Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

"I HAVE SOMETHING TO GIVE EACH OF YOU BEFORE I GO."

LEFT WITH A TRUST

BY

NELLIE HELLIS

AUTHOR OF

"THREE LITTLE FIDDLERS," "GIPSY JAN," "LITTLE KING DAVIE," ETC.

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"He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."

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LONDON

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.

8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.

ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C.

CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER I. NINETY-NINE, MADEIRA STREET

CHAPTER II. THE DAY THAT FOLLOWED

CHAPTER III. DORA GROWS METHODICAL

CHAPTER IV. GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY

CHAPTER V. AN EVENING OUT

CHAPTER VI. HOW A RACE ENDED

CHAPTER VII. CONFESSED AT LAST

CHAPTER VIII. DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE

CHAPTER IX. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

CHAPTER X. ENDING AND BEGINNING

CHAPTER XI. REUNITED

LEFT WITH A TRUST.

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CHAPTER I.

NINETY-NINE, MADEIRA STREET.

THERE were other things connected with the house besides its number which could have been expressed by the figure nine. For instance, its tenant, Mr. Grainger, had a family of nine children, and the day on which my story opens happened to be the ninth birthday of Olive, the third girl, and the sixth child.

Perhaps it will be better if I tell you at once the names of the younger inmates of the house, and say a few words about each of them as I pass from one to the other.

Edgar, the eldest, was sixteen, and for nearly a year had gone daily to a large wholesale warehouse in the City. Next came Dorothea, generally called Dora; she was a year younger, and was just now rejoicing in the fact that she had left school. Between her and the twins, Katie and Robert, was a difference of two years.

These were followed by Lancie, the dearest of her flock to Mrs. Grainger, for a mother, though full of tenderness for all her children, always loves the afflicted most. He was nearly eleven, but his pale face and pain-sharpened features made him look much older. When a child of five, he had been stricken with paralysis, and had never recovered the use of one of his legs. It was so much shorter than the other that he had to walk on crutches, and his health was so delicate and his body so weakly that he was often confined for days together to the couch, which, in consequence, had gained the name of "Lancie's sofa."

In strong contrast to the little invalid came sturdy Giles. He was younger, but he was a full head taller than the brother who was his senior by twelve months. There was the same difference between him and Olive. Then came Lottie, aged six, the last of the family being the two-year-old Philip, the pet and plaything of them all.

But that it was Olive's birthday was not the chief circumstance that made the day a memorable one at 99, Madeira Street. It was the last in which the whole family would be together for a long time; for early on the following morning Mr. Grainger would leave his home in London to sail for Australia, and, in all probability, a year would elapse before he would again set foot on his native land.

It had cost him much to make up his mind to leave his wife and children, and only a very strong inducement had led him to arrive at such a decision.

Mr. Grainger was a clerk in a large English and Colonial Bank, and though from time to time his salary had been increased, his wife, with her large family, had found it as much as she could do to make both ends meet.

She was, however, a capital manager, and the end of the year always saw her expenses within the limits of her income.

But unexpected trouble came upon the Graingers when little curly-headed Phil was nearly twelve months old. One evening Mr. Grainger came in from the City with a troubled face, and, calling his wife apart, told her he had become responsible for a bill for £150. He had been persuaded to put his name to it by a friend, who had assured him he would run no risk, as the money would be ready long before it was wanted. It was only, he said, that he could not lay his hand upon so large a sum just at that time, and if the old playmate of his boyhood and companion of his schooldays would do him the kindness of going through the mere form of standing his surety, he would always be grateful. Two days before the bill fell due, this so-called friend and distant relative became bankrupt.

There were those who said Mr. Grainger ought never to have yielded to such persuasions. But he was a kind-hearted man, and, judging others by his own honesty and uprightness of dealing, he had signed his name trusting that no ill would befall.

Neither husband nor wife had any private means, so to meet the bill Mr. Grainger had to borrow money on his life insurance and upon the furniture of his house. Retrenchment, of course, became necessary. Edgar left school, and thanks to the good word of one of the heads of the bank in which Mr. Grainger had been clerk for many years, a situation was obtained for him in a noted hosiery warehouse in Wood Street. Taking his inexperience into consideration, he received a remarkably good salary, and Edgar, though his life did not seem to be shaping itself after his own inclinations, was glad to be able to help the parents who had done so much for him.

Then Giles and Olive were also taken from school, and they, with Lancie and Lottie, become their mother's pupils, while Dora, who was a fair musician, gave the two little girls music lessons. Husband and wife weathered the struggle better than they expected, but Mr. Grainger knew it would be a long time before he would have paid the last shilling he had borrowed. For notwithstanding the numerous ways in which his wife curtailed the household expenses, Edgar's weekly wages, and the money he himself earned by evening employment at book-keeping, they had only paid off £50 at the end of the year, so that they were still £100 in debt.

They would have paid off more had they not been obliged to incur a doctor's bill. Lancie had been weaker than usual that year, and they could not let their child suffer without giving him all the relief in their power. Had it not been for the little cripple's sake, they would certainly have removed into a smaller and lower-rented house, but the doctor said that his life was probably owing to the warm aspect, and open healthy situation of Madeira Street, which was within a twenty minutes' walk of Regent's Park. And what could his parents do but decide, that, whatever other sacrifices were entailed, they must stay in the home in which they had lived since the twins were born.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Mr. Grainger had been asked if he would go to Sydney, and remain while the head clerk in the branch bank there was absent on a twelve months' leave. The sum he was offered over his regular salary, and what he could save from his allowance for travelling and living, would more than free him from debt. So though it was a hard trial to part from his wife and children, he made up his mind to accept the proposal.

Tea was later than usual that evening in order that the entire family might be present, and a cake—a much rarer luxury than it once was—graced the centre of the table. All the children were inclined to be dull and depressed, even down to little Phil, who had been crying in the afternoon because "Fader was doing away across the big sea, and perhaps he'd tumble out of the ship and det drowned."

But Mr. Grainger was determined that the last meal they would all take together should be a cheerful one, and putting aside his own feelings, he made such jokes, and laughed and chatted so gaily, that very soon the elder children caught his spirit, and all joined in the mirth he provoked. Nobody would have guessed what heavy hearts some of those smiling faces concealed.

But when the table had been cleared by the not very efficient little servant, and chairs were drawn round the fire, which a frosty night in the early part of the year made so agreeable, the conversation became more serious. Instinctively the children left two empty seats side by side for their parents. Then Phil climbed into his father's arms, and that being his favourite resting-place, lay quietly and happily there till the low hum of voices lulled him into a slumber. None of the others felt sleepy, notwithstanding that the talk lasted till the clock in the passage struck nine—not even Lottie, though she was glad to make Dora's shoulder a pillow for her head.

Would those boys and girls over forget that talk! They thought not, at any rate. With the exception of the baby, they all knew why their father had made up his mind to leave them, and there was first of all a little joyful anticipation of the time when he could return, and they would "all be so happy again," and not obliged to save every possible penny.

They next discussed arrangements with regard to the frequent exchange of letters. Then breaking a silence, Mr. Grainger said,—

"Children, do you know I have something to give each and all of you before I go?"

They all looked curious, even Edgar. Perhaps on another occasion he would, from the term of address his father had used, have considered himself excluded from those to whom the words were spoken. But to-night he knew—and the knowledge pleased him—that they were meant for him equally with the rest.

"Is it a present, father?" asked Giles, who had practical ideas about everything.

"No, my boy," replied his father, "it is a trust. I give you one very precious charge. Will you all try to take care of your mother for me till I come back?"

He was answered by a chorus of yesses, some loud, some low.

"As much as lies in his power," he continued, "Edgar must take my place in relieving her of those duties which ought always to fall on the master of the house."

"Such as locking up the doors at night, and seeing everything safe?" asked Giles again.

"Well, yes," said his father, smiling, "though I own I hadn't that in my mind when I spoke." Then changing his tone, he added, "You will do this for me, Edgar?"

The boy made no audible reply, but his grave, earnest face, and the serious look in his eyes as he met his father's, said more plainly than words that he would do his best.

"Dora," went on Mr. Grainger, "as the oldest daughter, must be her mother's right hand."

"And what shall I do, father?" asked Katie.

"Be her help and comfort, dear, also," replied Mr. Grainger; "I am afraid I cannot tell you the special way in which you can each strive to fulfil my trust. But you can all try to lighten her cares by sharing them, and cheer her by rendering loving little services."

"Now I'm nine I shall be able to do lots of things for mother," observed Olive, with great satisfaction.

"That's right, my darling," and at her father's words, Olive looked up with a sunny smile. "Children," he went on, "you know what our first golden rule has always been!"

"Obedience," was the quick reply.

The flickering flame of the fire was the only light in the room, and just at that moment the corner where Robert sat was in shadow, so no one saw the crimson flush that rose in his cheeks as the question was asked and answered.

"And remember that now when your mother speaks, she will be speaking for me as well as for herself," went on Mr. Grainger. "You may be quite sure her wishes would be mine."

Again there was a silence, and again Mr. Grainger broke it.

"This, too, is part of the trust," he said. "I want you to promise to be loving and kind to each other; you elder ones being gentle and patient with the younger, and the younger submitting themselves to the elder. I want you to promise that you will struggle bravely in the battle which all God's children must fight against selfishness, discontent, bad temper, and, in fact, everything that you know to be unlovely in God's eight. All of you, down to little Lottie there, have your besetting sins to fight against, and, with God's help, to overcome. My dear children, will you so act that when I return you may each tell me you have tried to keep this promise?"

"Yes," again came from all the children, and very gravely now was the answer given.

"But you cannot do it in your own strength. Shall we kneel down together, and ask God that the Holy Spirit may help you?"

All excepting Lancie, who lay on his sofa, knelt down, and from that room ascended an earnest prayer that God would help each member of the family to keep the solemn promise that had been made, and that He would let them all meet again in health and safety. When they had risen from their knees, Mr. Grainger kissed his children one by one. Lancie's turn came last, and bending over him, his father took his thin white hand in his.

"Oh, father! How I shall want you."

"My poor little Lancie!"

There was the sound of a smothered sob, and then—

"Is there nothing I can do?"

"'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten," said Lancie, and a smile lighted up his pale face. "And you think God will be as pleased with that as if—as if I could do as the others can?"

"I know He will," said Mr. Grainger, tenderly; "and remember He takes note of every pain you suffer. That He has given you so much to bear, Lancie, only shows His great love for you. He wants to make you 'perfect through suffering.'"

"Thank you, you have comforted me so, father." Then, after a momentary pause, "I shall be awake when you come to give me a last kiss before you go."

And his eyes were wide open when, in the early winter morning, Mr. Grainger stepped quietly into the room adjoining his own to say good-bye to his little crippled son. But with the exception of Edgar, who was to accompany him to the station, all the other children were sound asleep when he left the house from which he would be absent a whole long year.

CHAPTER II.

THE DAY THAT FOLLOWED.

DORA had resolved to be up to see her father start, and she felt vexed with herself when on awaking she heard the clock strike seven. She knew then that he had been gone nearly two hours, and becoming aware it was a very cold morning, she nestled down in her bed again, while her thoughts went back to the conversation of the previous evening and the good resolutions she had formed. How much she would do during the year begun that day! The children should all look up to, and love, and obey her, and her mother would lean more and more upon her, till when her father came home her mother would say, "I do not know what I should have done without Dora. Right nobly has she fulfilled the trust you gave her."

And thereupon she began thinking what a pretty story she could weave out of her own life. A year ago she had been told she might have a tiny room at the top of the house for her own use. It was very little larger than a good-sized cupboard, but she considered it a great privilege to be its only occupant, and here she had spent many a spare hour and half-holiday in scribbling tales and "making poetry," for it was Dora's great ambition to become an authoress.

Now, with herself for the heroine of her story, she wove a charming little romance. This proved such a delightful occupation that she quite forgot the lapse of time till the sound of a church bell, tolling for an early service, brought her back to the real world in which she lived. Ten minutes to eight, and eight o'clock was the breakfast hour! It was impossible to dress properly. So having put on her clothes, she washed her face, hurried over a prayer, and ran downstairs. She was relieved to find Katie cutting bread and butter, and helping generally.

"I am so sorry to be late," she said, as she gave her mother a kiss. "I meant to be in such good time this morning."

"Never mind, dear," was the kind reply. "I have no doubt you were tired when you went to bed last night, and perhaps did not go to sleep quickly. Now, will you please do Phil's feeder, and see that he doesn't eat his bread and milk too quickly?"

The Christmas holidays were not yet come to an end. Consequently as there was no hurrying off to be in good time for school, the meal was rather a longer one than usual. Perhaps Mrs. Grainger wished there had been need for haste. The younger children did not understand that it would have been kinder to their mother to have made no remark on the vacant place at the breakfast-table, nor to have talked so freely, and dolefully, too, of the father who had gone away.

Then Giles was very anxious to know whether he went "in a four-wheeler or a hansom," and whether he had taken a certain aluminium pencil-case, which Giles had bought with a shilling—the careful savings of several months—and given him for a Christmas present.

So the younger children lingered over the meal long after Edgar—who had returned from seeing his father off—had left for business, and Robert had taken his departure to the house of a schoolfellow with whom he was going to spend the day. They finished at last, however, and Dora offered to go for Lancie's tray. He, poor child, was not so well as usual this morning, and had taken his breakfast in bed.

When she returned to the sitting room, Mary, their little maid of-all-work, was clearing the table. Dora had to wait a few minutes before she found an opportunity of speaking to her mother.

"Mother dear," she said, "I want to begin at once to help you all I can. Will you let me attend to the cooking to-day?"

"You will do me a greater service if you will take the children for a long walk. It will be so good for them, this cold frosty morning, and in holiday time they always get restless if they are kept in the house."

Dora would much have preferred making the pudding, and preparing the cold meat left from yesterday's dinner for a hash, but her good resolutions were fresh in her memory, and she instantly said she would do as her mother wished.

"But you need not go yet," went on Mrs. Grainger. "If you start in an hour, or an hour-and-a-half, it will be soon enough. Before then you might get a nice practice."

"Yes, but I will put my room tidy first, please," said Dora. "I hadn't time to do it before I came down this morning. Oh, mother—" she stopped a moment, then throwing her arms round her mother's neck whispered, "I do hope I shall be a real help to you now and always. Will you let me have a quiet talk with you some time to-day? And will you give me a lot of work? I have been thinking I might teach the children entirely now. And there are other things I should like to undertake."

"Do not want to do too much at once, my child," replied her mother, fondly. "But I am sure it will be good for you to have regular daily work, and I intended speaking to you about it as soon as your father had gone. I cannot promise you a talk before the little ones have gone to bed, but we will certainly have a quiet chat together then. Now, dear, run and put your room in order."

Dora did as she was bid, but finding Katie stripping the beds, she offered to help her make them. When this was done, she dusted and put her own little "den" tidy, and then went down stairs to begin her practice. She did not grumble, as she often did, at being obliged to perform this duty in a cold room, and scales and exercises were patiently repeated till her fingers felt delightfully warm and lissom. But she was not sorry to shut the piano and go in search of her mother. She found her in the kitchen. Katie was there, too, washing currants for the pudding.

"Shall we start now, mother?" Dora asked.

"Yes, I think so. Will it be too much trouble to take Phil?"

"In the perambulator, do you mean?"

"He certainly could not walk to the Park and back. Katie will take her turn at pushing him."

At the mention of her own name, Katie looked up quickly.

"But, mother," she exclaimed, "Connie Pafford said she might perhaps call for me to go for a walk with her."

"So you said yesterday, dear, but she didn't come."

"No; and that is why I think she is sure to call this morning."

"I do not know that I should be sorry, Katie, if she should come and find you out," said Mrs. Grainger, somewhat gravely.

"Why, mother," and Katie's face flushed. "I am sure Connie Pafford is very nice. And it's very kind of her to want to be friendly with me. They are very much better off than we are. She has an uncle who keeps his carriage."

Mrs. Grainger smiled.

"I hope my little daughter will be wiser some day, and not think that because a little girl has an uncle who keeps his carriage, her friendship should be cultivated. But indeed, Katie, I am not at all anxious that your intimacy with the Paffords should increase; it is not likely to bring you any real good or happiness. Had it not been that on hearing of our trouble Miss Loam offered to take you and Dora on greatly reduced terms, you could not have remained at so good a school, and you must remember that your social position is very different from that of most of Miss Loam's pupils."

"Yes, and that's just what makes it so hard," rejoined Katie, with a sigh.

"Some of the girls would not think any the worse of you for being poorer than themselves, dear child," said her mother; "and there is no reason why you should not be friendly with them. But from what I have heard, I should not think the Paffords are of that class, and I do not think it well for you to seek their acquaintance."

"I don't consider the Paffords at all nice," remarked Dora. "They are proud and stuck-up, and Mrs. Pafford never takes the least notice of us if we happen to meet her in the street."

"You couldn't expect her to stop and speak to you when you were carrying that big basket the other day," said Katie. "You looked exactly like a servant."

"Let us hope she did not recognise your sister," said Mrs. Grainger, quietly, "for if Dora had been a servant and Mrs. Pafford had known her, it would have shown great ill-breeding to pass without any outward sign of recognition. It would have been more, a direct violation of the command 'be courteous.' But," she added, changing her voice, "we must break off our talk, or you will not get the long walk I want you to have. Katie dear, it is my desire that you go with your sister."

The words were said very kindly, but with a certain firmness that left no room for argument, and Katie went away to get ready herself and help to dress her little brothers and sisters.

But she forgot her vexation when she found herself in Regent's Park. It was a remarkably clear fine morning, and the trees were covered with tiny particles of hoar-frost that glittered like diamond dust in the bright sunshine. No wonder Phil wanted to get out of his perambulator and run and stamp his little feet on the hard, frozen ground.

Indeed the air was so fresh and exhilarating that Dora and Katie forgot their dignity as the two eldest daughters, and begging Giles and Olive to "mind Phil" for a few minutes—Lottie was considered old enough to take care of herself—started off for a race. Now, though there was a difference of two years in their ages, there was very little difference in their height; it was not surprising, therefore, that the younger girl was the victor. But, after all, it was a closely-contested point, and panting and laughing, with rosy-cheeks and sparkling eyes, they came back to their charges.

"Couldn't we go as far as the lake?" asked Giles. "I shouldn't wonder if there's skating going on, and I'd like to see it."

The lake was exactly opposite that part of the Park nearest Madeira Street, but as they were already half way across the large open piece of pleasure-ground, it was decided they could easily go to the water and be home by dinner-time. Giles was right; there were some skaters on the ice, but they were all near one spot, and too far off to be plainly seen, for Dora said they would not have time to go farther than the iron bridge that spans the lake at its narrowest point.

"Why," said Katie, as she stood there straining her eyes to see the skaters, "there's somebody just like Robert. There! Don't you see that boy who has just fallen down?"

But Dora was a little bit short-sighted.

"Nonsense," she said, "it couldn't be Robert. He wouldn't go against father's wishes so much as that."

Mr. Grainger's only brother had met his death from an accident on the ice. It had happened years ago end before he himself had married, but as long as he lived, he would never forget the fearful shock of seeing the dead body brought into the house. From that day he had a horror of skating, and he made it a command that not one of his children should learn the art. And Katie, remembering her father's well-known and solemnly impressed desire, thought she must have been mistaken, and dismissed the subject from her mind.

Perhaps she would have thought of it on her return home, and told her mother of the strange resemblance between Robert and the skater she had seen in the distance, but as soon as she got in, a note was given her, and, for a while, the contents banished everything else from her memory. It was an invitation from Connie Pafford to an evening party at her house.

"Oh! Mother, may I go?" she asked, breathlessly, when she had read the note aloud.

"You think it will give you pleasure?"

"Yes, of course," and Katie's eyes sparkled. "Besides, it isn't everybody Connie would invite to her house. Lots of the girls at school will envy me when I tell them where I've been. What kind of dress shall I have?"

"My dear child, you can only wear your best merino," replied her mother.

"But it's a dress party. Connie says in her postscript that she's going to wear a light blue silk, trimmed with cream-coloured lace. I don't think I can go in a dark green merino."

"I cannot give you a new frock for the occasion, Katie; that is quite impossible. If Connie really wants you at her party, she will not care about your dress. And your green will look very nice with some pretty lace at the neck and wrists."

"I'm afraid I couldn't go in a woollen dress," and tears of disappointment suddenly filled Katie's eyes.

"I am sorry to appear unsympathetic," said her mother, "but in that case, I see nothing else for you to do but to write and decline the invitation."

Dora, who had been reading aloud to Lancie when Connie's letter was brought in, had only left off to hear what it was about, and then resumed her occupation. But her attention was only half given to the book; she had heard the whole of the conversation between her mother and sister, and now looking up, said eagerly—

"But I have a dress I think you could wear, Katie—the white serge I had for cousin Mary's wedding. It's a little bit dirty, and it may be a little old-fashioned now, but we could turn it, and perhaps alter the make."

"That will do beautifully," said Katie, whose face was again all smiles. "And if it's too short, I daresay we could let it down. I'll go and fetch it at once. Where shall I find it, Dora?"

Hardly waiting for the answer, she ran upstairs to her sister's room, and Dora again turned to her book. But a little, thin hand was put gently over the page, and a low, sweet voice said,—

"I am glad you did that, Dolly. It was kind of you. Katie has set her heart upon the party, and else wouldn't have gone in her merino."

Dolly was Lancie's pet name for his eldest and favourite sister.

"It's not any great kindness," said Dora. "I don't suppose I should ever have worn the dress myself again. I think—" she paused a moment, then went on thoughtfully—"it seems to me, Lancie, that the more a thing costs us the more merit there is in doing it, and if it doesn't cost us anything, there's no merit in doing it. It isn't as if I were going to the party end wanted to wear the dress myself, for instance. Now it cost me a great deal more to take the children out for a walk this morning, when I would much rather have stayed at home, and made the pudding and cooked the dinner. I am afraid I haven't expressed myself very well, but you know what I mean."

"Yes—'neither will I offer burnt offerings unto the Lord my God of that which cost me nothing.'"

There was a silence after that until Katie came back with the dress over her arm, for Lancie had covered his face with his hands, and Dora knew he did not wish to be spoken to.

Again a deep thrill of joy had throbbed through the little cripple's heart. God knew what it cost him to lie so many weary hours in pain and weakness, and be cut off from the pleasures which all his brothers, down to Baby Phil, enjoyed. He knew how high a price was paid for the sacrifice which he could daily offer up—the price of his weariness and suffering—and in the thought, a deep thankfulness rose from Lancie's heart that he had so rich a gift to offer. Ah! If he could always feel as he was feeling then.

CHAPTER III.

DORA GROWS METHODICAL.

IT was decided that with turning and a little alteration the dress would do very nicely for the Pafford's party. And as soon as tea was over, Dora, Katie, and Olive, who was very proud to help, set about taking out the seams. Before the unripping was finished, Robert returned. He did not seem in a very talkative mood, and glancing up presently from the little sock she was darning, his mother was struck by the weary look on his face.

"You seem tired, dear," she said. "What have you been doing all day?"

"Oh, lots of things," he replied, as he hastily took up a book and opened it. "Jack and I were out of doors the greater part of the time."

"And I could declare I saw you once," said Katie briskly—unpicking the dress was a delightful occupation—"But I knew I was mistaken because this boy who was so like you was on the ice. It couldn't have been you skating."

"No, of course it couldn't," and Robert gave a short laugh. But behind his book, his face, which had been crimson a moment before, suddenly grew pale. He gave a sigh of relief as he heard Giles ask for an explanation of a passage in the story he was reading. In a few minutes he rose, and saying he was "tired out," asked his mother to excuse him and let him go to bed.

Poor Robert! He carried a heavy heart with him upstairs, because for the first time since he had understood the sin that is committed in giving utterance to a lie, he had sullied his lips with a falsehood.

The dress was unpicked at last, and a note sent to the dressmaker who often worked at 99, Madeira Street, to beg her to come to superintend the re-making of the white serge as soon as possible. Then, when Katie had taken her departure to bed, Dora put herself in her favourite attitude on the hearthrug, and with her elbow on her mother's knee, said,—

"Now, please, let us have our talk together. I have a pencil and note-book, and I mean to write down all the duties you are going to give me to do."

"NOW, PLEASE, LET US HAVE OUR TALK TOGETHER."

"Again I ask you not to be too eager, Dora," said Mrs. Grainger. "Those who start too hurriedly in the race are apt to come in last."

"Yes, I know, but I am so anxious to have things settled. As soon as the holidays are over, and that will be at the end of the week, will you let me take your place in the schoolroom and teach the children without any help from you?"

"You would find that no light task, dear."

"I am sure I could do it," said Dora. "I am quite aware Giles is often trying to one's patience. He asks the why and the wherefore of everything, and it is not always easy to explain. And then Lottie frequently loses her temper. But I am certain I could manage them and teach them into the bargain."

"I cannot have you neglect your own studies, and you must keep up your music and French. You know, dear, you are very young to have left school, and you must try to carry on your education for a while alone, or with such little help as Edgar or I can give you. I hope you will some day have the advantage of more lessons."

"Of course I must study, but I shall have plenty of time for everything," said Dora. "Now see here," and she began to use her pencil. "From half-past nine till twelve I shall teach the children. Then I shall take them out for a walk till one. After that, lessons again from half-past two till four."

"That leaves you very little time for yourself."

"I can practise from four till five," went on Dora. "Then in the evening I can have half an hour for French, and an hour for other things, and after that, help you with the mending. There, mother, shall I not be your right hand if I do all that?"

"Indeed, my Dora, if you do half, you will relieve me of much," and Mrs. Grainger stroked back the soft curly hair from the girl's forehead. "I shall indeed be thankful," she continued, "if this should prove a new starting-point in your life. It has seemed to me that my daughter was getting a habit of dreaming of what might be, instead of acting in the what is. Now I think she is going the right way to work to cure that defect in her character."

"Yes, I know that is a fault of mine," and tears sprang to Dora's eyes, "but I will try to struggle against it, and not only dream, but do. Perhaps writing stories isn't a good thing for me. I won't write any more for a whole year."

"It will do you no harm to indulge in your favourite pursuit, if you do it in moderation," said her mother, smiling. "Only you must not let it interfere with more important occupations. I do not think it improbable that some day your desire will be fulfilled, and that you will find yourself a recognised authoress."

"Oh! Do you?" And Dora's face grew rosy red, and her eyes glistened through the tears that had gathered in them.

"You know the old precept and promise, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.' Be content that God shall direct your life and guide your steps. Then, if this desire of yours should be good for you, He will accomplish it; if not, you will still be able to say, 'It is well.' But leave all that for the future, dear child. You will be doing as true work for God now in teaching your little brothers and sisters, and helping me in my household duties, as ever you would be as a famous writer. Yet, my Dora, your power of imagination, and your love of literature, and that appreciation of loveliness in nature and art with which God has gifted you, are responsibilities not to be lightly considered."

"How do you mean, mother?" asked Dora, wonderingly.

"This, dear, that where much is given, much will be required. You often have beautiful thoughts; you are quick to recognise the deeper, hidden meanings which the lessons of nature, and of our own lives, teach us. I heard what you said to Lancie about the coat of self-sacrifice, and was struck by the truth of your remarks and the insight they displayed. In proportion to the light that has been given you, my child, so will you be expected to mould your life."

"Oh, mother, how solemn and serious a thing you make of it all!"

"Life is solemn and serious, but remember you have only to live one day, nay, one hour at a time. Do the duty which that hour brings with a whole heart and singleness of purpose, and you need not fear for the rest." Then changing her voice, Mrs. Grainger continued,—

"I am glad you have put down on paper what you intend doing. There is nothing like having fixed and settled rules, and I think you know you are naturally wanting in order and system. At the same time, I am sure it would be better if I were in the schoolroom in the afternoon. The children do nothing then except read and prepare their lessons for the next day, and so it does not matter if I leave them for a little while every now and again. I must own it has always troubled me that I was so constantly going from the room in the morning to attend to household duties. They will certainly be the gainers if you become their teacher, for with me they were often alone for an hour together."

"Oh, please give them up to me entirely," said Dora, pleadingly. "I don't want to do a little to help you; I want to do a great deal."

"Very well, dear," replied her mother, "you shall make the trial, and until you say you cannot get through all your duties properly, I shall not interfere with you. But you must not feel ashamed to tell me that you have set yourself too hard a task."

Dora made no audible answer, but in her heart arose the words—"I shall never do that. Mother doubts my powers, I see, but in a little while she will own she has misjudged me."

At this point the conversation was interrupted by Edgar's entrance. He looked very tired as he threw himself wearily down in an arm-chair.

Mrs. Grainger went to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"For your sake I shall be glad when Mr. Barfitt has balanced his accounts, dear boy," she said, fondly. "Now you shall have a cup of cocoa, and then you must go off to bed at once. You were awake at half-past four this morning, and that left you a very short night's rest."

"I suppose that is the reason why I feel so tired," he replied with a sigh. "But you know I am very glad to go to Mr. Barfitt in the evening, and it's really very good of him to have me. He must find me a very different accountant from father. Need you go to make the cocoa, mother?"

Edgar would have liked to keep her soft warm hand in his, and she knew it. But the little maid had gone to bed, and Dora, sitting on the hearthrug, was gazing fixedly at the clear, red-hot coal. She was enjoying a reverie, and her mother would not disturb her.

"I shall not be a minute, dear. I will fetch the little kettle, and boil it here."

Dora was still in the same position when she returned, and not a word had passed between the brother and sister. But the clatter of the teacup and saucer, as Mrs. Grainger placed the tray on the table, aroused her, and the next instant she rose from the floor.

"I think I'll go to bed now, mother," she said. Then as she saw the kettle, she added, "Why didn't you ask me to fetch that for you?"

"You were busy, dear, with your own thoughts, and I did not wish to interrupt you."

Dora laughed a low, happy laugh.

"I was dreaming a dream that shall come true," she said, and having wished her mother and brother good-night, she ran lightly upstairs to her room.

But she did not undress and prepare for bed. She first of all wrapped an old shawl around her, and sat down at the little deal table on which stood her writing materials. Then she took from a drawer a sheet of manuscript paper, and with a ruler carefully ruled some lines. These formed divisions for the labours of each day in the week, and Dora then began to write the hours at which the many tasks she intended to do should begin and end.

"Mother thinks I am wanting in order and system," she said to herself with a smile, "but perhaps she will own herself just a little bit mistaken when she sees this."

Monday's work was thought over, and put down, and from early morning till late at night every minute was occupied. Tuesday was treated in the same fashion, and Wednesday was being taken into consideration, when there came a soft tap at her door. It was so soft that she did not hear it.

But on a repetition she said "Come in," and glancing up she saw it was Robert.

"Why! I thought you'd gone to bed hours ago," she exclaimed in surprise, "and you haven't even undressed yet."

"No, there's—there's something bothering me, and I saw a light under your door, and I thought perhaps you'd let me talk to you a bit."

"Oh dear!" said Dora, with a sigh. "And I did so want to finish this while I've got everything fresh in my mind." Then she added impatiently "Is it very particular, Robert?"

He did not answer, but bending over her table asked what she was doing.

"It's a time-table," she replied. "It is settled that I am to teach Lancie, and Giles, and Olive, and Lottie. Then there are my own studies and countless other things. I shall be busy all day long. You see, Robert—"

"Yes?" he said, for Dora had stopped short.

"I am determined to fufil dear father's trust, and the more I relieve mother, the better I shall be doing it."

"And what about the promise?" Robert asked. But he did not put the question without difficulty.

"Oh! I mean to do great things this year," returned Dora, eagerly and confidently. "Mother and I have been having a lovely talk, and I shall set to work so that I may have a good account to give father. Why, Robert," as her eye for the first time fell upon his face; "you are shivering, and you look so pale. You had better go to bed, and leave me to finish this."

He moved away, but before he had reached the door, turned and came back.

"Dora," he said, in a low voice, "I wonder whether father is thinking about us all now?"

She was just in the act of dipping her pen in the ink to continue her work, but at Robert's question, she leaned back in her chair, and answered slowly,—

"Yes, I am sure he is. He is thinking—"

"Well, go on. You are dreaming again, I know that by the look in your eyes. What is he thinking about?"

"He is wondering what we are all doing, and in fancy, he sees each one of us, and can read our hearts as well. It troubles him that every minute is putting a farther distance between him and us, but he has no fear that separation will weaken our love for him. He knows, indeed, that we shall only love him more, and strive to show that we do. And as he remembers this, the sorrowful expression leaves his face, and raising his eyes, he whispers softly, 'God bless and keep them all!'"

In imagination Dora saw her father standing on the deck of a ship. Around him was a wide vast expanse of ocean, and the silent silvery stars looked calmly down from the deep blue sky above. So distinct was the vision that she seemed to hear the throb of the engine, and the rush of water as the vessel ploughed her rapid way through the sea.

And thus it was she did not perceive that tears were running down Robert's cheeks, nor that he had great difficulty in choking down his sobs. She only knew that a moment after she ceased speaking, he left the room.

And then accompanying the words, "Now I really must get this finished," with a little shake of her body, as if to detach herself from the scene she had conjured up, she once more concentrated her thoughts on the time-table before her.