CHAPTER VI.
APOLLYON MEETS POLLIE.
POLLIE'S return home had been postponed till the picnic was over. Now there remained nothing to do but to pack up.
She longed to wish her father's dear old friend good-bye, but did not like to propose it. Her uncle however settled the matter by offering to drive her out there the last evening.
The old lady received them with open arms, for Mr. Brown had already called upon her and told her their good news, and Pollie never forgot the joy which they had as they sat together and talked of their Saviour's love.
"I've proved Him for fifty years," said Miss Loveday, "and have found Him faithful."
They had not long to stay, however, and just as they were going, the old lady said to Pollie, "My brother is vicar of your village, Pollie. Do you know our niece, Mary, who lives with him?"
"I have often seen her," said Pollie, "but I did not guess she was your niece!"
"Here is a note to her to ask her to persuade your father to let you join her class. You would like that, Pollie?"
Pollie's eyes glistened. "Indeed I should," she answered earnestly.
So it came to pass that before another week was out, Miss Mary Loveday, the vicar's niece, came up to the mill, and made acquaintance with Pollie, and obtained permission for Pollie to attend her class. And there sprang up between them a strong attachment, which bid fair to be lifelong.
Thus, Pollie began her new life. She had written to her father to tell him about that wonderful Thursday, and the first time he had the opportunity, he invited her to drive to market with him.
"So Pollie," he said, when the horse was well on its way, and they had left the village behind, "so you've come home a different girl!"
"Yes, father," said Pollie, with her usual straightforward candour.
"It's a solemn thing to take His name upon us," said her father. "It needs watching as well as praying, Pollie!"
Pollie had not thought of that exactly.
"How do you mean, father?"
"Why you see 'tis like this, Pollie," said the miller, "we read a goodish bit about soldiers and armour and fighting and watching in the Bible, and many of us would as lief as not put on a sword and a helmet and a drum and march along to battle!"
Pollie laughed a soft little laugh at her father's quaint way, in which he often lodged a thought in his children's hearts, which would not have got in perhaps in a long sermon.
"And if Apollyon were to come to meet us, we should be very brave with our drum, and try to frighten him off, or fetch him a cut with our sword, and think to demolish him at a blow, eh, Pollie?"
"I don't suppose the 'drum' would do much good," she answered smiling.
"No; nor do I," said her father, smiling too. "But the fact is, Pollie, Apollyon doesn't come stalking along the road with fire coming out of his mouth! And the battle isn't out of doors on a wide plain, or even in a dark valley! It's at home, my child, in the mill and in the school and in the market, we have to face our foes. They come to some of us the first thing in the morning with—
"'Pollie, mind you clear out "all" the ashes from the kitchen grate,' or 'Pollie, where's my hammer that you had last night?'"
Pollie's head went down; how true that sounded; how like that very morning!
"Or the battle-field may come to some of us like this—it may come in thoughts of worry, in cares for the future, in fretting over the low price flour fetches—half a dozen things—all invisible foes, but as bad as Apollyon nevertheless.
"Or it may come to Jim in his sister's voice like this: 'Jim!' (sharp as a nettle sting) 'Jim! You haven't washed your hands for breakfast! Jim! You said you'd take that note to Miss Loveday, and you haven't!'"
"Oh, father!" said Pollie in a low distressed tone.
"'Tisn't that I want to grieve you, my little girl," continued her father kindly, "but I want you and myself to remember that Satan is very strong and very watchful, and we are very weak and very careless. Let us watch as well as pray, Pollie; let us 'stand fast in the Lord, and in the power of "His" might.'"
"I will try to remember," said Pollie humbly.
"Your greatest enemy is your not being willing to submit to your mother, my child. Apollyon meets you every day there!"
Pollie knew that that was true, and her father's words had been so tender that even her proud little spirit did not take offence.
It was hard work to settle in to the homely duties of the mill after her gay, easy life at Chichester, but now she understood what it was to have strength "renewed," and when she went for it, she received it from her Lord and Master.
So the months rolled on. Occasionally she heard from Clara, but her letters were not satisfactory. They still kept their secret from their mother, and nothing more had been heard of "H. F.," as Clara still called Laura's friend.
Of Laura she said very little, but Pollie gathered that she was restless and sorrowful. She thought how such a secret would prey upon her own mind, and did not wonder.
CHAPTER VII.
POLLIE'S BATTLE-FIELD.
"YOU'LL have to go down to the stream, and bring up the biggest goose, Poll," said her mother, wringing up a towel very hard, and throwing it in the basket. "I can't think why you have not done it an hour ago!"
"I was busy," grumbled Pollie. "You told me to wash the teacups, and sweep the kitchen, and make the beds, and clean the step, and peel the potatoes—"
"So I did," said her mother vexedly; "and still there would have been plenty of time if you hadn't idled away half your morning. I never did see any one so provoking in my life!"
If there was one thing Pollie hated to do, it was catching and carrying the struggling, cackling geese when her mother happened to sell any. But even that unpleasant duty had not been the chief reason of her delay that morning.
Her Sunday-school teacher had offered a prize for the greatest number of texts found on a certain subject, and she had been searching for them when she was upstairs making the rooms straight. Her conscience told her that she was not doing right, but she had persuaded herself that it could not be wrong to be reading her Bible.
She sauntered forth now very unwillingly, and made her way over the stony path down to the brook.
Her teacher would be pleased, at any rate, she thought, even if her mother was not. And her teacher was more important than mother. Miss Loveday always spoke gently, and never seemed to have any difficulties. She couldn't have rooms to sweep, or tiresome geese to catch.
Pollie had a long chase, and a hard struggle with the strong bird before she turned homewards. And just as she was battling up the hill, with the wind nearly blowing her down, and the geese making a hubbub around her, who should cross her path but Miss Loveday herself, walking slowly along.
"Why, Pollie!" she said.
Pollie held on to her charge and blushed crimson, thinking of her late thoughts.
"I've done the texts, ma'am," she said, after a moment.
"Already?"
Polly hung her head, while Miss Loveday added, "I hope it was not instead of some duty, little Pollie. Girls at home haven't much time in the morning, and this is only Monday! To please Jesus, the 'right' thing must come before the pleasant thing."
With a gentle smile she passed on, and Pollie pushed up the hill, and at length stood before her mother, still holding on to her burden.
"The geese nearly tore me in pieces," she said ungraciously. "I wish James would have caught it before he let them out this morning; he might just as well!"
"What have you been doing upstairs, Pollie?" was her mother's greeting, as she took the heavy bird from her.
No pity for the wind, no sympathy for her hard struggle and hot climb, no thanks for her work, only sharp blame implied in the tone of her mother's inquiry!
"I was making the beds, mother."
"You couldn't take an hour over two beds, and that's how long you were!"
Polly was silent. She did not wish to explain, and was only anxious to get out of the way before any more questions should be asked.
"Where shall I put the goose, mother?"
"In the coop; your father's going to kill it when he comes home to dinner. What was it you did while you were upstairs?"
"Something for Miss Loveday."
"Instead of your work? Then you will not go to class next Sunday."
Sharp and unalterable came the blow. Pollie knew that she had lost her chance.
Full of passion, she slowly took the goose from her mother, and walked out to the empty hen-coop. Then she went back again, and began to clean the knives for dinner with a black frown on her face.
Miss Loveday never had such things as this to bear! Such hard, hard things! She had all things smooth in her life, she was sure!
When she thought of Sunday, she felt as if she could not bear it. The knives flew along the board, and the brickdust flew about the floor, and still Pollie felt stunned with disappointment and anger.
"What's up?" said her father's voice in the doorway.
"Only Poll's doing things for her class, and neglecting her home," said her mother's voice from the kitchen.
"I'm sorry for that," said her father gravely, "because Pollie will have to let go the class, if so."
"That's what I told her," said her mother.
Pollie was going to speak, but her passion sealed her lips. She only went on cleaning faster than ever.
Her mother went upstairs for a clean apron, and Pollie found herself alone with her father, who was standing warming his hands at the fire.
"Mother's so hard on me, father," she said bitterly, from her position at the knife-board.
There was no answer, and the girl came to the doorway.
"It is cruel to keep me away from the class, when I didn't mean to do any harm."
"Your mother won't do anything cruel," answered her father. "If you haven't done wrong, she'll not punish you. If you have, it's best to find it out, Pollie, and not be let go on wrong."
"It can't be wrong to search for texts!"
"I don't know that! There's many a one that does a lot of God's 'work,' and forgets to do His 'will.'"
Her mother came back at the moment, and Pollie retreated from the doorway and fetched the knives, wiping them carefully and setting them round table, that her father, at any rate, might see no fault in her performance of that duty. She did not glance towards her mother, and sat in silence for the rest of the dinner.
When it was over, she cleared the things into the scullery, and, as was her habit, she shut the door and began to wash the dishes.
Her mother's voice rose and fell for a few minutes in the kitchen, and then she heard her father go out, and all was still.
Pollie worked away perhaps all the faster that her spirit was so high, and soon all was done, and she stood still, undecided as to what she should employ herself upon for the rest of the afternoon.
She would have gone up to her texts, but this involved passing through the kitchen, and she did not care to face her mother. Besides, what was the use of doing them if she might not go to the class?
This thought made her almost frantic. She had promised Miss Loveday, yes, promised; what could she do now? Slowly her hand was put out towards the kitchen door, and softly she turned the knob, uncertain what she should say to her mother when she got there, but, at any rate, very certain that she should not ask her forgiveness.
The kitchen stood empty and bare. No mother, only a clean-swept hearth and her mother's workbasket closed and orderly.
Pollie was too astonished to know what to do. Generally at this time her mother sat there mending those everlasting stockings; and if she were going out, every one knew it.
Pollie did not like to follow her mother upstairs, after her temper at dinner, so she looked round for occupation, and seeing none that suited her, she drew forth her knitting from the cupboard and tried to amuse herself with that. She was even glad to hear her brother's step coming up the path, and to know that she would not be alone any longer.
"Where's mother?" asked James on entering.
"I don't know. Come here, Jim, and hold something for me."
"What's that?"
"My wool. I've been waiting to get this tangle out this half-hour."
Jim did as he was asked, but added, "I expect mother's took sick!"
"What?" asked Pollie, putting down the skein.
"Took sick. She said her heart was bad before I went out after dinner."
Pollie looked pale and miserable.
"I wish you'd go up and see after her, Jim," she said presently.
"Why don't you?"
"Because I'd rather you did."
"Haven't you seen to her all the afternoon?" asked James, rather severely, as he put the wool down.
Pollie shook her head. She opened the staircase door for him in silence, and then came back to the fire.
How long his steps seemed going up, and then how long before they were heard coming down again!
"She's bad, Poll," he announced abruptly, "and she don't want anything, and you may go out if you like."
CHAPTER VIII.
HARD THINGS.
TO go out was exactly what Pollie longed for, but to be sent off, and not to be wanted, was a different thing.
She put on her hat and hurried out of the house, dashing down the hill at hot speed, nor even stopped until she stood breathless outside her dear Miss Loveday's gate, where, bending over her flowers, her teacher stood all unconscious of her presence.
When she looked up, she saw something was wrong.
"Oh, Miss Loveday, may I come in?" pleaded Pollie.
Miss Loveday led the way into the back garden, and in a shady corner, where they were quite alone, Pollie poured out her tale of woe, of how angry she had been and was, of how hard her mother had seemed, and now that her mother was sick and did not want her to nurse her.
Miss Loveday listened very patiently and gently till it was all out. "Poor little girlie, Jesus is sorry for you," was almost all she said.
Pollie was very hard still, her grievances stood out large and bitter, and she thought she was quite right to be angry.
And then Miss Loveday drew her to her side, and smoothing the wind-blown hair with her hand she said softly—
"Pollie dear, the hardest thing to bear in life is getting ever so little away from Jesus. Sometimes it is a very small thing that comes between us and Him, and then it grows very quickly into a big thing! Let us go back to Him, and ask Him to forgive us and make us good."
Pollie hung her head.
"You don't have hard things, Miss Loveday, I expect," she murmured.
"Do I not, dearie? Did you think that the girl who belongs to the Lord Jesus, called Pollie Brown, is the only girl who has hard things to bear?"
"I don't see that anyone else can be so tiresome as I am, nor need so much scolding, nor have mother so cross!"
"Those are your trials just now, Pollie, but I have had hard things too—if you only knew."
Pollie did not know enough of the world to understand that each heart knows its own bitterness. That trials which seem trifles to one looking on may be heavy burdens to the weak strength which has to bear them.
But Miss Loveday understood, and that was why she could give out such true sympathy.
"Dear Miss Loveday—but you do not have anyone telling you to do what you do not like, do you?"
"I have even had that, in a harder way than you can understand. Would it help you to tell you, Pollie?"
"Please, dear Miss Loveday," she answered, still dwelling on her own grievance, and thinking nobody else's could be as great.
"Pollie, did you ever hear of any one having some one she loved more than all the world, taken away without a moment's warning, and told never, never to come back?"
Pollie looked up questioningly, but when her eyes met Miss Loveday's, she buried her head in her lap.
"And then I found out that I had loved him more than Jesus! Some of us love ourselves more than Jesus, and some of us—"
"I'll go home now and tell mother I'm sorry," whispered Pollie. "Oh, Miss Loveday, I wish I could comfort you!"
"You have, dearie. Let us both take heart. He is such a precious Saviour!"
Pollie knew her time must be nearly gone. Pressing a passionate kiss on her teacher's hand, she hurried homewards, the mill standing out dark and gaunt against the sunset sky. She had promised Miss Loveday to beg her mother's pardon for her temper at dinner, but though her heart was softened by the remembrance of a grief which was infinitely greater than her own, yet a hard task was in front of her. And the nearer she got to home, and the steeper the hill got, the harder became the struggle to confess herself in the wrong.
From intending to do it the moment she got in, she began to find reasons why it would not be a suitable time; and then came reasons for putting it off till to-morrow or next week, until the thought presented itself that really after all there was very little reason to do it at all, only she had promised Miss Loveday.
At length, she got to the mill door, and by this time she was too out of breath to say anything.
James was sitting at the tea-table, and looked round as she entered.
"Father's up with mother, and you are to put those clothes to soak after tea, and then mother wants you to mend those stockings."
"I shall take mother's tea up," said Pollie, feeling her heart die within her.
Never before had she received messages like that through her little brother; never before had she been anything but head and chief to do anything her mother wanted! Was her mother so angry with her that she would not even see her?
"Father has taken that up," pursued James, "and so we can begin. I thought you would be home to get the tea, Pollie."
"I was busy with Miss Loveday."
"You always are busy with Miss Loveday now; you think about nothing but her!"
"I'm sure I don't!"
"Ever since you began going to her class, you've taken to being fine in your ways, and disagreeable at home."
"That I'm sure is wrong!" exclaimed Pollie hotly. "What fine ways have I taken up, I should like to know?"
"Why, you brush your hair ever so many times a day, and wash your hands, too; and you are always wanting me to do the same."
Pollie tried to laugh, but the conversation was too much in earnest, and she went on—
"Well—there's no harm in that, I should hope."
Jim thought there was, but he pursued—
"Then you are cross to mother, and are always thinking of what you can do for Miss Loveday; in fact, you think of her before mother!"
Pollie crimsoned, for she felt that the indictment was true.
"Well, come to tea," she said abruptly.
She sat down at the table and filled the two cups, the only two which were there. Was father up with mother then, and was she so sick as not to be able to be left?
Pollie felt utterly miserable. She longed for her father to come downstairs; she longed for James to go to bed; she longed for anything which should give her relief from her heartache.
And all the while the relief was close to her, had she but turned to it! "He is such a precious Saviour," Miss Loveday had told her, from the depths of such a sorrowful heart as Pollie could not even dream of. And yet the girl nursed her own grievance, and forgot to look to Him in whom is comfort and relief for every care, be it large or small.
What a long time it seemed before James had finished his lessons!
Pollie washed the teacups, and put the washing in to soak; she soaped all the clothes in the way her mother liked, and did her work with a will, so that long before she wished it, there was nothing left to do.
While she was busy in the scullery, her father came down the little staircase into the kitchen, and went out to do something about the mill, and she did not hear him come in again, for the splashing water drowned all other sounds.
At last, too uneasy to bear it any longer, she took off her shoes, and passing through the kitchen, she ascended the few steps to her mother's room, and stood trembling outside her door, but she could not pluck up her courage to enter. All was still, except that she thought she could hear the occasional turning of the leaves of a book.
So she crept down again. Surely she had not deserved such punishment at this!
"Jim, why won't mother let me go and wait on her?" she asked, as she entered the kitchen.
"I don't know, unless it's your black face," said Jim, with a very superior feeling of having his chance now to pay off a few old scores.
"Black face?" asked Pollie, glancing in the little glass which hung by the window, "I don't see—"
"Of course you don't! But I did, at dinner, and so did mother. When people's hearts are bad, they don't want black faces about 'em. I heard mother say so!"
Pollie crimsoned, first with shame and then with anger. She clenched her hands together with a pressure which positively hurt her. And then, after a moment's bitter struggle, she proudly took her candle and went to her little room next to the kitchen where she could be alone, to see no one again that night, if she were wanted so little as that.
Suddenly a thought struck her. If her mother would not see her, she would write her a letter.
That would be a great deal easier than saying it, and it would do just as well.
She hurriedly seized a piece of paper, and tossed off a few words. Then, having by this given some vent to her feelings, she sat down dejectedly as before, listening for an opportunity to ask her father to carry the note for her. She was sure he would do that!
And then she looked out on the quiet moonlight, and as she did so, she saw the spire of the church glittering in the soft beams, and she could picture Miss Loveday's eyes resting on the same sight, and could even hear again her soft thrilling tones, "He is such a precious Saviour."
She thought it was all very well for a girl like the Vicar's niece to be able to get on.
Pollie thought of her own cousins at Chichester, and even wished herself back with them, and in her discontent even began to envy them.
She liked smooth things; and now, just as she had come home with the new-found joy of her new-found Saviour, to have every day such hard things to face seemed to her inexplicable. She suddenly thought of what her father had said about Apollyon meeting her in her-every day life, but she put the thought away with a shudder.
No, Pollie's heart was hard yet. She only looked at the moon, and thought of her friend down in the valley, but as yet she refused to hear the voice of her best Friend, One who sticketh closer than a brother, who would surely have aided her if she had turned to Him.
The old-fashioned clock which stood in the kitchen struck the hours one after another, and the candle burned down to half its size. So Pollie put it out and got into bed by the moonlight.
After some time, she heard James go up to his little cupboard of a room over hers; she heard her father go round with his swinging lantern to shut up the mill for the night. She heard him rake open the fire, and then clink a cup and saucer; she heard him stir something for ever so long, and then go up to her mother with the cup and saucer. She heard him talking in a low tone, and then he came down again and shut the kitchen door, and all was still.
What could have happened? Surely that was ten o'clock striking, and her hard-working father was invariably in bed by that time.
The sense of desolation grew unbearable. Several times she had determined to speak to her father, but now she could stand it no longer. Hastily lighting her candle, and taking her letter in her hand, she stepped noiselessly to the door opening into the kitchen, and peeped into the dim fire-lighted room with beating heart.
There sat her father, fast asleep, with his arm resting on the large Bible.
Pollie did not know what to do. All at once, she felt ashamed of that hasty, passionate apology which she had written.
Would her father think it worth taking to her mother? "Was" it worth taking?
She hurriedly put it on the glowing embers, and then stood waiting and trembling till her father should stir.
At length the candle flickered in its socket, and he woke with a start to find his little daughter crouching by the fire wrapped in a big shawl.
"Why, Pollie," he said, "I thought you were in bed."
"So I was, father, but I could not sleep. How is mother now?"
"She's a bit easier, I hope."
"Why are you sitting up then, father?"
"I was waiting to give her her medicine at eleven o'clock. I was afraid if I got to bed, I might oversleep myself."
"Father, why did not mother want me to wait on her?" asked Pollie, hesitating, while her cheeks burned.
"Mother was too poorly to be worried, Pollie. I've been very anxious about her. I saw that you hadn't come round to be a right down good girl, and so thought you'd better keep out of her room."
Pollie was silent. Was she "a right down good girl" now? She hardly knew.
"Go to bed now, my dear, and ask God to help you. He can soften hard hearts when we can't ourselves."
Pollie hurriedly kissed him, and went back to her room. She thought she would kneel down and do as her father advised, but how cold she was, and of how little use it could be to be sorry if she might not go to her mother even if she were.
So she crept into bed, sad at heart, and only longed for the morning, when the bright sunshine should perhaps help to banish the clouds of vexation which hovered over her spirit.
CHAPTER IX.
SUBMISSION.
THE morning sun streamed into Pollie's room, and her eyes opened to it with a sense of relief. But soon came back the dull ache of yesterday's wrong feelings, and she wondered if to-day could possibly be as unhappy as that had been.
She heard her father moving about in the kitchen, and in another moment, he put his head in at the door.
"Get up now, Pollie, and light the fire, while I go to see to the mill. Your mother's a bit better, I hope, to-day."
He went, and Pollie hastened to dress herself. She lighted the fire, filled the kettle at the well, and then set the breakfast; after which she called James, and then when her father came in, she asked if she might take up her mother's breakfast.
Her father hesitated, glanced at her intently, and then gave her permission.
So Pollie poured out the tea, and slowly began to mount the stairs.
Here was her chance, but though she had assured herself last night that she had had none, when it came she was not ready to take it.
She entered her mother's room, and crept across to her side.
"I am sorry you are ill, mother," she said gently. "I hope you feel better now."
Her mother looked pale and quiet, but answered pretty cheerfully that she did feel better, and should get up after breakfast.
And Pollie, having deposited the little tray, had nothing further to do, and came down again.
Yes, she had missed her chance! It would be infinitely harder to meet her mother next time, and have to say it then. How could she have been so stupid, she thought, not to have done it when she might?
"You can go down to the village after breakfast with those eggs," remarked her father, as they sat together. "There's more than we can eat, and it's a pity to let them spoil."
"The first thing?" asked Pollie, with beating heart. Then she should perhaps see Miss Loveday, and have to tell her that she had broken her promise.
"Yes, directly; because if your Uncle Brown is going to sell them, he will want them early."
So she started at once with her basket of rich brown and white treasures, and soon her quick steps brought her to the bottom of the hill, and in front of the church where her Uncle Brown's shop stood.
She handed them across the counter with only the number named, and then running out of the shop, looked up the street to the vicarage, where her darling Miss Loveday lived.
Yes, there she was, standing at the gate waiting for the postman, and Pollie came quite close before the quiet eyes turned in her direction.
"Oh, Miss Loveday!" she exclaimed. "I've never done what I promised! I said I would tell mother, and I haven't."
Miss Loveday looked down in her face inquiringly.
"I couldn't; I did not see her last night, and then this morning I did not feel as if I could. Miss Loveday, why is it so hard to do things?"
"Then I am afraid, Pollie dear, you did not ask the Lord Jesus to do for you what you were not willing to do yourself?"
Pollie hung her head. "I was so vexed I did not care to—"
"Poor little girlie," said her teacher, with tender sympathy, "I know how hard it must be. I have gone through it myself lately, so I know. But oh, Pollie, I know one thing too, and that is, that the Lord works in us by His Spirit to do the things to please Him, which otherwise we could not do. With God 'nothing' is impossible."
How earnestly she gazed down the road! And what a colour flashed into her face as the postman came in view, and trudged into one cottage garden after another.
Pollie stood spell-bound, watching him too. Would he pause at Miss Loveday's side, and hand her a precious missive? Why had her pale cheeks turned to deep crimson? Was the letter she was expecting of such great importance?
No! He came up quickly to where they stood, and with a smiling "None for you, miss," passed on.
The crimson cheeks were pale now. Miss Loveday seemed as if all life and hope had gone out of her face.
"Come into the garden, Pollie," said her teacher slowly.
Perhaps she craved human sympathy; perhaps she thought that Pollie's own struggling little experience would help her to understand better than anyone at the parsonage.
They walked quickly through the garden, and Miss Loveday led the way down to the stream which flowed so quietly at the bottom of the hill; nor did she stop till they stood close to the water's edge.
"Pollie," she said, catching her breath, "I have need to remember what I have said to you!"
"Did you want a letter so much, dear Miss Loveday?"
"Oh, Pollie!" Miss Loveday sat down on a rock and hid her face.
"Perhaps it will come another day," comforted Pollie.
"I do not think it can. He will have sailed by this time," she whispered.
Pollie did not know what to answer, for she did not know all that had come and gone. She laid her little trembling hand on her teacher's knee, and knelt down by her side in silent sympathy.
"I will tell you, Pollie, because—oh, because I'm so very, very miserable—because I want to do right, and it is so hard!
"You know I live with my uncle and aunt? My father left me to their care, to take their advice, to do exactly as they bid me. He made me promise that I would obey them as if they were my own parents."
Pollie pressed her hand softly; she did not dare to interrupt by a word.
"Then I went on a visit to Devonshire, and while I was there I met someone who—who wanted me to go out to China with him, to make his home happy there."
Pollie shrank—Miss Loveday going away! But how selfish of her to think of herself! It was evident Miss Loveday wanted to go, and that she thought it would make her happy.
"When I came back from Devonshire I told my uncle and aunt, and they said they would make inquiries about—my friend—Harry Fulbert.
"When the answer came to their letter, I thought my heart would break. My uncle forbade me to speak to him again. I was to write to him once and say so, and that was all."
"Oh!" said Polka with filling eyes. "How dreadful! Did you have to?"
"For days and days I could not—I would not. I felt sure my own father and mother would not have done such a thing, and my heart was all in a tumult, and I felt dreadfully angry that my uncle and aunt could be so cruel.
"I would not speak to them about it, I felt so bad. And so it went on for nearly a week.
"At last came Sunday, when we had those words in our lesson (do you remember them, Pollie?): 'If ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses'; and I thought how could I prepare to give you girls that lesson, if I could not say the words from my heart myself?
"Oh, Pollie, it was dreadful. At last I thought, as I have told you, that what I could not do of myself God could enable me to do, and I knelt down and asked Him to help me to submit to His will, and to feel rightly towards my uncle and aunt.
"Then, Pollie, I went down to them, and I told them how wrong I had been to be so angry; and then I asked them why it was I might not see Harry, and begged them to let me do so.
"Then, Pollie, they told me that they had heard, on authority which they could not question, that Harry was not good and steady, and told me that I must have nothing to do with him. I cannot tell you all, but at last I had to let him go; they would not give way, and I dare not disobey; and that is the end of it!"
Pollie listened intently, her eyes gazing in the sad ones which, like a dumb suffering animal's, sought her sympathy.
At last she said shyly:
"'Did' God help you to do His will?"
There was an instant's breathless pause. Then Miss Loveday's head sank lower, and she said brokenly, "There was nothing else to do; I dare not disobey."
"Then I suppose it must have been," added Pollie reverently.
"And if it was His will—you think I ought to be glad to do it, Pollie?"
Pollie was sobbing now. Miss Loveday opened her arms, and they cried together for ever so long.
At last, Miss Loveday wiped away her tears, and began to prepare herself to go back to the house.
"I'll never forget—never," said Pollie, clinging to her; "and I'll pray every day that God will let him come back!"
"There 'must' be some mistake, Pollie, or I ought not to wish it, of course. But I am sure—so very sure—that he loves my Saviour, and wishes to serve Him."
"I will pray," whispered Pollie brokenly, and then she sped home, her anger all gone, nothing but love left in her heart which had been so hard.
"Oh, mother!" was all she could say when she found her sitting in the kitchen. And then she found kisses of forgiveness pressed on her face, and arms of forgiveness clasping her round.
CHAPTER X.
TELLING FATHER.
THAT night, Pollie's mother went to bed early, and after her father had finished his work, he came in and settled down by the fire.
How different Pollie felt now that she was what her father called "a right down good girl."
Jim was upstairs reading to their mother, so she took her knitting and sat thinking of Miss Loveday.
Suddenly she looked up.
"Father!" she exclaimed.
"Well?" he asked.
"Father! Isn't it Devonshire where grandmother lives?"
"Why surely!" said father, smiling. "What's made you think of that?"
"I was wondering who you knew there."
"Why do you ask?"
"Father—" Pollie paused. "I don't want to tell anything I ought not, but I have somebody's secret that makes me very sad, and I wanted to know if you knew somebody there very particularly. But I can trust you, father."
"You may, my dear; and if I can do anybody any good, you can tell me."
"Do you know anybody of the name of Harry Fulbert, father?"
"Devonshire's a large place, but I do happen to know some one of that name there too."
"Do you, father?" asked Pollie, with her heart beating fast.
"And the funny thing is I know two of 'em, Pollie, as far asunder as the poles though they are."
"Two of them! How?"
"First cousins of the same name. A stupid thing, as I take it, to name 'em alike, but they do tell that neither of the sisters knew what the other was doing till they were named, and then 'twas no use cryin' over spilt milk! One of 'em is as good as gold, and the other, sad to say, is not worth a brass farthin'!"
"Where does the good one live, father?" asked Pollie, almost breathlessly.
"His 'mother' lives at Exeter. He comes home to see her now and again, but I believe he lives in foreign parts somewhere."
"And the bad one, father?" Pollie's voice was almost faint with anxiety. Which was the one who was a friend to her dear Miss Loveday?
"The other knocks about everywhere. He has plenty of money, and travels a great deal, but I would be sorry for any one 'I' loved to have much to do with him. Why do you ask me, Pollie?"
"Father, I hope—oh, I hope I am not wrong to tell you, but could you find out for me? It is Miss Loveday, father; and he has gone out to China to-day, and Miss Loveday is so sad because—." And then Pollie told her father as much as she knew herself, and begged him to help her find out all about it.
"I told her I would pray, and I have. But I never guessed the answer might come so soon, nor that perhaps I might bring it to Miss Loveday. Oh, father, do you think God will let me?"
"That I can't tell, my dear, but this I do know, it says, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass.'"
Pollie could hardly sleep that night for thinking of what she ought to do about Miss Loveday. Her father had advised her to "commit her way unto the Lord," and she did, but what was the next step?
Dare she go to the vicar and ask him if there were some mistake? Would he tell her she was an impertinent girl?
If it were "right" to go, she would dare even that. But "was" it right? What if Miss Loveday's friend should not turn out to be the true gold?
So she tossed till morning, and no light came. She got up early and busied herself in her duties at the mill, but still no light came.
Her mother was not very well, and Pollie had all the cooking to do, and the bread to make. Her father was off early to the market with his sacks of flour, and would not be in till afternoon. She thought and thought, but could come to no decision.
At last, just as she had washed up the dinner-plates, and was going up to fetch her mother to the tidy kitchen, a thought came which comforted her: "'Trust also in Him; and He will bring it to pass!'"
"I've been worrying and not trusting," she said to herself.
And when she had placed her mother comfortably, and brought her workbasket, she went into her little room and knelt down in silence by the bedside.
Then she took her knitting, and sat down on the doorstep to watch for her father.
Before long, she saw a girl making her way up the steep hill, and as she came nearer, she found it was one of the maids from the vicarage.
Her heart beat fast, and she jumped up and stood waiting, hardly liking to run and meet her; and yet—
"Pollie!" said the maid eagerly. "My Miss Mary is very poorly, and she wants to see you, and I was coming all the morning, but I was too busy. Can you run down to see her now?"
So, in less than half an hour, Pollie stood at her bedside, finding it difficult to repress her eagerness. Miss Loveday put out her hand and drew her down to kiss her, and began at once—
"Pollie, I wanted to tell you—Yesterday I thought it was harder than I could bear. I felt forsaken, as if I never could get over it. But to-day—"
"To-day?" echoed Pollie, with her heart in her eyes. "Has it come right? Oh, Miss Loveday!"
"Right so far as this," answered her teacher gently, "that I have trusted it all to my Lord, and left it with Him to do as He likes."
Pollie's lips parted to speak, but the heavenly look in Miss Loveday's face stopped her. She knelt down by the bed, and covered her friend's little white hand with kisses.
"Dear Miss Loveday, I may pray that it may all come right, mayn't I?"
"Oh, yes, dear but—indeed I want to do His will—not mine."
Pollie was silent. How could she break her news? And yet all the way down the hill, she had been sure that it would be right for her to tell Miss Loveday herself all about it.
"Father knows Devonshire," she said very softly; "he knows people there."
"Does he, dear? Why do you tell me that?" asked Miss Loveday, looking at her.
"Father said he knew two people called that name. I thought you would not mind, because father is perfectly safe, and he was so sorry."
And then Pollie told her all she had heard, and Miss Loveday's pale face brightened into a flush of hope.
"I know he's the golden gold!" she whispered. "And God has sent you, Pollie, to show my uncle that there is some mistake. Oh, I am so glad that I wanted God's will better than my own, for He gives abundantly, Pollie!"