Jubilee Hall

CHAPTER XVI.

FIGHTING WITH SELF.

Meantime Fred had remained upstairs in a state of as utter restlessness as it was possible for any boy to be in. Fear, remorse, shame, pride, and even contrition, were at work within him, each fighting their own fight, and loudly asserting their right to a first place in his mind: but fear had the strongest position, for at any moment, Fred knew, the door might open, and his accusers rush in; and then what would be left for him but disgrace and punishment.

A thousand times he turned his glances towards the doorway, while his heart beat fast and furiously, thinking each step in the passage was the footfall of an enemy or the advent of a foe; and when at length he did hear his aunt's voice in the passage outside, and knew that she was coming to see him, he feigned sleep, and that so successfully, that she withdrew from the room with noiseless steps, and closed the door softly behind her.

"If I had only had the courage to tell Maurice when he brought me up my breakfast, I should be all right now, or rather the worst would have been over; but I am the veriest coward living," he murmured to himself reproachfully, as he tossed to and fro on his bed, his head aching painfully at every turn. "Why do not Harry and Kathleen come up to see me; they must know what misery I am in. I wonder whether Harry would tell it all for me? I will ask him when he comes in." And Fred planned feverishly the words of confession which he would dictate to his younger brother, so as to palliate his acts, and make them appear as little criminal as possible.

But again better thoughts would have temporary sway, and then the voice of conscience would whisper painfully into his ear, "You ought to make this confession of your guilt yourself, with your own lips and in your own words, and not lay the burden of your fault on the shoulders of another." And then he would writhe and groan under the pressure of this warning voice; for he knew well whose voice it was that pleaded with him thus, and that its words were the words of truth, and ought not to be thrust aside.

While he thus argued, and murmured, and fretted, and feared, the door opened again, and Harry, followed by Kathleen, came in, with heated face, and anxious, eager manner.

"Well," cried Fred, starting up in his bed angrily, "so you have come in at last, have you! A precious long time you have left me by myself, I must say! But I suppose it was because you knew I was so happy and comfortable up here that you stayed away so long."

"No indeed; we were walking outside, and thinking what was best to be done; and afterwards we met Maurice, who was in an awful state about you, and said all sorts of things. And now we have come up to see if we could persuade you, Fred, to tell him all; for it's not right that he should think it was his fault, and blame himself so awfully."

"Why, what did he say?" asked Fred with an air of sullenness, which even Harry could see was only put on to cover his painful anxiety and fear.

"He said how it was all his bad temper, and the way he treated you, which had made everything go wrong; and that he had wished, and so had they all, to make us so awfully happy, and now he had only made us miserable."

"And what did you say?" asked Fred with increasing uneasiness.

"I am sure I don't know what I said."

"Did you tell him anything,—did you even give him a hint?"

"No; I only said I would go up and see you, and ask you to explain all to him, for there were heaps of things he did not know."

"You did?" gasped Fred.

"Yes."

"Then you have actually pinned me into confessing."

"No, not pinned you; for I do not think Maurice believes there is anything to confess. But surely, Fred, you would not like to be such an utter coward; and, besides, in a little while he must find it all out."

"I'd give all the world not to be such an utter coward, as you call me!" cried Fred, dropping the mask completely from his feelings; "but the fact is, I feel as if I could never make up my mind to confess. I have been fighting with myself all this time up here, and I'm not a bit nearer doing what's right than I was."

"Don't fight with yourself any longer, but do it."

"How should I begin to tell him, Harry?" asked Fred almost piteously.

"Oh, don't plan beforehand what you'll say. When once you have started off, you'll see the right words will come into your head. I know they will," said Harry earnestly.

"How can you know? You have never been in such an awful fix as this."

"I have been in other fixes though, and I have got out of them—I mean I have been helped to get out of them."

"Helped?" questioned Fred, opening his eyes wide, and staring at his brother in amazement "Who helped you? Was it mother?"

Harry shook his head, and remained silent, though sudden nervous blushes covered his face.

"What does he mean?" cried Fred, looking at Kathleen for information, whose corresponding nervousness showed she was a sharer in Harry's confusion.

"I think he means that God helped him," she said in a very low voice, while she tugged at the knots on Fred's counterpane with restless, trembling fingers.

"Oh, was that it! I could not think what he meant," said Fred, in a strange, altered voice, while he turned his head away, and looked vacantly out through the open window where the beech-trees were glistening in the sunshine, with their branches full of song. "I am such an awfully queer kind of a fellow, I never think of these kind of things;" and presently, in the same altered voice, he added, "and that's, I suppose, why I am always getting into these scrapes."

"Nonsense!" cried Harry, with a rising lump in his throat.

"You say 'Nonsense,' but you know all the same it is perfectly true. Mother always said so when we were at home. Oh, what will poor mother say when she hears it all!" And Fred rocked himself to and fro in the bed.

"If it were only for her sake, you ought to try to be brave," said Harry sadly.

"If I do speak, to whom ought I to say it,—to Maurice, or to aunt?" asked Fred after a pause, and with lips which were blanching already at the thought of the dreaded confession.

"To either. I don't think it matters to which."

"If I had only not smashed that precious chess-box, it would not seem half so bad a thing to have to confess;—and they will think, perhaps, I broke it on purpose, out of spite."

"Oh no; I'm sure they won't think that. But listen! I am almost certain I hear Maurice coming up the stairs. Shall we stay with you, Fred, while you are telling him, or not?"

"Yes, yes, stay; or—no; I think I should get on better without you."

"But you'll tell him all, won't you—about the bow and everything?"

"I could not."

"Yes, yes, you must. You will be twice as happy, once it is all off your mind; and don't forget—" But here Harry and his sister had to make a sudden rush towards the door of Kathleen's room, as Maurice's voice was heard outside in the passage, demanding, in a somewhat excited voice, to be admitted.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE MISCHIEF DISCOVERED.

"Fred!" cried Maurice, in a voice of great excitement, as he hastily pushed open the door of his cousin's room, and walked in—"Fred! what do you think has happened?"

Fred had just lain down in the shade of the bed-curtains, with the express desire of concealing the workings of his face while he made his dreaded confession; but now, in the unexpected agony of the moment, he sat hastily up, and looked full at Maurice, whose blanched cheeks and agitated manner showed that some great thing had just occurred to upset him.

"What is it, Maurice?" he inquired in a tone of no affected concern, for his very heart was beating into his mouth; "nothing bad, I hope."

"Very bad, I am sorry to say; for there has been a general destruction of all mother's most precious things in the store-room downstairs."

"Oh, what—how?"

"Well, that's just what we can none of us exactly make out; only when I went in just now with mother to get out the Japanese theatre dodge, which mother had given me leave to make a present of to you, as I knew you were fond of mechanical inventions—"

"Nonsense, Maurice; I could never have taken it from you."

"Why, then, we found, when we opened the door," continued Maurice, heedless of Fred's interruption, "everything in the most awful state of confusion you can imagine. The theatre, which I was at the moment in search of, was lying on the floor in the most terrible state of smash—the lid of the case broken right off, and all the little men and women thrown pell-mell about the place."

"My goodness, how dreadful!" responded Fred.

"Yes, poor mother is in a sad way about it, for father took such delight in seeing the little puppets dancing, and thought it so ingenious; and besides that, there was a lot more damage done, for the ladder had fallen right across the room and smashed an entire set of rare China plates and dishes in the corner under the window, besides jam-pots to no end. There was one good thing, however—"

"What?" asked Fred, drawing a quick, uneasy breath.

But Maurice paused before he replied, for a sudden consciousness had come over him that he was about to touch on an unpleasant subject, and he coloured painfully, and hesitated in momentary embarrassment.

"What?" asked Fred again, in an eager, hungry voice. It was something to know that there was even one good thing in so utterly bad a transaction.

"Mother's precious chess-box was not broken."

"Thank God!" cried Fred earnestly.

Maurice looked at him for a moment in surprise, and then went on. "You see, yesterday evening I was so thoroughly ashamed of myself for my conduct to you, and the way I had knocked you about in the afternoon, that I asked mother's leave to take the box out of the store-room and have a game with you before tea."

"Well, and what did she say?"

"She was awfully kind, and told me I might have them certainly, if I promised to take great care of them; but though I tried my best to get hold of you afterwards, I could not succeed. You remember when I met you in the shrubbery walk, don't you?"

"I do," sighed Fred hopelessly. "I was a brute, that was all."

"Now, Fred, if you say any of these kind of things again, I'll go out of the room; for I was the one who was utterly in the wrong from beginning to end,—even mother says I was."

"How so?" asked Fred.

"Oh nothing; that's to say it was only that time about the jam picking, and I—or rather she—she thought just at first there had been something wrong about the weighing of the cans; and, besides, the girls overheard something or other which puzzled us a bit, and which, I dare say, meant nothing; and I acted, as I always do, in a headlong way. However," continued Maurice, noticing the distress in his cousin's face; "however—what was I saying, Fred?"

"I—I don't remember."

"Oh yes, now I have it; it was about the chess-men. Well, as I was telling you, I asked mother's leave to take the chess-men out of the store-room to have a game with you; and then afterwards, when I could not catch hold of you, I put them by in mother's room, so as we might have a game this morning; which, as it turns out now, was a great blessing, else they would have been destroyed to a certainty, for they stood exactly on the spot where the Japanese theatre was knocked down."

"A blessing, indeed," groaned Fred, whose confession seemed every moment more and more impossible and imprudent. "But I don't understand, Maurice, how the Japanese box got upon the same shelf as the chess-men; it was not there yesterday surely. And is the word 'Fragile' printed on it also?"

"Of course it is. And as to its being on the shelf why, I put it there myself last night: for I was afraid, what with the weight of all the new jam-pots and crowds of other dodge-my-eyes upon the shelf where it stood, it might come to grief, and so, as I thought, I gave it a much safer berth; but you can see for yourself I am always an unlucky dog. Though how it all happened is the marvel, for not a living soul could have got into the place: the door was locked; and the window, goodness knows, is sufficiently well barred to keep out a host of robbers. The only thing mother and I can think is, that when the housekeeper went in late last night to lock up some honey, which, by-the-by, was upset and smeared about the whole place—" Here Maurice paused for a moment, as if some sudden thought or suggestion had passed like lightning through his brain, and in the pause Fred's cheeks darkened to almost a purple colour, so vividly did the blush of guilt deepen on his face.

Maurice could not but look at him and wonder, and in doing so he for a moment lost the thread of his recital, and once again he had to apply to his cousin for aid. "What was I saying, Fred?"

"About the honey."

"Oh ay, about the honey. Mother thinks that when the housekeeper carried it in at night, the kitchen cat must have darted in after her; for there are rats and mice in there, I believe. You heard them yesterday, didn't you?"

"I—I don't remember."

"That time I said you must have cheese-parings in your pocket."

"I was not listening much to what you were saying just then," replied Fred hoarsely.

"I am not surprised at that; I only wonder you took it half so well. But the point is, how, if it were the cat that did it, she managed to get out again without either mother or my seeing her; for we both went in at the same time, and she could scarcely have slipped through our feet without one or other of us noticing it. What do you think, Fred?"

"I—I really don't know what to think."

"Mother is certain, at least as nearly certain as one can be in such a matter, that it was the cat; so I suppose she must be right: but it's a rum affair from beginning to end, ain't it now?"

"I suppose she must," murmured Fred, scarcely conscious of what he was saying, for he was undergoing at that moment the most furious assault of a new and unexpected temptation; a temptation which he could not have foreseen, having hitherto deemed it impossible that any valid excuse could be discovered which would screen him from the consequences of hie but now his aunt had laid the blame of all the sin,—mischief on shoulders which could bear no corresponding punishment, and why, why need he thrust himself forward as the centre point of guilt and shame?

"I am afraid I am worrying you with my talk. I was forgetting about your headache," said Maurice apologetically, as he noticed Fred's absent manner.

"Oh, not in the least; I was only thinking."

"Thinking of what?"

"Not thinking, exactly; only wondering."

"Wondering! what do you mean?"

"I—I don't exactly know what I mean, except if it were the cat, then,—then of course the cat could not have done it.

"My dear fellow, what do you mean?" and Maurice looked gravely into his cousin's face, fearing that perhaps the sharp blow on the side of his head had done him some serious injury.

The sudden cloud on his cousin's brow, and the intent anxious gaze fixed on his own face, filled Fred with alarm; and under Maurice's searching scrutiny all the blood rushed back upon Fred's heart, leaving him ashy white and trembling.

"Fred," cried Maurice, leaning forward excitedly, "now I am certain—"

"Yes, yes, it is quite true; only don't, don't stare at me in that awful way. I—I could not help it."

"You could not help what?"

"Help it! I didn't say that, did I? I meant of course that—that you—you drove me to it."

"Drove you," echoed Maurice, becoming every moment more terrified and bewildered by his cousin's manner, "how did I drive you? I don't know what you are talking about, Fred."

"Nonsense, it was you yourself who said it first, and accused me of it."

"Accused you of what?"

"Everything. You knew quite well, when you came up here, all about it; and you only wanted to try and wring it out of me, by fair means or foul." Here Fred, worn out by excitement and anxiety, burst into a passionate fit of tears, and, leaning his face forward, buried it completely in the counterpane of his bed. When he looked up again a moment afterwards, surprised at Maurice's silence, he found his cousin gone and the room empty.

"Ah, no wonder he has left me," cried Fred bitterly; and then in his despair he clasped his hands and lifted up his heart to God, asking earnestly for the help he so sorely needed, and the forgiveness he scarcely dared to crave.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A FULL CONFESSION.

He had scarcely unfolded his hands and laid his poor aching head back on the pillow when the door was pushed open again, and Maurice, followed by his mother, hastily re-entered the room.

"Fred, here is mother come to see you;" and Maurice's voice sounded strangely reassuring and kind, considering the confession which he had just heard, and which only a moment before had driven him from the room.

"Well, Fred, my boy," said Lady Brinsley drawing quite close to his bed, and laying her hand gently on his arm, "I am afraid you have been exciting yourself too much, and making yourself quite ill. You ought to lie still after such a severe blow, and not speak at all."

"It was I, mother, who roused him up. It was entirely my fault, but I was so knocked on a heap about the store-room business, I rushed up foolishly to tell him, and to ask him what he thought about it."

"Well, it was rather a pity to disturb him about such a matter, especially as he could not possibly make a guess about it."

Fred listened in amazement. Was it possible Maurice had not understood what he had said, and must he make the dreaded confession again? He looked piteously into his aunt's face, and turned his face quickly towards the wall.

"What is the matter, Fred dear? are you in pain?"

"Yes," moaned Fred.

"Is it your head that aches?"

"No, no; I am miserable and wretched, and I told Maurice all about it, and he—he goes on as if I had said nothing."

"Why, what did you tell him? for I am certain if there is anything or any way Maurice can help you, he will be only too glad to do it."

"No, no, I don't want help; at least I do, awfully, but—oh can't you understand what I mean?"

Maurice glanced at his mother meaningly, and her face grew more anxious as, stooping over the bed, she said kindly, "Fred, dear, do not torment yourself about fancies and worries which are only coming into your head because you are ill and tired. Try and go to sleep, and when you awake you will feel quite refreshed and comfortable."

"I cannot sleep, aunt, till I have told you all. There is no use trying," cried Fred excitedly.

"Told me what?" asked Lady Brinsley, inexpressibly pained by the cruel distress visible on her nephew's face.

"That it was I who went into the store-room. I told Maurice all about it before, and he only stared at me, and then rushed out of the room."

"You went into the store-room, Fred," cried both his aunt and his cousin at the same moment; while Lady Brinsley added almost in a whisper to her son, "It is quite impossible,—he only fancies it."

"No, no, it is no fancy. I went into it last night. I got up on the ladder in the dark, and then—then I saw a light coming round by the passage-wall, and I—I fell somehow. I don't know how it happened; and Harry and Kathleen lifted me up and carried me outside into the other passage, and then I came upstairs and went to bed, and was—oh, so miserable, you can't think."

"And what did you go into the store-room for?" asked his aunt quietly, while with a glance she checked the excited questions which she saw ready to pour from her son's lips.

"I—I wanted to get the chess-box. Maurice dared me to touch it, and I was determined that I would."

"But how did you get in?" continued Lady Brinsley in the same subdued voice.

"By the small door in the panels."

"But that was bolted on the inside also."

"There is no second door is there, mother?" asked Maurice, who could not restrain his curiosity any longer.

"There is," replied Fred hastily. "When you knocked me down in the corner, I struck against the bolt and bruised my shoulder, and that made me look round, and I saw the second door and the things that fastened it."

"And you unbolted it then; was that it?"

"No, no; I tied pieces of cord round the bolts and drew the ends out by the hinges; but I—I never meant to do all—all the terrible mischief which I—I did do, or to break the theatre or anything. I am so awfully sorry, aunt. I wish you would let me go home to-night, I am so miserable."

Fred pressed his hot fingers round his aunt's hand, and looked up imploringly into her face.

"It was all my fault," said Maurice humbly. "I was the one who began the quarrel,—I—I: mother, don't look at him so gravely; it was I who set the whole mischief agoing, besides the horrid cut which I gave him behind his ear."

"No, you have nothing to say to that; it was when I fell from the ladder."

"I thought you told me that I had done it."

"No; at least you took up what I said wrongly, and I—I had not the courage to explain."

"And what made you tell me all about it now, Fred?" asked his aunt in a sad but not unkind voice.

"I don't know. I thought, and Harry said I was a coward,—or no, he said I should be a coward to hide it; and besides, he told me it was awfully wrong, and that—that—but then Harry is quite different to me; he never does sneaky things, and I am always doing them."

"Harry is a noble boy," said Lady Brinsley warmly. "I have noticed his honesty of character ever since he came into the house."

"Yes," cried Fred enthusiastically, "he is a regular brick. Mother always said she could trust him as well as her own self;" and Fred's cheeks as he mentioned his mother's name burned with a sudden access of shame and misery, and the tears which he had held back till now rushed into his eyes.

"I am going to drive over to your own home this afternoon; do you wish me to tell your mother all?"

"Oh yes, yes, do. Tell her everything, please; and oh! ask her to come and take me home. I could never bear to stay on here after all that has happened."

"Nonsense, Fred; of course you will stay here. If you go home I shall be perfectly wretched, for I—I am just as bad as you, and worse;" and even Maurice's eyes clouded with tears at the misery which had arisen so unexpectedly to darken his happy holidays.

"I think we must be guided by what Fred and his mother wish," said Lady Brinsley kindly. "I shall be truly grieved if our pleasant party is broken up, and especially as the quarrel arose out of Maurice's hasty temper."

"No, that is quite untrue, for—for—" Fred paused, while a fresh access of misery and shame seemed to overwhelm him. "For, for,—oh, aunt, I had forgotten to tell you all. I did put the stones in the can; and besides, I—I filled my can out of Harry's; and when he told me to put back the bow, I—I found your note on the pincushion, and I was ashamed, and then I kept it."

Lady Brinsley could not but look and feel sorrowful at the confession of so much sin and the sight of the misery it was causing her nephew.

"I am sure you will be happier by-and-by; Fred, for having made up your mind to tell me all," she said in a low voice full of undisguised emotion; "and I am only very, very sorry that you had not the courage at first to tell the whole truth, as it would have averted all this trouble and saved both you and me the great pain which we are each of us suffering. If, at the very beginning of all this trouble, you had asked God's help, He would have given you the strength to make the necessary confession; and the remembrance of His forgiveness and love would have shielded you from the fresh snares into which you have now fallen."

"I wish I had," sobbed Fred. "I know I never, never—" But here a knock at the bedroom door interrupted what he would have said, and the footman appeared in the entrance with a serious and deprecating air carrying some dark clothes in his hand.

"I came to tell Master Malcomson, my lady," he observed, bowing to Lady Brinsley, "that I have tried in vain to clean his evening suit of clothes. When I took them down this morning to brush, I found them all saturated with honey; and though I have done all in my power, I cannot make them fit to wear."

"Thank you, John; you may put them away on the table over there," said Lady Brinsley quietly, ignoring the cause of the disaster. "Master Fred is not well at present, and will not require to wear his evening suit for some little time."

The footman laid the clothes on the table without another word, and left the room silently. He knew as well as Fred did how it had all occurred: for the servants, when they heard of the catastrophe in the store-room and the broken dish of honey, had not been long in putting two and two together; and what with the sticky footprints leading right up to Fred's door, and the fact of his remaining immured up in his own room all the morning, they had come to no foolish conclusion, that Fred had been at least a partner in the mysterious midnight raid on the store-room, and that the cat was in no way to blame.

To Fred, too, it was a blessed relief to know that he had made his confession before the guilt had been literally brought home to his own door; and when at length Lady Brinsley and her son sorrowfully left the room, he lay back on his pillow and thanked God with his whole heart that He had answered his prayer and given him the strength necessary to overcome his weakness and cowardice; and when Maurice turned back from the door and whispered hurriedly into his ear, "Fred, you'll forgive me, won't you?" he only replied with a burst of sobs, "Yes, yes; but oh! I want so badly to be forgiven myself." And then turning suddenly round in the bed, he covered his face with the clothes and was silent.

CHAPTER XIX.

HOME, SWEET HOME!

That evening Mrs. Malcomson arrived at Jubilee Hall. Her sister, Lady Brinsley, had driven over in the waggonette for her; and having first, by Fred's express desire, told her everything which had occurred since her son's arrival at the Hall, with a troubled and sorrowful heart Mrs. Malcomson had taken leave of her husband, promising to return on the following day.

Fred was asleep when his mother arrived, and he continued to sleep on heavily for several hours. When he did awake, the long summer evening had slipped past, leaving only a gray twilight in his room, while outside, in the still pale-green sky, a crescent moon was shining softly.

Fred sighed heavily on first awaking, and finding himself alone in the large and now sombre bedroom; and, as is often the ease, the awaking from an afternoon sleep, instead of refreshing him, had flushed and heated him; and his mind was no sooner aroused and aware of the solitude and stillness of all about him, than it became filled with dark and fanciful apprehensions, to which he could give no definite shape or form.

One by one the guilty doings of the previous night passed before his mind in a dreary procession of horror. Once again the horny cockroaches seemed clinging to his shoeless feet; and the cold gust of wind, as he turned the lonely corners of the passages, seemed to blow down his neck and shoulders. Now the bolt creaked ominously in the secret door; and the faint odour of honey, which still pervaded the bedroom, became painfully overpowering and oppressive to his senses.

The suspense and horror of darkness which had filled his mind in the store-room the night before, as he waited the slow approach of daylight, seemed lying on him now; and the shadows cast by the rising moon on the furniture of his room gave them grotesque and unfamiliar shapes.

The grave eyes of his aunt, as she heard his confession, seemed gazing at him still through the gloomy air; so that he feared to turn his head towards the spot where she had stood, lest he should have to rehearse again the account of his crimes, and to meet her loving but reproachful gaze.

But all at once, with a great cry, he sat bolt upright in his bed, and called out eagerly, "Mother, mother! Yes, mother was to be here to-night! O mother, dearest mother! have you not come to see me and to help me?"

Just then there was a rustle by the bedside, and a startled voice which answered him out of the darkness: "Fred, my darling boy, I am here beside you! I thought you were asleep, or I would have spoken before. Here, dearest, turn towards me."

Poor Fred! he did turn in the direction of the voice, and as he caught sight of the shadowy figure seated close by his bedside, he flung his arms round it, and with a sob, born of the purest pleasure and the keenest pain, he laid his head on his mother's shoulder, and wept out the burden of his sorrow and care without a word; while in the security of her presence the shadowy ghosts, which had haunted the twilight, became comforting angels, and the whole room seemed suddenly peopled with a happy crowd of familiar faces; while the sprig of verbena in his mother's dress brought back the sunny home-garden, with its rose-covered walls and its shady nooks.

"O mother!" he sighed presently, "why did I ever leave you? Nothing ever goes well with me when you are away. I may go home with you to-morrow, may I not?"

"Certainly, if you wish it."

"Wish it! I am longing to be in the dear old place again."

"It is only four days since you left it."

"I know that, mother; and yet it seems like four years."

There was a long pause, Fred still leaning on his mother's shoulder, so heavily that he could hear the rapid beating of her heart.

"Mother."

"Well, Fred?"

"Mother, you are terribly unhappy about me; I know you are."

No answer.

"Mother, have I vexed you so awfully that you will never be able to love me any more?"

No answer.

"Mother, will you not speak to me? Do, dearest mother, do. What are you thinking of now, that you will not answer me?"

"I am thinking, Fred, and wishing—oh, so earnestly!—that you would love me less, or rather that you would love God more. It is because you lean so entirely on me when I am near you, that when I am absent you always fall into trouble, and sorrow, and disgrace."

"But could not I love God and you too, mother? I am sure I could. I will try—-I will indeed—if you will help me."

"My help, dearest Fred, will be but a poor thing to lean on, compared to the help you could gain elsewhere, if you would only ask God for it, for Christ's sake."

"Will you ask Him for it for me, mother?" murmured Fred in a husky whisper. "Do, mother, now while you are here beside me;" and Fred, raising his head from his mother's shoulder, took both her hands in his, and drew her near him.

Then Mrs. Malcomson knelt down on the floor by her son's bedside, and prayed with all her heart for the much-needed help; for the heart to be made pure, for the good impressions to be made lasting, and for the peace of God which passeth understanding to be granted to both their souls, for Christ's sake. And when she had finished praying, they both sat hand in hand until the twilight had changed into darkness, and the young moon had gone down for the night. Then Harry and Kathleen came up to bed; and after a long chat over home and home doings, the party broke up, and Mrs. Malcomson retired to her own room.

The next day Fred told his aunt of his earnest wish to return home, and received from her the permission to do so. The history of his midnight raid on the store-room had, despite all Lady Brinsley's efforts, become the talk of the whole house; and Fred could not appear among his playmates and friends without running the risk of hearing much that would have been both unpleasant and painful. Nor could Harry bear to hear the hints and innuendoes thrown out against his brother by the less kind-hearted members of the company; so he and Kathleen willingly agreed to give up the remainder of their promised visit, and to share the banishment which Fred had incurred by his deceitful and dishonest conduct.

But there was no great air of banishment about the sunny fields and grassy meadows of The Cedars, as they turned in at its familiar gates, and drove up through the sweet-scented lime avenue to the door of their home.

"Oh, the dear old house, how did we ever care to leave it!" cried Harry, as he leaped with one bound from the carriage to the steps of the portico, and rushed inside for his father's sure greeting and welcome.

Fred's joy was even more intense, though it was silent, at finding himself once more within the shelter of his home; and he, too, wondered with a silent pang of surprise and pain how he could ever have felt such keen delight in leaving it as he had done only a few mornings ago, when he had started in such rampant spirits for Jubilee Hall. But the pleasure of his return was damped not a little by the anticipation of his father's displeasure, and the certainty of the pain which he had caused him by his conduct during his absence from home.

"Mother, will you go in and speak to him first?" pleaded Fred. But Mrs. Malcomson only answered by a look, which recalled with a strange vividness their conversation of the night before; and Fred, gathering up all his courage, walked bravely into the house to meet his father, and to receive with humility the sorrowful reproaches which he could not but feel he had most justly deserved.

Mr. Malcomson, however, said very little on the subject of his son's faults, as he preferred speaking to him on such a grave matter in private to rebuking him publicly before his younger brother and his sister, and the meeting passed off with less pain on both sides than could have been anticipated; for Mr. Malcomson could not but discern, by the expression of Fred's face, that he was returning in a softened and penitent mood, instead of being sullen and hardened. And Fred felt grateful for the consideration shown him by his father, and was, consequently, more desirous to prove by his conduct his contrition for his faults.

The supper was laid in the bright parlour, with its pretty low window looking out upon the flowerbeds and trim yew hedges, while the scent of the roses, hanging across the trellis-work of the verandah, came in delicious gusts across the table.

There were strawberries and raspberries, and cakes steaming from the oven, and jugs of rich cream fresh from the dairy, arranged in tempting order on the clean white cloth. And the room, though it looked tiny after the lofty walls of Jubilee Hall, had an air of cosy comfort, very cheering to those who now sat down with grateful hearts to partake of the evening meal.

After supper Fred went out, leaning on his mother's arm, through the verandah into the garden, and walked with her up and down its well-known paths, and round its box-edged flower-beds. They neither of them said much, but they felt as if some new bond of love had arisen between them, stronger than any they had known before. It was not until Fred was taking his last turn round by the grotto and the little fern-grown well, that he spoke out what had been the real burden of his thoughts all the evening,—

"Mother, there is no place, after all, so safe for a young fellow as his own home. I mean, of course, a really good home like ours."

"What makes you say so, Fred?"

"Because I feel it. I thought, when I was leaving this place a few days ago, I should be ten times as happy and jolly as I had ever been before—I could then be my own master, and I could do just as I liked: but instead of that, I never was so miserable or wretched; and it was just the very freedom which I had longed for so much which made everything go on so badly."

"I am sure you are quite right, Fred."

"I know I am, mother; and I should never care to go away from home again without you and father. It is so awfully jolly to be with you both once more."

"Yes, ain't it just," cried Harry, who could no longer resist his desire to join the two ramblers in the garden. "Home is the most golliferous place in the whole creation;—though, for all that, Aunt Marian was awfully kind, and so was Maurice, and every one."

"Yes; it was not their fault that we were all so very unhappy while we were there,—at least that I was," said Fred humbly: "for, after all, it is not so much the place that makes one jolly or miserable. but the things that happen in the place; and not having father and the dear old mother herself with us, was the reason we all came to grief: besides,—besides, of course, other things as well;" and Fred, stooping down, picked up an unripe apple from the ground, and shied it over the garden hedge; then, in a somewhat hoarse whisper, he added, "We shall do better perhaps by-and-by, with God's help; sha'n't we, mother?" and he leaned his curly head against her shoulder, and pressed her hand nearer to his side.

"Yes, dearest Fred, with God's help we shall: and meantime, I think, it has done us all no harm to find out what a pleasant and safe place home is; and to discover for ourselves that the discipline of home-life, though sometimes irksome and apparently vexatious in its rules and obligations, is, after all, one of our greatest safeguards, protecting us against the dangers and temptations of life, which, if unopposed, would very quickly overcome us, and destroy all our peace of mind and the innocent enjoyment of our lives."

"Which means," cried Harry, turning a somersault over the low yew hedge beside the path, and seizing his mother's disengaged arm in an enthusiastic embrace,—"which means, in other words, words composed expressly for the occasion by the great poet Shakespeare, Milton, Mrs. Browning, or whoever the individual may be or may have been,—that

''Midst pleasures and palaces
    Though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble,
    There's no place like home.'"

THE END.