCES.

WHILE these things were happening at The Firs, the wagonette was swiftly taking the rest of the party back to Riverside.

When they got in, Dr. Arundel found there was a summons for him to go to a sick man some two miles in another direction. But the messenger had left word that any time that evening would do.

"They are very considerate," he remarked, as they gathered round the supper-table. "But I am sorry to leave you both—"

"So am I," said Vincent, who had been reading a letter which he had found on the mantelshelf, "for this is my last evening: Mr. Brown has written to recall me. He does not explain, but says the urgency of it justifies him in asking for my return; and that he will spare me again in a week or so if I like."

"Oh, that is all right then!" exclaimed his sister. "We can look forward to that! You must come back, Vincent. This has not been a quarter long enough!"

"It is very kind of you to wish it—but I hardly think I can come again so soon—" objected Vincent.

"Do," exclaimed Arthur, heartily. "Arrange to spend a week with us. There is plenty to see, and to such a cyclist as you are, the Welsh mountains are within reach!"

Vincent shook his head, but as if the prospect held out were very tempting.

And then, when Arthur was gone and the twin brother and sister went into the drawing-room, Vincent sat in the twilight very silent.

"You will come again soon, Vincent, will you not?" asked Mary, softly.

"I don't know, Pollie—"

"Why?"

"I do not suppose it would be of much use—"

"Coming to see me, do you mean?"

"You know I don't mean that, Pollie! But though I can't explain it, I never saw anyone before that I cared about in the least. And now I do care about—Ruth—and she—I do not suppose I could ever get her to care for me."

"I do not see why not," said Mary, calmly. She knew Vincent well enough to be sure that he would not be ready to have any sympathy or gladness shewn him.

"Pollie," he went on slowly, in such a smothered tone that she could hardly catch his words, "the moment I saw her, I felt my fate had come!"

"Your fate?"

"Well—whatever you like to call it! I wish it were not so, but—there it is."

"Why do you wish it were not so?" she asked, surprise in her voice. It was getting too dark to see each other's faces.

"Because, can't you see? She does not care for me, and just treats me as your brother and nothing else—"

"But, Vincent, she cannot be supposed to guess at this—" exclaimed Mary, earnestly.

He seemed to listen, and she went on.

"Is there any other difficulty in the way?"

"Yes—even if—even—should I be able to get her to think of it—I do not see how she could leave her father? He is all alone, and my work lies at Mr. Brown's, near home."

"I see that; is there anything else?"

"You agree with me that there is that insurmountable difficulty?" he said, quickly.

"Not too fast! That would have to be considered. Is there anything else?"

"She has been used to luxuries, and I could only give her a quiet little home—though I would try to make her happy."

"That's nothing!" said Mary, promptly. "Any girl worth anything does not mind beginning quietly. Anything else?"

"You've got a lot of questions ready, Pollie!" he exclaimed, laughing a little nervously. "You are a regular inquisitor!"

"You know me of old," she said, "so I can't alter to please you now. The fact is, Vincent, it is just this! Do you mean to try to smother your feelings, or do you mean to try to win her?"

Vincent was silent for a long time, and Mary said not another word. She was inexpressibly touched by his confidence, but how to tell him so she did not know. His communication had come as an intense surprise.

At length, he stirred, and took hold of his sister's hand firmly.

"You are not sorry, Pollie!" he said, hesitating a little.

"Very, very glad, if it is for your happiness!"

"You like her—you would do all you could, wouldn't you, Pollie?"

"Why, Vincent, of course I should!"

"Yes, yes! And now I've to go away, Pollie. It seems so hard."

"I shall expect you back soon."

"I'm afraid there is everything against me."

"Do not be so faint-hearted, Vincent—I think there is everything in your favour!"

"Then, besides all the rest, she is devoting herself to this little cousin—"

"Oh, well, that is all as it should be. Why should she not? Perhaps he will get better, Vincent; do not look at the obstacles, but think now of the old days when things were too hard for us to manage, and try the old remedy in this new difficulty. If God has this joy in store for you by and bye, ask Him to make you ready for it when He sends it."

He turned towards her, and kissed her softly. "Dear old Pollie, there's no one like you in all the world."

"All the world?" she said, archly.

"All the world," he reiterated; "all the world, at present."

So Mary knew what the answer was to one of her questions, though she did not get it in so many words.

The moonlight was streaming in at the window, and flooding the room with its tender light.

"Let us go out, Pollie, unless you are tired?"

"Oh, no. But I will just leave word where Arthur may find us."

So they went down to the river's edge, and sat there talking of everything that concerned them, till after a long time all the church clocks struck ten, and they heard Arthur's footsteps coming along the gravel.

"I shall not bind you down not to tell him, Pollie," said Vincent, "but if you don't mind, let it be when I am gone."

A PRESENT.

"MY dear!" said Dr. Brown to his daughter, on the night of the picnic. "It will never do to have you sitting up late to talk to me, and yet we do want to be together, do we not?"

"Indeed we do, father! We shall have to plan in some way to have a little time quiet. But that will be easy when we settle down."

"I wanted to ask you something," said Dr. Brown, hesitating a little, and half turning away to the bookcase.

"What is it?" asked Ruth, rather astonished. But so many astonishing things had happened within a week that she thought she should hardly be surprised at anything.

"I have been thinking—" he said, slowly, "whether we ought not to begin prayers in the morning, now we have all these children here—and—now I feel so differently from what I used?"

He turned back, and looked more boldly in her face, though the colour had deepened in his, and he seemed hardly able to bring out his words.

"Oh, I am so glad!" exclaimed Ruth, heartily.

"Are you? Then you will help me through with it?"

"Of course I will! Why, it was only last Sunday that the curate said if people would begin it, they would find such a blessing."

"Did he? Well, I'm convinced it is right, but the first step is such an effort."

Ruth came over and leant her hands on his arm.

"If I had a little book—it seems absurd to be shy over it, doesn't it?" he said, awkwardly, "but yet I am—"

Ruth kissed him lovingly. "It is a great effort, but we shall be glad. How strange that the curate should mention it, was it not? He said that if people would read a few words from the Bible, and kneel down together and repeat the Lord's prayer slowly together, it would be a beginning, and would bring a great blessing."

"We could do that," said Dr. Brown, looking relieved.

"When shall we begin?" asked prompt Ruth.

"To-morrow!" he answered, only waiting for her helpful acquiescence.

"I'm sure it would be better," she said, heartily.

"Then, tell Morris and the servants. Eight o'clock sharp, my dear."

So Ruth wished him good-night, and then ran back again, and threw her arms round his neck. "You dear, dear father!" she whispered.

All went well the next day. Dr. Brown looked rather pale when he came in at the sound of the bell, but he took his usual place at the table, and then looked round on the assembled family.

"I did not think of this as a duty till lately," he said, "but I am sure we shall have God's blessing if we seek it. Let us each in our different ways try to find something in the morning portion that will help us all day."

He opened the Bible where there was a mark, and read out in an impressive voice just the one verse,—

   "'God commendeth His love towards us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.'"

"Now let us repeat the Lord's Prayer together, petition by petition. There will be something in it—many things probably—that we all want. And let us think of it as we say the words, and may He answer our petitions for Christ's dear sake."

The children, and Ruth and the servants, never forgot that prayer, nor the moved, broken voice of the master of the house, as he prayed with them for the first time.

Then they all rose and left the room silently, and there were not a few tears winked away on the stairs as the servants sought their own quarters.

"God bless him!" said old Morris to herself, as she went into her own room. "The Lord has been better to me than my fears! 'Mine eyes have seen His salvation!'"

After breakfast, when Ruth and her father were having a talk over the treatment that should be begun for Norman, there was a ring at the bell, and Mr. Vincent Linthorpe was announced.

He soon explained that he was called home sooner than he had expected, and had come to say farewell, and to ask if he could be the bearer of any letter or message to Mr. Brown.

Dr. Brown said he should like to write a line, so Ruth proposed that they should leave him to do so while they found the others.

No one was to be seen but Heston, who was sitting in the dining-room window deep in one of his uncle's books.

"Where are they all?" asked Ruth.

"Mala has taken them down that winding path along the hillside," said Heston. "I hope it will not be too far for Norman. She will go very slowly, I expect."

"My father says you and I may go to Worcester to-day and see if we can get him a little invalid carriage for Mala to wheel him about in!" exclaimed Ruth. "Shall we go this morning, Heston?"

"Oh, how jolly. Uncle is very kind! When shall we go?"

"Soon," said Ruth, glancing towards their guest. "But there is no hurry, if you can stay a little time. I think you said you had to go directly, though?"

"Directly," said Vincent. "My train is at 10.20. I pass through Worcester," he added, eagerly, "could we all go together?"

"I daresay we could! I will run and ask my father if he has any other plans."

She hastened away, and the other two stood looking after her.

"She is going to do everything she can to get Norman better," Heston said, in a grateful tone.

"Yes; it is so sad for him—"

"Very. I little thought when it was arranged for us to come to England that we should find such kindness. I cannot speak of it, but I do feel it—"

Ruth came tripping back. "We may go, Heston, and if Mr. Linthorpe can wait ten minutes, I shall be quite ready, and so will you?"

Heston laughed. "I shall not be as long as that. But run away, Ruth, or you will not keep your promise."

"I wish I could stop at Worcester with you," said Vincent, as they sat in the train.

"I wish you could," answered Ruth, heartily, "for I feel it quite an undertaking to buy this little invalid carriage. My father has given me a picture out of one of his books, so I hope I shall manage."

"What kind of thing is it to be?" asked Heston.

"He is to be able to lie flat in it, so as to rest if he needs it, and yet he is to be able to sit almost upright in it."

"I think I've seen them at the seaside," said Vincent.

"Yes—and my father says we are all to go to the sea directly he can arrange it. He thinks that Norman ought to be out of doors all day long."

"Shall you like that?"

"To go to the sea? Oh, yes, I shall enjoy it intensely; especially if it does Norman good. But nothing is quite like these hills and views to 'me.' But I shall enjoy the sea very much for a time."

"I am so glad you like Mary, and that she has a friend in you!" exclaimed Vincent, as all too soon the train began to slow down outside Worcester.

"She has done me all the good in the world!" said Ruth. "I never saw anyone like her."

Vincent looked into the glowing face.

"I'm more glad than I can say!" he said, heartily. "Good-bye. Mary says I may come back, as my visit has been cut short!"

And then the train stopped. And in another moment, Ruth and Heston were lost to sight in the hurrying crowd on the platform.

"Norman," said Ruth, when she and Heston had returned from Worcester, "I have brought you a present, and I want you to try to do something for me."

She had found him alone for once, as Mala had gone down to get his tea.

The bright eyes looked into her face questioningly, and then at the parcel in her hand.

"See! You are so fond of living creatures that I thought this would give you pleasure. It is a dear little bullfinch, and I think you will be able to teach him all sorts of tricks."

Norman took her hand, and kissed it. Poor little fellow, he had no words to express his feelings.

She undid the wrappings, and there was the beautiful little bird, looking as perky and at home as possible.

He hopped down to help himself to some seed, and Norman looked delighted.

"Here is some hemp," pursued Ruth, "and soon he will come to take it off your finger. Let us try now."

She pressed a seed into her finger and put it through the bars, but though Dickie looked at it very earnestly, and turned his head first on one side and then another, he was too strange to advance along the perch at present.

"He will soon do it," said Ruth, well satisfied with their first attempt.

"Now, Norman," she continued, "I'm going to tell you what I want you to do. Can you whistle?"

Norman coloured, but shook his head. "Never mind! Some day when you are alone with Dickie you can try. You might teach him a tune, perhaps, by and bye."

Then, as Norman's eyes still looked questioningly into hers, she added, "Yes, I have something else I want you to do. I want you, when you are alone with Dickie, to talk to him with your lips, as if you could speak."

The child looked distressfully at her, but she went on gently—

"I know you cannot—but I want you to act as if you could. When you feel inclined, you know! Just form your lips into the word, 'Dickie! Dickie here's your food!' And though you cannot make any sound, just persevere in doing that for me, will you?"

She bent over him and kissed his cheek, and he looked into her eyes with a promise.

"There is a dear little boy!" she exclaimed. "I knew you would be sensible enough to try to do what I wanted. We need not tell anyone else about it. I told my father of my thought for you, and he is pleased. We will not tell the others at present till you have learned to do it quite easily. I do hope it may help you."

Norman kissed her hands again, and tried to make her understand, but at present she was not used enough to his finger-talking to do much in the way of communication. So she only kissed him lovingly in return. And at the moment Mala appeared with his tea-tray, and she hastened away to pour out for the rest.

ON THE DOORSTEP.

THREE weeks later, Ruth and her cousins were established at the seaside.

"A Furnished House." Yes, Dr. Brown had decided that that was the right thing, and Ruth, who had never been to a furnished house, and knew nothing of the cares of housekeeping, acquiesced at once. She supposed it would be all right.

Certainly it gave her a pang to remember that Cook would not be there, and that Jane was not very clever at anything but housework! But she would have Morris with her to refer to, and she did want to learn "cooking and things."

So, though Morris looked rather grave, they made their plans, the furnished house was taken, and in a very short time, they had begun their seaside life.

To the Indian children it was unalloyed happiness. All day long they were out on the beach, or Heston was exploring the rocks and the cliffs. The invalid carriage was a great success, and Mala wheeled her charge about everywhere, Heston assisting very kindly when necessary.

Norman was blissfully content. He lay and rested when he liked, or got out and sat on the sand or picked up shells. His colour had begun to improve, and Ruth could see that as the days went on, he attempted more, and began to look less pitiful.

Twice each day she gave half an hour to his "massage" treatment, and while that was going on, she always sent Mala to help Jane in the household work.

At first, Mala had strongly objected to leave him, making it as unpleasant for Ruth as she could.

But Ruth had looked up, and said gravely, "Remember what I told you, Mala!"

And the ayah, with a deep flush on her face, had turned away silently.

Left there alone with her little cousin, Ruth devoted herself to making the time pass happily and brightly. Mary had reminded her that it was a precious opportunity, if she would only use it. And though Ruth had given one of her startled looks, when she came to think it over, she saw how true it was.

So, while her hands were busy over her "massage," she talked to him, or told him simple stories from the Bible. She soon found that she must get ready a little story fresh from the Bible for each time. And while learning for him, she got to know more herself than she had ever known before.

Understanding more of God's great love herself, she felt confidence that Norman would get to understand too.

She was not disappointed. She was "letting him come to Jesus," as Mary said she always translated the words, "Suffer the little children to come unto ME."

Yes, she was helping, and not hindering, and a flood of joy came into her heart as she saw that Norman was drawing near, and learning to look up in his Saviour's face, and stand, as it were, within His loving arms.

It would be difficult to say how Ruth knew that it was so, but she did. The child's eyes had lost their weary, dissatisfied look, and as she talked to him, he would drink in every word as if his thirst were being quenched.

As she became more used to understanding him, when he talked on his fingers, he began to express his feelings more, until one day, when she had finished her "treatment," and was just clearing up, he caught her hand in his, and kissing it tenderly, he spelt out, "Thank you for telling me about Jesus; I do love Him!"

When Ruth had kissed him in return, and told him how very, very glad she was, she ran away to her own room.

She knelt down by her bed, but only tears would come and broken thanksgivings.

"And I grudged having them!" she thought. "And yet God has been so good to me as this!"

Day by day during these happy weeks for her cousins, Ruth watched her own especial charge with loving, observant eyes.

His bird was almost as great a pet as his mice, and he was eager to teach him any trick which he could hear of, watching by his cage on rainy days for hours and hours, patiently getting him to eat from his hand, or come out on the table to take his bath.

One day, when she happened to come into the room unexpectedly, she found Norman alone, and he looked up eagerly and nodded to her confidentially.

"You are doing what I suggested?" she asked, whispering.

He nodded again, and then spelt on his fingers, "I can do it much better now!"

So Ruth was very content, and hailed every sign of improvement with great joy.

But Morris feared that, however good this seaside change was for the children, the housekeeping cares were more than her dear young lady had in her inexperience expected, and she thought she was growing thin under her new work.

"Well!" said the old housekeeper to herself, as she often did many times a day. "The Lord knows, and I don't! He can see to it!" And thus her burden rolled off once again.

One Saturday, Ruth was expecting her father to spend the week-end with them, and when the children were safely off to the beach with Mala, and Heston had started on a long walk, she betook herself to the kitchen and looked round.

Her father liked pastry, and she had often wished to try her hand at it, but hitherto had been too busy.

"Morris, do you think I 'could' make a pie?" she asked.

"Why, yes, dearie. I could sit by you and tell you. The Doctor would be pleased."

But just as Ruth was beginning, she found that she had not ordered the requisite fruit, and Jane was quickly despatched to get some at the nearest shop.

"Nobody will come to the door in those few moments," she said to Morris, who had a cold, and was sitting by the fire nursing it. "And if they do—I can open it, I suppose!"

Morris smiled. How her childie was growing, to be sure.

But Jane had no sooner whisked off down the road, than a ring came to the front door, followed by a decided rat-tat-tat.

"Eleven o'clock!" said Ruth, looking at the clock, and dusting off the flour from her white fingers. "Who can it be, Morris, at this time of the morning."

She hurried to the door, and there stood Vincent Linthorpe, holding a Gladstone bag in his hand, and with a look of apology in his face.

"Dr. Brown sent me with a note," he said, "May I come in?"

"Oh, yes!" said Ruth, opening the door wide. "I was so taken by surprise. I am sorry if I looked astonished."

Vincent smiled slightly. "The fact is, I called at The Firs last night to see you all, and I found you flown. Dr. Brown told me he thought of coming here to-day for the week-end, and that I might come and tell you he would be here about three."

"That is sooner than I thought—"

"Yes—so he bade me say. I will go and deposit my bag at the hotel, and then—may I come back?"

"Oh, yes!" said Ruth, thinking of her pie and her dinner still uncooked.

"I am afraid it may not be convenient?" said Vincent, hesitating.

"Oh, yes it is. I am only making my first pie, and I was wondering if it would be eatable."

"'That' does not matter!" he said. "I wanted to see you, because—because I am going abroad!"

HOUSEKEEPING.

"COME in!" said Ruth, stepping back and proceeding to lead the way to the dining-room. Then, looking up in his face, she added, questioningly, "You seem sorry? Is it not what you want to do?"

"I do not think I do," he answered slowly, putting his bag in a corner and following her in; "it has been such a sudden thing that I hardly know whether I am sorry or glad."

"That must be perplexing," she answered; "but did—was there not a choice given you?"

"Not exactly; Mr. Brown, your father's cousin, you know, thought it such a wonderful opportunity for me, that he took it for granted I should go. It will be two years before I return."

Ruth saw that it was a trouble to him, but though she would have been glad to console, she hardly knew what to say. Oh, why was not Mary here, who always knew the right thing to comfort people?

"You will be glad of it afterwards," she ventured, gently.

"You think I shall?" he answered, eagerly.

"I know I have been about these children," she said. "I felt so badly about their coming, and Mary and our good old housekeeper, Morris, both told me God could turn the seeming hard things into good, if we would trust Him."

Vincent looked into her face earnestly.

"You are right," he said. "We ought to be able to trust, but—" he paused.

"Mary would say," said Ruth, "that we must take the 'but' to God, and let Him turn it into 'best.'"

"I will try to let Him," said Vincent, in a voice that somehow sounded unlike his ordinary one. Ruth wondered, and then, as he took his hat in his hand as if to go, she said pleasantly:—

"Will you come back and eat some of my pie at lunch-time? It will be our dinner, for we are very primitive here."

"I should like it of all things," he answered. "But here is Dr. Brown's note. I had forgotten that."

So Vincent departed with his bag, promising to return in due time, Ruth giving full instructions as to the direction of Heston's walk, and begging her visitor not to lose himself searching for him.

She went back to Morris and her pie with her thoughts very full of Mary's brother, and of wonder as to what should make him so very loth to go to New York when the opportunity was thought to be so very good.

True to the time, the three from the beach duly turned up, followed very soon by Heston and Vincent.

Ruth's dinner passed off very satisfactorily. Her pie, thanks to Morris's clever instructions and Ruth's dainty carrying of them out, was all that could be desired, and Heston and the children did not spare their praises. Vincent said he did not expect anything else, which made Heston laugh and ask if that were intended for a compliment or otherwise.

Then he and Vincent volunteered to meet Dr. Brown at the Junction, going by the cliff, which Heston said was a lovely walk.

They both tried to persuade Ruth to go too, but though she would have dearly liked to have the walk, she said she had housekeeping duties to perform, and gladly saw them start, and to be left free for a little while.

"You are tired, dearie," said Morris, when she brought her an early cup of tea.

"No-o," said Ruth, "I do not know that I am; but I think, Morris, if I had been more used to doing things, I should not find it quite such a task!" She sighed a little wearily.

"I do not think any of us quite realized what a 'Furnished House' meant, dearie! But this is one way of 'learning to do things,' as you wished, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," said Ruth, "but I would rather have learned quietly with you at home, Morris."

A PARTING.

"WELL, my dear!" said Dr. Brown that evening. "Now tell me all about everything."

"I do not think there is much to tell more than I have said in my letters. Have I not been very good in writing, father?"

"Very good! I shall be glad when you are at home again. But the child looks worlds better!"

"Oh, he is, and so is Judith. She is getting much more sociable, too."

"And Mala?"

"Mala is—better," answered Ruth, hesitating a little as to what word to choose. "Morris is so good to her, and every day I read them all a little piece out of the Gospels, and do you know, father, Mala begins to listen!"

"That is good news! Ruth, you and I must go to church together to-morrow. I have no patients here; and, indeed, I sometimes think I might have managed it even at home."

Ruth's sparkling eyes were an answer. "Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed.

So Sunday dawned, and Vincent came early to have as much time with them as possible. He could only stay till the middle of Monday, and every moment he could spend with Ruth was precious in his eyes.

The day was one of cloudless beauty, and they all felt it to be one of cloudless happiness too.

Dr. Brown said he had not been so happy for years, and Ruth looked round on the bright faces of those she called "her family," and could not be but thankful for what she saw there.

The hours seemed to pass very quickly to them all, and Vincent counted each one with a sort of pang. Could it be possible that he would have to say good-bye to-morrow?

And then Monday came. As early as they could, they all went out on the beach together, and wandered among the rocks till it was time for Vincent to go to his train. He had sent his bag by the omnibus which conveyed Dr. Brown to the station for his train the other way, while Vincent proposed to walk over the cliffs to the Junction to take an express train northwards.

Heston offered to accompany him, but to his surprise Vincent answered in a low tone, meant for his ear only, "I would rather go alone—unless—I thought I would ask your cousin if she would walk a little way with me. She has not seen the cliffs—and it is my last time."

Of course, Heston said "All right." And when he saw Vincent asking Ruth to go, he drew the others off to see a new boat, in the building of which they were much interested.

When at length they all looked up, the other two were but specks along the cliffs.

"Is Ruth gone?" asked Judith, looking rather forlorn.

"Then you would rather she were here?" asked Heston, with a slight smile.

"Ye-es," hesitated Judith.

"I'm glad you have got as far as that!" said Heston, bluntly. "You have been slow in doing her justice after all her kindness!"

"I'm not!" said Judith. "I 'never' am nasty to her now! Surely you have seen that, Heston? I always try to do what she says, and I get Mala to, as well."

Heston considered. "I believe you do," he said, heartily, taking his little sister's hand in his, and turning homewards.

"But why has she gone?" persisted Judith. "It will be quite dull without her."

"Vincent wanted a walk with her, I think."

But the figures were now obscured by the jutting cliff, and Judith looked after them in vain.

The two walked on quickly at first. Ruth thought that there was not much time, and Vincent thought that each rapid step brought him nearer to what he seemed unable to bear.

"There is no hurry," he said at last. "I have plenty of time for my train."

They were talking on indifferent subjects, chiefly about Norman's progress in strength and vitality, and Ruth said how she wished his father could see him before he died. To all of which Vincent listened with downcast face and heavy heart.

When they reached the summit of the cliff, Vincent paused as if to look for the last time at the wonderful view of sea and sky, and Ruth began to gather some of the grasses and poppies which grew in profusion at their feet.

"I shall never forget this walk," said Vincent, as they walked on.

"It is beautiful," said Ruth; "only I am sure you are sad because you have to leave England. I am sorry, but that does not make it any better, does it?"

Vincent's answer was smothered.

She thought he said something about "it did make a difference," but she could hardly catch his meaning, so she remained silent, wishing she could do something to make his evident pain less.

And then Vincent saw the roof of the Junction peeping out from between some trees, and he knew that he must say "good-bye."

He held out his hand. "You must not come any further," he said hoarsely. "I do not know how to say good-bye! It is not only leaving England and home—that is bad enough—but to leave you—"

"Me?" questioned Ruth, surprised, and almost dismayed by his agitated words.

"Will you—will you remember me when I am far away?" he asked, looking in her face.

"I—of course I shall remember you," she said hastily; "how could I do anything else? Besides, you are Mary's brother!"

"Only Mary's brother?" he asked, dropping her hand suddenly.

"I meant that I have always heard so much of you from Mary that I seemed to know you before you came."

There was a distant whistle of the train, loud and shrill.

"I must go now!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Ruth, say one kind word to me before I go."

"I do not know how," said Ruth, with her eyes full of tears.

He caught her hand again without looking at her, and thus they parted.

Vincent strode on to the station.

And Ruth stood looking after him till she saw the steam of the train coming over the trees, when with slow and faltering steps she made her way home, wondering vaguely what had happened to make her heart so very heavy.

GOOD NEWS.

AS Ruth entered her home, she felt as if it was all very forlorn and desolate.

Her father gone; Mary's brother displeased and disappointed; the household cares on her shoulders more than she knew how to manage and cope with! All things seemed against her.

She went upstairs to take off her hat, and sat down by the window and buried her face in her hands. It was silly to cry, she thought, and yet she felt utterly spent and forlorn.

A soft step on the carpet startled her, and almost before she could raise her head, two tender little arms were flung round her neck, and kisses and tears touched her cheek, as Norman mutely asked her what was the matter.

She took him on her lap, and told him "It was nothing; she was only tired, and rather lonely."

And the child gazed wistfully in her face, and once or twice his lips moved as if he would speak to her.

For a moment, Ruth's heart stood still, and then her tears fell faster than ever, as she pressed him to her, and murmured that "she would be better directly, and he must not mind; she was sorry he had seen her cry!"

The child stroked her face and smoothed her hair for a little while, and when he saw that she seemed quieter, he slipped off her lap and went to her little table. On it lay the Bible from which she had been reading to him that morning. It lay open at the place, as Norman saw, of the picture of Christ stilling the storm which she had shown him there.

He seemed searching for something, and Ruth had time to dry her eyes and try to collect her thoughts as to the next thing that she had to do.

At that moment, Norman came back to her side, laid the book on her knees, and pointed with his finger to one of her marked verses, and her eyes fell upon the words:

   "'Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.'"

"Oh, Norman!" she exclaimed. "Have you turned my little comforter?"

"Yes," he said softly.

She heard the word distinctly, and though she gave a start of joy, she only clasped her arms round him gently and lovingly.

"You have done me good, darling," she whispered. "I never thought when I read you those words about the storm that I should so soon feel as if I were in a storm, 'toiling in rowing, and the wind contrary.' But if Jesus comes to us walking on the water, we shall be glad of the storm afterwards that brought Him so near!"

With another murmured "Yes," and a tight clasp round her neck, Norman took her hand and led her to the door, for the dinner-bell was ringing, and the rest would be waiting.

Trembling with gladness and thankfulness, Ruth went down. She would have given a great deal to speak to Heston, but her fear of doing harm to Norman made her instantly decide to take no notice whatever of his recovered speech.

Heston looked at her once or twice as if he could not understand her face. It was so touching in its tenderness and joy, though he could see that she had shed many tears. He, however, did his best to enliven the party, and waited till he should hear the explanation, if explanation there were.

Mala fetched Norman directly after dinner for his ride in his invalid carriage, and Judith went with them.

Ruth helped them off, and, as usual, wished her little cousin good-bye before he started.

She took the opportunity to whisper brightly, "I am all right now, Norman! Thank you for pointing out those sweet words to me!"

And with a loving look from Norman in return, the little carriage moved on, Mala being impatient to set out.

"Heston!" said Ruth, as she went back. "Come into the garden; I want to speak to you."

"Is anything wrong, Cousin Ruth?" he asked quickly.

"No, no! Everything is right. I only got a fit of home-sickness or something. Heston! Norman came in and found me crying, and tried to comfort me—and—he spoke! He said two words, quite distinctly!"

"Cousin Ruth!"

"Yes, he did. I know I was not mistaken; but I took no notice. Oh, Heston, Heston! How shall we thank God?"

"I cannot believe it yet," said Heston, colouring with excitement. "Are you 'sure?'"

"Perfectly sure. Now, Heston, we must just go on as if nothing had happened. I shall only tell dear old Morris. The rest must be content to wait for the happy news till he speaks again. Of course I shall write to my father by this post."

Heston sat as if lost in amazement. "Cousin Ruth," he exclaimed, at length, "it is all owing to you!"

"No, no! Ever since Norman came, I have asked God to give the blessing to our efforts. Heston, it is just that He has guided to the means."

When Norman came home from his ride, he looked very cheerful, but he appeared not to remember the wonderful events of the morning. The only difference in his manner was that he kept close to Ruth's side, looking wistfully in her face, and seeming to ask over and over again whether all was right with her.

It was not till she was doing her evening "massage" that anything special happened.

As usual, Ruth was chatting to him, telling him any little bits of news or of interest she had been able to save up for his benefit, when he quietly looked up in her face and said gently, "I think my speech has come back, Cousin Ruth! Will you kneel down and tell the Lord Jesus how much I thank Him?"

Ruth dropped on her knees by his side, and she clasped her arms round him, while he, with shining eyes whispered a loving "thank you" after her few earnest words.

"I wasn't sure," he said presently, as she went on with his massage. "I could hardly believe it this morning. But when they left me alone with Dickie-bird, I tried to speak to him, and I found I could! I don't want them all to come kissing and fussing, Cousin Ruth. Only you tell them, and say they can tell God how glad they are—because I don't think I can bear it yet."

His lip trembled.

"I am sure you cannot, dear. Nobody but Heston need know yet, if you would rather not."

"No—" he said, "that would seem unkind. If Mala might just put me to bed before she knows, I think I shall be all right. Only it makes me tremble—in a sort of way—as if it might go away again—"

"But," she said tenderly, "when you tremble, you can say to yourself, 'If God my Father has given me this blessing, He can keep it for me by His power!'"

"So He can!" said Norman, with a grateful glance. "I forgot that."

DISMAY.

"MALA," said Ruth, when the ayah came down from putting Norman to bed, "I want to speak to you."

Mala glided into the room, surprise and a little fear in her glance.

"Mala," said Ruth, putting her hand on the servant's shoulder, "I want to know if you can be trusted to keep to yourself what I am going to tell you?"

"I think I can, missie—now," Mala answered, in a heartier tone than she had ever spoken in before.

"Will you promise me that you will not speak to Norman about what I am going to tell you, till you have my father's permission?"

"Yes, missie, I promise. Mrs. Morris has been telling me about Christ loving me, and I feel different from when I came. And, missie, you've been so good to my child—"

"It is about him I want to speak to you," said Ruth, with glistening eyes, as her heart rose in thanksgiving for this added joy of Mala's change.

"Yes, missie?"

"We want you to know, and your great devotion to him makes us tell you, that we have great hopes that he has recovered his speech."

Mala's intent look was her only answer.

"But," pursued Ruth earnestly, "it is most important that, as it has been a nervous affection, nothing should now be said to him by anyone. If he were to be overpowered by congratulations and questions, I fear it might bring back his dumbness. Can you understand this?"

Mala nodded eagerly, and then said, "But 'has' he spoken, missie?"

So Ruth explained, and told her she could learn all particulars from Morris. And then, telling her how very glad she was about what she had said, Ruth heartily shook her hand and dismissed her, desiring her to send Judith to her at once.

A happy, grateful party went to bed that night under the roof of "The Furnished House!"

The next morning at breakfast, a telegram was brought in for Ruth.

It was from her father, asking her to come home at once for a few hours, as Dr. Arundel and he wished to hear all particulars.

All was bustle to find the next train, and to get Ruth off, and Heston and Judith flew about till it was time for her and Heston to start for the train.

Just as she was ready, Norman came down the stairs, holding Mala's hand.

Ruth looked in his face, and saw all was right there.

He nodded to her, and then whispered in her ear, "Mala hasn't kissed me and fussed, but I think she knows it."

"She promised she would not," whispered Ruth back, "but she is very glad."

So she sped after Heston, who was waiting outside.

"Heston!" she exclaimed. "He has spoken quite naturally to me again, but in a whisper. Oh, I am so thankful!"

It was only an hour's journey, and soon Ruth found herself in her own familiar High Street, and opposite Riverside.

She could not pass Mary's door without getting her sympathy in the joy which she had to tell.

For a moment she thought of Vincent, but, after all, the remembrance of that unsatisfactory parting, so sorrowful on both sides for different reasons, would have to be lived through. Ruth determined never to mention it, and she doubted if Mary would, even if she heard of it, which did not seem likely.

So she rang the door-bell, and the maid told her Mrs. Arundel was in the drawing-room.

She hung her hat in the hall, and after her usual little knock, Ruth peeped in with a smiling, "I have come, Mary, but it is to bring you good news of Norman—"

To her dismay, Mary was sitting on the sofa, with her head buried in the cushions, in what looked like an abandonment of grief.

"Mary!" said Ruth fearfully, coming over to her side. "Mary, darling, what is it?"

The corner of a letter peeped out from her lap, and Ruth guessed the post must have brought bad news.

But Mary's shoulder was withdrawn from the light touch of Ruth's gentle little hand.

"Can you not tell me?" she asked at length.

"You would not understand," said Mary.

"Understand what?" asked Ruth.

But something in Mary's tone, different from anything she had ever heard from her before, made her heart sink, and stilled her inquiries. Was it, after all, to do with Vincent?

"Tell me, dear Mary," she implored, after what seemed a dreadful pause, in which Mary's sobs were the only sound. "It will be far better to tell me, then I can at least try to comfort you."

"There is no comfort," said Mary, with stiff lips, sitting up and brushing away her tears. "If you do not care for him, that is the end of it. But oh, my poor Vincent!"

"But I—didn't know—did not expect—it was all so sudden. Mary, why did he not let me know before; I never guessed he had set his heart on it till the last moment, and even now I hardly know what he meant."

"He is gone now," said Mary, weeping again. "I never thought, as I parted from him on Saturday, when he was coming to you, that you would treat him so."

"How 'so'?" said Ruth, turning pale. "Did I do anything that was unkind or untruthful?"

"I daresay not," answered Mary wearily; "but, all the same, Vincent is gone to America with a sore heart, and nothing that anyone can do can make it otherwise."

Ruth's lips took that little proud look which Mary had not seen since the time of her estrangement with her father.

"Now I have hurt you!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round Ruth's neck. "Oh, forgive me for being so grieved. You cannot help it that you do not love him. But there is no one like Vincent in my eyes, and I thought—I hoped that you would find it out."

"I was so taken by surprise," whispered Ruth, caressing her friend. "Do not be so sorry, dear Mary. Perhaps he will be comforted soon; and, indeed, I did not mean to be unkind."

"I am sure of that," said Mary, rousing herself, and looking in the tearful, burning face of her little friend.

And then the two girls were startled by hearing Dr. Brown's voice in the hall, and Arthur's answering eagerly, "She is here; how glad I am, for we can both see her and hear the good news together."

INTERRUPTED.

RUTH and Mary sprang up and tried to compose their countenances as well as they could in the moment's pause while the gentlemen hung up their hats.

But the two doctors were so intent on the little patient, and on all they had to hear, that they hardly noticed anything amiss. If Arthur thought Mary had been crying, he concluded that it was in sympathy with the touching particulars of the child's recovery.

So Ruth had to tell it all over again from the beginning, and great was the rejoicing at every detail of the news.

At length Arthur said to Ruth, "Do you think he should remain at Sandy Cove, or come home now?"

Ruth looked at her father, but as he did not speak she answered slowly, "I had thought—"

"Well? Do tell us!" said Arthur.

"I had thought that we had better remain another week, and perhaps by that time, he will have got used to speaking to us. I think it would be a pity to disturb the present associations till he has confidence in himself. Is that what you think?" she asked, looking from one doctor to the other.

"It is a pity you are not in the profession!" smiled her father. But he got up and kissed her forehead. "That was only my fun! You have a wonderfully wise little head, my dear!"

So the doctors went off, and Ruth, with rather a sorrowful face, turned to Mary.

"I am going up to The Firs to fetch a few things," she said, "so I must wish you good-bye."

"Will you not return to lunch, or tea, Ruth? You are not going to leave me—like this?"

Ruth coloured deeply. "I think I shall go home first, dear Mary, and if I have time, I will run in about half-past three o'clock, just before my train."

Mary was obliged to let her go, and Ruth walked back to the station and took a fly. She felt as if she could not drag herself up those long hills to-day.

Dr. Brown had told the servants to expect her, so she found a welcome. And after talking to cook for a little while, she sat down to her solitary lunch.

It was only just over when the cook sent up word that she would like to speak to her.

"Miss Ruth!" she said, when Ruth had sent for her. "Do you think master would let me come down to Sandy Cove and stay with you till you come home? I could cook for you, and I'm sure you look quite over-done with it all! It's a lot to see to, and then it isn't as if you understood how to do things yet! How should you? In another year or two, you will know a lot more things. 'Do' let me, dear Miss Ruth!"

Ruth was very near bursting into tears. "But my father?" she said. "He would be uncomfortable."

"Oh, no, miss! The parlourmaid says she can manage beautifully, and there's my sister—James's wife, you know—at the cottage. She says she'll run in of a morning and look round—I've been to see her to ask her to do so after I'd sent in your lunch."

"Oh, cook, it would be the greatest comfort!"

"Then if master agrees—you might telephone to him, couldn't you, Miss Ruth?" she added coaxingly.

So Ruth telephoned, and Dr. Brown acquiesced at once, only thankful that some relief had come to what he saw was too great an undertaking for his little daughter.

It was past three o'clock before Ruth, with cook and her little box, took their seats in the fly to go down to the station. They would have half an hour to spare in which cook would do a little shopping, and Ruth repaired to Riverside with beating heart, hardly knowing how she could bear to meet Mary again that day.

But Mary was one who set a thing right at once if it were possible. The moment Ruth entered, she ran to her with out-stretched hands.

"Dear Ruth!" she said lovingly. "You caught me at an unlucky moment this morning. I had not had time to recover my disappointment or I should not have blamed you as I did. In fact, I had no business to blame you! Will you forgive me?"

Ruth kissed her warmly, but though she tried she could not get out a word.

"The tea is ready, have you time for a cup?" asked Mary.

"Thank you," said Ruth, "I think I have. If I leave here at five minutes to four—"

Mary saw that she was not ready for any private talk. The same set look was in her face, and though she spoke of Norman and of Mary's interests, Vincent's name was never mentioned.

"We are coming back in a week, I hope," she said as she rose to go.

"Oh, I am glad. I have missed you terribly."

"And so I have you!" exclaimed Ruth. "Oh, Mary! Do not cast me off because of this!"

"Cast you off! Is it likely?"

And then Ruth went.

And Mary sat down and cried as she had not cried for years. Thus Arthur found her on his return from his patients.

"My poor Mary!" he said, after he had drawn out the whole story from her. "It is a very bad bit for you to go through, but do not forget the Anchor!"

"The anchor?" asked Mary, leaning her head on his shoulder and feeling inexpressibly comforted by his sympathetic, hopeful tone.

"Yes; the anchor which used to comfort me in the years when I was not sure whether I should ever get a certain little Mary!"

"Oh! And what was it, Arthur. Perhaps it will do me good—and Vincent—"

"The anchor was this:

   "'My times are in Thy hand.'

"There I rested, and the anchor held fast even in the storm! Write to Vincent, and tell him from me that there's nothing like 'committing our way' to God to find it 'brought to pass'!"

BY THE WINDOW.

THE first sight that met Ruth as she looked out of the train at the Sandy Cove Station was Judith's little figure standing on the platform.

When she met her eyes, however, she saw, to her great relief, that nothing was wrong. Gladness beamed there instead of the usual grave patience.

"He has spoken to me!" exclaimed Judith, linking her arm in her cousin's as they turned out of the station.

"He has?"

"Yes, I could not exactly believe it before," said Judith apologetically. "It seemed so impossible! But it happened like this, Cousin Ruth—"

"Do tell me!"

"Mala had one of her dreadful headaches, and she had to go to bed. So I sent Jane out in the garden to lead Norman about while I did the two or three little things I had promised you."

"Oh, they could have been left, dear, if you were busy."

"I knew you would wish that—but you see, Jane does sometimes help him, so I thought it would be all right; and she is so kind. And then, Cousin Ruth, when I peeped out of the window at them, he appeared to be prattling away to her quite naturally."

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Ruth.

"Yes; do you know, after that, I could not do a thing more! I just cried, I was so thankful! And then I thought I would finish your dusting quickly, and I could hardly see what I was doing, I was so glad. But I had to stop crying, or Norman would have guessed. So when I had done all you asked me, I put on my shady hat and ran down the garden.

"'I've done, Jane,' I called, 'and if you will get Norman's carriage out here, we will sit in the shade and I will read to him.'

"Jane went to fetch it with such a joyful look in her face, and we helped him to get in, and then she wheeled him under the trees, and I sat down to find the place in your book. I could not make out just where you had left off, and Norman raised himself on his elbow and said eagerly, 'It's just there! I know it was the end of a chapter!'

"So I thought of what you said, Cousin Ruth, and I answered quite quietly, 'Oh, yes, so it is.'

"And after that, he spoke to me when he had anything to say, just as if he had been talking all these years!"

Ruth pressed the little hand which clung to her arm.

"I was never so happy!" said Judith. "Oh, Cousin Ruth, to think that I hated to come to England, and was so horrid to you when I first came!"

"All that is past, dear," said Ruth, affectionately; "but here we are at home, and there is Norman at the window with Jane."

Of course, everyone was surprised to see cook, and delighted too. Jane took her off to introduce her to the kitchen, while Ruth sought Morris to hear all that had been done in her absence.

Morris glanced at her dear young lady several times, as if to make sure that all was right, but Ruth answered the look by a gentle kiss.

"Morris," she said, hesitating, "I have been rather troubled by something—something Mrs. Arundel told me—but I shall be all right to-morrow I hope. I am tired now; do not worry over me."

"No dearie," answered her old friend, softly.

So they sat down to a late tea, and everybody talked but Norman. He seemed content to watch the others, and did not venture on any remarks.

Ruth told them that her father had decided that they should stay another week. And that now cook had come, she hoped to be able to go out with them and enjoy herself. And Heston said in that case, he should enjoy himself twice as much, as leaving her at home to do the housekeeping had made him quite miserable.

But when Ruth went up to bed, and all the house was quiet, in a very sober mood, she sat down by her open window and thought over the events of the last few days, while she listened to the sound of the waves as they gently broke on the shore.

She rejoiced inexpressibly at Norman's recovery. But somehow, the uppermost thought to-night was that a check had come to her friendship with Mary, and that things would never, never be the same again.

"I thought nothing could ever come between us," she sighed, as she rested her head wearily on the window-sill, "and now quite a little thing, that was nobody's fault, and that could not have been anticipated, has divided us! Oh, Mary! Did I make an idol of you?"

"And yet," she went on to herself, "I was very angry with her! I thought she was hard on me. I could not help what Vincent said—girls can't always help what a fellow chooses to say—and he gave me no time to think, or to answer him properly."

Then there was nothing but the sound of the waves, so soothing in their gentle murmur, but so sad, she thought, to-night.

She felt how lonely she was. For the last few months, there had always been Mary to whom she could tell everything. Now there was no one. Even if she and Mary should ever feel the same again, there must always be this subject on which neither of them could touch.

Poor Ruth shed many bitter tears over the loss of her friend, and then, chilled and forlorn, she turned from the window, pulled down the blind, and lighted her candle.

Her eyes fell upon her open Bible, where that morning she had been preparing her little story for Norman from the fourteenth chapter of Matthew. The words flashed across her now with a ray of comfort,—

   "'Bring them hither to Me!'"

What? Was she to bring her vexation, her burdened, disappointed little heart, her weariness, her feeling that all was going wrong with her? Was she to bring these things to Christ to be set straight?

Was the grace to bear, the strength to go on again, the courage which would rise to the emergency—were these things all included in the five loaves and the two fishes which looked so insufficient for the feeding of five thousand men, and yet were to be brought to Him!

With a sudden sense of relief, Ruth came back to her Resting-place. And the first grateful thought was, that even without Mary, cut off from all human sympathy, without an outside help of any sort, Jesus Christ had been sufficient to fill her heart and give her a rejoicing realisation of His presence.

She had brought the trying circumstances to Him, as He had bidden her in those gracious words of His, "Bring them hither to Me," and she found she had enough and to spare!

So she laid her head on her pillow, and, like Hannah of old, "her countenance was no more sad."

"God can bring it all right, and make Mary understand," was her last thought before she slept.

A SUNSET.

"RUTH," said Heston at breakfast next morning, "when we get back, I must ask my uncle to let me really begin."

"Begin?"

"To study for what I am going to be. I should like to be a doctor."

Ruth looked earnestly at him, but Heston met her gaze steadily. "I mean it," he said. "Doctors have such a splendid chance of doing good, and helping people. I thought so in India and in Germany, but I think so ten times as much now."

"I think so," said Ruth, heartily, "and I am glad you do."

"I have had a long letter from poor father this morning," continued Heston, "but nothing but the signature is in his own writing. I fear he must be very ill. Do you think uncle would mind my wiring the good news about Norman to him? I should like him to get it before—" he paused.

"I feel sure he would wish it, if we can make it up intelligibly."

"Oh; no fear of that. But I tell you what, Ruth, as father is so ill, I'll just send the telegram along to uncle for his approval. It will only delay it for a few hours."

So Heston wrote it out while Ruth stood by making suggestions. And when it was done, he gave Ruth his father's letter to read while he ran to catch the early post.

It was a long letter, and evidently had been dictated at various times when he felt able, for the inks were different, as well as the writing.

Ruth could not help crying over the touching farewell, thinking what it had cost that suffering father so far away, and then she found a message to herself.

"Tell your Cousin Ruth," it ran, "that no words of mine can express the thanks I feel for her love to you all, and for receiving you into her loving heart." Thus the letter ended.

"Oh, Heston," said Ruth, looking up with tearful eyes when he came in, "how sad it is!"

"Yes; but how you have comforted him, Ruth! I shall never forget all you have done for us—never!"

"When you do think of it, Heston, just remember that it has not been my goodness or love at all, but just God's great love to me!"

"All right," said Heston. "I know you mean it, so I won't say another word!"

So the last week passed by, Norman gaining strength and liveliness every day, and then they went home.

As they sat in the train, Judith edged up close to Ruth's side and whispered, "Cousin Ruth, will you let me be your little sister when we go home?"

"Willingly, dear," said Ruth, turning round and looking into the sweet blushing face.

"I should like to be just your little sister! To do what you want, and be kind to you, and—and a comfort—if I could."

"You can, dear," said Ruth, with watering eyes; and her heart felt lighter than it had done for ever so long.

That evening, she and her father and Heston settled their future plans.

Dr. Brown was very pleased with Heston's good sense, and readily promised to forward his wishes to be a doctor.

"I do not know about money," said Heston, colouring deeply, "my father was too ill and too sorrowful at parting with us to ask him much, but I understand that he had some to leave us, but whether it would be enough—"

"There will be enough for your education, my dear," said Dr. Brown, kindly, "and for the rest, I will take care of them. Do not worry your head over that."

Heston could not get out much in the way of thanks, but his uncle understood.

Then they fell to talking of Judith's schooling, and it was arranged that she should go to the High School where Ruth had been so happy. And Ruth undertook to take Norman's lessons for the present till he should be quite robust.

So the next morning, she went down to the Town to call on the Head Mistress. And when the preliminaries were settled, she turned her steps to Riverside with a beating heart. She almost wondered whether she would be welcome; and then chid herself for her want of confidence in her friend.

But Mary came running to her, and clasped her in her arms.

"Oh, Ruth, how I have missed you!" she exclaimed. "The days have seemed so cold and long without your dear little presence."

Ruth looked up shyly. "Are you glad to see me, dear Mary?" she asked.

"'Glad!'"

She glanced up into Mary's face with her clear, frank look, and Mary once more kissed her earnestly "and they made it up."

But Ruth remembered that evening by the window at Sandy Cove, and she knew that it was God her Saviour who had answered her prayer, subdued her proud little heart, and had given her back her friend.

During that happy summer, Ruth and Norman spent half their days in the sunny garden at Riverside, to their great content and Mary's enjoyment. Dr. Brown's carriage brought them, and fetched them home in the afternoon, and Ruth sat under the trees teaching Norman, or helping Mary with her needlework, and the brief misunderstanding they had had seemed like a dream.

Sometimes, she thought there was a gravity about Ruth's face that she had never noticed before. But then, she reflected, Ruth had been through a great deal.

Vincent wrote to his sister frequently, but she seldom spoke to Ruth of the contents of his letters.

"Thank Arthur for his message," he said, in one of them. "Never was there a nicer one, and it did me more good than I can say."

One day, in the late autumn, Dr. Brown and Ruth were walking up the hills together. Ruth had laughingly told him she meant to see the sunset from a certain spot, and that she was bent on his accompanying her.

So, with a good-humoured smile, he put on his hat, and they set out together.

When at length, they had climbed to the top and could look over the view on either side, Ruth gave a deep sigh. Whether of weariness or content, her father was uncertain. He looked in her face, and she turned towards him with a tender smile.

"Are you happy, my dear?" he asked, a little wistfully.

"Oh, yes, dear father," she said, as she clasped his arm closer.

"Vincent Linthorpe wrote to me this morning," he said, still looking down upon her.

"Did he!" asked Ruth, startled.

"Yes; he spoke most warmly of the time he spent with us in the summer. Sometimes I have thought that you were going to tell me something, and then you have drawn back!"

"There is nothing to tell," said Ruth, distressfully, hanging her head. "Nothing that I can tell exactly. He said half-a-dozen words, and I was taken by surprise—and that's all! Then he went."

"And you were sorry?" said Dr. Brown, gently.

"I don't know," said Ruth. "Yes, I was sorry that it happened. But it cannot be helped now, father."

She brushed away two or three tears, and her father stood silent, only pressing her arm closely.

"He says he will be home in the spring," he remarked at length. "I do not think the opening has been as profitable as was expected. I think he will be glad."

No more was said, but Ruth was wonderfully comforted by her father's tenderness. And as they retraced their steps, her sweet brightness shone out again.

"Father," she said, as they stood for a moment to watch the glorious sunset over the mountains, "I think God has brought nothing but blessing out of these children's coming."

"I am sure of it," he said, heartily. "I thank God every day for it."

"Heston is content," she went on; "Mala is quite changed; Norman is almost well; Judith is my little sister; and you and I are 'very' happy, aren't we?"

MALA.

LITTLE did Ruth think, when she and Morris made up their minds to bear with Mala, that soon she would prove their greatest comfort.

Winter days succeeded that lovely autumn day when she and her father watched the sunset, and at The Firs peace and happiness reigned. But when the cold weather came, Morris seemed to fail, and was obliged to keep to her room and often to her bed.

One evening, just as Ruth was wishing her old friend good-night after doing all she could for her comfort, Mala knocked at the door and came softly to the bedside.

"Missie Morris," she said gently, "will you let Mala sleep in your room and nurse you? Missie Ruth has got them all to see to, and Mala has plenty of time! Do let me, dear Missie Morris, for all your love to me! I'm different now," she added beseechingly.

Ruth glanced in Morris' face. "Would you wish it, dear?" she asked, bending over her.

For answer, Morris put out her hand, and took the dark one in hers. "It would be a great comfort to me, because I know my childie has more than enough to do."

"If you will help me, Mala," said Ruth, turning to her, "I should be very grateful, but I could not give up my dear Morris to anyone entirely!"

"Oh no, Missie! I meant that. Let Mala do what she can. Indeed, I will do all you say. I have kept my promise about Master Norman, Missie, haven't I?"

"Indeed you have," said Ruth, heartily.

And so it was settled, to the great comfort of all parties; for Morris knew that her dear young lady was less tired; and for herself, the thought that thus her Lord had provided for her illness was a well of content.

"I shall soon see Him," she would say with a peaceful look; "it will be only a little while now."

And she was right. Before the snowdrops had peeped out, dear old Morris, with her hand clasped in Ruth's, and with Mala standing quietly by, entered into her eternal rest.

The day before she died, she said to Ruth, "Dearie, you will let Mala help you all she can? I feel sure you may trust her now. She says she's been made new all over."

And Ruth said "Yes," with thankful heart.

Ruth's own sorrow at the loss of her dear old friend was quiet and deep, but she said very little about it for the sake of the others.

At first she had dreaded lest Mala should shew extravagant grief after her great devotion to her patient. But she soon found that her fears were groundless.

"Mala not grieving," she answered, when once Ruth looked in her face questioningly; "Missie Morris with Jesus now; she happy: so Mala happy too!"

She crept into her own accustomed corner by her own little work-table, and the only difference was that Morris' bible lay open on it beneath her work, and that there was a chastened brightness in the dark face which had been growing there ever since Morris welcomed her into her room for Christ's sake.

When the weather allowed, Ruth and Norman often went down to Riverside. And while Norman sat at the table with his lessons, Ruth and Mary worked and chatted. Happy, peaceful days in which they learned to know each other thoroughly.

There was only one subject on which they never touched. Mary would speak of Vincent among the rest, and often his name was on her lips, but it came in her stories of the days of her old struggles, when she kept that diary which she had called "In the Sunlight and out of it," and she seldom referred to his present doings. The fact that he was coming home soon was the only one that she mentioned.

As they sat and worked, Mary would tell Ruth stories of the old days when her friendship with Ada Arundel was her great joy; of the long, waiting time of Cuthbert Reid before he gained the treasure of Ada's love; of Nellie Arundel and her many brothers and sisters; of her own love story with Arthur; and Ruth learned to love them all, and to know them through Mary's eyes.

The life in the two large families to which Mary now belonged was so entirely different from anything that Ruth had known that she felt invigorated by all she heard, and grew stronger in spirit and more brave when she realised that the struggles and difficulties of others were as many as her own, though they might be different, and that the same grace was brought to bear upon them from the same everlasting Source of Supply.

DR. BROWN'S PLAN.

RUTH and Norman were sitting one sunny afternoon in April on the hillside just above The Firs. Ruth often brought the child to this spot, for the wide expanse of country stretching out before them rested her, and she thought that it did the same for her loving little companion.

There was a certain place which she always chose, with a large broken rock as a background which sheltered them from the wind, and with several smaller rocks which served "as chairs and tables" as Norman said. Above them and around them were scattered firs and larches, and between their stems, the green fields and peeps of hills beyond seemed to be fairer and more beautiful than when looked at in an unbroken sweep.

Ruth had brought out some dainty work for Mary, but it had fallen into her lap, and her eyes were gazing at the prospect. Presently a little hand touched hers, and almost made her start.

"There's Vincent coming up that winding path!" Norman said, pointing.

"Vincent? Are you sure, Norman?"

"You just look!" answered Norman. "But he's hidden by those trees now. Oh, there he is! Yes, it is Vincent; I knew it was."

He was close to them by this time.

And then as Ruth rose, he came up to them and shook hands.

There was a moment's constraint, and then Vincent said:

"I only landed at Liverpool this morning, and I wanted to see you first of all."

"I did not know that you had even started."

"No; it was quickly decided at the last."

Then there was another pause, and Ruth said something about its being time for them to go home.

"Oh; but might I just pick my flowers?" asked Norman, taking up his basket. "I shall not be long, Cousin Ruth; and you can have my seat," he said, turning to Vincent, and pointing to the stone by Ruth's side.

"Well, do not be long, dear," she said, "for we must be going."

"Is it time?" asked the child, surprised.

"Yes, quite time to-day," said Ruth.

He went to the edge of the little path, where in sunny corners beneath the broken rocks and underwood a few wild flowers were peeping out.

Vincent took his offered seat. "May I stay for a few minutes?" he asked. "The servants told me where you were to be found, and I ventured to follow you. I am afraid I was very clumsy and abrupt when I parted from you that day," he said, gently, "and I cannot tell you how much I have regretted it. I do not like to ask you to forgive it, because—"

Ruth was silent. There was nothing to answer; and she wondered dimly whether Mary would be angry with her to-morrow, and think she had treated Vincent badly "this" time.

But he was looking in her face as if expecting her to reply, and her eyes came back from the prospect, and met his with a certain distressed look in them which he could not fathom.

Mary had whispered, as she had kissed him that morning just before he started for The Firs, "Make your wishes plain, Vincent! I am afraid you want her to understand without words!"

Was he wanting her to understand without words now?

"I came to you the moment I landed, to explain!" he exclaimed.

"I did not know there was anything to explain—"

"I wanted to tell you a number of things! May I try to tell you my meaning? I am very stupid, but it is because my heart is so bound up in what I am asking that I bungle so. Have patience with me, Ruth—it is because I love you so much; and I am afraid I shall go away, and not have made you understand after all!"

There was a moment's silence. What could Ruth reply? Had he given her any opportunity of replying to him?

Her cheeks burned and tears of mortification rose to her eyes. Yes, he would go away again, just as he did before, and Mary would be disappointed, and—it was too horrid: why did her heart ache like this? She almost wished he had stayed in America.

"How is it to be, dear?" he ventured, very softly. "I loved you the first moment I saw you, and I have loved you ever since; and now I want you—" and then came what he wanted all in a breath, "I want you to be my wife!"

Ruth turned her shy eyes to his face. Must she give him her answer now? Was that what he had meant to ask her when they parted all those months ago?

"I did not understand then," she said, with deepening colour.

"But you do now?"

"Yes—"

His face had turned pale now, and the hope which had flushed into it was dying out. After all, she did not care!

But he thought of Mary's advice, and would make one more effort.

"Tell me that you will, dear!" he entreated. "Can you?"

"I think I could—if—" she said, slowly.

"There can be no 'ifs' after that!" he joyfully exclaimed, taking her hands in his and drawing her to him.

"I do not see how I can leave my father," she whispered, hanging her head.

"I settled all that with him last autumn!" exclaimed Vincent.

"You settled with my father!" she said, drawing back.

"He told me he should never stand in the way of your happiness—if you loved anyone, he would come and live near you. Oh, Ruth, if that is the only objection, his generosity has removed that!"

Ruth paused once more. She sat down on her seat again, and had turned very pale.

"It is asking a great deal of my father," she said slowly, with faltering lips.

"It is—a great deal—but he loves you better than himself, Ruth."

"And I ought to love him better than myself," she said, more steadily. "I think I would like to talk to him. I should see things more plainly then."

She rose and turned homewards, and Norman, seeing them move, sprang to her side and looked in her face wistfully.

"It's all right, darling," she whispered, bending down.

"Are you sorry about something?" he asked.

"I ought not to be," she answered, turning towards Vincent with a grateful look.

And Vincent on that took her hand in his, and would not let it go till they reached the bit of high road just by The Firs.

"I must go back to Mary now, I suppose," he said reluctantly; "but I will come again this evening. You expect Dr. Brown soon?"

"At four o'clock," said Ruth.

"What makes you sad, Cousin Ruth," asked Norman as Vincent strode off down the hill.

"Because he wants me to give him something, and I do not know whether I can."

The child put her hand against his face caressingly.

"Is it too difficult to ask God about?" he whispered.

Ruth stroked his flushed cheek tenderly. "Of course it isn't, dear!" she exclaimed. "I was so taken by surprise that I had not time. Oh, Norman, what a comforter you are!"

Mala came forward to meet them, and Ruth ran up to her own room.

She knelt by her bed, and all she could ask was that she might be taught what to do, and not be allowed to hurt her father.

Presently, she heard the carriage wheels, and she went down, afraid that her tearful eyes would not escape her father's notice.

But for the moment he was so full of his news that he did not even glance at her.

"You will be delighted to hear, my dear, that Mrs. Arundel has a fine little son!" he exclaimed.

"Oh how glad I am!" said Ruth.

Then her father caught sight of her face, and drew her into the library.

"Has anything gone wrong, my dear?"

But Ruth found it hard to tell. It was a long time before Dr. Brown could get at the bottom of it all, but with his arms round her and her head on his shoulder, he made it out at last.

"Then it's the old father that stands in the way?" he said, with a tender smile, looking down on the fair little face he loved so well.

"Oh, no! No!"

"But, you see, he isn't in the way, because he made up his mind months and months ago that he'd pack up and come and live next door to you if that would make it easy!"

"Oh, you dear, dear father! But—"

"No 'buts' at all! Dr. Arundel can manage the practice, and I must retire some day. We can easily build a double nest for us both, and have a door between! I've thought it all out, you see, and we shall enjoy planning it together. Vincent says he will not mind the old father and the Indian children next door, and I—shall be more happy than I ever thought to be again! Does that satisfy you?"

"It ought to," she answered, burying her face in his breast. "Oh, father, father, how good you are!"

"Poor, Vincent!" he responded "I am afraid you did not give him much hope from the look of him as I passed him on the hill; he did not even see me."

"He is coming presently," said Ruth, raising her head and blushing.

"I am glad of it!" said her father, heartily. "He's a good man, Ruth; and I thank God that my darling has found such an one. I pray God to bless you both."

He put his hands on her head and murmured words of blessing, and then Ruth threw herself into his arms, and though her tears rained down, she was comforted.

When Vincent came back after an hour or two, she was herself once more. She told Heston and Judith that he wanted to speak to her, and she went to him in the drawing-room, holding out her hand frankly when he looked questioningly in her face.

"It was so hard to decide," she said, "but, oh, I cannot tell you what my father has been to me!" She gave a little smile as she added, "He says I was not as kind as you deserved this afternoon! Was I very bad?"

And Vincent said "she had not been bad at all, but that he had felt so afraid—"

"But you are not afraid now?" she asked gently. "You need not be, Vincent, for you have made me very happy. Do be happy, too."

"Then I am!" he exclaimed joyfully.

And indeed he looked so, for no cloud rested on Ruth's face now.

"Have you given it?" whispered Norman to her, when they went back to the others.

"Yes."

"Does he like it?" questioned the child.

"I think he does."

"I'm so glad! I thought it would come right! I like to see you happy, Cousin Ruth."

THE HOUSE IN THE TREES.

SO Vincent went back to Riverside with the understanding that he would see Ruth to-morrow before he started for his home. Heston had repaired to the library to study, and the children had long since gone to bed.

Left together, the father and daughter sat very silent at first. And after a while, Ruth got up and came over to her accustomed place and laid her head on her father's shoulder.

"It won't make a bit of difference!" she murmured so softly that he only just heard it.

"I know that, my dear—"

"You are sure that it will not make you unhappy?" she asked, raising her eyes to his face.

"On the contrary, it has made me very happy!"

She nestled her head closer again for reply.

"Why did you not answer him in the autumn?" asked her father smiling a little.

"I did not know—I was taken by surprise, and there was nothing to answer either, father."

"It is a good thing he managed to give you something to answer this time, then! Ruth, I have seen two lives entirely spoilt in my young days, because the man left so much unsaid."

"Who was it?" asked Ruth.

"Nobody you ever heard of. He went abroad, and she has never married. I always feel sad when I think of it."

Ruth could not help thinking how nearly that might have been their lot, and she was glad it had not been.

"I have told Vincent," pursued her father after a pause, in which he had been fondly stroking her flushed cheek, "that I think you too young to be married yet awhile. He is quite willing to wait for two years, and by that time, my dear, we shall have been able, I hope, to find or build two suitable houses near Mr. Brown's works, and Dr. Arundel will have thoroughly taken up the whole of the practice."

"Dear father!"

"I shall make arrangements to retire in a year, I think, that will give us plenty of time. You see, I have been thinking about it for months."

"I did not know that he had spoken to you," said Ruth blushing.

"Yes: it was one of those things I could not speak of. It was better that you should get to understand yourself—and him—without any help from me."

"He wants me to go home with him to be introduced to his mother and father. Do you think I had better go?"

"Certainly. They will want to see you too. And while you are staying there, I will come over and look round at the neighbourhood. Will Brown will be pleased to see me; I have often promised to make acquaintance with his wife, and now she will be your sister!"

"I shall feel dreadfully shy at going among such a lot of strangers—"

"I tell you what, Ruth!" exclaimed her father suddenly. "I will wire to Will Brown to-morrow and ask him if he can have us both, and then you can go and see the Linthorpes from there. You will not feel half so strange then."

"That would be better," said Ruth, raising her head, "but will Norman be all right?"

"There are Judith and Heston to leave in charge," he answered, "and we shall not be away very long. I think he will be happy—"

"Might I ask him? I feel as if he is part of my life now, father!"

"So he is," said Dr. Brown, "but you must go to bed. Oh, my precious, how glad I am that it is all so happily settled."

"Dear father! How good you have been to me," said Ruth as she gave him her good-night kiss.

Then she turned back at the door to say "I am to be allowed to have a peep at Mary to-morrow, am I not?"

"Yes, I hope so. Perhaps you will go down with Vincent?"

"He is not coming till twelve; he said he had something to do he could not put off."

"Then you will go after lunch? I will tell Mrs. Arundel you are coming."

Ruth, with a little help from Judith, Norman, and Mala, was busy all the morning collecting and packing her belongings; for she felt sure that when once her father had decided on going, he would give her but little time before the project was carried out.

She was not mistaken. For before twelve o'clock, Dr. Brown telephoned to her from the town that he had received the answer from his Cousin Will, and they were to go to-morrow.

Ruth laughed with Heston over the promptness, and said that her father evidently thought that she would only want to take a few handkerchiefs! She was flying downstairs on some errand when the front door opened, and Vincent stood there.

He came forward. "It has seemed such a long time!" he exclaimed. "I could not come earlier because I had to go to Worcester."

"To Worcester?" she asked.

He drew her into the drawing-room, and still keeping her hand in his, searched in his waistcoat pocket.

"I have been hoping I might suit your taste, dearest, in choosing this—have I?" He put on her slender finger a ring, and as its stones flashed in the sunshine, he whispered, "Will you let it speak for me when I am away, and tell you I love you!"

"It is beautiful!" said Ruth, glancing up. "I never saw one I liked better."

"I am so glad! I had to be very particular, you see, for such a very dear and dainty little lady!"

"You could not have chosen better," said Ruth; "but how did you guess the size so well?"

"Ah! Mary helped me to that. She said you and she had laughed over her engagement ring once, and you had tried it on—"

"So I did!" exclaimed Ruth, blushing crimson.

"And Mary told me hers was a little large for you, so I guessed the rest."

"You are a wonderful 'guesser,' then," smiled Ruth.

"I've had to take a good many things on trust for a good many months," he said archly.

"Poor Vincent," she said kindly, "I am so sorry; but—"

"Yes, yes, dear, it was my fault. And so Mary and you nearly broke your hearts over it?"

"Nearly," said Ruth gravely, "and I do not know whether Mary has really forgiven me from the bottom of her heart yet."

"Mary does not owe grudges," said Vincent.

"No—she is the dearest, sweetest—but, you see, it was her twin who was made sorry; and it was all so difficult to explain."

But when that afternoon, she bent over Mary and received her kiss, Ruth knew that all was right between them, and that what had been so hard to explain was made clear now.

"My little sister," Mary whispered.

Then she gave a sweet smile as she turned to the pillow by her side. "Am I not rich?" she asked, as she uncovered the little downy head and showed her son. "Arthur says I may call him Vincent! But perhaps I shall have to ask you now?"

Ruth laughed a little as she blushingly said, if she were asked, nothing could please her better.

And then nurse remarked time was up, and Ruth had to go.

Mary caught her hand. "Let me see!" she said archly. "Do you like Vincent's choice?"

"Very much indeed; only it is too beautiful."

"He thinks nothing too beautiful for you," smiled Mary.

So they managed to way-lay Dr. Brown's carriage and to get home for afternoon tea, having arranged together on the way that they would try to devote themselves to the children to-night to let them share as much of their gladness as they might.

The next afternoon, the train bore them both, as well as Dr. Brown, towards Vincent's home.

Mr. Brown's carriage was at the station to meet them, with Willie Brown inside, of whom Ruth had often heard.

"My father is so pleased at your coming," he said, when they were seated and Vincent had gone towards his home; "he says it could not be better. And Alice is pleased too."

Then smiling a little and colouring, he added, "You will be surprised to hear me call my stepmother 'Alice,' but it was her wish. We are the dearest of friends, and I cannot give you an idea of all her goodness and sterling worth. She is sister and mother to me at once, and I love her dearly."

"It is very kind of you to tell us," said Ruth.

"Well—to say the truth, I came on purpose. Alice is thoroughly unselfish, and she makes my father very happy."

"I expect your kindness to her helps," said Ruth. She took a fancy to the young man on the spot.

He shook his head, smiling, and soon they drew up at Mr. Brown's handsome house, and a well-dressed, sweet-looking lady of about thirty came forward to meet them.

"This is dear Ruth, is it?" she asked, kissing the bright, blushing face. "We shall get acquainted soon. You are my cousin now, you know, but by and bye you are to be my sister!"

There was an impression of ease and comfort in the whole air of the house, and when Ruth saw her room, she gave an exclamation of pleasure.

"There!" said Alice, going to the window. "Do you see those poplars, with that red-gabled roof behind them?"

"Yes," said Ruth.

"That is our home—Vincent's home! He is there by this time, telling them all about you."

"I am afraid they may be disappointed in me," said Ruth, looking up in Alice's pleasant face.

"I do not think they will, dear."

"I am so young—and so ignorant—I have no merit except—"

"Except?" asked Alice, smiling.

"Except that we love each other!" she said, and then turned away covered with confusion.

Alice kissed her affectionately, and was just leaving the room, when Ruth looked up once more.

"I do not know why I said all that, but I think it was your kindness, and that you reminded me a little of Mary."

"Do I?"

"Yes—and I want you to know that Vincent and I do not forget Who has given us our happiness; and we have promised each other that loving and serving Him shall be the very first thing with us."

A LARGE FAMILY.

LEFT alone, Ruth sat down in a luxurious arm chair by the window, and looked out over the green meadows.

Mary had told her how their windows at home had a view of Mr. Brown's house, but she little thought then that before long she would be sitting there herself, and that the mistress of the house was to become her own sister!

But she must not spend time in day-dreams, for her father would miss her, and had not Alice told her that tea was just ready?

She hastened her toilet, and soon was finding her way down. A maid came forward from one of the rooms and conducted her to the drawing-room, where Mr. Brown was talking to her father, and Alice was pouring out tea from a lovely old china teapot into cups such as Ruth had never seen. Her busy father had had other things to think about than old china, she thought!

There was much to tell between the two cousins, and Ruth and Alice were left to entertain each other.

Ruth found she had to tell all about Norman's recovery, and Alice and Willie Brown were full of interest in everything she could tell them, so that the time slipped by very fast. And just as Alice was proposing a walk round the grounds, Vincent's step was heard, and his smiling face appeared at the door.

"So you could not stay away long!" said Alice in a fond teasing tone. "Come along, we have not been complete without you!"

"Nor I," he said, "but Alice, mother and father cannot wait until to-morrow to see Ruth, so I have come to fetch her!"

"Not till after dinner?" asked Alice. "Just as you like about that."

So it was arranged. And visitors happening to come in, Vincent was told to show Ruth the beauties of the grounds, and the two went out together to the shady lawn, where seats and arbours and summer-houses seemed to abound, and they found themselves for the first time with opportunity to talk together over their plans, and of the new life that was opening before them.

It seemed all too short when Vincent exclaimed, "There is the first dinner gong! I declare it seems no time since Alice sent us out. It was jolly of her, was it not?"

"We must go now, though," smiled Ruth. "How long do they give us, Vincent?"

"Half an hour," said Vincent, grudgingly. "Does it take you all that time to make yourself smart. You look just right as you are!"

With which compliment, Ruth ran off laughing.

After dinner, Vincent came up to her as they stood about in the drawing-room.

"Shall we go now?" he asked. And when she turned rather pale, he added softly, "You need not be nervous, they will love you dearly!"

So they set forth in the sweet evening light. There were only two or three fields to cross, and soon they were walking up the garden at Vincent's home.

Mrs. Linthorpe had been watching for them, and met them at the garden door.

One glance at her face, and Ruth knew that she had nothing to fear.

She found two loving arms round her, and a very soft voice saying "Welcome, my dear!"

Her first thought was that this was Mary's mother, her next that she was Vincent's mother, and would be her own.

Lovingly the gentle eyes scanned the new daughter's face:

"We shall get to know each other, and love each other soon," said Mrs. Linthorpe, "though I do love you already, for my boy's sake. Now I am going to take you to Mr. Linthorpe at once, or you will be dreading the interview all the time! Come in, dear!"

She led the way into a shaded drawing-room, and there Ruth saw the invalid father of whom Mary had often told her.

He held out his thin hand, and she bent to receive his kiss.

"You seem like a little piece of my Molly!" he said, smiling. "How was she when you left, and my little grandson?"

Ruth smiled brightly; how thankful she felt to him that he spared her any further greetings and congratulations.

She gladly told him how she had been privileged to see both Mary and the grandson yesterday, and how well both were, and what happy messages Mary had sent to her father. And then Ruth's cheeks began to cool, and she could bear now the thought of the family of future brothers and sisters who would come in presently to be introduced.

When that ordeal was over, and at length it was time to go home, Vincent took her across the fields once more in the moonlight, and the rest gathered round Mr. Linthorpe's chair to compare notes.

"She looks very young," said Flora.

"That will improve," said their mother.

"She's pretty," said Harry.

"That's nothing," exclaimed Archie bluntly, "She's a regular brick, that's what I call her; there's lots of stuff in her, I'm certain."

"What do 'you' think, father?" asked Rose, bending over him.

"I like all I have seen and all I have heard, exceedingly."

"Father is such a judge of character," said Flora.

"Now mother! It is your turn," said Harry, laughing. "I say! A poor daughter-in-law has a lot of people to please!"

The rest laughed too, till Harry quite blushed.

"He's thinking of his turn," said Archie.

"Well—mother?" Harry urged.

"Mothers have to be very quiet over their different children!" smiled Mrs. Linthorpe, "But I think she will make Vincent happy!"

IN THE SHADED ROOM.

THE next day was spent in "looking round," as Mr. Brown called it.

He was exceedingly pleased that Dr. Brown thought of settling down near him, and that Vincent Linthorpe, of whom he spoke most highly, should have formed such a happy connection with his cousin's family.

There were endless jokes as to the new relationships, but everybody seemed pleased, and the topic of the existing houses, or the building of another, occupied all their thoughts.

Dr. Brown's two wishes were that the house should be on high ground and have an established garden; and these things circumscribed the number of available spots.

"We shall have to look out for anything that falls vacant," said Cousin Will, at the end of their first day's search.

"I think myself," said Dr. Brown, "that I shall have to buy a cottage perhaps, and build on to it. I shall get you to keep your eyes open for me."

"We will most gladly," said Alice; "and Vincent goes about so much, he may hear of something."

Ruth had now become quite at home with the Linthorpes, and had spent many happy half-hours with Vincent's mother and his invalid father.

On the morning of the day on which she was going home, she was sitting with them with her needlework in her hand, but she did not get on very fast. She was listening to such talks as she had never heard before, and she was wondering at the grace which sustained the patient invalid for all those long years.

"You bring me near to my Molly," he was saying. "Sometimes I think I catch a tone of her voice in yours!"

"Do you? You see we have been so much together! I cannot tell you what I owe to Mary, Mr. Linthorpe; and she says she owes it to you and her mother!"

"Oh! my dear, and we all owe it to God. It is His love and His patience and His strength that help us to go on at all! But Mary is a great treasure! Truly her prayer has been answered, 'Bless me, and make me a blessing.' Has it not?"

"It has to me—" said Ruth. "I was so hard and so self-willed before I knew Mary."

"Were you, my dear?"

"Dreadful!" said Ruth, shaking her head.

"Ah, well, my dear," said Mr. Linthorpe affectionately. "When we put ourselves into God's hands to do the best for us, and to mould us to His will, there is every prospect of a happy issue. He will not disappoint us of our hope."

"That is what my old Morris used to tell me," said Ruth, with glistening eyes. "But, Mr. Linthorpe, I feel so untried. I often wonder how people 'bear' things! I feel as if I 'could' not! And yet that does not seem right, I know."

"I understand," he answered tenderly, "but, my dear, God does not ask us to bear everything that everybody has! He has promised grace for that which He calls 'us' to pass through! That thought has been a great comfort to me. I was thinking about it only the other week. Satan said to me, 'You have had a great many years of weakness, and you have been very patient' (yes, my dear, he twitted me with that!), 'but now there are other things you may have to bear, how will you do then?'

"For a moment I was staggered, but then came another thought, straight from my Lord and Saviour, 'But "He" said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.'"

Ruth's eyes filled. She knew from Mary what all the years had been, and she bent and kissed the suffering, peaceful face almost reverently.

He looked up and gave a beaming smile.

"Do you know the end of that quotation?" he asked tenderly.

"No—"

"'"Most gladly," therefore, will I glory in my infirmities that the power of Christ may rest upon me!'"

So after a very happy four days, Ruth and Dr. Brown went home, and Vincent was left behind to apply himself to his work and to look forward to the next meeting.

"Well, Cousin Ruth," said Heston, when they got home, "I would not have believed that the house would be so empty without you!"

"I expect it was," said Ruth.

"Did you wish you were back here?" asked Judith.

"Sometimes. I caught myself feeling home-sick two or three times in spite of being so happy."

"That's right," said Heston; "I didn't want you to be asked there for ever!"

"'For ever?'" she questioned smilingly.

"Well, you know what I mean! Endlessly paying visits away from us, you know."

"Oh, well, we shall see. I do not intend to leave my father, anyway—so you need not be afraid."

When she went up to wish Norman good-night, he looked wistfully in her face after her kiss. "Well, dear?" she asked.

"Must you go down directly?"

"Oh, no; I will sit by you. Did you want me to talk to you?"

"A little while. It is so nice to have you back. No one is just like you, you know."

She stroked his head.

"Everybody has been so kind," pursued Norman, "especially Heston. Don't you think Heston is awfully kind—for a boy?"

Ruth laughed softly.

"He is—for a boy. He is every way, I think, one of the kindest boys I ever met."

"He used to read to me every night, just like you do, and then when he had done reading the first evening, he said, 'Doesn't Cousin Ruth say a prayer with you?'"

"I said, 'Yes.'

"And so he knelt down and repeated 'Our Father.' Was it not kind?"

"'Very' kind."

"And then, Cousin Ruth, he sat down by me, and told me about one night on board the steamer when we were coming home from India.

"He was standing on deck watching the stars, leaning on the railings, when an old sailor came up to him, and asked him if he might say a word to the young gentleman, because he was a bit like his son who was far away? So Heston said he might certainly if he liked.

"And then the old sailor said he made bold to speak because he knew what it was to have our Saviour as his own, and he wanted the young gentleman to have Him too."

"What a dear old man," said Ruth.

"Yes; and Heston said that after that, he could not forget his words, and how the old sailor had said,—

   "'Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.'

"And those words rang in his ears all the rest of the voyage. And then, Cousin Ruth, on the second morning that uncle had prayers with us, the words he read were those very ones!—

   "'Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.'

"And Heston was so struck with them that he thought the best thing was to 'Come,' as the words said, and he has felt happier ever since!"

"How glad I am," said Ruth joyfully.

"I knew you would be," said Norman, throwing his arms round her neck.

So once more Ruth "settled in" as she called it.

Norman was now considered well enough to do a few hours' schooling every day, and he was able to walk down to the town daily and ride up with his uncle at four o'clock.

So Ruth found herself much more at liberty in the middle of each day.

When the Term began, Heston went to school at Worcester and returned for the week-ends, and they all missed him very much.

But Ruth had plenty to do. She diligently set herself to learn all the housewifely arts that came in her way. And cook, who was her devoted instructress, delighted in the success which attended their efforts.

In the evenings, when Judith's lessons were prepared, the two "sisters" as Judith insisted on naming them, sat at their needlework.

"I only wish Missie Morris could see," Mala sometimes remarked.

And Judith would say saucily as she called a blush in Ruth's face, "The fact is Cousin Ruth, you want to be a perfect wife."

"That I never shall be!" said Ruth shaking her head. "For Mary's father told me that human nature is chiefly remarkable for its failure!"

Judith paused with the scissors in her hand and looked at her dubiously. "Then shall you not be a perfect wife after all your efforts?"

"I'll be as perfect as I can," said Ruth smiling; "but seriously, Judith, do you not find in your heart, that when you would do good, evil is present with you?"

"I thought that was because I was so far worse than other people!" said Judith.

"No, I do not think that is it. I think it is that we are faulty, and full of evil, and we want to be freshly forgiven, and freshly enabled every day and every hour."

Judith was silent; she went on with her work as if absorbed in it, but really, she was thinking of what they had been talking about.

"I should like to be good and please Jesus," she said at length, "but I do fail so often! I get cross if I am called off my lessons to do things. And then if we are working, and Mala comes in and wants me to find the key of my drawers, I feel so annoyed with her! I am afraid, Ruth, that I have not a very good temper—"

Ruth was leaning over for the scissors, and she took the opportunity to kiss Judith's soft little cheek.

"I am sure all these things that we are conscious of as failures will improve if we are watchful," she said, affectionately, "and if our chief aim is really to please God in our everyday life."

"Do you really think so? That is very comforting," the girl responded, and then took up her work again and went on with it with fresh zest.

Thus the winter advanced, but nothing was heard of any house being to let which would suit Dr. Brown's ideas.

"I shall have to build, after all, I fear," he said one evening, "but I shall wait till March before deciding."

Vincent came for week-ends as often as he could, and Mr. Brown, with his usual thoughtfulness, made things as easy for him as he could. Mary often laughed, and quoted to Arthur that "it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good," for she had quite a treat of her twin now.

Ruth, as usual, spent many of her spare hours with her friend.

The baby would lie and kick and crow on the pillow on the floor, while Mary made endless garments for him, and Ruth plied her needle over her own preparations.

One day, after two or three days' absence, Ruth entered Mary's dining-room with an unusually eager look on her face.

"Have you come back?" asked Mary, looking up.

"Yes—this morning; just now. I felt I must come in to tell you. We have bought the house!"

"Oh, have you?"

"Yes; you knew that my father and I went the day before yesterday? It was all in such a hurry that I could not come in to tell you. Norman promised he would."

"And so he did, dear. Do tell me all about it."

"The man who had the house to sell would not wait. I cannot explain why, but something about foreclosing a mortgage."

"Yes, I know—"

"So we had to settle it soon, and father was afraid of losing it. Mary, it is lovely! It is on the highest ground anywhere round, and has nice views over the fields, and such a sweet garden."

"And how about the house? Is that suitable for what Dr. Brown wants?"

"Yes; it can be altered capitally. It is little more than two cottages, and father proposes to build on the ends of them a sort of wing to each. Oh, such dear old-fashioned staircases, and such low, sloping ceilings! I never saw anything so pretty!

"Father says he shall open a doorway between the two little halls, so that we may be able to visit each other without going out of doors."

"That will be very nice," said Mary heartily.

"Vincent likes it," said Ruth; "he is not afraid that we shall see too much of them. He says he has always been used to a large family, and he thinks it is the very happiest thing that could be.

"Oh, Mary! If you could have been there, and have seen us dancing about for joy at such a lovely home as it will be!"

"Will they spoil the garden very much with their building operations?"

"Father thinks not. Of course the two grass-plots will suffer, but he says there is more than a year, and that is easily replaced. No, it is the trees, and the currants and gooseberries, the syringas and the laurels, that charm him, to say nothing of the old-fashioned flower-beds full of all kinds of perennials which are already beginning to peep out."

Mary's sympathy was very great. She dearly loved "planning" houses, and told Ruth she must bring the plans for her to see, as no one would enjoy them more!

"We have had no time to talk of them," said Ruth; "but do you know, Mary, I consider father is growing quite young again with the interest of all this. He never gives those heavy sighs now!"

"His heart is at rest, dear, for one thing: what a difference that makes."

"I sometimes look back, and am amazed," said Ruth softly, "at all the changes that have come in the last year or two. How sad we were, and how dear old Morris was the only one in our house who cared about the best things. And now—"

"It is very wonderful," said Mary.

"Oh, it is! I trace a great deal of it to dear old Morris's prayers, Mary! And then, next, to 'you.' You have been made a blessing to me, indeed!"

"A most unworthy one, then," said Mary.

Just at that moment Arthur came in, having met Dr. Brown in the town, and having heard the news of the house from him.

"So you are the happy possessor of ten acres, Ruth, and a couple of pretty cottages into the bargain!" he said, in a congratulatory tone.

"Yes, my father has bought it."

"Bought it for you, he told me. It is to be made out in your name!"

Ruth turned crimson with surprise. "I did not know," she exclaimed; "he did not tell me that."

"He made no secret of it to me," smiled Arthur. "He said 'it was a love-token for the Doctor's Daughter,' if you know who that is!"

THE END.