CHAPTER V.
THE MUSICAL PARTY.
AS time went on, Mrs. Randolph relaxed her vigilance over Mabel's lessons. And it soon came to be the rule that whenever her aunt and elder cousin spent the evening from home, she went down to the drawing-room with Isabel and her uncle. It was a sort of stolen pleasure that they all enjoyed, and for which Isabel dressed with even more care than usual, wearing a white muslin or light silk dress for these pleasant home evenings.
"Make yourself look as pretty as you can, Mabel," she would say, "for papa likes pretty things." And so Mabel's one light silk dress was frequently donned, and unfortunately soon lost its freshness—a fact, however, that she scarcely noticed until it was announced that her aunt would give a musical party, and her uncle suggested that she should take an active part in it.
"Mabel can play better than most girls," he remarked one morning at breakfast-time, when the musical party was being discussed. "What do you say, Isabel?"
"Yes, indeed, papa, she can," replied the young lady. For Isabel had generously insisted that as her cousin could play better than herself, her father should enjoy the pleasure of hearing her when they all spent the evening together.
Mabel had objected to this at first, knowing the delight her cousin took in playing for her father. But Isabel protested, and it was indeed the fact that Mabel could play with more feeling and expression, as well as with more skill than herself, and, with rare self-denial, she preferred that her father should receive all the pleasure possible, even though that pleasure was ministered by another instead of herself.
And so Mr. Randolph could speak with some authority about Mabel's skill as a musician. Of course she was delighted to be so praised; and it rather added to her enjoyment to see that her cousin Julia looked annoyed.
"I don't think we shall need to trouble Mabel," said that young lady. "A musical party is not an examination of girls strumming."
"I tell you, Mabel does not strum," said Mr. Randolph with some warmth, for he began to see that his niece was being slighted by his wife and elder daughter.
Isabel gave a little nod of approval. She had grown very fond of her cousin, and knew that it would gratify her to take part in this musical display, and was determined that she should, if possible.
"You do not know how beautifully she plays, mamma," she said eagerly. "You must let her take part in your party."
"Yes, yes, my dear; I insist upon that," said Mr. Randolph, without giving his wife time to reply.
And to end the discussion and make this final, he rose from the breakfast-table immediately afterwards and went out.
Mabel was delighted. She had been kept in the background long enough she thought, and it was only fair that her uncle should interfere.
As soon as her music-master arrived, she told him the news, asking him to help her in the selection of a piece that would be suitable for such an occasion that she might begin practising at once. Of course that gentleman was only too willing to help such a promising pupil to display her talent. And knowing something of the company who would assemble, he was not long in fixing upon a piece that he knew Mabel could execute, and would be certain to attract the attention of the company. And Mabel set to work upon it at once. For the next few days every spare moment was given to the study of her music, but a bitter disappointment awaited her.
When the music-master came the following week, her aunt met him at the school-room door with a piece of music in her hand.
"Miss Mabel is to take part in a musical evening, and I wish her to practise this for the occasion," she said when the usual greetings had been exchanged.
"But—but Miss Mabel has already begun to practise a piece," said the gentleman, running his eye over the sheet of music.
"That does not matter in the least. I desire that she shall play this. My elder daughter thinks it most suitable for the occasion." And Mrs. Randolph, with a polite good-morning, went back to the drawing-room, leaving the discomfited schoolmaster in no enviable frame of mind.
Mabel and Isabel heard every word, as they sat in the school-room, and they looked at each other in blank disappointment.
"Let me see it—let me see what Julia has chosen!" exclaimed Mabel, in her usual impulsive fashion, almost forgetting her manners in her excitement.
The gentleman placed the music in her hand.
"It is very beautiful for those who can understand it," he said in a grave tone. He knew that not one person in a dozen could appreciate this sonata, and that in a mixed company, such as Mrs. Randolph would gather round her, its beauties would be utterly thrown away.
"It is very difficult," said Mabel, scanning the intricate passages with some dismay.
"Yes, it is difficult," assented the music-master, "but I think if you give it careful study, you will be able to manage it."
"Will you play it over for us first?" asked Isabel. "I want to know what it is like."
The gentleman sat down to the piano and played the piece through.
"I don't like it much—I don't understand it," frankly confessed Isabel when he rose for Mabel to sit down and begin to practise it.
Mabel said nothing, but the tears rose to her eyes and she could scarcely see the notes as she laid her fingers on the keys.
"Julia is afraid I should play too well, I suppose," she said after she had stumbled through the first few bars. It would be impossible to play this properly she thought, and a bitter feeling rose in her heart against both her aunt and elder cousin.
"Never mind, dear," said Isabel soothingly, after the music-master had gone and they were left to themselves. "I think I shall like it better as I begin to understand it."
"I don't care a bit who likes it or dislikes it, I 'will' play it properly," said Mabel fiercely. And she sat down to the piano again to go over the more difficult passages.
But all the pleasure and delight in the music practice was gone, and the bitter feeling against Julia grew and intensified. If she ever thought of the old lady's rendering of the parable of the sower, she put away the thought and nourished the weeds and tares that were so rapidly growing in her heart. So much attention was given now to her music that she forgot all about the question of dress for this important occasion, until Isabel one day asked her what she was going to wear.
"Going to wear!" repeated Mabel. "Oh, dear, I forgot all about that!" And she suddenly remembered that her blue silk was beginning to look decidedly soiled.
"I must write to mamma, I suppose," she said with a sigh, wishing she had never heard of this musical party, for she knew her mother had no money to spare to buy her a suitable dress.
"Yes, that will be best, I suppose," said Isabel, who had no experience of want of money, and who had but to ask and have whatever she desired. Her own dress had been ordered from a fashionable dressmaker, and a few days afterwards, Mabel went with her to have it tried on. While this was being done, the thought suddenly crossed her mind that her cousin could not do better than have one made for herself just like it, and she at once suggested it to her.
"It will save your mamma a great deal of trouble," said Isabel, "and I should so like you to have a dress like mine."
Mabel looked dubious. She did not like to confess that she was afraid of the expense, and so murmured something about not feeling sure that it would suit her.
"Oh, yes, miss, it would suit you even better than your cousin," interposed the dressmaker, "for you have more colour. I am sure you could not do better than have a dress like this. Let me take your pattern at once," she added as she released Isabel from the pins and pleatings.
"You really ought to order it at once, Mabel, or there will not be time to get it made," whispered Isabel, coming to her side.
Thus persuaded she could not do otherwise than yield, she thought. Besides, she must have a new dress, and this of Isabel's was very pretty, and would certainly suit her. And as her cousin had bought a brown dress to match her dowdy ones, why should they not have these pretty ones alike? So the order was given and Mabel's pattern taken, without any questions being asked as to what the probable cost would be.
She had no time to think much about this just now, for all her attention was occupied by the sonata she was to play. Every minute that could be spared from her other lessons was given to her music, for she was determined to surprise and vex her aunt and cousin by her proficiency. Whether it was true or not, she certainly believed that this piece of music had been selected for her on purpose that she might fail—that after the first few bars had been played, Julia might come and whisper, "That will do—" and sit down herself and rattle off some brilliant showy piece. And she was determined to defeat her, and wring a triumph out of this very disappointment. I need scarcely say she was anything but happy under the influence of such feelings.
Captious and querulous, poor Isabel scarcely knew what to do or say for fear of offending her cousin. And a casual remark she made about going to see her old nurse and her lodger brought a storm of reproaches down upon her head.
"But why should you feel so angry, Mabel?" expostulated her cousin. "I thought she was a nice old lady; and she seemed to understand so much about what that parable meant. Don't you like old ladies to teach you?" she added.
Mabel murmured something about hearing all that before, but the fact was, she did not like to be reminded of the old woman's lesson just now. It brought to her mind too vividly the conversation she had had with her mother upon worldliness, and she knew she was growing worldly. But she persuaded herself that she could not help it. Julia and her aunt were to blame for that.
At length the day for the party arrived, and she surveyed herself in her new dress with no small complacency. Isabel was in raptures over her.
"Papa will be pleased when he sees you," she exclaimed. "I declare you look quite beautiful. Now, let me put this rose in your hair, just to finish you off. There! Now you will do, and you may begin to think about the music. Oh, Mabel! Papa will have a treat to-night for there will be some very sweet music, so many good players are to be here. I shall just settle down in some quiet corner, and give myself up to enjoy everything."
And in truth it seemed that Isabel, in her self-forgetfulness, could and did "enjoy everything." The envyings, and jealousies, and rivalries that had sprung up between her sister and cousin never touched her—she knew nothing even of their existence. Julia was "disagreeable sometimes, she knew," and Mabel "worried herself" about her music, but that these two were cherishing such feelings as they did, she had not the slightest comprehension. She believed that everybody coming there was bent upon enjoying the music and each other's society, and she hoped that when Mabel had got through her task, she would be ready to enjoy herself too. She could understand her feeling anxious and nervous until this was over, but she could not understand the frown that rested on her cousin's face when, having at length played her piece, she came and sat down beside her.
"What is the matter, dear?" she whispered, slipping her hand into Mabel's.
"Need you ask?" said Mabel fiercely. "I knew how it would be."
"But—but I thought you played very well, indeed," exclaimed Isabel.
"What did it matter how I played in such a babel? Everybody began talking after the first few bars. If I could have had the piece I first chose, everybody would have listened instead of chattering."
"But papa listened and enjoyed it, dear, and I would not mind about the rest."
In truth, Isabel would not have minded. To have given pleasure to one person would have satisfied her meek little heart. And if that one had forgotten to applaud or appreciate her efforts, it would have made no difference to her. But not so Mabel. She had failed to score a triumph, and felt that she had been defeated, and so she sat stolid and indifferent beside her cousin, making no reply to her pleasant speeches.
She was not the only one who could justly complain of the "babel." And under cover of the general chatter, Isabel at length made another effort to rouse her cousin to a more animated interest in the scene.
"Do you know what I have been thinking of?" she said. "Picturing everybody's heart as a field, with tiny blades of corn springing up, just as Mrs. Barker told us. And I have been wondering how everybody kept their field—whether they cleared the weeds away as they sprang up, or whether they were letting them grow high and thick until the tender green blades, or ears of corn, could not be seen."
"Don't," said Mabel, in a gasping voice.
Isabel looked at her cousin. "Mustn't we talk about such things?" she said.
"I think we ought to mind our own business in this as well as everything else," said Mabel sharply. She had taken her cousin's speech as a reproof to herself, and she was in no mood to endure that from anybody to-night.
"I see," said Isabel meekly. "We are to give all our attention to our own weeds, and see that they do not choke the seed in us."
"If we have the seed, that is," said Mabel, rather less sharply.
"But—but will not God plant this seed, if we ask it, in all of us?" said Isabel, in some bewilderment.
Mabel shook her head. "I don't know," she said. And again came the words to her mind, "'Tis a point I long to know." "Yes, I wish I did know," she added aloud.
"But I thought it was quite certain that God would give us this good seed, his Holy Spirit, and that we were to root out the weeds that it might not be choked," said Isabel.
It was clear that she had been thinking a good deal about the matter, and Mabel was vexed that she had no answer ready for what seemed such a very simple question—she, who had been a Sunday-school teacher and had set herself to teach Mrs. Barker this parable of the sower, did not know what reply to give to her ignorant little cousin.
At last she took refuge in the unseemly surroundings for such a conversation:
"People will wonder what we are talking about," she said. "A gay musical party like this is not the right place for a religious conversation."
This silenced Isabel, but did not prevent her thinking.
Neither could Mabel prevent her own thoughts from being occupied in a similar way. No one thought it worth while to disturb them with conversation. They were the youngest of the party, and so they sat together in their corner almost unnoticed and quite undisturbed, except as Mr. Randolph found time occasionally to come and say a few words to them about the music or the players. So Mabel had plenty of time to meditate over the question that had disturbed her more than once since her visit to the old woman's cottage.
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CHAPTER VI.
A NEW TROUBLE.
NO sooner was Mabel freed from the anxiety concerning her music than the ghost of another trouble rose before her. The silk dress she had bought had not been paid for, and she did not know how the money was to be obtained to pay for it.
A day or two before it was ordered, she had written to her mother, vaguely hinting that she might want some money soon, as her aunt was going to give a large party. But the letter was not answered at once. And when the reply did come, Mabel was told that she must not grow extravagant in her dress—that the blue silk, being fully trimmed, was quite good enough for the party. And if new gloves were necessary, she must buy them out of the money that was given to her before she left home, for no more could be sent to her just now.
Mabel was almost stunned when she read the letter. Up-stairs in her desk was the dressmaker's bill, amounting to nearly five pounds, and she had scarcely as many shillings she could call her own. She did not want any more breakfast, but sat toying with her bread and butter and egg instead of eating them. Everybody else at the table was occupied with their own concerns—her uncle with his morning paper, Julia and her mother with their own letters, and Isabel was busy feeding her pet spaniel, so no one noticed Mabel and her almost untouched breakfast.
The day was fine and bright, and they were to walk to nurse's cottage as soon as their morning lessons were over. And Isabel was full of eager anticipation, for she had not seen her old nurse for some time. Mabel, on the contrary, was unusually quiet, scarcely speaking except in answer to Isabel, during the whole walk.
Her cousin thought she understood this, and, as they drew near the end of their journey, she whispered:
"Don't you hope Mrs. Barker will be at home, Mabel?"
"Mrs. Barker!" repeated Mabel, whose thoughts were busy over that unpaid dressmaker's bill and her mother's letter.
"Yes, dear, have you forgotten?" exclaimed Isabel. "We are going to ask her to tell us some more about that parable. I do so want to know whether God plants this seed of himself in all our hearts," she added.
"I think we can learn such things at church," said Mabel a little loftily.
"Yes, dear, you can, perhaps, but—but I have not been used to think of such things. And I am not at all clever, and so I like somebody to explain and make everything quite clear," said Isabel. "I—I thought you would have done this for me," she added after a minute's pause and in a lower tone.
Mabel's cheek flushed. Was it so then that she—she who had desired above all things to make her life useful, to carry the message of God's love to distant lands—should thus have missed the opportunity that lay at her very feet, so that her cousin, who had been waiting to hear her speak, was thankful now to turn to this old woman for instruction.
She made no reply to Isabel, and soon her thoughts wandered off to her monetary difficulties again. These were too pressing just now to be lightly dismissed, even for the all-important subject that now engaged Isabel's attention. Not that Mabel had forgotten it herself. She had practised too much soul dissection lately, turning herself inside out as it were, to know whether she had received this seed of grace. And the words, "'Tis a point I long to know," repeated themselves with painful reiteration through the chambers of her brain.
They found nurse at home this time, and she eagerly welcomed her young lady, and would have monopolized all her attention if she could. But Isabel slipped away after a few minutes, on the plea of going to see Mrs. Barker in her own room, as she had a bad cold, and could not come down-stairs to-day.
"You tell nurse all about the party, Mabel, while I go and see Mrs. Barker," she said, kissing her old nurse by way of reconciling her to the plan. And then she ran up-stairs and eagerly greeted Mrs. Barker.
"I want you to tell me something more about that parable of the sower," she said when all due inquiries had been made and answered.
The old woman looked at the flushed eager young face and wondered.
"My dear young lady, have you not read it for yourself?" she asked.
"Yes, yes," said Isabel, "but I want to know the sort of people God puts his seed into—the Holy Spirit that you told us about."
"The sort of people?" repeated Mrs. Barker. "My dear, the words are plain enough. The seed fell on all sorts of ground—hard rocky soil, loose stony soil, and soft earth, where it could sink down and grow. So I take it that all sorts of people are meant—that God plants his seed in the heart of every man, and woman, and child. And that if all would nurture it—take away the weeds of pride and worldliness, so that the sunshine of God's love could fall upon it and the rain and the air which are so many influences from Him play about it,— then would it grow in the hearts of all men, and the kingdom that we pray for would come to each of us, and heaven be begun on earth." The old woman spoke almost rapturously, and Isabel sat and listened with an eager light in her eyes.
"And you think God has really planted this seed in my heart?" she said in an awestruck whisper.
"I have not a doubt of it, my dear."
"But—but I am so unworthy, so ignorant, so—oh, I don't know what it means hardly," said Isabel in a tremulous voice.
"My dear, if God waited until we were worthy before giving us this precious gift, I am afraid very few would have it."
"And if there is not time for the seed to grow and have fruit, you think He will not be angry if there are only green blades?"
"My dear young lady, God only expects green blades in the spring of our life, but it is just then that it needs the most nurture, and the weeds the most persistent rooting up. And so if He sees we are watching and praying, rooting up the tares of our pride and self-will, be sure He will take care of the rest—He will make the seed to grow. For after all we cannot do His work, remember, we can but clear the ground to let His rain and sunshine—the influences of His Holy Spirit—play around the garden of our heart."
"Thank you," said Isabel with a deep-drawn sigh. "I almost wish I could live to be an old woman that I might bear some fruit," she said in a whisper.
Mrs. Barker looked at her in astonishment. She had often heard nurse say how very delicate Miss Isabel was, but she had no idea that the girl herself knew it.
"I—I don't think we ought to trouble ourselves about such things as that," she said, scarcely knowing what to say.
"Oh, it does not trouble me," said Isabel. "Of course I may live for years and years, but I do not think I shall. Only; please don't tell nurse of this, for dear nursey would fancy I was going to die directly," said Isabel quickly.
And the next minute the door opened, and nurse with Mabel came into the room.
"Well, I'm sure, Miss Isabel, you have quite forsaken your old nurse, it seems. What can you and Mrs. Barker find to talk about, I wonder?" she said, looking from one to the other as though she thought they had been hatching some plot between them.
"There now, you dear, jealous old nursey, you are not to ask any questions," said Isabel, laughing and kissing her.
Nurse looked from one to the other as though she did not half like it, because neither seemed inclined to repeat their conversation. But Isabel soothed and coaxed the old woman into a better frame of mind before she went away, although Mabel still looked unhappy and preoccupied when they left the cottage.
On their way home, Isabel told her cousin what she had learned.
"And Mrs. Barker thinks God has surely planted this seed in my heart; that my very anxiety about this is a proof that it is alive and growing. Oh, Mabel, to think this great thing should have happened to me and I did not know it!"
But Mabel was too much vexed to be as pleased as her cousin expected to see her. And another thing, she was not at all sure that this was the right way of receiving instruction, and so she said something about going to church, and learning there whether Mrs. Barker was right in what she had taught her.
Isabel looked disappointed. "You see, I cannot often go to church, it is so far-away, and the carriage cannot always be spared. And then papa always wants me on Sunday."
"The Lord Jesus says, 'Whosoever loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me,'" said Mabel severely.
This question of going to church had been one of frequent discussion between the cousins. Isabel had not been brought up to go to the house of God with anything like regularity, while to Mabel a Sunday at home was a very rare occurrence, and "going to church" had drifted into a mere formal observance with her—a cold lifeless service, but one which she never omitted if she could help it.
"But what am I to do?" said Isabel in a pained voice. "You know I cannot walk so far, and can very seldom have the carriage. And then papa likes me to read to him or walk about the garden with him on Sunday; it is the only day we have together."
"I don't think the walk to church is much longer than our walk to-day," said Mabel, "but where there's a will there's a way," she added tartly.
"Well, dear, I will try to go to church if you think I ought."
"Why, of course you ought to go," said Mabel in a tone of superiority, "especially if you want to learn—"
"Oh, but, Mabel, that is just it!" interrupted her cousin. "I am not clever, and I have not been used to going to church as you have, and it all feels so strange and far-away that I am like one bewildered in church."
"Oh, Isabel, if you would only try, you could learn things much better at church than listening to an old woman like Barker," said Mabel. For this was what had vexed her so much, that her cousin should have gone to this old woman for instruction.
"Well, dear, I will go to church. I'll go next Sunday, if you think I ought."
"Yes, and we'll read a chapter of the Bible together every day," said Mabel in a more pleasant tone. "And if there is anything you cannot understand, I daresay I can help you."
The two girls began their Scripture reading that very evening—not that it had been wholly neglected before, for Mabel had always read a few verses as a sort of task she must get through, while Isabel had read a chapter here and there occasionally while her governess was with her, but with no thought that it had anything to do with her.
But in the light of what Mrs. Barker had told her, the story of the life of Jesus Christ had altogether a new meaning, for this life was to be translated into her life; this was the holy seed—"the true light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world," unless it is buried in selfishness and sin.
"But, Mabel dear, I have buried it in selfishness and sin," said Isabel sadly, as they were talking over this passage. "I may not have committed any great sin, but I never thought about this holy seed—this 'true light,' and so it has been buried in me all these years. What shall I do?"
"'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin,'" said Mabel, scarce knowing what she ought to say to comfort her cousin under this new distress. She felt vaguely uneasy herself, for if her cousin had such a sense of sin, because she had unknowingly buried this "true light" all these years, how much greater must her sin be—she who had been so carefully instructed from her earliest infancy. Sometimes lately she had tried to shelter herself under the thought, painful though it might be, that God's special grace had not been given to her yet, but in some future time she might hope to have this, and then her life would be different.
But if Mrs. Barker's reading of the parable of the sower was true, she could not shift the responsibility of her failure in this way, for she knew that her life had been a failure lately—God's grace had been given, but she had let the wild weeds and tares almost choke it. She read the parable of the sower for herself over and over again, hoping to detect some corner out of which she could creep, but she found none. There was the plain declaration—the seed was sown in all sorts of soil, leaving her without excuse if she neglected this salvation.
Not that she came to this conclusion all at once, or did not try to wriggle out of it at first when she did see it, but Isabel's talk, and what she herself read of the teaching of the Lord Jesus Christ Himself, shut her up to this view of the matter, and she saw that there was no royal road by which self-denial and struggle might be evaded if she would live a truly useful life.
But, meanwhile, this was not the only care that oppressed her. The winter passed into spring, and brought with it fresh wants in the way of dress. Her mother was not unmindful of these, for she sent her what she thought would be an ample sum of money to provide all she would require.
Now, the bill she owed the dressmaker amounted to about the same sum as her mother had sent for her spring outfit. And this burden of debt had proved so intolerable to Mabel that she went at once and paid it, never thinking of her two brown dresses that would now have to last until midsummer.
At first she assumed a stoical indifference when Julia and Isabel donned their pretty spring attire. Her younger cousin had put off doing this as long as she could, in the hope that Mabel would also lay aside her winter garb, which, however comfortable and suitable it might look in winter time, was certainly out of place now. But to all her hints upon the subject, Mabel only gave short snappish answers.
Isabel was puzzled. She knew some money had been sent for Mabel to buy new dresses, and why they were not bought, she could not tell. All thought of the dressmaker's bill that had been such a haunting care to Mabel the last few weeks had entirely passed from her mind. Mabel had sent it to her mother, she supposed, and it had been paid long ago, and why she should prefer to wear dull dowdy dresses in the bright spring weather, when she had the money to buy others, was a riddle she could not solve.
One morning, after Mabel had left the breakfast-room, Julia made some remark about her cousin wearing her winter dresses still, and Isabel hastened to defend her. "She doesn't think so much about dress as you and I, Julia," she said laughingly.
"Oh, I know better than that," retorted her sister. "Look at that new evening dress she bought. I am sure she could have done without it. The blue silk she brought with her would have done very well for that party." Julia had made this remark before, when the preparations for the party were being discussed. And Mabel had overheard it, and it was this more than anything else had made her decide to have the new dress, and taste the bitterness of being in debt.
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CHAPTER VII.
EXPLANATIONS.
"NOW, Mr. Randolph, you must interfere. I cannot let this go on any longer!" burst forth his wife one morning as he rose from the breakfast-table.
The girls had left the room, and husband and wife were alone, and Mr. Randolph said rather sharply:
"What are you worrying yourself about now, Clara? Isabel is no worse, is she?"—for Isabel's cough had been very troublesome this spring.
"It isn't Isabel at all, but your niece." Mrs. Randolph always said "your niece" when she was angry with Mabel, and so her husband was quite prepared for some complaint.
"What is it now?" he asked.
"Can't you see she is quite a disgrace to us, going about in dowdy winter clothes such weather as this? If her name wasn't Randolph, so that everybody had to know she was a relation, it would not matter so much."
"Would it make the clothes lighter then?" asked her husband in a mocking tone.
"No! But she would not be able to annoy us so much. It is only done to annoy us, I know," added the lady, "for Isabel says she has got the money to buy new things."
Mr. Randolph looked puzzled.
"My dear, I wish you had tried to make things more comfortable for the girl," he said in a vexed tone.
"More comfortable!" repeated the lady. "Why, she is treated like my own daughters. What more would you have?"
"Well, my dear, I don't know how it is; I don't understand woman's ways altogether, but I'm not blind. And I can see that you and Julia are somehow always at enmity with Mabel. It makes me very uncomfortable, I can tell you, sometimes. And if it was not that Isabel had grown very fond of her cousin, so that I cannot think it is wholly her fault, I would send her home at once."
"Then whose fault is it, pray?" angrily demanded the lady. "From the moment that girl came into the house, she tried to set herself up above Julia. And do you think I would let her do that without putting her down?"
"Nonsense, Clara; that is all your fancy. For she knew before she came that she was to be in the school-room with Isabel, to share her lessons and be her companion."
"Yes, and she made up her mind to place herself on a footing with Julia before she had been in the house an hour. I can see as well as you, Mr. Randolph."
"Well, but my dear, is she trying to rival Julia by wearing dowdy dresses?" asked the gentleman.
"No, but that is just one of her whims, to vex and annoy us. It must be, as she has had the money to buy other clothes," concluded the lady.
It certainly was a puzzle, even to Mr. Randolph. He had thought it would be easy enough to remedy this when he first heard his wife's complaint. He would give Isabel a cheque for herself and Mabel to go shopping with, for he could easily understand that in the present critical state of his brother's business, he could not afford to withdraw much money from it, and so Mabel could not have much to spend in dress. But if money had been sent to her for this purpose, and she still chose to wear these winter dresses, then what could he do?
As he drove to the town that day, he half regretted having asked her to pay this visit, for he could not help feeling somewhat disappointed in her, despite Isabel's glowing admiration of her cousin. There had been a feeling of half-suppressed quarrelling and antagonism in the atmosphere of his home since her arrival. And although she and Julia were outwardly civil to each other, still it was the civility of foes rather than friends, and each seemed to be on the watch lest the other should gain some advantage in the undeclared warfare.
Mr. Randolph had not said this to himself in so many words, but it was what had made itself felt almost as tangibly. And thinking over all this, he was the more puzzled to know how to proceed in this delicate matter of Mabel's dress, lest he should do more harm than good. He had the greatest confidence in his sister-in-law's good sense and right judgment, and at last he decided to write to her about it.
He wrote the letter that same afternoon. And then at the last minute, instead of placing it in the basket with others to be posted, he put it into his pocket, for a sudden thought had come to him, that he would talk to Mabel after all, before writing to her mother. This had probably occurred to him through the recollection that his wife and elder daughter were going to a party that evening, and therefore he would have an opportunity of speaking to Mabel without making a fuss about it, for she came to the drawing-room with Isabel as a matter of course now, whenever they had it to themselves.
Now, it must not be supposed that it was at all pleasant for Mabel to wear the dresses she positively hated. But she undoubtedly assumed a rather more haughty air, now that her cousins had donned their pretty spring dresses, lest anyone should dare to think of her as a "poor relation." And this had helped her aunt to form the theory that she was simply doing it to vex and annoy them.
It would, no doubt, have comforted Mabel to have known what her aunt thought about it, and she would have been even more haughty. But as it was, the moment her uncle began to speak about her not changing her winter attire, she burst into tears, exclaiming:
"I cannot, uncle; indeed, I cannot."
Mr. Randolph looked surprised, but he was glad to think that the letter he had written was safe in his pocket, instead of on its way to her mother. Isabel, too, looked surprised—surprised at her cousin's words, and still more so at her troubled manner.
"Do you mind telling me what you mean by 'you cannot?' I understand you have had some money sent to buy new dresses."
"Yes, uncle, but—but I owed the dressmaker all that money," she stammered.
"Owed the dressmaker that money!" repeated Mr. Randolph in a puzzled tone. "But how could that be, Mabel?"
"Oh, I see, I know," exclaimed Isabel, upon whom the truth had suddenly dawned. "You did not send that dressmaker's bill to your mother, Mabel?"
Mabel shook her head. "I couldn't," she said, "after the letter I had from her."
"But what dressmaker's bill is it?" asked Mr. Randolph, who was determined to get to the bottom of the business before offering any help.
Then together the girls explained how the dress had been bought for the party, Isabel generously taking all the blame when she saw her father was inclined to find fault with Mabel for not consulting somebody before incurring such a heavy debt.
"You should have gone to your aunt, my dear," he said, "and asked her about the dress before ordering it."
"Oh, but Julia had said her old dress would do, and it wouldn't," said Isabel, determined to defend her cousin.
"What do you know about it, Pussy Paleface?" said her father tenderly, drawing her on to his knee and kissing her.
"Why, I know you are going to make out a cheque for us to go shopping with to-morrow," said Isabel in a tone of mock solemnity.
"I perceive you are a witch, madam, young as you are, or you could not have read my thoughts so accurately."
"You dear old dad! I knew you would help Mabel out of her trouble."
"Yes, but only for this time, remember. For I don't approve of young girls ordering dresses without consulting older and wiser people. I wonder what your mother would think of this business, Mabel?" he said, turning to her.
Mabel's heart was too full for her to speak, for her uncle's last words had lifted such a load of care from her mind. But her tearful, grateful face spoke more eloquently than words.
"Well, well," said her uncle, "I don't think Mabel will be in a hurry to go into debt again, and so we'll say no more about it."
"Indeed—indeed, uncle, I shall never forget it, I have been so miserable lately," gasped the poor girl, trying to keep back her tears.
"Oh, Mabel, and you never told me about it!" said her cousin reproachfully.
"Why, what could you have done, Pussy?" said her father.
"I would have brought that horrid dressmaker's bill to you, of course, long, long ago, if I had only known about it," said Isabel.
But her father shook his head. "It would not have done, Pussy. I don't think I should have paid it. Girls must learn, as well as other people, the true value of money. Mabel has had her lesson, and a rather painful one it has been. Yours will come some day."
But even as he said the words, a doubt crept into the father's heart whether such a lesson would ever be needed for his younger daughter—whether the training for life here was not wholly unnecessary, for of late she had grown even more delicate and frail-looking.
By a certain intuition Isabel seemed to guess the drift of her father's thoughts, and she whispered:
"I am laying up treasures for by and by."
"Treasures for by and by!" he repeated, putting from him the thought that her words implied, and pretending not to understand what she meant.
"Yes! I shall need the other sort of wealth most. The minister preached about it on Sunday—'Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and steal.' Treasures of the soul, the minister said it meant—treasures of knowledge and truth concerning God and the Lord Jesus—treasures of love, our loving others—treasures of service. I sha'n't have much of that," said Isabel, "for I'm such a poor thing—of so little use to anybody, but I can love them. Oh, you dear dad, how I love you—best of all, I think; and after you, everybody I know. I should like to help them in all sorts of ways, but as I can't do that, I can love them and pray for them—ask God to help them more than I can."
'Mr. Randolph looked dumbfoundered. All the repressed fear and dread that he had stifled and subdued in his own heart sprang into life as he listened to Isabel.
"My dear, my darling," he gasped, "how long is it since you felt worse?"
"Worse, papa! I am not worse," said Isabel. "My cough is a little troublesome at night that is all. Only—only, I thought you knew I should never be a very old woman."
Her father looked at her earnestly. "You are sure you are no worse, Isabel?"
"No, no, dear papa. Why do you look so frightened? You know I promised a long time ago that I would tell you or mamma the moment I felt the least bit worse."
But although she thus assured him in the full sincerity of her heart, the anxious father could not feel satisfied. His fears had been awakened, and these told him that there was a change in his beloved child. She looked more ethereal, and the light as of a higher world shone in her eyes and played about the smile that wreathed her lips. She looked so much more animated and happy, too, than she did a few months before. And he looked from her to Mabel, as if mutely asking what she had done to bring about such a change.
"My dear, you look very happy," he said.
"Happy! Oh yes, papa. Haven't I everything to make me happy—everything in earth and heaven!" she said with a look of rapturous joy. "Do you know, papa, what the minister said on Sunday? That the kingdom of heaven must come to us, be begun in our own hearts here in this world, in this life, or we should never come to the kingdom beyond the gates of death. And it's true, papa. I feel it and know it; and, oh! I do wish everybody else could know it too—know it the same way that I do."
"Oh Bella, Bella, are you going to slip away and leave your poor dad all alone here?" exclaimed Mr. Randolph in an agony of despair.
It was the beginning of the end, he felt sure, or timid, gentle Isabel would never have the courage to talk like this.
A shadow came over her bright eager face for a minute or two, and the tears slowly welled into her eyes as she threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming:
"Oh papa, papa, I cannot leave you!"
"Hush! Hush! Darling, we won't talk about it—we won't think about it—we will be very happy together."
"Yes, we will," said Isabel slowly, "but—but it can't last for ever, papa—one of us must go some time."
"Yes, some time," admitted Mr. Randolph.
And then he asked Mabel to go to the piano and play some of their favourite music. But instead of going with her cousin to turn the music as usual, Isabel still sat on her father's knee until the French clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour for them to go up-stairs.
Mabel had been scarcely less surprised than her uncle at the turn the conversation had taken. For although they often talked over their Scripture reading together, she had never obtained such a glimpse of what was going on in her cousin's heart as this afforded. And she, too, wondered whether Isabel's health was worse.
The next day, however, all such fears were put to rest in Mabel's mind, for Isabel was eager with delight at the anticipation of the shopping expedition. Her father had written out the cheque and given it to her before they went to bed. And before Mabel was up the next morning, Isabel came tripping into her room in her pretty pink dressing-gown.
"Get up, dear, it is the most lovely morning, and I want to look over my German before Herr Muller comes, that we may be ready to go shopping the moment our lessons are over," exclaimed Isabel.
Mabel rubbed her eyes sleepily. She had been dreaming that her cousin lay dying, and this vision of her, flushed and excited over the prospect of turning over pretty dress goods, was so absurd a contrast, that as she realized it, she could not help laughing.
"What are you laughing at?" asked her cousin.
"At you, to be sure," answered Mabel.
"Am I such a figure, then?" said Isabel, going to the looking-glass and surveying herself.
"No, no, it was not that. But my dreams and your talk last night have got mixed up somehow, and I wondered how you could be so eager about this shopping."
"But why shouldn't I be eager?" said Isabel. "I could dance for joy about it, because we are going to make so many people happy and comfortable again who have been very uncomfortable lately."
"So many people!" repeated Mabel.
"Yes, dear. To begin, there was dear papa, the dearest father that ever a girl had. Well, I began to see that he looked uncomfortable when you came into the breakfast-room of a morning in such a warm dress—the sight of it seemed to make him hot," laughed Isabel. "Then mamma would frown and look across at Julia, and Julia would shake her head at me as though she thought it was all my fault."
"And you, what did you feel?" laughed Mabel, for she could laugh about it now.
"Oh, I don't know what I felt. But make haste and dress, Mabel. We must be in good time this morning, for I am going to ask mamma to go with us."
But when they descended to the breakfast-room, they heard that Mrs. Randolph was not well, and would not get up until the middle of the day. Isabel looked dismayed at the news:
"Oh, papa, we wanted to go shopping."
"Well, dear, I will arrange that for you with mamma. I should think you might be trusted to buy a dress or two after such a lesson—eh, Mabel?"
"Yes, uncle, I will be very careful not to spend more than I ought to do. Mamma sent me a list of what she thought I should require, and the probable cost, so I will take that with me as a guide."
"That's right, dear. Then I am sure you and Bella might come to the town by yourselves, and when you have done your shopping you can drive round to my office and we will all come home together."
This was an arrangement that delighted Isabel.
But the shopping itself was not such an unmixed pleasure, for she found that her aunt's list did not embrace anything very costly or elaborate, and her plan of persuading Mabel to order an outfit the counterpart of her own did not succeed at all.
Mabel carefully counted the cost of every article, and compared it with her mother's list, and Isabel could not but own she was right.
"Yes, yes, you are right, Mabel. But I cannot help feeling disappointed, for I thought that cheque would have bought so many more things. I wonder whether I should ever learn the value of money?" she added musingly.
"To be sure you will when it is needful."
"Ah, when it is needful! But perhaps it never will be needful, and that is why I am so slow at learning."
——————
CHAPTER VIII.
CONCLUSION.
"DON'T you think you could manage the walk, dear, to-day?" said Mabel coaxingly one Sunday morning after breakfast.
Isabel looked dubious. "Couldn't we sit here and read?" she said.
"It isn't like going to church," said Mabel discontentedly.
She and Isabel had been pretty regular in their attendance lately, for Mr. Randolph, finding his younger daughter wished to go, had ordered that the carriage should always be in readiness to take her. Sometimes he had gone with her himself, and sometimes her mother and Julia had joined them.
Altogether it had been a very happy summer to Isabel and her father. She suffered from languor and weakness during the hottest part of the weather. But since the summer had begun to wane, and the days to grow cooler, she had felt better. And so Mabel felt sure she could walk to church if she tried, and she pressed it upon her as a positive duty. They could not have the carriage to-day, for Mrs. Randolph wished to go and see a friend at a distance who was ill. And Mr. Randolph was away upon business, so that Isabel could not have that excuse for staying at home, thought Mabel.
She had discovered that if Isabel did not go to church on Sunday, she generally contrived to go and see Mrs. Barker during the following week, and she was still a little jealous of the old lady's influence over her cousin, and had never quite forgiven her for sundry home truths that had been spoken to herself. As one of the people whom she—Mabel—was supposed to be able to teach, it was not pleasant to go and see her, as Isabel did, in the character of a scholar. And so now she pressed Isabel to go to church with the greater pertinacity on this account.
"Very well, dear, I'll go," said Isabel at last. But even as she spoke, she heaved something like a sigh of weariness at the prospect of such a long walk.
"That's right, make haste and get your things on," said Mabel briskly. "It will be a lovely walk across the fields such a fine morning."
Mabel enjoyed the walk immensely, but before they reached the church, she could not but notice how tired Isabel seemed. "I am afraid I have walked too fast for you, dear," she said. "We will go more slowly."
"I am tired," admitted Isabel. "I hope it won't rain before we get home," she added in a little alarm. "Look at those clouds over there."
Mabel did look, and tried to laugh off her cousin's fears. But after they got into church, instead of attending to the service, her eyes and thoughts wandered to the opposite window, where she could see that the clouds were slowly gathering in blackness all round. Poor Isabel was spared this anxiety, for she was too weary to think of anything, and sat leaning back in the corner with her eyes closed, looking utterly worn out. But presently there was a sound that roused even her dormant faculties, for the rain-drops were pattering on the windows, and she looked at Mabel in dismay.
"It won't last long," whispered her cousin confidently.
But the rain continued to come down steadily and incessantly, so that it seemed impossible for either of them to attend to the service for the fright this had caused them.
"Perhaps mamma did not go before the rain came on, and she will send the carriage," whispered Isabel when the service was over, and the people began to move.
Mabel nodded. "We will wait here until it comes," she said. "You sit still, and I'll go and look if it is here yet."
Mabel made several journeys to the church door, but each was unsuccessful. And at last they began to see that they would have to leave the church, for the sexton wanted to close the doors.
"You'll get a cab round the corner," he said. And not knowing what else to do, the two girls started off in quest of one. But they walked nearly half a mile, and got very wet before one was found.
Isabel went to bed as soon as she reached home, and Mabel took care that every remedy she knew of as being good for a cold should be promptly applied. And doubtless it did her cousin a great deal of good, but it could not undo the mischief that the long walk, and the fright, and the wetting had done.
When Mr. Randolph came home the next day, he found his younger daughter very ill. And though the doctor spoke lightly of it as a "slight attack," the anxious father was very much alarmed.
But Isabel began to improve after the first day or two, and by the end of the week she was able to leave her bed, and be carried to the couch in her own sitting-room. Everybody hoped that she would soon be down-stairs again now, but her progress towards convalescence seemed to be arrested at this point. The weather was cold and damp, and although always bright and cheerful, it seemed as though the springs of her life had been chilled and exhausted.
Mr. Randolph soon grew anxious again, and talked of calling in a physician to see her, but Isabel begged him so earnestly to wait a little longer before doing this that at last he consented to wait for a week to see if there was any further improvement.
Mabel could not understand why her cousin should have such an objection to the physician being sent for. And when they were by themselves she said, "Why are you so afraid of this physician, Isabel?"
"I do not think I am afraid exactly, dear, but—but I want to get used to the thought of going home soon before papa knows it."
"Going—home—soon," uttered Mabel with whitening lips. "Oh, Bella, Bella, what have I done?" she gasped, covering her face with her hands.
"Don't—don't, Mabel," said the invalid, gently drawing down her hands.
"But what do you mean? You cannot mean that—that—" and Mabel stopped.
"That I am going to begin to live in earnest soon, that is it; this earth life has only been a half-dying sort of life. I have never been able to do as other girls did, but it will be changed soon, and I shall begin to live thoroughly—think of it, Mabel—to live, to live!" said Isabel exultantly.
"But, my darling, I don't understand," said her cousin, wiping away the fast-falling tears; "how can you know this?"
"The voice has told me—the Seed, and the Word, and the Light, and the Voice—they all mean the same thing, Mrs. Barker says. And so you see I cannot be mistaken, for God Himself has told me that I am going home soon. I shall not get stronger, as dear papa hopes, but weaker and weaker until the end comes."
"Then why not have the physician at once? He might recommend something that would do you good."
But Isabel shook her head. "He would tell papa to take me away to Nice, or Mentone, or some of those places, and I want to die at home, with you and papa and everybody that loves me. You will stay with me to the very last, won't you, Mabel?"
"Yes, yes. But, oh, what have I done?" exclaimed Mabel, wringing her hands in agony.
"Nothing, dear. That little cold I caught did not cause this. I have been learning to know it all the summer. I have been just slipping away for a long time, I think—ever since my cough got worse in the spring, but the last few days I have known it would be soon now."
Mabel sat crying silently by her cousin's couch. Oh how bitterly she regretted urging her cousin to go to church now, and the pride and jealousy of Mrs. Barker that led to it! She had succeeded in persuading herself at the time that as it was a good thing to go to church, therefore it must be good for her and Isabel to go. But no such sophistry would avail her now. It might be, as Isabel said, that this had not caused the more serious part of her illness, but she believed herself and she knew her uncle and aunt also believed, that this had been the active cause of arousing all the more serious mischief.
Poor Mabel! She was indeed to be pitied, and the more, perhaps, that for the last few months she had set herself steadily to the task of rooting out the seeds of pride that hindered the growth of the good seed in her heart. She had been more pleasant and yielding with Julia, been less watchful for any little affront that might be offered to herself, and more guarded in her own behaviour lest she should offend. And that this should happen now, just when she thought she was gaining a victory over herself, was indeed a trial and mystery to her.
Her uncle and aunt were, of course, very angry with her. And Mr. Randolph at first felt inclined to yield to his wife's proposal, that she should be sent home at once. But Isabel was so distressed when she heard of it, and Mabel begged so earnestly to be allowed to stay and nurse her cousin at least until she was a little better, that Mr. Randolph yielded the point at last, but he could not wholly forgive Mabel yet.
Before the end of the week stipulated for by Isabel, her father insisted upon sending for the physician who had seen her once or twice before, and the verdict he had to give was anxiously waited for by Mr. Randolph. Alas! Before he saw her, the physician knew what that verdict would have to be, and he almost dreaded to meet the searching gaze that he knew awaited him down-stairs.
Mr. Randolph drew him into the library and shut the door. "Now, tell me what you think of her, doctor," he said as he handed him a chair.
"It is useless for me to try and deceive you," said the physician compassionately. And then as gently as he could, he told the heart-stricken father all the truth—that there was no hope, and a few weeks would probably end the mortal life of his best-beloved daughter.
Mr. Randolph proposed taking her away to the south of France at once, but the physician shook his head. "It would be downright cruelty to attempt it," he said. "If I had seen that such a change would have done her any good, I should have ordered it last spring. But I knew that the fatigue and excitement incident upon travelling, would but have hastened the end, and you would only have taken her away to die. Her gentle placid disposition, and the even tenor of her life, has doubtless prolonged her existence by some months," added the physician.
"But she caught cold and got overfatigued a short time ago—it was that that brought on the attack," said Mr. Randolph.
"It may have accelerated things a little, but this damp cold weather has done the most mischief. If I am not greatly mistaken, she knows herself that the end is near, for as I was leaving her she whispered, 'You will not send me away, doctor?' And her eyes said plainly enough that she knew it would be of no use."
Mr. Randolph covered his face with his hands and groaned in agony. "Forgive me, doctor," he said after a pause, "but the world will be empty to me when she has left it. She has been the home sunshine, and there is not a servant in the house but could tell you of some little kindness done, some little considerate act in sparing them trouble, or helping them over a difficulty—Oh, doctor, doctor, can nothing save her?" he broke off, wringing his hands in anguish.
The physician was a Christian, and, valuable as his time was, he contrived to spare an hour to sit and comfort the sorrow-stricken father so that at last he was able to go to Isabel calm at least.
She saw in a moment that the physician had told him the truth, and holding out her arms she said, "Papa, papa, it will not be for long; we shall soon be together again. I have prayed for you, papa, and I know that God is answering my prayers. He is taking me that He may win you too, for He loves you, papa—loves you so much that He gave His only begotten Son for you—for you, papa," she gasped, for the exertion of saying so much had almost overpowered her.
"Hush, hush, my darling, you must not talk. Shall I send for nurse to come and stay with you?" he asked.
She looked up at him quickly. "You won't send Mabel away, papa—poor Mabel! She is almost breaking her heart as it is."
"No, dear, she shall stay if you wish it."
"I do wish it, papa. I could not do without her now, she helps me and comforts me so much. But you may send for nursey too, she will like to be here, I know, and she can sit beside me at night sometimes, and keep the others company." For she knew that the servants almost quarrelled among themselves for the privilege of "sitting up with Miss Isabel."
So it was arranged that nurse should be sent for to take up her abode in the house. And before the messenger was sent with the note requesting her to do this, Mabel contrived to say, "And you would like to see Mrs. Barker sometimes, wouldn't you, dear? Shall I write and ask her to walk over as often as she can?"
Isabel looked at her cousin. "Would you like it, Mabel?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes, dear, I should now. I am ashamed of feeling jealous because she took up my neglected work, and so had the joy of leading you first to the Lord Jesus Christ."
"Never mind, you have helped me too; I don't know how I should have got on without you, Mabel. But still I should like to see Mrs. Barker, and have one more talk with her before I am too weak. Tell her to come soon, Mabel."
Nurse was not long in obeying the summons to come to Isabel.
And the next morning Mrs. Barker appeared, to Mrs. Randolph's great surprise, who could not understand why her daughter should want nurse's lodger as well as herself.
But Isabel's lightest wish was law now, and so the old lady was taken up to her room.
She was greatly moved at seeing Isabel so prostrate, and yet so calm and happy. "I want to know just a little more about the seed," she said. "You see, I cannot wait for the harvest, I am going home in the springtime, and have only green blades. I do wish sometimes I could have stayed for the fruit."
"But, my dear young lady, you are bearing fruit. The fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance; these are of the heart, and are all that God asks of you. He knows that active service and outward battling is impossible for you, but that Christ is daily growing in you—that you are one of the branches joined to the true Vine, and thus His life is proved to be in you by these fruits of the Spirit, for without Him you could do nothing."
"Oh, if I had not learned this—learned to love the Lord Jesus, who loved me and gave Himself for me—how miserable I should be now!" exclaimed Isabel. "I should have been unhappy and fretful, and miserable at the thought of dying so young. But now I can trust God, even for dear papa, for I know that the seed is beginning to grow in him, and God will teach and help him to root up all the weeds that hinder its growth."
It was the last long talk she was able to have with Mrs. Barker.
As the days went on, she grew rapidly weaker. She suffered very little pain, beyond the restlessness at night. During the day she dozed a great deal, or lay with Mabel's hand clasped in hers, occasionally asking for a few verses from the Bible, or a hymn to be read to her. But even this soon wearied her, and she would doze off again before Mabel had read many lines.
Mr. Randolph rarely left the house now, except for an hour on the most urgent business, and spent a great deal of his time in Isabel's room, where he could not help learning much that he had never heard of before, and which awoke in him thoughts, and desires, and resolutions that afterwards blossomed into a consistent Christian life. So that when at last the end came, and he had to give back to God the gift intrusted to him for a little while, he could do it with a hope that by and by he should join his beloved daughter in the kingdom where there is no sickness and no partings.
As soon as her cousin's funeral was over, Mabel returned home a wiser if a somewhat sadder girl.
As she stood in her own little room on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, and thought of the hopes and aspirations she had spoken of to herself the year before, she said half aloud: "Ah, the mistake I made was looking too far ahead, and being too ambitious, and so I failed to see the work that God had already given me—the duties that lay nearest to me. Oh, dear, how much I have missed through this! But, God helping me, Isabel shall not have died in vain, I will strive to be content with the smallest service—the lowest place now."
And Mabel kept her word. It cost her many a hard battle before she could quite settle down as her sister's governess and her mother's helpful daughter. But she conquered at last, winning victory from defeat, but never quite forgiving herself for the mistakes she made in that most eventful year of her life.
THE END.