The strange house

CHAPTER VII.

CONWAY'S DISCOVERIES.

CONWAY was a tall boy of between fifteen and sixteen, and acknowledged Gertrude's salutation with not over-ceremonious courtesy. He was, however, full of some news he was anxious to bring out, and directly the door was shut and Gertrude had taken the seat Mollie pushed towards her, he began—

"I say! Such a lark as I have had!"

"When?" asked Ned. "What do you mean?"

"I went just now to the Strange House. I thought as it was the last day of the holidays that I would signalize it!"

"Miss Ashlyn does not know anything about the Strange House," interrupted Mollie.

"Then I shall tell her," said Ned, "so that Conway can gather breath for his story."

"Pooh!" laughed Conway. "But, anyway, Miss Ashlyn must be told about our episode the other night, or she will not see why I was so anxious to find out about our mysterious neighbour."

"First, then," said Ned, "about a year ago the next house (which you perceive is a somewhat old-fashioned one, and is not nearly such a good one as ours) was taken by some one, and a van with furniture came in the evening just before dark.

"We did not take much notice, but thought one van was but little for the size of the house. We were somewhat curious about our new neighbours, but never could see any of them about, except a man, who could not be called a gentleman, whom we dubbed 'Mr. Eccentric.'

"No tradesmen seem to call. No postmen bring letters. Except for that one man who continually works in his garden, the house might be empty."

"Perhaps he likes solitude," suggested Gertrude, as Ned paused.

"But," said Mollie eagerly, "that's the strange part of it. Mother and I certainly saw a light moved and put out that night when the new policeman took the man up for a burglar."

Conway now took up the thread and explained all about the events recorded in the first chapter, gratified to find a fresh listener in the governess, and to see that her attention did not flag.

"Well, let all that be," said Ned at last. "Now tell us what you have found out more. You do not mean to say that you went up to the house, Conway? But you've got cheek for anything."

"I had cheek enough for that," laughed Conway. "I went just now and knocked at the door, intending to ask the old fellow how he felt after his apprehension the other night. But I knocked and I rang, I knocked and I rang, till I was tired of that game. Nobody came to the door, for the very reason that nobody was at home to do so, I suppose. Just as I was turning on my heel, the old fellow came up the garden path and asked stiffly what I might want.

"I told him I had come to make inquiries as to his health—"

"You never did!" exclaimed Ned.

"I did! I sympathized with him in the bobby's rough handling, et cetera, et cetera, and got him round into a good temper before I had done with him."

"That's like you!" said Mollie.

"He told me that he lived by himself, that he might be perhaps a little peculiar, but that gardening was his hobby. And that if only folks would let him alone, he did not wish to meddle with any one. He would go his way, and they could go theirs."

"How funny!" said Ned.

"But for all his peculiarity, there was a certain uneasiness about him," Conway went on, "that made me suspicious. He's got heaps of vegetables and fruit in that back garden!"

"Of course he has," said Mollie; "any one with eyes can see that from our back windows! Why yesterday there were half a dozen beautiful marrows on trellis-work, and to-day they are all gone."

"He's eaten them all," said Ned.

"They were gone when I got up this morning," said Mollie, "for I noticed. I believe he sells them."

"Who to?" asked Conway scornfully.

"At Covent Garden, or somewhere. He sauntered in at the front gate about eight o'clock this morning. 'I' believe he gets up and goes to market early when no one is about."

"There's something queer about it," said Conway; "don't you think so, Miss Ashlyn?"

CHAPTER VIII.

DAISY'S "CHUM."

GERTRUDE looked from one to the other, listening and trying to comprehend in quick succession the different statements of her various entertainers.

Daisy said no word, but she followed all that was said with keen interest, her dark face changing and varying as one after another gave out their opinions.

Conway had got so friendly over his interesting news that he ceased to feel Gertrude quite such a stranger, and now began telling her about their school, to which he, Ned, and Hugh went daily by train, and which ought to have begun a week ago, but had been postponed owing to a scare of illness.

"Have you got your books together?" asked Mollie. "For there's such a hunt the first morning, Miss Ashlyn, generally."

"Don't you bother," said Conway. "I can mind my own affairs, thank you."

"Well, don't ask me to get them, then," said Mollie.

"I shall be sure to remember," said Conway, crossly. "Come, Ned, let's go down now."

"Yes; we've had enough of the girls," said Ned.

They went off, Gertrude looking after them with some surprise in her eyes.

"Did you ever see such boys?" asked Mollie, vexedly. "But they always are worse with strangers; they will be pleasanter when they get used to you."

Gertrude did not answer. Her heart sank; she busied herself over her work-basket, which she had brought down in her hand, in silence, though her eyes were too blinded to see what she was doing. At length she drew out a piece of crewelling on which she had been engaged at home, and spread it out before her.

The familiar pattern brought back with a rush all the circumstances in which she had put in those last leaves: the lamplight, the red table-cloth at home, Phyllis's beautiful little oval face bent over her lessons, her mother's presence so restful as well as cheering, Otto's quiet friendliness.

It cost her a great effort not to let a sob escape her.

She put down her work, and murmuring something about "up-stairs," hastened to her room.

For one instant she felt as if she 'must' fly home again! Oh, the dreadfulness of this home-sickness which swept everything before it! Why had she wished, sometimes even longed, to get away from the little daily round of getting the breakfast ready, going to Camptown, walking home again, getting the tea ready, and then spending the evening in reading and work!

Now she would have given everything to be back again!

She hastily bathed her eyes, which she knew must be red with the unshed tears, which she was keeping back so resolutely. And then with one swift prayer for help and comfort, she gulped down her sobs, and slowly made her way back again to the study.

Meanwhile, when the door had been shut after her, Daisy had volunteered a remark.

"Miss Ashlyn will hate us all if the boys go on so."

"Let her," said Randall, pouting; "I don't care if she does."

"I do," said Mollie; "it is not ladylike to behave badly, and I don't mean to. What is more, Randall, I shan't let you, either."

Randall's round face put on an ugly frown. But after a moment's thought, he nodded defiantly. "You won't be able to help it," he said.

"Shall I not?" asked Mollie. "I have ways and means."

"Oh, hush," said Hugh. "I do hate to hear you quarrel."

"Do you, cry-baby?" asked Randall, turning upon him with his little bold, lionlike face.

"Never mind, Hugh," whispered Daisy; "'handsome is, as handsome "does."' You can always behave the best, in spite of what anybody says."

Hugh had flushed scarlet, and his small, thin hand was clenched into a fist beneath the table. But at his little sister's soothing whisper, it relaxed, and he gave a slight laugh, which however, angered Randall far more than a blow would have done.

Just at the moment, however, Gertrude's step was heard at the door, and Mollie hastily rose, saying—

"Oh, Miss Ashlyn, shall we go and get ready for tea? You have not seen my room yet."

Mollie's room looked over the gardens at the back, as she had said. And while she brushed her abundant hair, she explained about their neighbour's doings, and how his garden, both back and front, was kept in the best order of any in that suburb.

After that they went to the drawing-room, where they found Mr. Shaddock, listening to Conway's account of his visit next door.

Tea was rather formidable to poor Gertrude among such a number of strangers, though Mr. and Mrs. Shaddock exerted themselves to find topics of conversation, while Mollie did her best to join in, and to interest her governess in what went on.

CHAPTER IX.

A CHAMPION.

AFTER tea, Daisy and Hugh went back to the study, only waiting to beg Ned not to come. And Gertrude asked if she might go with them.

Perhaps the children looked a little disappointed. But very soon, when they were all shut in with the curtains drawn and the cheerful lamplight, they drew near to her, and condescended to examine her photograph album, which she had brought down for their inspection.

"The boys learn their lessons in the little library," they told her; "and Mollie stays with mother and father. Randall goes to bed if he will, or stays up till nurse makes him come; or else he comes in here and bothers us."

"Do you always spend your evenings together?" asked Gertrude.

"Yes," said Daisy; "they do not want us down-stairs, and I am sure we do not want them!"

After a time a motherly-looking woman entered, greeting Gertrude with a respectful manner, and asked if Hugh were not ready for bed.

"Oh, nurse, I 'am' so happy," said Hugh. "Is Randall up-stairs yet?"

"Not yet, my dear. But you know how tired you will be for school if you sit up."

"Yes," urged Daisy, "do go, Hugh. You can have Miss Ashlyn's company to-morrow, and nurse says quite true. Do go!"

The boy put away his things-without another word, and wishing Gertrude good-night, left the room. When the door was shut, and Daisy had watched the handle for a moment, she got up and softly drew near to Gertrude's side.

"You will not notice what Randall says, will you, Miss Ashlyn?"

"How do you mean, dear?"

"About Hugh." She hesitated, then went on hurriedly, "He calls him cry-baby. But perhaps you didn't hear? Anyway, you will not be long before you do hear it, for he tells everybody."

"I did hear it," said Gertrude, "but I thought I would judge for myself."

"Oh, that's all right, then," said Daisy eagerly. Then, as if she could hardly leave the subject there, she added—

"He isn't strong—Hugh, but he's not a cry-baby! He does cry sometimes, and they tease him dreadfully. But not one of them can do the brave things Hugh can. Not one of them tries so hard to control himself; not one of them is so good to people who are in trouble! And yet—yet Hugh is always in hot water because his spirits are not very strong."

Daisy's face had flushed deeply, and she put her small hand gently on to Gertrude's knee, looking up beseechingly in her face.

"I shall be sure to remember all you have told me," she answered, putting her arm round the small shoulders, and drawing the little girl towards her.

"Oh, thank you," said Daisy earnestly; "I am so very glad I have told you. I don't know why I did, except that you seem so very kind. Besides, I thought you took to Hugh."

"He is very like a little nephew of mine, whom we have lost."

Daisy glanced at Gertrude's dress curiously, but her eyes returned to her face without a satisfactory answer to her questioning look.

"No, I am not in mourning," Gertrude answered, "but by and by, if Hugh and you and I become friends, I will tell you both all about it."

"Oh, that would be kind!" exclaimed Daisy. Then she paused, and hung her head for an instant. "Miss Ashlyn," she exclaimed in a low voice, "I will be good to you, indeed I will! I didn't mean to be—We are none of us at all good, but Hugh—but indeed I will try all I can!"

Gertrude bent and kissed her, then she said softly—

"Daisy, dear, you have made my heart lighter, but I wonder if you know the blessedness of trying to please the Lord Jesus? Have you over thought of that?"

Daisy shook her head slowly.

"Then I will try to teach you, and it will make you so happy!"

"Nurse does sometimes talk to Hugh and me like that, but I don't understand what she means."

"Would you like to understand?" asked Gertrude.

"I don't mind—" said Daisy.

"Do you not sometimes feel very sad and naughty, and as if you could not be good any way?" asked Gertrude.

"Well, I suppose I do, sometimes," acknowledged Daisy.

"And do you not feel then as if you do not care to think about God, and would rather keep away from Him?"

Daisy's wondering eyes were fixed upon her governess's face, but she did not answer in words.

"That is sin," said Gertrude, "and unless that sin is got rid of, we can never get near to God, we can never please Him. Daisy, is it not the best news to hear that the Lord Jesus has died on the cross to make an atonement for this dreadful sin, so that we sinners may be forgiven and come back to God?"

CHAPTER X.

A SONG.

AT last, the evening came to an end. Daisy departed to bed, Randall came in and looked at her, and sauntered out again, leaving the door open, and Mollie finally came for a few minutes, bringing a message from Mrs. Shaddock to the effect that Miss Ashlyn could retire whenever she felt inclined.

"We generally have friends in the evening, or she goes out, but mother will not let me sit up late because she says I should lose my colour," said Mollie, glancing at herself in the glass over the mantel-piece and shaking out her hair.

"She is very wise," answered Gertrude.

"But all the same, I do as I like," pursued Mollie. "I read in bed as often as not, or talk to nurse. She does not encourage that, I can tell you. But all the same, I do not get to bed as early as mother thinks."

"Do you feel happy in doing so?" asked Gertrude, looking up with a bright little smile.

"Oh dear, yes! 'What the eye doesn't see,' you know."

Gertrude shook her head, smiling.

"Are you awfully strict?" asked Mollie.

Gertrude paused for an instant. She felt this might be a momentous conversation.

She prayed in her heart one of those three-word prayers that she often pondered over, "Lord, help me!" And then, strengthened and calmed, she looked up at her questioner and answered—

"When I have found out what your mother's wishes are in things, I shall be 'awfully strict' in carrying them out."

"Shall you go telling tales, and asking her if I am to read in bed and do this and that?"

"You will see," said Gertrude with a smile.

"I should hate you if you did," said Mollie, also smiling.

"I hope you will not hate me," answered Gertrude, "but whether you do or not, I ought to do my duty, ought I not?"

"We shall see," said Mollie, looking at her somewhat curiously. "Now I must say good-night. I hope you will sleep well, Miss Ashlyn."

"Thank you, dear, for trying to make me at home," said Gertrude.

Then Mollie put out her cheek to be kissed, and Gertrude was at last alone.

But though she looked round on her cosy study, she did not feel it enough her own, as yet, to indulge herself in even a thought towards home.

She was just considering whether she should go to her own room, when Susan appeared with a little tray with biscuits and lemonade, asking if Miss Ashlyn would please to take some milk or anything more that she could bring her.

"I am to be well cared for, at any rate in this way," said Gertrude to herself. But she did not feel inclined to eat.

She cleared up her work, put the room straight, lowered the gas, and ascended to her own room and shut herself in.

The moonlight streamed over the floor, making the little jet of gas which was already lighted quite tiny in comparison. She went to her window and looked out. How still it all was!—except for the occasional sounds of music coming up from the neighbouring drawing-rooms.

Gertrude leant her head against the sash and buried her face in her hands, for some one near was singing a song which Otto had sung only last night—"When the mists have rolled in splendour." And after it was over, they had stepped outside to look at the harvest moon rising over the sea.

While they had stood there, he had asked her whether she had any desires for things to be different from what they were, or whether she were quite satisfied to do the will of God, just as she found it every day?

And she had thought about it, watching the slow red moon rise and rise out of the mist and enter a little cloud, till, after a few minutes' eclipse, she had suddenly shone out triumphantly above it in the clear deep blue.

And she had answered thoughtfully—

"I think my life feels something like that moon in the mist just now—"

"Uncertain as to its true duty and position?"

"Well, perhaps, Otto, but I don't know," she had answered.

"And then?" he had asked.

"I feel as if to-morrow were like that bit of dark cloud, which, after all, in the wonderful fashioning of our Father's hand, may only serve to brighten the light when it does shine out!"

"Yes," he said consideringly, "only it is so hard to wait so long in the mist and in the cloud, Gertrude!"

"If that is our appointed path?" she had asked.

"It might all be clear sky if the mists did not come from earth," said Otto.

"I see—self-made. Well, Otto, I don't know; all I can do is to ask God to work in me what He wills. I can't see the way myself, or tell how to act, sometimes."

"Nor I," he had answered in a low tone.

Then Phyllis's clear voice had called out from the front door, "Come, you two, it is ever so late, and we have to be early to-morrow!"

Gertrude remembered it all, while still some beautiful tenor voice sang over and over again—

"We shall know each other better
 When the mists have rolled away!"

"Ah, but that is in heaven," she murmured. "It is not a song of earthly things at all! To do our Father's will every day is our portion, and it shall be mine to do it willingly, if He will help me!"

CHAPTER XI.

A SCRIMMAGE.

"DO you like Miss Ashlyn?" asked Randall of Hugh as they were being dressed the next day.

"I don't know yet," said Hugh, "but I think I do."

"Daisy said yesterday she should not mind her, or do what she wished, unless she chose," said Randall.

"Then Miss Daisy hadn't ought to," interposed nurse; "it was very naughty of her."

Nurse spoke with such unusual energy that Hugh was quite surprised.

"I don't mean to either," nodded Randall.

"Well, you'll 'have' to," remarked Hugh, "so it is no good boasting. Of course I am different; I go to school, and she's only got to help me with my lessons."

Hugh and Randall both looked up suddenly, for there stood Gertrude close to them asking nurse a question.

"I don't care," said Randall in a low, defiant tone; "she shouldn't have come in—"

But Gertrude had received her answer from nurse and had turned away, something in her face making Hugh sure that she had both heard and been grieved by the tone in which the boys had spoken.

Hugh looked after her doubtfully, then he turned angrily upon Randall.

"I wish you would not behave so!" he exclaimed. "She was going to like us, and now she won't."

"I don't care," said Randall, "whether she does or not."

"I do then," answered Hugh.

"Then you should not have said that about the lessons," retorted Randall.

Hugh stood silent. What had he said? It had seemed nothing to him, and yet somehow he was conscious that some slighting words had passed his lips which he had hardly intended.

His dressing being finished, he went down-stairs slowly, wondering how he could make Miss Ashlyn understand that he had meant to be kind, in spite of what he had said in his haste.

She was coming out of her room as he passed the door.

Their eyes met. Something in the little boy's made her pause.

"I didn't 'mean'—" he said hesitatingly.

"Did not mean what, dear?"

"About my lessons—I ought not to have said you 'had' to!"

"I understand," said Gertrude, stooping to kiss him, "and I will help you gladly."

Hugh looked anxiously in her face.

"They are hard sometimes," he said, "but I will be as industrious as I can—"

"I shall not mind the hardness," said Gertrude, smiling. "This is the dining-room, is it not?"

So they went in, to find Conway and Ned eating their breakfast in great haste.

"Come on, Hugh, you will be late. What's the good of getting into hot water the first day?"

Gertrude found that neither Mollie nor Daisy had yet appeared. And Mr. and Mrs. Shaddock, she found, breakfasted after the rest had gone.

She sat down and waited, wondering what she was expected to do, and presently Mollie came in looking pale and sleepy.

"Hullo, Moll!" said Ned. "One would think it was bedtime for you."

"I wish it were," said Mollie. "Miss Ashlyn, are you not going to have some breakfast?"

"I was waiting for you, Mollie."

"Oh, don't another time," said Mollie.

"Moll is often late," remarked Ned, "or she has a book to finish before she gets up, or something."

"Yes," said Mollie, "so long as I am ready for school by half-past nine, it does not matter to any one what time I get up."

Gertrude felt that the "any one" included her, though Mollie spoke very unconcernedly, and took her seat at the table and began her breakfast as if she were the only person in the room. Then she looked round at the tea-tray and said—

"Oh, Miss Ashlyn, do you mind pouring out? Miss Halling always did, and the boys could never get off without your help."

So Gertrude took her place at the urn, and Conway looked up to pass her some bacon, immediately after burying himself again in a book he was reading.

Daisy appeared when the rest had begun to move, wished Gertrude a rather abrupt good morning, and then seated herself by Hugh and began to whisper to him.

Soon there began a commotion, such as Gertrude in her quiet life had never imagined.

As the time for the train drew near, there were calls for boots, books, pencils, caps and straps, and Daisy was sent hither and thither to find what was wanted.

Mollie condescended to do one thing for Ned, after which she took herself off up-stairs. While Daisy waited close to Hugh, chiefly to protect him from the jeers and cuffs of his brothers, and from the more pungent taunts of little Randall, who took evident delight in irritating his sensitive little brother.

At last they were off, and Gertrude, with a sigh which sounded quite ponderous, turned and met Daisy's eyes fixed on her face.

CHAPTER XII.

MARMALADE.

"YOU'LL get used to it, Miss Ashlyn," she said, looking down the road after her brothers.

"Shall I?" asked Gertrude, as she turned away with a heavy heart.

She went to her room, closed the door, and sat down by the window, feeling unutterably desolate.

Were all of them going their own way without reference to her? Only speaking to her when they must, only asking her help when they could not possibly do without it?

Why had she left her happy home for this? It was true she had found it difficult to get anything to do in Camptown; it was true that her mother's income was insufficient for them without her help; it was true that she had her own reasons for wanting a change, which she had hardly acknowledged to herself. But for all that, now she was really away, the home-sickness and loneliness seemed more than she could bear, and she felt sick at heart as she reviewed the difficulties in her path.

She buried her face in her hands, too utterly despairing to cry, but certainly more desolate than she had ever been before. Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup was little Randall, with his handsome face and sharp tongue.

She was roused from her reverie by the thought that school-time would quickly be there, and that she could not begin her duties with such a burden on her heart.

She rose from her seat and knelt down by the bed, not able to form any words of prayer, but still with an earnest uplifting of her heart for help.

"I asked to be guided about coming here," she thought, "and if my Father in heaven has sent me here—"

Then the tears came at last as a relief, and she laid her head down on her arms and wept heartily, praying for submission and faith and help, as she had never prayed before, perhaps.

"If He sent me, He has something for me to do here," she thought, "and I must set about the doing of it at once. Oh, how wrong I have been to repine or be afraid!"

What had her text been that morning? "Certainly I will be with thee." What could she want more than that assurance?

She rose from her knees and found that the burden with which she had knelt down was all gone. Nothing remained but a thankfulness that she was so loved and so protected that such promises could indeed be hers in Christ Jesus. She had only just bathed her eyes when a knock came at the door, and on opening it, she found Daisy standing waiting.

"We are ready for school, Miss Ashlyn," she said.

"Is it half-past nine?" asked Gertrude, surprised.

"Yes; it is later than that—"

"Then my watch has played me a trick," she said, turning to the dressing-table to take it up. "It usually goes so well, but it says twenty past nine now."

Daisy looked soberly at her, as if her watch being fast or slow was not of much interest.

Gertrude put it in her dress hastily, anxious to go down-stairs, and as she did so she discovered that her fingers were sticky.

"How strange!" she said.

"What?" asked Daisy.

"I had but that moment washed my hands, and yet they are sticky!"

Daisy suggested washing them again, and went down to tell the others Miss Ashlyn was coming, while Gertrude turned back to the table to put down her basket again.

Just where her watch had lain, there was a little mark on the toilet cover as if a finger had been drawn along it to remove some stain, and on looking closer she found a little streak of marmalade had been left behind too.

"I wish I had not left my watch there all breakfast-time," she said to herself, as she went down-stairs; "it was careless of me."

Seated at the table in very good order were her three pupils.

"It's jolly late," said Randall.

"Never mind," interposed Mollie; "what if it is? Miss Ashlyn, what shall we do first? Miss Halling always—"

"I have written out this rough time-table, Mollie, which your mother approves. I think we shall find it work well. Daisy and Randall can write, while you and I have a history lesson."

"Oh, but—" began Mollie.

"Wait, however, an instant," continued Gertrude calmly, "till I have settled the other two. That is right, Daisy, you have your book ready. Is this yours, Randall? I see you both write very well."

Randall disdained to be pleased by the pleasant tone, and passed his pen over to Gertrude with an abrupt, "I want a new nib."

"Oh, you don't!" exclaimed Mollie. "I gave you one this morning! You've spoilt it drawing with it since breakfast!"

Gertrude took the pen in her hand to examine it, and found that once more, her fingers had grown sticky!

CHAPTER XIII.

THE OVERTURNED BASKET.

GERTRUDE got through the morning's school better than she had feared, and when twelve o'clock struck they were all quite surprised.

"We go for a walk now," said Mollie.

So the four set out together, Mollie taking the lead, showing Gertrude the beauties of Hampstead Heath, and describing the long walks they sometimes took on Saturdays to Highgate, Finchley, and other places round.

They were coming home, and had almost reached their own door, when, turning the corner of the road, Mollie gave a start, and exclaimed in a low tone, "There is Mr. Eccentric!"

While at the same moment the man who was in front of them, recognizing the young people, and wishing apparently to get out of their way as quickly as possible, stepped aside to let them pass, and in doing so stumbled over the kerbstone, and slipped down on his knee.

He quickly picked himself up, but his basket had sped many yards in front of him, and the old-fashioned lids opening, the contents were scattered on the path.

Daisy hastened to replace the fallen things, while Gertrude turned her attention to the man, who was brushing the dust from his knees, and answering her curtly that he was not in the least hurt. When he turned round to look after his basket, Daisy was trying to gather up some rice which had fallen out of a paper, while Mollie was holding in her hand some lilac print, a reel of white cotton, and a little pair of child's shoes which had evidently been freshly mended.

The man took the things and stuffed them into the basket in silence, though his face had turned very pale.

"I fear you are hurt," said Gertrude again.

But he would have no more to say about it, and limping a little, he pushed on to his own gate and left the four to turn in at theirs.

"'We've' had an adventure!" said Mollie. "Far greater than Conway's. How I do long to tell the boys! Miss Ashlyn, what could he want with those things if he lives alone?"

"I do not know," said Gertrude thoughtfully.

She went up-stairs to her own room, but all the way she was haunted by an impression of having seen that little pair of child's slippers on some little pair of feet! How could that be possible? Were there not hundreds of little slippers in the world?

Mrs. Shaddock was very interested with their news at dinner, and the meal passed much more comfortably than the previous ones, Gertrude feeling less forlorn as they began to have things in common to talk over.

When she went back to the schoolroom, on the mantel-piece was a letter from her mother.

She sprang towards it, then sat down by the window with it in her hand, and began covering the envelope with kisses.

"Oh, how could I go away from you? How could I?" she murmured over and over again.

Then she ran up to her room, tore the letter open, and devoured the precious contents.

They were words written from a full mother's heart, words of advice, and cheer, and encouragement. Rising from their perusal, Gertrude felt strengthened to go on her way.

   "You must expect difficulties, my dear—" (the letter ran). "These things are allowed to happen in our lives, but our God is equal to it all. There is such a storehouse in the Lord Jesus, that whatever happens, there is grace enough for it. Go to Him in everything, and you will find 'everything' just a ladder reaching to heaven."

"Even Randall," she said to herself, as she put the letter in her pocket and prepared for school.

When she reached the schoolroom again, Mollie was practising, Daisy was buried in the perusal of a book, but no Randall was there.

She was looking round and wondering how she should find him, when Mollie volunteered—

"He isn't coming; he has worried mother till she has taken him out with her."

So the school went on without him, and just as they were putting up their books at five o'clock, they heard a great commotion in the hall, and Randall's voice saying loudly—

"Well, cry-baby, have you 'blubbed' to-day?"

"There are the boys!" exclaimed Mollie. "Now for our news! Come along, Daisy, let us go down to the dining-room to see them!"

They ran off, leaving Gertrude alone.

She turned to her letter once more, reading the dear lines over and over, till she knew them by heart.

Then she bent her head on her hands and thought of her mother's advice.

"Grace enough for 'all' that happens."

CHAPTER XIV.

"X. Y. Z."

"HAVE you been to call for letters to-day?" asked a woman, looking up from her work with anxious eyes.

"No, I haven't," shortly answered the man addressed. "I can't always be callin' there, ye know. It looks so queer."

"Not at all," answered the woman decidedly. "People must have letters, and you buy your tobacco there. That's nonsense!"

"Not nonsense at all," answered the man. "I'm pretty near sick of it. Here's a pretty go I've had this morning. I slipped down, and the things you sent me for flew out of the basket—shoes and all—and the folks next door helped to pick them up."

The woman glanced at him in dismay, but after a moment, her own anxiety overcame even that, and she said slowly—

"James, I can't 'think' how it is there wasn't a letter the other day; I do wish you had called there this morning."

"It's rubbish you're being so fidgety," said the man. "He's all right. I tell you what it is, this is driving us into our graves. I'm near sick of it."

He turned towards the little fire with his pipe, and the woman gathered up some lilac print which she had been cutting out, and left the room.

"A living death," she said to herself, "and all for the want of a bit of courage at the right time!"

Slowly she mounted to the top of the house, and taking a key from her pocket, unlocked a door, letting herself in and locking it from the inside again.

There was a little fire burning in the grate, protected by a cheap nursery guard, and an unlighted candle was on the table beside a work-basket.

On the floor were bricks and toys scattered hither and thither.

The woman glanced towards a small bed in the corner of the room, and then lighted her candle and sat down by the fire with her work.

But ever and anon she buried her face in her hands, and pressed her forehead with her fingers, as if to keep back thought.

"He said he would write without fail, every week, and it is three days over the time now!"

She turned again restlessly to the light, and put her needle into the print. Then with a sudden movement she folded that together and went to a drawer, taking from it a worn pair of knickerbockers, which she spread on the table, fitting on a patch carefully, and bending over it with a certain look on her face that would have made an observer's heart bleed—if he had had a tender heart.

"I 'can't' bear it," she whispered at last.

She put out her hand to extinguish the candle, when a low whistling was heard on the stairs and a slow step came nearer and nearer.

She hastened to unlock the door, looking in the man's face and speaking abruptly.

"You'll stay here a bit, James? I'm that uneasy that I can't bide here at all. I must go to Oxford Street and see if there ain't a letter for me."

"What, at this time o' night?" questioned the man. "It's ridiculous. But do as you like; it don't matter either way, and you'll get a bit of air."

He sat down by the fire and put his pipe in his mouth once more.

The woman went into an adjoining room to get her bonnet, and soon had let herself noiselessly out of the front door, and was speeding towards the high-road which led down from Hampstead to the more populated districts of Camden Town.

It was not till she reached one of the main thoroughfares that she aided her steps by entering a tram-car, and there her veiled face and plain garments attracted no attention.

She alighted among the crowd when she reached Oxford Street, and disappeared among them up one of the wide turnings.

By and by, she came to her destination, and on her inquiry, two letters were handed over to her, and she turned away.

Both bore the Highgate postmark, but were in different handwriting. Yet as the woman grasped them, she knew that her journey had not been in vain.

She clasped her hand over the precious lines, addressed in a large boyish hand to "X. Y. Z., Tobacconist, Dash Street." And without apparently dreaming of opening them, she hurried out into the crowd again, and was soon seated in a returning tram, speeding back whence she came, and alighting where she had got in before.

At length, her weary walk over, she let herself into the house with a latch-key, and passed quickly up the dark staircase.

In answer to her low whistle, the door up-stairs was noiselessly unlocked, and she entered the room she had left nearly two hours ago.

"I've got it!" she exclaimed, sinking into the chair the man had left.

"Two?" he questioned.

And while with rather trembling fingers she broke the seal of her own, he did the same by the second envelope.

Hers ran—

   "Dear mother—I wish you'd come to see me; I ain't well, and the master—"

That was all. The large lines only reached to the bottom of the page and then stopped.

His ran—

   "To X. Y. Z. Madam—Your boy has been taken suddenly ill, and I regret to tell you that the doctor looks seriously upon his complaint. I would have telegraphed, but your wish to keep your address from us has precluded my doing so. Will you come at once? I am, etc., etc., Head Master."

Both letters bore the date of two days before.