Leila at Home a continuation of Leila in England

CHAPTER IX. “And what is that?” Mrs. Herbert inquired. “Why should you be afraid to tell me every thing?” “I am not afraid,” Leila answered; “but it is not the right time yet to tell. Perhaps I shall be disappointed myself, and then I need not tell you, for it would only make you sorry; but if it comes up it is for you. Now I must go to the conservatory; I go there every morning alone, but don’t ask me why I go.” Leila stood in the conservatory, earnestly contemplating a flower-pot she held in her hand, till startled by a voice behind her. “How now, lady bright, gazing on brown earth, and so many beautiful blooming flowers around you?” She looked up; it was Charles who had entered the conservatory unobserved, and was bending over her shoulder. “Oh, Charles,” she said, “I am so happy, so very happy; so thankful.” “Thankful,” he replied; “thankful for small things indeed, for I can see nothing.” “Nothing! look again, Charles; only look here—don’t you see?” “No, I see nothing, and unluckily I have not got my spectacles at hand.” But observing Leila’s heightened colour, and the expression of her face, he added in quite a different tone, “Yes, I do see two tiny little green leaves just peeping above the brown earth; but they will require all your tender care to rear them. Why are they so precious to you, Leila? But do not tell me if you would rather not.” She lifted her eyes to his face. “Yes, I should like to tell you—” she hesitated, then continued in an agitated voice, “it is seeds from the flower I planted on Clara’s grave, and perhaps more will spring.” Charles’s colour mounted to his forehead; he took her hand. “Oh, Leila,” he said, “dear Leila, how I have longed for this moment, how I have wished you to talk to me of Clara. Clara, my own sweet sister, my lost Clara; I seem to see her still, how lovely she was!” “You knew her then,” Leila said eagerly; “you remember her; but how—were you not in England?” “No; from our being up the country and in a good climate, I was nearly ten years old before it was thought necessary to send me to England; never can I forget the first time I saw Clara. I was taken into the room where mamma was lying on her bed, so pale, so beautiful, only the slightest tinge of colour in her cheek. Clara and Mina lay on each side of her; she took my hand, a bright flush came into her face for a moment, ‘My little son,’ she said, ‘may God watch over you and preserve you to be a protector to your sisters; if these dear ones live to be sent home to England, you will be already there. Promise me that when you are together, you will watch over them, and always endeavour by your own example to teach them to love and serve their heavenly Father. May you never, dear Charles, forget this moment; may my earnest request be always remembered, when you yourself are tempted to do what is wrong.” “And were you sent away from them immediately?” Leila inquired. “How melancholy this must have been for you!” “Oh no, not immediately; Clara and Mina were three years old before I left India. They could talk and run about. In the cool season I used to make them run races in the garden with each other. They often laughed so at my constantly mistaking one for the other, for I never could distinguish them, till mamma put a small gold chain round Clara’s neck.” “Was it this?” Leila said, as she took a chain from the folds of her dress, and gave it into his hand. “Yes, the very same; but there was no locket suspended from it.” Leila touched the spring, it opened. “My own mamma,” he said, “and how beautiful! and those laughing eyes—yes, I remember how she used to look in that way, when she was playing with us all. And this was Clara’s locket—my own dear sister, and now, alas! only one remains to me.” Leila coloured. “Then you will not have me for a sister,” she said, in a low-toned voice. Charles’s countenance brightened, as in his usual lively manner he said, “I thought I was too tall to be your brother.” “Oh, don’t, don’t say that,” Leila exclaimed; “you don’t know how sorry I was afterwards, and how often I have wished to ask you to forgive me. Will you?” and she put her hand into his. “Yes, I see you will, I see it in your eyes. I always know when people are loving me again by their eyes.” Selina’s voice was heard calling her; she ran off, but returned for a moment to say, “Do not tell mamma about the seeds; it is to be a surprise to her. I have planted four, and if more spring, I should like so much to give you one also.” CHAPTER IX. T O pay frequent visits to the village had of late been a great interest to the young people; they had become acquainted with many of the cottagers, and Leila had already begun to have a lively interest in their children. As the party were now to leave Woodlands in a few days, she proposed one morning that, as the weather was uncommonly fine, they should cross the fields, under Charles’s escort, and pay a sort of farewell visit to some of the cottagers. The cold had been so severe in the night, that the grass still felt crisp under their feet, though the sunbeams glanced brightly on the scarlet berries of the holly, and on the slender branches of the forest trees, feathered white by the hoar-frost. At the village they were welcomed by old and young, for the kind, frank manners of the young people had made them general favourites; many of the children ran forward to meet them, but they missed one little girl whom they had in former visits particularly distinguished. Her mother’s cottage stood at the end of the village, and they found Dame Burton standing at her door, looking anxiously in the direction of the road. She invited them as usual to enter, but added, “I am rather out of sorts, young ladies, at this moment, for I am fearing my little Lizzy is getting into idle ways. Not a sight can I see of her, all the other children in the village home from the school, and she still loitering on the road. If I had not had the dinner to get ready, I would have been off to seek her myself, and would have sent her home in a hurry; but her father will be in to his dinner, and she will get it from him I am thinking.” Leila instantly proposed that they should return by the road; “As Charles is with us, I don’t think papa will be displeased,” she said, “and we can tell him why.” Then turning to Dame Burton, she added, “We shall be sure of meeting your little Lizzy if we go by the road, and we shall send her home to you very quick; but I hope you won’t be angry with her this time, for you know when it is an interesting play sometimes one forgets. I forget very often myself, though I am so much older than Lizzy.” The young people proceeded on their way, talking and laughing merrily; Charles protesting “that if they met the little truant, the unworthy little Lizzy, he would send her home in a hurry; he would give it her, her father’s anger would be a joke to his.” Leila looked up in his face in astonishment. “Never mind him,” Mina exclaimed, observing Leila’s face of perplexity; “never mind him—don’t believe a word of it, he’s only saying it in fun; Charles is not the least bit ill-natured. If we meet Lizzy I know the sort of thing he will do, he will tap her kindly on the back, and say, ‘Now there’s a good girl, run home as quick as you can.’ That’s the sort of way he will scold.” “Is it, my little wise sister?” Charles replied, laughing. “Well, well, you will soon see the contrary; you don’t know what an angry man I can be; Leila has never yet seen me in one of my right towering passions, it will frighten her out of her wits.” “How merry we all are,” Mina said, “and how happy we have all been, and now in three more days it will all be over!” “Oh, Mina!” Louisa exclaimed, “do not speak of it; I have been thinking of it all the time, though I have been trying to laugh. I have never been so happy before, and now I may never see you all again. You will all be meeting often, but I shall be far away. You know in two months we are going abroad. I used to like the thoughts of it so much; now I cannot bear it. And you, Leila, you will be growing up, and so many to love you, you will forget me.” “Never, Louisa, never; you were my first friend, you will always——” She was interrupted at this moment by the loud screams of a child; they seemed to proceed from a lane, which, a few yards further on, branched off from the road. The screams were continued with increased violence. They caught sight of a little girl struggling to get free from a large dog, which seemed dragging her along by her clothes. Leila sprang forward. “Don’t be frightened, Lizzy, don’t; we shall protect you.” At the sound of her voice the dog let go its hold with a joyful bark of recognition, and the next moment was leaping upon Leila with frantic joy. “Dash, my own Dash!” she cried, as throwing her arms round his neck, she almost stifled the faithful animal with her caresses. “But how is this? Is it my Dash? is it really true? how did it happen? Lizzy, what is the meaning of this? how did he come here? where did you find him? Oh! tell me; but how thin you are, my Dash; how changed—oh, he has been starved! how dreadful! But, Lizzy, run home to your mother; don’t delay a moment longer—she is sorry you have been so long away; and let us get home also as quick as we can, that we may get food for my dear Dash. What joyful news for papa, and for Nurse, and Amy. Poor Peggy! Oh, if Dash could speak!” She turned to regain the road, but Dash would not allow this; he began to pull Leila up the lane by her clothes, in the same way he had been doing to the little girl. “Don’t oppose him,” Charles said; “there is something under all this, we had better follow as he leads.” They quickened their pace, but saw nothing. Dash now frequently ran on a little way before them, returned again and took hold of Leila’s dress as before, looking up in her face, as if encouraging her to go on. A sudden thought seized her; she darted forwards—she ran on a considerable way—suddenly she saw a figure lying stretched on a bank by the side of the lane; in the next moment she was kneeling by Peggy Dobie’s side! The others came up. They found Leila clasping Peggy’s hands and sobbing violently. “Her eyes are shut,” she said; “she does not hear me; oh, Charles, tell me, is she dead? Can we do nothing?” Dash began at this moment to lick Peggy ’s face, she opened her eyes. “Am I dreaming,” she said, in a low faint voice, “and am I still in the land of the living? surely it is the faces of my own dear bairns that I see; but it canna be. Na, na, it is a vision o’ the night, and it will leave me with the light o’ morning as it has ever done afore; but it’s morning now. Where am I? how has all this come about? oh! for a drop o’ water and a morsel o’——” Her eyes closed again—the momentary exertion was too much. Charles, who had been rubbing her cold hands, sprang to his feet. “It is food she requires,” he said; “she is starving. I see a house near, I will be back in a moment.” He flew off. He returned, followed by the farmer to whom the house belonged. Charles held a bowl of milk to Peggy’s lips—she seemed unable to swallow. “No, no, mister, that won’t do; this is a bad job; there has been both cold and hunger here; it’s brandy she must have, and that instantly. Heaven grant it may not be too late; I have my doubts.” “No,” Leila cried, “don’t say it; we have found her again—she must not die!” But the farmer was gone. He returned again in a few minutes with the brandy and a thick blanket. With Charles’s assistance he poured a little brandy and water down Peggy’s throat, and wrapped her in the warm blanket. “These poor thin rags,” he said, “are not for such cold as this, the poor creature is half frozen; but she is coming about again, her lips are not just so white; she will do yet; and, by good luck, I see one of my carts coming from the field; we shall have her into it and home in a jiffy. Hollo, there! Joe, my man, here’s a bye-job for you.” Peggy was lifted into the cart, Selina and Leila also getting in and supporting her in their arms. It was in vain Charles insisted on taking this office on himself, they would not hear of it; it seemed as if it were quite necessary for them to hold Peggy fast, as well as see her, to convince them that the scene before them was not a joyful dream. But Dash also appeared resolved to make one of the party in the cart—he leaped in, stretched himself on Peggy’s feet, and to move him was impossible. “Let him lie there, he will do much good,” the farmer said; “he is a wise animal, and I am thinking it is to his good offices that there is the breath of life in this poor creature. Where is she bound for, young ladies?” “To Woodlands,” Leila answered. The cart proceeded, followed by the others; when they arrived at the lodge, Bill’s astonishment was great, and his joy also, when he heard the wonderful news, for he had taken the greatest interest in Leila’s distress; he called instantly to Susan to accompany them, and taking the key, which was still in his charge, they took their way to Peggy’s cottage, Charles having been sent on to the house to request the attendance of Nurse. “Her papa,” Leila said, “had gone to London with her Aunt Stanley; but Nurse, she was sure, would be of great use, and might bring with her whatever she thought necessary for Peggy,” who still remained in a state of stupor. The fire was kindled, and Peggy laid upon her bed when Nurse arrived, who, after giving her a small portion of nourishment, stood by the bed-side holding her hand and gazing anxiously upon her. “How wonderful are the ways of Providence,” she said. “To think of Peggy being restored to us again, she that we mourned as sleeping under the salt wave!” Peggy opened her eyes. “And wherefore did ye pit me there?” she said, with a faint smile. “Na, na, it was nae just sae bad as that, though it’s been out o’ perils by sea and perils by land that the Lord has delivered me, praise be to His holy name; but, oh! it’s a deliverance past my weak comprehension, I canna make it out; but it’s all His blessed work, and it’s a reality—it’s no’ a dream.” “No, Peggy, it’s not a dream,” Matilda said, eagerly. “See, we are all around you, and now Cousin Leila will be happy again, and merry as she was before.” “And did the dear bairn grieve sae for me? Oh! what it is to hear the voices of ye all again, and to see your faces glinting down on me like the blessed sunbeams on my withered heart; it was for this I prayed and for this I toiled, as my puir blistered feet can testify; but it is a strength that I have nought to do with that has brought me to see this day; and now that the life seems in me again, in a measure, I would fain ken where I am. Is it your house, Mistress Nurse, that they have brought me to, and I making sae free, lying in your ain bed, wi’ thae bonnie genty white curtains, and all sae clean and comfortable about me, and never sae much as a word o’ thanks? you will think I hae left my manners in the sea—but we will no speak o’ that awfu’ element.” “But, Peggy,” Selina whispered, “it’s not Nurse’s house—it is your own; and Cousin Leila told her papa every thing she thought you would like.” “Yes,” Matilda added, “and there are peats in a box behind the door; and you have not seen the kitchen yet, with the walnut-tree table, and cupboard, and the cuckoo clock—all is for you—it is your own house.” “My own house,” Peggy repeated, as clasping her hands together in deep emotion, she added, “O what am I, that such blessings should be showered upon me, when He whom I serve ‘had not where to lay His head!’ O my bairns! help me to praise Him, who has brought me out o’ much tribulation, for my mind’s weak and head sair confused. Could you no’ tak’ the book—it’s the Psalms o’ David that could speak weel for me at sic a moment.” “No, Peggy,” Nurse said; “that must not be: God looks to the heart. He knows all your gratitude to Him—but you are more exhausted than I ever saw mortal being, and it’s peace and quietness you want; you must try to sleep, and the young ladies will be gude bairns, (as you call them,) and go quietly home—they will come to see you again to-morrow, when you will be more able to speak to them of your mercies, for, surely, it has been a great deliverance.” “And may I not stay with Peggy?” Leila said. “No, Miss Leila, no; Peggy will be better alone with me; and as she will require a little nourishment now and then, and it will need my experience to know how much, I will watch by her till the evening; I am sure my master will spare me on such an occasion; and you may say, that if it is his pleasure to allow Amy to step down when I leave, and stay this first night with Peggy, I think it is all she will require.” On the young people getting up to take leave, a painful struggle took place in Dash’s upright mind, and for some moments he stood irresolute. Between the dear young companion of his palmy days and the friend of late misfortunes the line of duty was difficult to discern;—but this friend was no longer perishing with hunger and cold, she was now in the land of plenty and almost smothered with blankets; so Dash wagged his tail to Peggy and darted after Leila. It was not easy to say which was most light of foot, as they bounded along—Dash capering and frisking in renewed health and spirits, and Leila as if she trod on air, so impatient was she to tell all to her papa; but Mr. Howard was already in possession of the joyful intelligence, as immediately on his return from London, he had been informed by Charles of all that had taken place, and of Nurse having been sent for, and they now met both on their way to Peggy’s cottage; but on hearing Leila’s account, Mr. Howard thought it better to delay his visit till the next morning, and retraced his steps with the rest of the party. As they entered the house, Leila lingered behind for a moment. “Charles,” she whispered, in an agitated voice, “if you had not told us to follow Dash, Peggy would have died. Charles, if you had been a little boy, you would not have said that.” The bright colour which before had animated her face had faded, she was pale and trembling; Charles was alarmed. “You are ill, Leila!” he exclaimed; “the agitation of all this has been too much for you.” “No, I am not ill,” she said quickly; “but I must go to papa.” She passed him hastily, and entered the library. Mr. Howard looked up—her appearance alarmed him. “Has any thing happened?” he inquired; “Leila, my child, why are you so pale?” Leila threw herself into her papa’s arms. “Nothing more has happened, papa; but I don’t know what is the matter with me; it is joy—but it is too much happiness—how can I ever thank God enough for all that He has done for me!—He has given me so many blessings. He sent me the trial, but He has taken it away from me again, and gives me more than ever joy—tenfold joy, papa—what can I say to Him—what can I do?—surely, I am most ungrateful —my heart is very full, but I feel as if I could do nothing.” “You can give your heart more entirely, my love, to Him, who has given so much for you; you can think of Him, love Him, walk with Him, and make Him more and more to you an all-sufficient Saviour.” “But, papa, what frightens me is this; I have more blessings here than I had in the island—friends, and beautiful rooms, and fortune, and every thing I could wish for—but it does not make me give my heart more to God. I used to think of God more in the island, when I saw His beautiful world all around me; here it is beautiful also, but so many pleasures, and so many people to love, take up my heart; perhaps it would be better for me if I had trials.” “My dear Leila, you must beware of the error of believing, that were your situation different, you would be better than you are now; the fault is in yourself, not in the circumstances which surround you. You think it would be better for you if you had trials; you have a trial at this very moment—the trial of prosperity, and it has often been found more difficult to bear than the heaviest misfortunes. Remember the words of your blessed Saviour, that ‘it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.’ The possession of riches often tends to increase pride and self-indulgence; they expose you to flattery and to many temptations to pleasure, which make the self-denying principles of Christ more difficult to follow; it is not money alone, that is here meant, but all the sinful vanities of a worldly life.” “Well, papa, and is not this just what frightens me? Would it not be better for me to have no money, and to live in some quiet place like the island, where we should have nothing to tempt us off?” “No, my dear child, had it been so, we should have been continued there; but the Bible does not tell us to renounce the world, but to overcome the world. We are to live in it, but not to be led by it. If we have the advantages of fortune and station in life, we have also greater responsibilities—we are responsible for the example we set to those who look up to us, and for the use we make of those riches which are intrusted to us, and for which, as faithful servants, we must one day give an account.” “Then, papa, this is what you mean when you say, this world is a state of trial; for it is not only a trial when we are poor and miserable, but when we are rich and happy—I never thought of that before, but then we can never be at peace, papa, nor enjoy being happy.” “Yes, my child, we can be so, by endeavouring to bring eternity more constantly before us, and by giving to things present only their proper value: this will not prevent our enjoying them where consistent with duty, but will prevent our feeling as if all were lost when they are taken away; for God has promised to ‘keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Him.’ If we could only keep constantly in mind, that every event, whether happy or mournful, if properly received, will work together for our everlasting good, we should indeed enjoy ‘that peace which passeth all understanding.’ Go then, my dear child, and enjoy the many blessings which surround you, with a grateful heart.” “Yes, papa, I will go to Charles, and tell him you have made me well again: he thinks I am ill, which will make him sorry, for you don’t know what a kind brother he is to me, and I like him so very much; he is one of my blessings, and I think he will work for good, for he always tells me what is right—good-bye, papa.” CHAPTER X. T HE young people were all impatience next morning to visit Peggy Dobie’s cottage. They met Mr. Howard returning from it, who told them they would find Peggy much recovered. He had found her up, sitting by the fire reading her Bible, and full of gratitude and thanksgiving for the blessings which surrounded her. “My bairns,” she said as they entered, and she closed her Bible and laid aside her spectacles, “you have come at the right moment—I hae been giving praise to Him that has lifted me out o’ my sair tribulations, and it is here I hae found the words, and noo may He put into my heart what I should say to you; how can I ever thank you enough for all I see about me, for all you have done for me?” “You need not thank us, Peggy,” Leila answered; “for we are as happy as you are; and it is so joyful that you should be alive, and so wonderful, that we can scarce believe it;—and so you like your house?” “Like it, Miss Leila! ’deed that’s no’ the word to testify my wonderment at all I see around me. I hae been looking at that cupboard, wi’ all the tumblers and glasses sparkling and shining like a leddy dressed out in her diamonds, and praying that my auld head may not be turned all the gether wi’ the vanities o’ life; but to feel that I hae come to sic a haven o’ rest, to lie down on that bed last night, and to think it was my ain; to think that I am no longer a wanderer on the face o’ the earth, without a covering to my auld head, or a friend to speak the word o’ comfort to my crushed spirit—no, it’s no’ just at ance that I can get into a measure o’ composedness for sic a change as this. I am in a bewilderment o’ joy and gratitude—and there’s Dash, bonnie man, wagging his tail, and aye looking in my face; he is telling me we are in the land o’ Canaan noo. O let me ever thank God for all his mercies; and let me thank you also, my dear bairns, for all your kindness to me; for never did I think to have seen your bit canty faces again in the land o’ the living, for it’s out o’ the swellings o’ Jordan that puir auld Peggy has been delivered by an arm o’ strength.” “It is so nice to hear you speaking Scotch again,” Matilda said; “I like it so much. That word canty is such a nice word, and it is so nice to have you back again when we thought you dead; but how did it all happen? Were you not washed overboard in the storm? You must tell us all about it. How were you saved?” “Yes,” Leila said, “it will be such an interesting story, and so long; for you must tell us every thing from the very beginning. But you are not to tell it all in one day, for that would tire you. You are very, very thin, Peggy,” and Leila took Peggy’s withered hand in hers; “can we do nothing to make you better? If it will tire you to speak, we will wait for the story till another day.” “No, my dear bairn, it will no tire me; and it’s weel my part to do all I can to pleasure you or yours, though I will not just say but what I may feel a wee thought ashamed to tell sic a lang tale afore all the young ladies, and this fine young gentleman.” “But Peggy,” Leila said eagerly, “he is not a fine young gentleman; he is so kind and good-natured, he will like to hear the history of all that has happened to you very much; and if he does not understand all the Scotch words, I will explain them to him afterwards; he is my brother Charles now, you need not be afraid of him.” “Your brother, is he? Weel, weel, sae let it be for the present, my bonnie lamb. And noo where am I to begin in this lang tale?” “At the very beginning,” Leila and Matilda both exclaimed at once; “at the very beginning, Peggy, when you first embarked with all the pets.” “Ay, ay, and to think I hae no had the grace to ask after the puir dumb things; but I am sair bewildered, and I kent they needs be safe, for there’s my cat that was amang them, just lying afore the fire quite contented, and no ways strange, puir thing. That civil gentleman, Master Bill, (I think they call him,) brought it up to me this morning, and my trunk too with my big Bible, and all the bits o’ things that are sae valuable to me.” “But the story, the story, Peggy,” Matilda exclaimed, rather emphatically. “Yes, my bairn, that’s true, I was forgetting, and it’s aye the story, the story, wi’ you young things. Weel then, to begin at the very beginning, as you say. We got into the ship, (that is, the pets, as Miss Leila calls them, and me,) and it was a bonnie day, and the sea sparkling like diamonds, and wi’ a most deceitfu’ and canny look; but it was all put on; no a word o’ truth in it, for it’s a most unchancy and awfu’ element, and in no ways to be trusted by a Christian woman. Weel, my first discomfiture was when I was telt that I was by no means to go near the pets, or to take any charge, for they would have better care than mine; deed, and I was in no ways weel pleased, forbye that I had been thinking the parrots would have been gude company, and that I could hae given them some gude instruction maybe, puir things, and got them into a manner o’ more sensible discourse than aye crying, ‘pretty poll,’ and the like o’ thae vain and silly things. But it was no to be, so I turned my mind to some wee helpless bairns that were aye wailing and wearying for something; for ye ken Peggy must aye be doing. They had lost their mother, puir things, and the father o’ them was sadly put about when night came, and all their bits o’ clothes to take off, and the strings o’ them aye getting into knots, and he wi’ no manner o’ skill or judgment to gang to work in the right manner; so I took them all in my ain hands, and got them into their bits o’ cribs wi’ a kind o’ comfort, and the wee thing who was but a babby clinging round my neck in the dark, and saying, ‘Mamma was come back again, and she was no to gang away ony more.’ Deed it was just a moving scene, and minded me sae o’ my ain bonnie flowers; and John, for that was his name, was sae gratified, and could no’ say enough for the little I could do. And so we got on wi’ a measure o’ comfort all the next day, till the wind began to roar like a demented creature, wi’ no manner o’ discretion, ranting and tearing wi’ the steadfast resolution no to leave a hale rag in the ship; and there were the bairns, puir things, wailing and tumbling about on the floor, and nae marvel either, seeing that them that had come to the years o’ discretion could na keep their feet; and the captain, there was he crying to put in the dead lights, which was no just civil to say the least, and we wi’ the breath o’ life still in our bodies. Waes me, but it was an unco’ dispensation for him to be making preparations for a dead wake afore the living folk. He might hae thought, the ungodly man, that there was an arm o’ strength that could lift us out o’ the deepest pit of our tribulation.—But where was I? for ’deed I am sair bewildered wi’ all that happened.” “You were telling about the storm, Peggy,” Matilda said, eagerly. “Oh, do go on, it is so very interesting.” “Ay, that’s true, I was telling about the storm; but waes me, words are weak to tell o’ that awfu’ scene. Weel, naething would serve me but I maun be upon deck to see the warst o’ it; and there I stood, clinging aye to John, and Dash at my side, wi’ the sense o’ a man o’ fifty, holding me fast by the gown; but it was na waves I saw, but mountains rising to the black heavens, and the white foam o’ them looking ghastly white in the darkness o’ the night, and every now and then a flash o’ fire like a curtain o’ flame in the sky, and a sound like guns mingling wi’ the roar o’ the awfu’ blast; and there was the captain again, wi’ a lang thing like a trumpet in his mouth, and he thinking, wi’ his puir feckless breath, to lift his voice above the anger o’ Heaven. I could na stand that, so I turned down to the cabin again; but oh, my bairns, never while the breath o’ life is in my body will I forget the sound that ere I was at the foot o’ the stairs met my ear. I canna speak o’ it, I dare na think o’ it. Them that had stood at my side the minute afore in life and strength, sent to their last account, and without the power o’ a hand being stretched out to save them. I am no clear in my mind o’ what happened for a while after that; but then there was a cry that the wind was no just sae strong, and that a boat had come off from the shore for the passengers for Scarborough; it was for Scarborough John was bound, to take up his abode wi’ a sister, a widow-woman weel to do in the world, and he was loath to part wi’ me, and leave me in sic tribulation; and the bairns they aye cried that mammy maun gang too, and I was down the side o’ the ship, and in the boat wi’ the wee babby in my arms afore I kent where I was, and Dash holding on again by my gown as he did afore; and how we e’er reached the shore was the gracious providence of God, for man had nought to do wi’ it; and we were up in the air the one minute, and in the watery pit o’ destruction the next, and no a dry stitch upon us when we were lifted out wi’ scarce the breath o’ life in our bodies; but all but gratitude to Heaven was forgotten when we sat that night in quietness and in comfort by that widow-woman’s cheerful fire-side. And to see the bairns round the table at their tea, wi’ their bit blythe faces, and ilk are wi’ a jolly piece in its hand, for, as I said afore, she was well to do in the world that widow-woman, and had all things in a superior way. ’Deed it was a scene to lift the heart wi’ gratitude and joy, and at night when I found myself in a quiet comfortable bed, and nae mair heizing up and down wi’ all thae outlandish sounds in my ear, ’deed I could na sleep wi’ very pleasure, so I took to musing on the uses o’ the sea, and I could na make it weel out at all; it seemed to me as if it was a fearfu’ scourge, aye ready to be let loose on our sinfu’ heads, and made for naething but our destruction; but then I minded me o’ the fine caller haddys, and thae herrings at ten a penny, sic a blessing for the puir, and then I thought that there might be a measure o’ comfort in it after all, so wi’ that I fell asleep. The next morning I thought to hae gone on my way, but they would nae hear o’ it, and the bairns they aye clung to me, and said I was to stay and be their mamma. ’Deed, auld as I was, I could nae but think o’ sic a proposal afore John’s very face; and he, honest man, no ways willing. The day after that John set out wi’ me to put me on my road, and he wrote me out a paper o’ all the towns I was to gang through, and sae we parted, and I gaed on my way, thinking it wad be but a pleasant walk; but waes me, I had little thought or comprehension o’ what was afore me. But I am thinking I have said enough for this present time; you will be weary wi’ sic a lang tale.” “Oh no, Peggy,” Leila exclaimed, “I am quite sure none of us are weary. Do go on, for we wish so much to hear how you got here at last.” “And ’deed, my bairn, that’s no easy to tell, for I have but a confused thought o’ all that happened. Every day I walked on and on, and when I came to the towns, I sleeped at big houses that they call houses o’ entertainment: but ’deed it was no diversion to me, the money they aye asked frae me in the mornings; so I took to sleeping at farm-houses, and that answered better. To be sure sometimes I had but the barn or the hay-loft, and but a short word o’ welcome; but others that were mair civil let me sleep in the big chair by the kitchen fire-side; and clean and comfortable mony o’ the kitchens were, dishes and platters on the walls shining like silver, and big hams hanging from the roof, wi’ the greatest plenty to eat and drink, and blythe bairns running about, looking sae like their meat, that it did my heart good to see them. I was aye happy when I got to a farm-house at night; but sometimes I was not just sae lucky; and what wi’ paying for a night’s lodgings, and for a ride in a wagon or a cart now and then, and for a loaf o’ bread and a draught o’ beer, my money was fast melting away, and my heart no that light; for aye when I asked if I was near London yet, they said it was a weary way, and ower far for sic an auld woman as me to compass. But it was only when the days were fast shortening, and the long nights setting in, that the like o’ thae reflections crushed my spirit; yet the morning’s sun made all right again and warmed my auld heart, and I felt there was a Providence abune that could make the roughest way plain and the langest way short to me. I was aye fond o’ the song o’ the robin, and whiles I would sit down by the side o’ a hedge and hearken to them in the trees abune my head, and then I would throw them some crumbs frae my loaf o’ bread to pleasure them puir things; and the bonnie creatures would come down to the ground and look up in my face, as if I had been a kent friend. And Dash, the wise animal, he would keep his distance, and lie as if the breath o’ life was out of his body, till they had ta’en their breakfast wi’ comfort and discretion. From all that I hae experienced in my lang travel, I think the robins are o’ the same nature as in my ain land, just as frank and as kindly. But oh, my bairns! sic a difference in the rivers; instead of the clear bonnie Esk that I had been used to, wi’ the sand lying at the bottom sparkling like diamonds in some parts, and in others springing over the big stones like bairns let loose frae the school, there I came to rivers as quiet and lazy as mill-ponds, and looking as black and drumlie as if they had washed all the dishes in thae big towns in them; but ’deed it’s no wise discreet in me to be making thae reflections; for if their waters are no just sae clear, surely I am come to a land flowing with milk and honey, and need na mind. But I am wandering from my road again.” “Yes, Peggy,” Matilda said, “you are forgetting to tell us how your money lasted, and what you did when it was done. Oh! it must have been so dreadful when you began to be starved to death.” “ ‘Deed, and it was no ways pleasant; but it was no just sae bad as that; and I aye keepit a thought on Him who feedeth the fowls o’ the air, and was no that down-hearted; still it was a serious thought, and I was at my last shilling when the pedlar was graciously sent to me.” “The pedlar, Peggy, how was that?” “You see, Miss Matilda, I was sitting by the road-side one morning, taking counsel wi’ my ain thoughts and looking at the shilling, and turning it round and round in my hand wi’ a serious countenance, nae doubt, when an honest man wi’ a pack upon his back came up to me. ‘Mistress,’ he said, ‘you are looking at that shilling as if there werena mony ahint it, and you were loath to part company.’ ‘’Deed,’ I said, ‘you hae made a gude guess and are no far wrong; for it’s the very last shilling I hae in the world, and a long journey, I reckon, is still afore me.’ Wi’ that we fell into discourse, and I telt him all my story; for he was frae my ain country, and my heart warmed to him. He said that for that day and the next our road lay in the same direction, and that he would be blythe o’ my company. Was I to refuse sic a civil invitation?—by no means. So we gaed on our way thegither, and had muckle pleasant discourse; for he was far travelled, and had great learning and experience o’ the world, and was, forbye, a God-fearing and civil man, and had but one fault that I could discern, he was ower fond o’ beer; preserve me, but I would hae sleepit sound, and ower sound, as he, puir man, found that night, if I had ta’en all he offered me, for he was no ways niggardly; and when I spoke o’ asking up-pitting for the night at a farm-house, he would na hear it; he would treat me, he said, baith to a supper and a bed, and be blythe to do so. Weel, when night came on, we turned into a comfortable-looking house by the road-side, where they selt the beer he was ower fond o’; and it was a canty scene that big kitchen, that lifted the very heart o’ me. There was the mistress frying bacon on the warm red fire, and mair than one hungry man sitting on low stools, listening wi’ delight to the hissing sound o’ it; and a wee baby in a cradle, no thinking o’ sleep, but lying so pleased, wi’ the great een o’ it wide open, and staring at its brothers and sisters, dancing in a corner o’ the room to the music o’ a blind fiddler; they were near to a table where some men were drinking, and there was a man sat there wi’ a face I could no get out o’ my mind at all. He had a down look and an ill look to my thought; and I noticed that though he had his tankard o’ beer afore him like the rest, when he thought nae body was looking that way, he lifted the tankard that had been put down afore the puir blind fiddler, and took a lang pull out o’ it. I would na hae been that sorry if it had choked him, and I felt in my mind that the man would surely come to shame and want. Aweel, when the mistress showed me the room I was to sleep in, I could na get this man’s ill face out o’ my mind, and I asked her if the men that were drinking at the table were to bide all night. ‘Some of them might,’ she said, ‘and some might not; but I need not be frightened, for my friend the pedlar was to sleep in the next room to me, and there was a door through frae my room to his. You see,’ she said, ‘there is only a latch to it, for the key has been lost; but as he is an honest man nae doubt, and your friend, you will no mind that; but this is a decent house, and you need fear no disturbance;’ and wi’ that she left me. I had not been long in bed afore I heard the pedlar, honest man, snoring soundly. I was weary, weary, and yet for a lang time I could no get to sleep, for the fiddle seemed aye sounding in my ears, and the bit bairnies dancing afore me, and that man’s ill face aye taking anither look at me, but after a time I heard steps passing up the stairs, and the front door was barred in, and quietness fell upon the house; and then, though it was no just sleep that came over me, it was a kind o’ a dover, and how lang it lasted I canna tell, but suddenly it seemed to me as if I heard a step in the passage and some one stopping at my door,—I started up in my bed and listened; a lock turned, but it was na in my room, but in the next; and then I saw a light under the door that had the latch. I sprang up and looked through the key-hole; the ill face o’ that awfu’ man seemed glaring on me, I could scarcely breathe, for I felt sure he saw me, but he turned away and went straight up to the bed; he seemed to listen for a moment, bending over it, then softly lifting up a worsted plaid that was lying over a chair by the bed-side, he seized the pack which the plaid was covering, and turned to the door again. He had his back to me then; I lifted the latch and sprang in, and the next moment I had him by the throat, the ill rascal, wi’ a scream that wakened the whole house. He let fall the pack, shook me off as if I had been a feather, and darted along the passage. He took me for a ghaist, nae doubt; for, for decency’s sake, I had put the white sheet about me. Aweel, we looked for him all over the house, but saw naething but a window wide open, and doubtless out o’ that window the ill-conditioned creature had gone on his evil way. It was na muckle sleep that either the pedlar or me got that night, I reckon, for I heard nae mair snoring.” “Oh, Peggy!” more than one voice exclaimed, “how frightful and how interesting; but go on, go on, tell us more.” “Aweel, in the morning he could na be grateful enough, honest man, for what I had done for him. ‘For himself,’ he said, ‘he did na’ fancy riding much, but it would be a rest to me; so all that day we rode thegither in a wagon like ladies and gentlemen, he treating me to the best o’ every thing, and himsel’ no taking just sae muckle o’ the beer. The next morning after that, when we parted, he would force upon me twa bonnie white half-crowns, and telt me aye to ride when I could, for that he did not think I was that strong for sic an undertaking as I had still before me. I would fain hae refused the money, for it seemed to me like taking payment for doing only what was natural to do; but I thought also that pride might have something to do wi’ refusing, and pride was na’ for a Christian woman, so I took the siller. I took his advice too, for I felt that I was not that strong; so I aye rode when I could get a cart or a wagon, but it took mair money than I could weel spare. Many o’ the wagoners and carters spoke a language I could na’ weel make out, but they aye contrived to make it plain to me that they wanted siller. Every day my pocket got lighter and lighter, and my heart heavier; for I came to my last penny, and still a lang way lay afore me. I need na’ vex your hearts wi’ all I suffered wi’ want and lang travel. Some of the folk were kind to me, and some were not; I dinna weel mind all that happened, I ken only that aye when I was at my last extremity, He that I serve had pity upon me; and I aye remembered that ‘He had not where to lay His head,’ and took courage. One night I came to a farm-house, the door was shut, but I looked through the kitchen window, and, oh! but it was a cheerfu’ canty scene. There was a cat as big and as sleek as a fat lamb lying afore the warm fire, and the mistress and the gudeman, and the bairns, and the farm servants, all round a big table at their supper, and the greatest plenty o’ every thing, and sic a smoke from the big dishes o’ meat and o’ potatoes, and sic a speaking and laughing, that I had to tap many a time afore they heard me; but at last the mistress hersel’ came to the door, and wi’ her a bonnie wee lassie at her side. I was all in a tremble, and I telt her my story, and asked for a night’s lodging; but the pleasant face o’ her entirely changed. ‘And how am I to know,’ she said, ‘that there is a word of truth in all this? always the story that they have lost their way, or lost their money, or some such thing. It was but last night that I gave lodging to an old woman, who looked as respectable as you do, and she was off this morning by daybreak with two of my best night-caps that were drying before the fire. No, no, you must take the road again, and be thankful you have a clear moon above your head.’ ‘Oh, mother, mother!’ I heard the wee thing say, but she shut the door in my face. I was weary, and I was faint wi’ hunger too, for I had tasted little that day; to gang on my way was no possible, for the very life seemed sinking out o’ me; so I crept round by the back o’ the house to seek some sheltered nook to lie down in, no wishing ever to rise again. All my desire was to lay myself down in a quiet corner and there to be found dead in the morning. I was leaning against a wall sair spent, and Dash keeping close at my side, as he aye did, striving, puir thing, to keep me warm, when a mist came afore my eyes—it cleared away, and I seemed to see my ain bonnie bairns wi’ the faces o’ angels beckoning to me, and I heard my husband’s voice speaking words o’ comfort, and then a door at the back of the house softly opened, and the bonnie lamb I had seen afore stepped out into the moonlight; she looked about her for a moment on every side, and when the light fell on the face o’ her, it seemed to me as if she too was a kind spirit frae anither world. She was passing to the front o’ the house when she saw me, and, oh!—but it was a sweet voice that sounded in my ear when she took my hand, and said,—‘There is a sixpence and a penny for you, it is all the money I have, but maybe it will get you a bed at a house you will soon come to on the road-side; and here is some bread and cheese for your supper, for I am sure you are hungry.’ I was trying to say something, when a voice cried out, ‘Alice, Alice, where are you?’ and the mistress hersel’ came up to where we were standing. ‘Oh, mother!’ the dear bairn said, ‘do not put her away for she looks so sorrowful and she can scarcely walk; do let her sit at the kitchen fire all night—I am sure she is an honest woman.’ The mistress looked in my face. ‘Well,’ she said, I may have judged you wrongfully, so I will take Alice’s word for it; for it’s not my usual custom to turn my face from the poor of the land, so come in, old woman, and you shall have some supper.’ She took me into the warm kitchen, and seated me at the fire, and the best o’ every thing was set afore me, and bonnie wee Alice took a low stool and set herself down at my feet, and she aye looked up in my face wi’ her kindly smile, and seemed to enjoy every morsel I put in my mouth; and she could na make enough o’ Dash, and was sae pleased when the mistress hersel’ set a plate o’ bones afore him that might have served a king. Aweel, we took our supper wi’ thanksgiving, and in a closet off the kitchen I had a clean comfortable bed to lie down on, which was a great refreshment. The mistress took to me in an uncommon way. I telt her where I was going, and all about it; and in the morning she gave me my breakfast and a white shilling out o’ her ain pocket. I was fain to gie little Alice back her sixpence and the penny, but she was affronted and would na hear tell o’ it; so I laid them down on the wee pillow o’ her bed when she was looking anither way.” The tears were in Leila’s eyes: “Oh, Peggy,” she said, “what a dear little girl Alice must have been! how I wish I could thank her for being so very kind to you; but you are not to stop yet, you have more to tell us.” “Not much more, Miss Leila, for mony o’ the days after that seem to have passed out o’ my mind. I think it was but twice after that that I had onything like a decent bed to lie down on; it was getting darkish one day when I was passing through a village, a heap o’ bairns came running past just out o’ school, and a wild laddie had something tied up in a napkin, and he aye cried he was going to drown it, and they maun come and see. My mind misgave me that it was a kitten, puir thing, so I followed on to a pond that I saw afore me, and just as I got near I heard sic a wild screech, and there was a wee lassie struggling in the water; I cried loud to Dash, and he was into the pond in no time, and afore anither minute was over, the puir half-drowned thing was laid at my feet. Aweel, I took it up in my arms and turned back to the village. The mother o’ it was like to go out o’ her judgment wi’ fright and wi’ joy; I stayed to help to put the bairn into a warm bed, the puir lamb would nae be comforted. Aye when we thought that she was dropping over to sleep she started up again in an unco tremble, and crying out, ‘No, no, mother, don’t be angry, I will never, never go near the pond again;’ and when Dash came up to the bed wagging his tail, and trying to make acquaintance wi’ her, she was like to go out o’ her judgment, wi’ no manner o’ knowledge or gratitude for what he had done for her. Aweel, she fell into a sleep at last; ‘Oh, my darling,’ the mother said, ‘many’s the time I have told her to keep away from those wicked boys, and by no means to go near that ugly pond, for my mind misgave me that something might happen; but she has been punished enough, poor thing, she will not again forget my warning;’ and she leaned over the dear bairn wi’ sic joy and thankfulness, and kissed her over and over again. Though it was getting late, I thought now to have gone on my way again, but though she was but a widow woman, and seemed to have naught to spare, she would na hear of it, so I stayed wi’ her that night, and she did all she could to make me comfortable. The next circumstance that I remember was when I found myself in a town, and sae spent wi’ hunger I could scarcely walk; I had parted wi’ my warm cloak afore, and I think shame to tell you how many salt tears that had cost me, (but it was a present from my gudeman,) and I was thinking if there was onything else I could sell, and holding by the rails, for I could scarcely stand, when a decent-looking young woman, wi’ a most pleasant face, came up to me. ‘What is the matter, poor woman,’ she said, in a kindly voice, ‘you are surely ill?’ I telt her I was starving. ‘Waes me,’ she said, ‘and I have no money to give you, for I have just been disappointed myself: but come with me, you shall have something to eat at least.’ She took me by the arm and helped me on, and we entered a big house, where a great mony people seemed to be living, for I heard voices o’ men and women, and bairns, some crying and some laughing. ‘My sister and I have a room here,’ she said, as we gaed up the stairs; then taking me by the hand along a dark passage, she opened a door, and I saw a young woman sitting close to the window working busily, though it was getting dark. ‘Jessie,’ she said, ‘you will have thought me long away, and after all I have come back without the money for the shirts, for Mrs. Churchill was not at home.’ ‘Without the money,’ Jessie repeated, ‘and not a morsel in the house beyond our night’s supper, and not a farthing to buy more! Oh, Ellen, this is sorrowful news. But who is this you have got with you?’ Ellen told her how she had fallen in wi’ me, and it was beautiful to see the kindness o’ baith the sisters. There was but a small fire, but they gathered up the cinders, and made me sit close to it, and they rubbed my hands and spoke words o’ comfort to me; and Ellen brought some bread and cheese out of a cupboard, and set it afore me, and baith o’ them pressed me to eat. Just then there was a tap at the door. ‘That will be the nurse,’ Ellen said, jumping up; ‘I forgot to tell you that she said she might perhaps be able to bring the money if her mistress came home in time.’ It was the nurse sure enough, and oh, sic joy as it was to the kind-hearted creatures when the nurse counted down ten bonnie shillings on the table. ‘Put on the tea-kettle,’ Ellen said, ‘and I will be back in a moment with some tea and sugar; and, Mistress Nurse, perhaps you will stay and take a cup of tea, you have always been such a kind friend to us.’ But Mistress Nurse said she could by no means stay, for her lady might want her; and she was just going away when she noticed Dash. ‘Bless me,’ she said, ‘what a fine animal, but how thin he is; he looks half-starved; my heart is sore for the creature, tea is not just the thing for him, but if I can get hold of the stable-boy when I go home, I will send him up with a plate of scraps; he will like that better.’ And she was as good as her word; Dash had such a supper as he had not seen for many a day. And how the sisters were pleased and diverted when the creature picked out the largest bone he could find in all the platter, and laid it at my feet. Aweel, we had our tea in comfort, and the best o’ butter, which Ellen said was a treat by ordinar, and muckle pleasant discourse; and I telt them about you, Miss Selina, getting your speech again, and about Miss Leila in the island. They said it was like a fairy tale, and that they had naething to tell me about themselves sae romantic. They had lost baith father and mother, and they worked for their bread, and had come through great straits; sometimes they had plenty to do, and were comfortable enough, and sometimes they were sair put about, and at their last penny; but their mother had been a God-fearing woman, and had given them the best o’ counsel, and they aye kept up their hearts, for there was a Providence abune, they said, that kent what was best for them. The room was clean and neat, though the furniture was scant. There was but one bed, but they borrowed a mattress from a kind neighbour, and I lay baith warm and comfortable on it. In the morning I had a sair struggle, for they would hae me to take one o’ their hard-earned shillings; but I would by no means hear o’ it, and I was the more positive as they had telt me that I was but a day’s journey or so frae Richmond, and need na gang through that awfu’ London, which was a great ease to my mind. So I took only some small change Ellen had gotten in from the tea, and gaed on my way. It was a clear bright day, but it was hard frost when night came on, and I was stiff wi’ cold, and weary, weary; and I could get naething better than a barn to lie down in, for I had but a penny to offer, and they jeered at me, and said a barn was ower good for sic payment. The next morning seems all like a confused kind o’ dream, I remember naething but that I crawled on and on, often stopping and feeling unco’ sleepy, but aye feared to lie down lest I should ne’er waken again; but though I kent Richmond could na be far off now, I was but the mair sorrowful, for I could bear it no longer; I could na move anither step, but sunk down by the road-side. A mist came afore my eyes, I ken naething mair, but that I seemed to waken in Heaven, for when I opened my eyes again, your dear faces were all around me.” Peggy ceased speaking, and clasped her hands together as if in prayer. There were tears in most eyes; even Charles, who seemed to think it unmanly to give way, had to struggle hard with his emotion. “Leila,” he said, as they returned home, “I can well understand what your grief must have been in thinking Peggy lost to you. I am going to write all her story down, it is so interesting, and it will be my first lesson in the Scotch language; I would not have missed hearing her tell it for the world.” CHAPTER XI. A FEW days more, and solitude and silence seemed to have fallen on Woodlands. The whole party had dispersed. Mrs. Roberts had come back from paying a visit to her sister, and even the Stanleys had returned home. Leila had felt the parting with so many kind friends a good deal, and the holidays seemed to her now as but one bright day too quickly past. But there were alleviations; Sherborne Park, the residence of Mr. Herbert, was but an hour’s ride from Woodlands; Leila could now manage Selim with ease; Charles was still to be one week more at home, and on the first Saturday after the breaking up of the party, he promised to be early at Woodlands on his pony, to escort Mr. Howard and Leila to Sherborne Park: besides this, her joy and thankfulness at having recovered Peggy and her dear Dash, bid defiance to all approaches to any depression of spirits. She was buoyant as ever, and each morning, on her way to her Aunt Stanley’s, she stopped for a few moments at Peggy’s cottage to say a few kind words to her, and bring joy and sunshine to the old woman’s heart. Most of the neighbouring families had called at Woodlands; amongst others, Mr. and Mrs. Mildmay, with their daughter Lydia. Leila liked Lydia’s appearance; she was a pretty looking girl, remarkably well dressed, with a beautiful complexion, fine hair, and a very animated expression of face; she praised every thing she saw, was delighted with the pets, said they were happy creatures to have such a dear, pretty little mistress, and kissed Leila twice at parting, and hoped they would always be great friends. Leila was much gratified, and was tempted for the first time to think Selina might be wrong, and too hasty in her judgments. She was made very happy a few days after, by her Aunt Stanley telling her she had obtained her papa’s consent to her remaining to dinner, as Mr. Mildmay, having county business with Mr. Stanley was, with his wife and daughter, to dine with them that day. It was a very agreeable day to Leila; she liked Lydia more and more. She had now quite made up her mind to think Selina’s character of her a mistaken one. Lydia seemed full of heart and affection for all of them, but apparently to prefer Selina to the others; always listening when she spoke, and always declaring that she must know best, and in all their little discussions coming over to her way of thinking. But Leila would have been the first to retract the too favourable opinion she had formed, had she been present at a conversation which took place in the school-room before tea. Lydia and Matilda were alone together, they had been talking of Leila. “Yes,” Lydia said, “I don’t wonder you like her, she took my fancy very much; there is some life and spirit in her. I am sure I hope Selina will not make her as prim as she is herself, for she seems to have taken quite a passion for that dear sister of yours.” Matilda’s colour mounted to her forehead. “I thought you were very fond of Selina,” she said, in an offended tone of voice; “I am sure you always talk to her as if you were.” “And who tells you I am not?” “You yourself do; you would not talk in that way of one you really liked. Ah, Lydia, that is not being sincere.” Selina’s warning came forcibly into her mind at that moment; but she was sorry she had said so much, for Lydia seemed extremely angry; looking very red, she said, “Matilda, that idea would never have entered your head; I know who has——” She stopped, and with a changed expression of look and tone she continued, “But this is quite foolish, we are getting angry with each other for no reason whatever, for we are quite of the same opinion on this subject; I am sure you cannot have a higher opinion of Selina than I have. I only wish I could be more like her,” and she sighed heavily; “but still you must not be angry if I love my own little Matilda even more,” and she drew Matilda towards her, and kissed her cheek. Matilda felt at this moment she would rather that she had not done so, but still she was gratified and flattered that one generally allowed to be so clever and accomplished as Lydia, and who was several years older than herself, should make quite a friend of her, and even often condescend to ask her advice. Had Matilda reflected further, she would have been aware that though she did so, she seldom or ever followed it. Lydia, in fact, always ended by taking her own way in every thing, though apparently yielding to the judgment of others. She now, as if to change the subject, observed, “What nice-looking books you have got on those shelves; your school-room always looks so cheerful and so comfortable. What a pretty book that seems to be at the top there; I should like to see it.” “Oh, that is a beautiful book,” Matilda answered; “but it belongs to Mrs. Roberts. There are sketches in it which were drawn by her husband; she has the greatest value for it, and she shows it to us sometimes; but she has forbidden us ever to touch it when she is not by.” “Oh, she is afraid, I suppose, of Alfred’s dirty little hands, for you know he is for ever grubbing in the earth, hunting after snails or spiders, or some such creatures; but a young lady’s hands are very different,” and she drew off her nice kid glove, and displayed her pretty little white hand, on which a beautiful ring sparkled which had often been Matilda’s admiration. “You cannot suppose,” she continued, “that she would have any objections to my looking at the book; and as she is so very obliging and good-natured, she will be quite gratified, I am sure, that I should admire her book.” She drew a chair towards her and was mounting upon it. Matilda held her back. “Oh pray don’t,” she said; “I don’t wish to disobey Mrs. Roberts, and I promised not to touch or look at it when she was not by.” “Well, don’t touch it, my little pattern miss,” Lydia said; “don’t touch it; put your hands behind your back, and then you can swear you did not; you need not even look at it; shut your eyes and turn your back, my pretty dear, and I will describe, to you the beautiful scenes as I turn over the pages; for I have no pleasure when it is not shared.” Then changing her tone of raillery, she continued: “But what has come over my little Matilda? I scarcely know her again—she that used to be so obliging and so affectionate towards me—have I indeed lost my little friend?” “Oh, no, no!” Matilda exclaimed, and tears were in her eyes. “I am still your little friend; don’t be angry with me. You will love me again, won’t you?” Lydia’s smile was that of triumph; but Matilda did not see it—she was now covering her eyes with her hands. Lydia jumped up on the chair and took down the book; then gently removing Matilda’s hands, she said,—“Come, darling, don’t be foolish; let me see my sweet Matilda again; let us be friends as we have ever been.” Poor Matilda! all her sense of what was right, all her good resolutions, vanished before Lydia’s bland smile. Selina’s repeated warnings, and yet more, the texts of the morning, had been entirely forgotten.—“Show me thy ways, O Lord; teach me thy paths.” And the answer: “Trust in the Lord with all thy heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding; in all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.” Alas! had she asked in sincerity to be shown His ways, to be guided in His paths? had she not leant to her own understanding, and listened to the voice of the tempter? how then could she expect that God would direct her ways when God was not in all her thoughts? She turned over the pages of the book for Lydia, she explained the sketches, and praised them extravagantly, with a confused idea that she was atoning to Mrs. Roberts in some degree by doing so, and she gave herself completely up to the enjoyment of the moment. “Well,” Lydia said, as she turned the last page, “now we have finished; we have had our pleasure, and what the worse, I should like to know, is the pretty book of our admiration? Come, let us put it up again in the book-case.” Matilda jumped up to assist her, and in her haste overturned an ink-glass on the table, which she herself had neglected to put into the inkstand again; a small portion of the ink fell on the beautiful binding of the book; Matilda was horror-struck. “Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?” she exclaimed, as she stood in helpless distress gazing upon it. But Lydia did not lose her presence of mind for a moment; tearing out a sheet of blotting-paper from a book which lay before them, she quickly soaked up the ink, then seizing a sponge which Selina had been using for her drawing, she dipped it in a tumbler of water, and dexterously effaced almost every trace of the stain. The book was bound in white vellum, highly glazed, so that the ink had not sunk in, scarcely a trace of it was discernible. “Now is not this well and cleverly done?” Lydia said. “Come, cheer up, Matilda, don’t think of it another moment; it was awkward enough in you, to be sure; but mum’s the word , and it never will be perceived; I must put it in the book-case again, and as far back as I can.” She was jumping up on the chair, but Matilda took the book from her hand and looked at it earnestly for a moment. “Oh! you need not be afraid, and look so dismal; I really don’t think it possible it can be found out.” Matilda still retained the book in her hand, and rose as if about to leave the room. “Where are you going?” Lydia impatiently asked. “To show this to Mrs. Roberts,” Matilda answered, timidly. “To show it to Mrs. Roberts! Are you mad, Matilda? Surely you would not be such a fool—oh! I beg your pardon for calling you so; how mamma would be shocked if she heard me talking in this vulgar manner—there is nothing she dislikes so much as vulgarity. I beg your pardon, but you did put me in such a passion.” Then changing her tone from that of anger, she continued, mournfully,—“And so you would bring me into this scrape and get me punished, I who have ever loved you, ever been your friend—I who would have stood by you till the last moment! Oh, Matilda! but go—go and leave me.” Matilda stood irresolute. She covered her face with her hands, the tears trickled down between her fingers, but she softly repeated to herself, “Trust in the Lord with all thy heart, and He shall direct thy path.” She removed her hands, she looked up, and in a firm voice she said,—“Lydia, it was I who overturned the ink, and it is I who shall bear the punishment;” and she left the room. She found Selina and Leila with Mrs. Roberts; the expression of her face instantly arrested their attention. “What has happened, Matilda?” they both exclaimed; “what is the matter?” She put them back with her hand, and steadily advancing to the table where Mrs. Roberts sat, she laid the book before her, and pointing to where the stain had been, she said,—“Mrs. Roberts, I spilt the ink upon your book; I am very sorry——” She tried to say more, she could not, she was weeping. Mrs. Roberts looked much distressed. “Matilda,” she said, “it is not on account of any injury my book has sustained that I am so distressed—and indeed I do not think I should have observed it—but you have disobeyed my express command, and you have also broken your promise to me; for it was yourself who voluntarily gave that promise—I did not ask it of you.” “Oh! yes; I remember that quite well; I have been very, very wrong; I deserve to be punished, and I will try to bear it well.” Selina looked earnestly at her; then throwing her arms round her neck, she whispered,—“Tell me, dear Matilda, did Lydia ask you to show her that book?” Matilda made no answer; she kissed Selina fondly, then turning round, she said,—“Mrs. Roberts, I know I must be punished, what do I deserve?”

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