Winifred

"Here is that child, poring over her book again, wasting
her precious time and eyesight."

Winifred looked up wearily as the shrill voice of reproach sounded over her head. The speaker was a sharp, energetic-looking woman who seemed to have worked off every inch of superfluous flesh and to have nothing left but bone and muscle.

"I have finished all the sewing you laid out, aunt, and I have carried home Mrs. Bowler's kerchiefs, and put the money in your box. The children are in bed and asleep, and I thought I might read a little while."

"And how much did Mrs. Bowler pay you, child? She ought to give you a good price."

"Forty shillings for the kerchiefs, aunt, and ten for the apron."

"Well, well! It is a fair price, but they are well worth every farthing of it!" said Dame Evans, slightly mollified. "I will say for you that there is not a person in Bristol who can do cut-work and satin-stitch equal to yourself. But you might have taken your knitting, child, if you had nothing else to do. Reading is nothing but a waste of time for folks like us, except upon Sundays and holidays, when we can do nothing else."

"And, aunt, I saw Lady Corbet at Mrs. Bowler's, and she wishes me to come to her house every day to teach her daughters and oversee their work. I am to take my meals with the young ladies and walk out with them, and she will give me ten shillings a week. I am to begin to-morrow if you are willing."

"Laws me!" exclaimed Dame Evans, quite dazzled at the prospect of such an honor. "What a fine thing for you! Why, they are the richest people in Bristol. Sir John entertained his late blessed majesty when he visited the city, and was knighted on that occasion. I have heard my Lady Corbet was cousin to old Lord Carew."

Winifred's heart gave a bound at this news. Might she not, through Lady Corbet, obtain some news of Lady Peckham and Arthur? It was nearly three years since she had heard anything of Arthur, but she had never once forgotten to pray for him, night and morning.

"You are willing to have me go then, aunt?"

"What does the child mean? Willing indeed! You ought to be thankful on your knees for such an honor, and you talk about being willing, as though you had asked leave to go to the fair! I am only afraid you will not know how to behave properly with such grand ladies, having lived in the country all your life. Yes, of course I am willing, only be careful of your manners, and be sure you say 'my lady' every time you speak to her."

Winifred smiled rather sadly. She had not many fears upon the score of manners. She had been used to intercourse with a much greater lady than Lady Corbet, the wife of a Bristol sugar-refiner, but she was glad of the employment, as well as of the prospect of some change in her monotonous and dreary life. She had entertained serious thoughts of setting up a little school of her own, and here was the work ready provided for her.

The last two years had brought many sad reverses to Winifred Evans. The removal of Lady Peckham to London had been the first of a series of changes which had ended by bringing her into the little brick-paved kitchen in Fish Lane where we now find her. But a few months after Gilbert Evans sailed taking with him his son, came news of the total loss of the ship and crew. Master Evans, who had been for some time in declining health, had a paralytic stroke upon hearing the news, and lingered on a helpless and apparently senseless invalid till the next year.

Then came one of the devastating epidemics of that period, sweeping over Bridgewater and all the towns in the neighborhood. The feeble old man and Dame Magdalen, worn out with care and sorrow, were among the first victims, and Winifred was left with nobody to depend upon but her uncle and aunt in Bristol, whom she had seldom seen. And Lady Peckham, who was far-away in London—and London, so far as communication was concerned, was as far from Bristol in that day as it is now from New Zealand.

She wrote at once to my lady, sending the letter by one of the grooms at the Hall who was going up to town, and waited anxiously for an answer, but none came. And at last the news arrived at the Hall that Sir Edward had gone abroad, taking his family with him! Here was a death-blow to all Winifred's hopes! She had nothing left to do but to return to Bristol with her uncle and aunt and share their home, at least till some prospect appeared of independent occupation.

Dame Evans was on the whole a well-meaning woman, but like some other well-meaning persons, very intolerable to live with. Housekeeping was her idol. She cared for nothing in the world but scouring and cleaning, cooking and washing, spinning, sewing, and knitting. In her mind a house was not a place to live and be happy in, but something whose use was to be kept clean; to have the bricks scoured, the wood-work waxed and rubbed and polished endlessly, the windows brightened, and the flies driven out. Comfort and shelter were secondary objects. Clothes were made to be mended and kept clean; and as to books, they had, according to Dame Margery, "no use in the 'varsal world but to waste people's precious time and keep them from their duties."

Dame Margery was a steady keeper at home on week-days, and a regular church-goer on Sundays; she never went to revels or merry-makings, or allowed her family to do so. And she would have been both surprised and indignant if any one had told her that she was as much wedded to the things of this world as her neighbor the goldsmith's wife, whose gay gowns and frequent parties were the talk of the whole street; and that it was as frivolous and belittling to set her heart upon pewter tankards and fine linen as upon flounces and lace. It did not occur to her to think that drawers and cupboards, kitchen floors and parlor windows, trenchers and napkins, were as much earthly and transitory in their nature as fairs and revels. Simon Evans was a master-workman and well to do in the world, but Dame Margery saved every penny and every candle-end as carefully as she had done when he was living upon the wages of a journeyman. She allowed her family no better food, and had no more to give away. If people were poor, it was their own fault. "She" was not poor—why could not they do as she had done? The question, "Who maketh thee to differ?" was one which did not occur to her.

It may be guessed that Winifred and her aunt did not suit each other very well. Dame Evans declared that the girl had been utterly spoiled by poor sister Magdalen, who was nothing better than a dreamer herself, for all her gentle blood, and congratulated the child on at last getting into hands that would give her some training and teach her something useful. The training consisted in toiling from morning till night to clean what had just been washed and to wash what was already clean; in making garments which when done were too good to be worn, and in being reminded every day and all day long of her own deficiencies, and of the goodness of her uncle and aunt in taking upon themselves such a burden.

Winifred could not bring herself to feel that she was a burden. She was well aware that she did as much work as had ever been expected of Priscilla at the farm, and since she had found fine needlework and embroidery to do, she had earned more than enough money for her own support. Moreover she had taught the two girls to read and write since she came to Bristol, rather, it must be confessed, against the will of their mother, who complained that Winnie would make Betsey and Sally as idle and dreaming as herself. But here, for once, Simon Evans exerted his authority, and when he did, even Dame Margery had no choice but to submit.

These were dreary days to Winifred. The change was great from the open, breezy field and heath, and the stately avenues and lovely gardens of the Hall, to the narrow alley where she now lived. There was not a green thing to be seen except from one window in the attic, where she could catch a glimpse of some distant tree-tops; and at these tree-tops Winifred could gladly have gazed for hours if she would have been allowed. But it was hard for her to find time even to think, since Dame Margery's voice kept up an incessant patter of small complaints and fault-findings, small remarks and smaller gossip, for, although she seldom went out, she contrived to pick up all the news of the town. Her very voice grated on Winifred's ears. She never spoke in a pleasant or cheerful tone. And a stranger hearing her in another room would be sure to think she was either whining or scolding. While at the least annoyance, she took on a tone and expression of suffering martyrdom. Reading was out of the question, save by fits and snatches, or on Sundays, when she was not engaged in cooking the Sunday dinner, or keeping the little ones quiet, while their mother nodded over her Bible, under the idea that she was performing a pious duty.

It was a great relief when Winifred found fine sewing and embroidery enough to occupy her hands for some hours of every day. The close attention which this work required was a sufficient excuse for not talking, and she was learning by degrees to listen to her aunt's voice as one listens to the working of machinery or the patter of the rain—as a disagreeable noise which cannot be helped. As she worked at the muslin apron or the lace whisk which occupied her hands and eyes, her thoughts were comparatively free, and they wandered backward over the past—her pleasant life at the farm, the hours spent at the Hall or with good Dame Sprat, now enjoying that Heavenly Inheritance to which she had so steadily looked forward during her long and troubled life. She called to mind her last precious conversations with Lady Peckham, and the dying words of her mother:

"Winifred, lay hold on eternal life. Whatever may be your lot here, never give up your title to your Heavenly Inheritance. Remember always how He hath said, 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' And there is no change in His goodness. I leave you in His hands who never yet failed them that sought Him."

This was Winifred's only stay, her one source of courage and comfort. Severe as was the change, heavy as were her bereavements, weary and dull as was her daily toil, fretting as were her daily trials, it was her Heavenly Father who sent or who allowed it all, and therefore all "must" be for her good in the end, though it might be a long time first.

She was sure that there was waiting for her a lovely, peaceful home, filled with all those beautiful things which she loved, and many, many others, far beyond anything she had seen or could conceive—a home where all her dear ones were waiting for her or would come at last, and where there would be no more parting forever. This inheritance was "hers,"—prepared for her by her Heavenly Father, sealed and made sure by her Saviour's death and resurrection. It was to be hers at last, however long she might have to wait, and it might be hers any day. She might go to bed any night in her little close bedroom, and awake amid the unspeakable splendors of heaven.

Such thoughts gave Winifred courage to live from day to day, making no plans, never looking forward, but leaving all in better hands than her own. They were no longer beautiful dreams, as in the days when she walked over the heath or up to the Hall. They alone were the living realities, and all the rest was but a dream—a weary, troublesome dream, which would pass away in the morning. She was careful to give no just cause of offence, and when she was blamed unjustly, she tried to accept it in the spirit of meekness, knowing that the trial of our faith "worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope: and hope maketh not ashamed."

It was with a thankful heart that Winifred dressed herself next day for her that lesson at Lady Corbet's. She thought it likely that she might meet with some disagreeable things. Lady Corbet evidently had a great idea of her own consequence, and seemed to think she was conferring a favor on Winifred by allowing her to teach her daughters. It was very likely also that the young ladies might be proud and consequential. But at all events it was a change. Sir John Corbet lived in the best part of the city, on one of the hills upon which Bristol is built. He had a fine house and also a garden, and the very thought of seeing green and growing plants was pleasant to one who had been shut away from them so long.

"How pretty Cousin Winnie looks!" said Betsey, gazing after her cousin as she tripped down the lane with something of her old elastic step.

"Beauty is nothing, child!" said her mother, though she herself was thinking at that moment that Winifred was a very creditable young person to have passing in and out of the house. "Good looks are only skin deep! Handsome is that handsome does!"

"Then I think Winifred is the handsomest person I know!" returned sturdy little Betsey. "For I am sure she is the very best."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CITY KNIGHT'S FAMILY.

BRISTOL, at the time of our story, was the second city in England, and was famous for its wealth and luxury, for its West India trade and its sugar refineries, and, alas! also for the infamous slave-trade of which it was the centre, and which dealt in white skins as well as black ones, which not only brought in negroes, but carried out white boys and girls, stolen in the streets sometimes, never to be heard of again. It contained some splendid churches and several ancient endowed schools and hospitals, but the streets were so narrow that no carts were used save those drawn with dogs. And there was hardly a coach in the whole city, for the simple reason that there was no place in which to use one.

Winifred found Lady Corbet in her own private sitting-room, and was reminded at once of Mrs. Alwright, not only by the basket of linen piled up to be darned and the huge bunch of keys in its little basket on the table, but even by something in the lady's manner of handling her needle and scissors.

"Ah! So you have come betimes, Mrs. Evans!" was her greeting. "I am truly glad to see you! My girls are losing their time and running wild for want of something to do. I have no time to teach them myself, and my last governess has just married Sir John's managing clerk—and a good match for her too, poor thing, for she was an orphan, and Mr. Thomas Green is a good, kind, and steady man, though perhaps a thought elderly. And what can you teach, child—anything besides tapestry and cut-work? I suppose, for instance, you don't know anything about figures?"

"Yes, madam," replied Winifred—she could not bring herself to say my lady—"I know how to cast accounts, and how to keep a household book."

"Dear me, how glad I am!" exclaimed Lady Corbet, relaxing a little from the stateliness with which she had met Winifred, and which did not seem in the least natural to her. "Then I am sure you will help me now and then, won't you? Sir John he insists that I shall keep an account of all the expenses of the house, but what is the use, when I never can make my sums come out twice alike?"

Winifred professed her willingness to render any assistance which might be needed.

"Well, that is kind of you. You see, in such a great household as this—for Sir John he will have all his clerks and 'prentices live in the family—there is a great deal going out all the time, and unless some one looks after things, presently everything is at sixes and sevens. Now I cannot make up my mind to do like my cousin Norton the alderman's wife—she just spends and spends, and seems to know no more what it costs to live than my Betty. I cannot think that is right, somehow. It seems as if one ought to give an account of one's stewardship, don't you think so, sweetheart?" asked Lady Corbet, who seemed quite delighted at having some one to whom she could talk freely.

"I do, indeed, madam!" replied Winifred, feeling her heart warm toward the bustling lady, whom she had at first thought she never could like. "I shall be glad to give you help about accounts or any other matter. Mrs. Alwright taught me a good deal about housekeeping when I used to go to the Hall."

"Mrs. Alwright!" exclaimed Lady Corbet. "Dear me, child, you don't surely mean Hannah Alwright—she that was brought up by my old Lady Carew, and afterward went to live with her daughter, Lady Peckham at Holford Hall?"

"The same, madam," replied Winifred, her heart beating fast. "My lady was the kindest friend I ever had; and I used to go to Mrs. Alwright two or three times a week to learn fine work and other things, and I stayed at the Hall for two weeks before my lady went away to London."

"Laws me! Do you know, my dear—" Lady Corbet's dignity had dissolved into thin air by this time—"I thought of Cousin Margaret the moment I saw you at Mistress Bowler's the other day! Not that you look like her, either, but you have something in your manner—and do you know anything of my cousin, Mrs. Evans?"

"Indeed I do not, madam," said Winifred, sadly. "I hoped I might hear news of her from you."

"And I wish I had it for you, with all my heart!" returned Lady Corbet. "But it is long since I have had anything to do with the family. You see I am related to the Carews by my mother's side, and my old lady, she would have me to live with her after my parents died. It was good in her, no doubt, but we did not get on well. My lady must needs have everything in her own way, and she set out to break off my match with John Corbet, though I had been betrothed to him in my parents' life-time, and with their consent—and to marry me to Mr. Hervey, a cousin of her own, and a much grander match, to be sure, as things were then, than my poor John Corbet. But though I approve of young folks being guided by their elders in all such matters, I would not give up my poor John for any Mr. Hervey, so there was a breach directly. My cousin Margaret took my part, though she dared not say a great deal, for every one in the house stood in awe of my lady. However, married I was, and my lady would never see me afterward. And how was my cousin, Mrs. Evans? Did not poor Arthur's death break her down very much? Why, my dear, how white you are! Is the room too warm for you?"

"I walked fast," said Winifred, recovering herself by a violent effort, though she felt stunned and giddy.

"Yes, I dare say, and you are not used to the crowded streets. Here, take my smelling-bottle. Yes, poor Arthur died five or six years ago, soon after he went abroad, and a pity it was, for he was a likely youth, and they say the present lord will never do any good. Well, my dear, your color has come back, sure enough. So if you are ready, we will go see my girls. Just let me lay out the clean towels and napkins for the maids."

Winifred had time to recover the calmness which had been so sorely shaken, while Lady Corbet bustled about, arranging the linen. She understood at once that the first report of Arthur's death was the one to which Lady Corbet referred. She was conscious of a mingled feeling of relief and intense disappointment. She could not feel that no news was good news, but at least it was not bad news. She was quite her usual self when Lady Corbet announced that she was ready to go up-stairs. The school-room was in the upper floor of a wing built out into the garden, and as they opened the green baize door which separated it from the rest of the house, their ears were met by the sound of passionate crying.

"Ah, my poor Betty!" said Lady Corbet. "I do hope, my dear Mrs. Evans, you will be able to prevent that child's sisters from teasing her life out. They dare not do so before me or their father, but so sure as she is left alone with them, there is 'such' a time! Heyday! What does this mean?" she exclaimed, as she opened the door: "Betty, what are you doing there!"

The scene partly explained itself. A pale little girl of nine years or thereabout was perched very insecurely, as it seemed, on the top of a high cabinet or chest of drawers. She had evidently climbed to her elevation by means of a stool placed upon a table, but the table had been pushed away, and she had no means of descending. While her two sisters, twins of fourteen, stood laughing at her discomfiture. A third girl, some two or three years older, sat reading in a window, with rather an elaborate appearance of taking no notice of the others.

"What does this mean?" asked Lady Corbet again, helping the child down from her dangerous position. "What have you been about?"

"Jem threw my doll up there on the cabinet," sobbed Betty, "and when I climbed up to get it, they took away the table! And they said," continued Betty, clinging to her mother, and pointing to a cupboard high up in the wall, "they said there was a skeleton in there!"

"Nonsense!" returned Lady Corbet, sharply. "There is nothing whatever in the cupboard. Are you not ashamed, girls, to treat your poor sister so? Here is Mrs. Evans, your new governess, wondering at your bad manners!"

To do them justice, the girls did look heartily ashamed.

"I must say, Paulina, I think you might use your influence to prevent such tricks," said her mother, severely, turning to the young lady in the window, who had not moved. "At least," she added, sharply, "you might rise to your feet when your mother and your governess enter the room!"

Paulina rose with the air of a martyr.

"I beg your pardon, madam!" said she, in a mournful voice. "I am so used to noise and confusion that a little more or less does not attract my attention."

"She is just as bad as the rest, only she is slyer about it!" cried the little girl. "I hate them all, that I do, and I wish I was dead—so!"

Paulina darted a glance at her sister which was anything but amiable, and then casting her eyes on the floor, she stood in silence.

"Hush! Hush! Let me hear not one word more, or nobody will have anything but bread and water till supper time!" said Lady Corbet, decidedly. "This is your new governess, Mrs. Winifred Evans, who has been brought up by my cousin the Lady Peckham, and is doubtless well qualified to teach you all you should know. She will remain with you from eight in the morning till six at night—were not those the hours we agreed upon, Mrs. Evans?—and you will obey her as you would your father and mother. Let me hear no complaints of any of you, from oldest to youngest—do you hear?"

The young ladies courtesied demurely. Paulina lifted her heavy eyelids, and looked first at the newcomer and then at her mother.

"Do I understand you, madam, to include me in the list of Mrs. Evans' pupils?" she asked.

"Of course!" said her mother, sharply, again. "You have many things yet to learn, mistress, though you think yourself so wise. Let me hear that you show yourself both obedient and apt to learn."

Paulina, courtesied again, with an intensification of the martyr expression.

"You will teach them whatever you think best, Mrs. Evans. I have perfect confidence in you," said Lady Corbet, turning to Winifred. "But I hope you will be particular as to their behavior, both toward each other and toward yourself, and also as to their needlework, which is, in my opinion, one of the most necessary things for a lady to understand. Now, let me hear a good account of you, my mistresses, or it will be the worse for you all!"

There were a few minutes of silence after Lady Corbet left the room. Paulina had returned to her book, turning her back ostentatiously on the company. The younger girls stood as if uncertain what to do next, and were evidently much disposed to giggle. Winifred saw that her task might be a somewhat difficult one, and she determined to take it in hand at once.

"What work are you doing, young ladies?" she asked, in the calm, clear tones which always command attention. "Let me see your frames."

Jemima brought her own and her sisters' frames from a closet, but Paulina made no movement.

"I will attend to your elder sister first," said Winifred. "Mrs. Paulina, let me see your work."

There was a slight but decided emphasis in the tone, which made Paulina think it best to obey. She threw down her book, unwillingly enough, and brought her tapestry work to the table. It was less perfect than either of her sisters, and was indeed in utter confusion.

"I can do nothing with it!" said she, pettishly. "I hate the sight of it! Where is the use of wasting so much precious time upon needlework, which is, after all, of no use to any one?"

"Pall only says so because she cannot work as well as Phyllis!" said Betty, pertly.

"You should not speak so of your elder sister," said Winifred, gravely. "You have made a mistake in the very beginning of your pattern, Mrs. Paulina, and that has put you wrong all through. You cannot go on well when you begin wrong, whether in tapestry work or anything else."

Paulina, seemed interested in the remark, and her brow cleared up a little.

"I understand that," said she, "but what is the use of beginning at all? How much better to discipline one's mind and heart by good works and acts of devotion!"

"And what better discipline or work could you find than that of obedience to your parents?" asked Winifred. "That is the discipline God himself has prepared for you, and surely it is more likely to be beneficial than any you can contrive or arrange for yourself. This must all come out, Paulina, or else you must take a new piece. I should advise you to begin anew from the beginning, for I fear you will never make anything of this."

"I would rather try taking this out," said Paulina, the martyr expression returning, as she sat down with her frame in her old place by the window. "I don't wish to choose the easiest way, for my part!"

Winifred could not forbear smiling.

Paulina saw the smile, and colored.

"Yes, I expect to be laughed at," said she, in a tone which was certainly not that of a martyr. "I have always been ridiculed and persecuted ever since I began to try to lead a devout life, and I always expect to be, but I mean to persevere, for all that."

Winifred turned to the work of the other girls, praised what they had done well, corrected their mistakes, and finally, having set them all down to work, proposed that she should read or relate to them a tale while they were at their frames. The proposition was received with great favor by the younger ones, especially by Betty, who declared that she loved nothing so much as a tale.

"And let it be all about giants, and fairies, and enchanted castles," pleaded Jemima.

"I will tell you plenty of such tales in our play hours," said Winifred, "but not in school-time. Let me see if I cannot make a true story as interesting to you as a fairy tale."

She then began the touching story of Richard Grenville's death, as she had read it in Hackluyt's "Voyages," and was glad to see that her auditors were capable of being interested, and that even Paulina, who had begun by turning her back upon the company, became so engaged with the story as to forget her self-imposed task of picking out. As the clock struck eleven, there was a general cry of "Oh, do go on!"

"Not now," said Winifred. "We must keep to our hours, and you have been sitting still long enough. Does madam your mother allow you to walk in the garden?"

"She will let us, I know, if you go with us," replied Phyllis, one of the twins. "Shall I ask her?"

"If you please."

Phyllis skipped away and presently returned, followed by her mother.

"What is this about walking in the garden?" asked Lady Corbet.

Winifred explained.

"O yes, they may go if you like to go with them and keep an eye upon them. But perhaps you will not care to do that?"

"Indeed I shall, madam. I have not been in a garden since I used to gather rose-leaves in that at the Hall."

"Ah, but you must not expect to see anything like the Hall gardens here, my dear. My cousin, Sir Edward, was always famous for his taste in gardening and the like, but Sir John has no time for such matters. Only do not let these wild girls meddle with fruit or flowers, for their father will be very angry. You must watch them well."

The garden possessed neither the extent nor the variety of that at Holford Hall, but still it was a garden, and it was with a sensation of exquisite delight that Winifred found herself once more among flowers and shrubs, and the familiar odors of lavender, rosemary, and lilies. Paulina walked silently at her side. She was a tall, pretty girl, and would have been attractive but for the air of self-conscious and almost sullen constraint which pervaded her whole face and manner. She seemed like a person who was trying hard to sustain an assumed character, and, as it seemed, with very indifferent success.

"Tell me about Lady Peckham," said she, at last, abruptly. "My mother speaks of her as if she were a saint! Was she really so?"

"What do you mean by a saint, Mrs. Paulina?" asked Winifred.

Paulina's ideas did not seem very clear. She thought a saint was one who observed all the hours of prayer, and took the sacraments frequently, and attended on the poor and sick, and gave up the world by retiring into a convent or some such place.

"And is that all?" asked Winifred.

"Of course, a saint would read none but religious books, and wear coarse clothes with haircloth next the skin, and perhaps lie all night in her coffin or upon ashes, and do many penances."

"Mrs. Paulina, do you read your Bible and Prayer-book?" asked Winifred.

"Of course," answered Paulina, indignantly. "I have read the Bible all through twice, and I know the daily prayers and the Litany and Communion Service by heart."

"Well, will you tell me which of the saints of the Bible is described as wearing haircloth next his skin, and sleeping in his coffin upon ashes?"

Paulina could not think of any one.

"Feeding the poor, and constant prayer, and such like are all well in their way, but they are not enough to make a saint," continued Winifred. "St. Paul says he might give all his goods to feed the poor, and give his body to be burned, yes, and even have faith so that he could remove mountains, and yet all these things might profit him nothing."

"I don't see what will make a saint, then," said Paulina.

"Suppose you read that same chapter I have quoted—the thirteenth of First Corinthians—and see if it will help you."

"But please tell me about Cousin Margaret," said Paulina.

"I will at another time. At present I must see to your sisters. Come, girls, let us have a race from end to end of this green alley, and see if it will not give us an appetite for dinner."

"I cannot run," said Betsey. "It makes my side ache and my heart beat so."

"Well, then, you shall be judge. Come, now—start fair! One, two, three, and away!"

This was a new idea—this having a governess who could play with them. When they were out of breath with exercise, Winifred showed them how to make larkspur rings and whole families of dolls out of foxgloves and the small green berries which had fallen from the trees. Never had a play hour passed so pleasantly, so free from quarrelling and fault-finding.

"Well, you do look all as fresh as roses!" said Lady Corbet, approvingly, as, with shining hair, neatly arranged dress, and rosy cheeks, the young ladies presented themselves before her at dinner. "Even Betty has a little color in her pale face. I am sure, Mrs. Evans, you know how to deal with them, and I shall leave them entirely to you."

The afternoon was not quite as pleasant as the morning. There was an examination in tables and arithmetical rules, in which all were utterly deficient—indeed, arithmetic was not a common acquirement in those days. None of the girls except Paulina could read intelligently, and Betty scarcely at all. There was some mortification and not a few tears over the tasks set them, and Betty declared she could not learn to read—there was no use in trying. However, by a mixture of decision and gentleness, the lessons were dragged through at last.

"That was very well, my dear!" said Winifred, as Phyllis finished her recitation of the pence table, after two or three trials. "I see you have taken pains, and I doubt not the next time you will have it quite perfect."

"How can you say so, Mrs. Evans?" exclaimed Paulina, who had appeared quite absorbed in the book she was reading. "Phyllis made at least three mistakes, and hesitated at all the questions. I do not see how you can call that a good lesson."

Phyllis' smile vanished, and she cast an angry glance at her sister.

"Just like you. Grudging a morsel of praise to any one but yourself," she muttered.

"I call it a good lesson, because Phyllis has taken pains and applied herself," said Winifred. "I think you would be much better employed in doing so than in watching the lessons of others for whom you are in no way responsible. Let me request that I may have no more such interference from any of you."

Paulina, returned to her book with her cheeks flushed scarlet, nor did she speak again during the whole afternoon.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BANQUET.

FOR some weeks all went on smoothly between Winifred and her pupils. The needlework was transferred from the morning to the afternoon, and a story or a reading was the reward of good behavior. Phyllis and Jemima, the twins, were easily made amenable to discipline. Phyllis was a lively, high-spirited girl, affectionate and truthful, taking the lead in study and play, and maintaining a complete ascendency over Jemima, who was slower and more disposed to indolence, but who followed her sister's lead in everything, good and bad.

Winifred found the most difficulty in breaking up the habit of teasing both their elder and younger sisters. Paulina's airs of superior sanctity and wisdom, and Betty's passionate temper, offered a fair mark for their girlish wit. Paulina usually received their assaults in sullen silence and contempt, while a very little sufficed to throw Betty into a passion of rage, in which she was like a mad creature for a few minutes, and afterwards perfectly overwhelmed with penitence and grief. These tempests were the more dangerous as the child's health was very delicate, and she was subject to alarming swoons.

With Paulina, Winifred could not feel that she gained any ground. At first, indeed, Paulina seemed much interested in talking about Lady Peckham and her ways, though she was evidently unwilling to allow any merit to a style of piety so very different from her own; and many were the arguments she held with Winifred upon the subject. All at once, just as Winifred seemed to be getting upon some terms of intimacy and confidence with her, Paulina froze up again more entirely than ever. She would not speak a word more than she could help on religious subjects, or any other, and spent as much time as possible in her own room; while her fastings and penances were renewed with redoubled ardor. She asked and obtained permission to attend morning prayers at the cathedral—a permission her mother granted all the more easily, because Sir John Trelawny, the bishop, was noted as a very decided Protestant, and was indeed one of the seven bishops who were soon afterwards imprisoned by King James.

Lady Corbet only stipulated that her daughter should always be accompanied by Molly, one of the maids, who was a great favorite both with her and Ashwell, the old housekeeper. She had come highly recommended, and was a well-mannered, smooth-spoken personage, professing great devotion to the whole family and especially to Mrs. Paulina. Winifred did not like her, and blamed herself for entertaining a prejudice against such a useful and harmless person, but she could not get rid of the feeling that Molly was somehow playing a double part. As Phyllis said, she always looked as if she were watching everything and everybody.

To judge by Paulina's face and manner, she found little comfort in her church-going. She grew thin and pale every day, and often appeared in the morning with her eyes swollen as if she had cried all night. She professed to read a great deal in her own room, but she always excused herself, if possible, from the Bible reading with which Winifred began the morning lessons, and indeed almost always came in too late for them, while her preoccupation told visibly upon her lessons, in which Phyllis and even Jemima threatened to outstrip her.

"I shall have to speak to your mother, unless you take more pains with your lessons, Paulina," said Winifred to her, one day, after the children had left the room. "You set your sisters a very bad example. What can they think of the effect of your religion, when they see you growing more careless and neglectful of your duties every day? You bring dishonor on the cause itself."

"I cannot help it," said Paulina. "I have something more important to think about than tapestry work and tables."

"Your matters must be important indeed, if they are more so than the duty imposed upon you by God Himself of obeying and honoring your parents!" said Winifred, gravely. "You are cheating and deceiving them by thus wasting your time and mine."

Paulina flushed scarlet, and then, bursting into tears, she ran out of the room. From that time she was more careful with her lessons, but the cloud of depression grew deeper every day, and Winifred began to be seriously uneasy, and to debate with herself whether she ought not to mention the matter to the girl's mother. But incidents were soon to occur which would render any such explanation unnecessary, and which put an end forever to all poor Betty's school-room troubles.

"Dear me, Mrs. Evans, I wonder if you can help me upon a pinch?" exclaimed Lady Corbet one day, bursting into the school-room, evidently in a great heat. "Here has Sir John sent up from the sugar-house to say that he has a party of Londoners come to see the furnaces, and desiring me to have a banquet prepared for them and be ready to receive them all in half an hour. And there is the furniture in the great room to be uncovered and dusted, and myself to be dressed—and how it is to be done 'I' don't know, for Ashwell has gone home to her mother, who is ill, and the cook has no notion of anything beyond her saucepans. Do tell me what I shall do, there's a dear!"

"If you will allow me, madam, I will arrange the banquet myself, and that will allow you time to dress and to superintend the ordering of the great rooms," said Winifred.

"Oh, my dear! But are you sere you know how? Sir John is very particular."

"I think so," said Winifred, smiling. "I have often assisted Mrs. Alwright. There is abundance of wall fruit now ripe, and if you will allow me as many flowers as I need, and the help of Mrs. Paulina—"

"Take anything you need!" said Lady Corbet, evidently greatly relieved. "You will find a tray and dishes in the great closet, and there is the key of the store-room, where is abundance of preserved fruits, both English and other. But use the Indian comfits as much as you can, for Sir John will be glad to see them."

"Cannot we help too?" asked the twins and Betty, all in a breath.

"Not this time," said Winifred. "You have your lessons to learn, and, having wasted so much time already this morning, I cannot allow you to spend any more. Let me see when I come back that you have redeemed your time, and with madam your mother's permission, I will bring you some comfits."

"To be sure, poor wretches!" (Wretch, in those days, was a term of endearment.) "Do just as you like, Mrs. Evans, only do have everything ready in time!"

"No fear, madam. Give yourself no concern, only go and dress, and we will have all things prepared," said Winifred, entering into the spirit of the affair, which recalled to her mind some of the delightful bustles at the Hall on similar occasions. "Run to the garden, Paulina, and bring me all the red and white roses you can find, with plenty of other flowers, and young lavender and rosemary shoots. Cut short stems, and don't go off in a dream and forget what you are about!"

Paulina departed, and presently returned with her basket and apron full of flowers. She found Winifred, with her gown tucked up and her ruffles turned back, dishing out preserves, arranging comfits and spices in numberless glass and china bowls, and piling up fruit in silver baskets. All these bowls and baskets, being arranged in symmetrical order in the large wooden trays which stood on the table, and decked with quantities of flowers, constituted the banquet which it was the custom to serve up to guests like those Lady Corbet expected. Paulina looked on in wonder and admiration, as Winifred contrived, arranged, and planned, harmonizing forms and colors with the eye of a born artist.

"That is really beautiful!" said she, as Winifred stepped back to contemplate her work. "All I have ever seen before were just heaps of good things piled up any how. And you really take pleasure in the work!" she added, looking at Winifred's delicately flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. "I don't see how one like you can care for such matters. In an hour all this will be ruined and scattered, and who will be the better for all your toil?"

"Ever so many people!" said Winifred. "I shall be the better for having pleased madam your mother, who has been kind to me. Madam will be pleased because Sir John is, and Sir John will be gratified at having done due honor to his guests. Besides, I love the work. It recalls the happiest days of all my life, when I used to help my dear lady at the Hall."

"I should not think my cousin would have cared for such worldly trifles," said Paulina.

"My dear lady cared for anything which would give pleasure to others," said Winifred. "I have seen her spend hours over Sir Edward's laced bands and ruffles because no one else could do them so much to his mind. Ah, my dear, when you come to look rightly at life, you will find that the least trifles may be sanctified by being directed and done to our dear Divine Master. But we will talk of that another time. I hear your mother coming from her room; please ask her to step this way."

Lady Corbet held up her hands.

"You are a jewel—a perfect jewel, Mrs. Evans! I must have you for my own. That comes from your good bringing up. But I must certainly have you with me all the time. You would be worth all the other women in the house to me."

"I am sure, madam, Ashwell does her best," said Paulina. "She has been a faithful servant for many years, and it would be hard to turn her away for a stranger."

"And pray, Mistress Malapert, who talks of turning her away, or who asked your advice in the matter at all?" said Lady Corbet, turning sharply round. "When I want your counsel, I will ask for it. There, child, I did not mean to be sharp with you, but you do vex me past endurance—always taking it for granted that one means to do the worst thing possible, and taking elders and betters to task on every occasion. When I was at your age, I should have felt the rod for such a speech, aye, or such a look, either. There, go to the school-room and keep your sisters in order, while Mrs. Evans remains here to send in the refreshments. The child does put me past patience with her airs," she added, as Paulina departed, with the look of one going to the stake. "Just think of her taking upon her to lecture her own godmother, my old Aunt Norton, as good a woman as ever breathed, because the poor old lady took her knitting upon Ash-Wednesday!"

"Yet Mrs. Paulina seems, too, as if she were trying to do right," said Winifred. "I do not understand it."

"Oh! Trying to do right. One may try too much, in my opinion. I have no fancy for these over-righteous people. But there is the knocker, and I must go. I trust all to you, my dear. I am sure all will go well."

Fortunately all did go well, until just as the last tray of sweetmeats was sent in, when Phyllis, with a scared, pale face, peeped into the little store-room.

"Please, Mrs. Evans, will you come up to the school-room? We can't do anything with Betty."

"What is the matter, and why should you do anything with Betty?" asked Winifred. "Have you been teasing your little sister again, Phyllis?"

"I am sure we did not mean anything," said Phyllis, looking very much ashamed, "only she is so cross. But Paulina needn't have shook her so. But please, Mrs. Evans, do hurry, before madam hears Betty!"

Winifred looked about her to see that everything was safe, and then hurried up to the school-room. As she opened the green baize door, she was startled by hearing a shriek from Betty very different from her usual scream of passion—an unmistakable cry of pain. She opened the school-room door. Betty stood in the corner of the room, with both hands pressed to her side, sobbing at every breath, and shrieking at every third respiration. Jemima was trying to pacify her, while Paulina sat in the window, endeavoring very unsuccessfully to appear unconscious of what was going on. In an instant Winifred saw that something serious was the matter.

"Come here to me, Betty!" she said, in her gentle tone of authority. "Mrs. Paulina, open the window at once—throw the casement wide. Phyllis, run and bring a glass of wine and some cool water; you will find them in the store-room. Jemima, come and unloose your sister's stays and gown while I hold her in the fresh air."

"Really, Mrs. Evans," began Paulina, but a louder cry from Betty stopped her words, and the child's head sank back upon her friend's shoulder.

"She is dead!" shrieked the twins.

"No; I think she has only fainted," said Winifred, trying to speak calmly, though she was herself alarmed at the child's ghastly appearance. "Paulina, did not Lady Corbet say that a doctor from London was to be among the guests?"

But Paulina, pale as death and trembling in every limb, could remember nothing.

"She did, I know," said Phyllis, who possessed more ready wit and presence of mind than all the rest together. "Doctor Mercer was his name."

"Very well. Now I am going to lay Betty upon the window seat, where the fresh air will blow upon her. Do you, Phyllis, bathe her face with the strong waters, and, Jemima, fan her. Be steady and quiet like sensible girls till I come back."

The twins, quieted by the trust imposed upon them, promised to obey, and Winifred was soon at the drawing-room door, asking to speak to Lady Corbet.

"Why, what has happened, child? You are as white as your cap! You have not broken the great standing china bowl, have you?"

"No, madam!" said Winifred, hardly able to suppress a smile even there, to see how the good lady's housekeeping instinct came uppermost. "But Betty has fainted, and I fear she is going to be very ill. Will you please come and bring the doctor with you?"

On ordinary occasions, when annoyed, Lady Corbet was as fussy and flustered as an old hen, but any real emergency always made her quiet and sensible at once.

"Ah, poor child! Hath she had another swoon? Pray go back to her, Mrs. Winifred, and I will bring the doctor directly."

Winifred hurried back as desired, and found that Betty had revived, but was still in great pain, unable to draw a long breath or to move. Phyllis was supporting her in an upright position as well as she could, and Jemima was fanning her, while Paulina had thrown herself upon the floor in the farthest corner of the room, and was leaning her head upon a chair.

"O Mrs. Evans, help me! Don't let me die!" gasped the poor child. "Oh! Am I dying?"

"I trust not, my dear. Do not be alarmed!" said Winifred, cheerfully. "See, you are better already, and here is your mother with the good doctor from London. Now be a good maid, and do as you are bid, and I trust all will be well."

"What's this? The window open, and the air blowing in the child's face!" exclaimed Lady Corbet, who had all the dread of fresh air natural to an Englishwoman of the time, or indeed of any time.

"Of course! Where should it blow?" returned the doctor, roughly but not unkindly. "When people are gasping for breath, they need fresh air, though I wonder how my young mistress came by sense enough to give it to her. Hold her more upright still—ah! That will do. Let me have your hand, my little girl. Ah! I see. Have you given her anything?" sharply to Winifred.

"Nothing," said Winifred. "I sent for some wine, but she had fainted before it came."

"Just as well. She must have an anodyne at once. Bring me some syrup, a spoon, and water."

"In the store-room, Phyllis!" said Winifred. "Quickly, my dear."

Phyllis was back almost before the words were spoken, and the doctor prepared the anodyne with his own hands. There had always been a great struggle to make Betty take medicine, but her own alarm and distress and the ascendency Winifred had already obtained over her rendered her docile.

"Now, she must be put to bed, and kept absolutely quiet," said the doctor. "This young lady—I have not the honor of knowing her name—seems to have her wits at her fingers' ends. Let her stay with the child and sit up with her to-night. You, madam, keep the house very quiet. I am to be in town some days, and I will look in upon you again in the morning."

"What causes these attacks, doctor?" asked Lady Corbet, after Betty had left the room.

"Heart disease," answered Doctor Mercer, briefly. "I am sorry to shock you, madam, but it is but right you should know, in order to guard against them, since every paroxysm she has is just so much ground lost. With care, she may outgrow them, but she is likely enough to die in any one. You must avoid all cause of excitement with her; never let her be struck or shaken; above all, taken roughly by the left arm. One such shock may be fatal."

Paulina, in her dark corner, buried her face deeper at these words, as she remembered how sharply she had shaken Betty by that very arm, and how thin and fragile it had felt in her grasp. The twins heard it also as they clung together in the window, and promised each other in whispers that they would never, no, never tease Betty again, no matter what she did, if God would only spare her this time.

"And what about this fever, doctor, that they say is in the town? Can one do anything to keep it off by fumigations or the like?"

"The best way to keep it off is to use plenty of air and cleanliness," replied Doctor Mercer, who was so far in advance of his age as to be accounted almost a heretic by his learned brethren. "Use good food in moderation, and see that your work-people and the poor about you have the same, and leave the rest to God."

"But you will come and see my poor Betty again in the morning?" urged the anxious mother.

"To be sure! I said so. By the way, who is this young gentlewoman who seems to understand herself so well? A kinswoman of your own?"

"Nay, I cannot call her a kinswoman exactly, though she is a connection of my cousin Margaret, Lady Peckham of Holford, and was indeed partly brought up by her," answered Lady Corbet, who never failed to sport the Peckhams of Holford on every possible occasion. "Her father was captain of a vessel sailing from this port, and son of a Somersetshire yeoman of good estate, but her mother was daughter to a Devonshire gentleman of very old family. She is daily governess to my daughters, and I am so much pleased with her that I think of taking her into my house altogether."

"So she is an orphan?" said the doctor. "Well, madam, follow my directions, and I trust all will be well, but above all keep the house quiet. I will not answer for consequences should the child be suddenly awakened."

"Well, maidens, you have heard what the good doctor has said," said Lady Corbet. "Let me see how quiet you can be. I must say you have behaved well and shown yourselves sensible girls. But where is Paulina?"

"Here, madam!" said Paulina, lifting her pale, tear-stained face from the chair on which it had been hidden; and then, throwing herself at her mother's feet, she exclaimed, in a suppressed voice: "It was all my fault, mother—all, all! Beat me if you will or turn me out of the house, for I deserve it all!"

"Hush, hush, child! It is a good thing to own your fault, and I am glad to see it, but don't go into hysterics, and wake your poor sister. Phyllis, you can tell a straight story. Let me hear an account of the whole from you."

There did not seem to be so very much to tell. The twins had been teasing Betty with rough play, while Paulina was reading as usual in her corner. Finally Betty fell over a footstool against Paulina, and knocked her book out of her hand. Betty cried out.

"And then," concluded Phyllis, "Paulina shook her hard, and slapped her shoulders two or three times with the book, to make her stop screaming. Then when she would not stop, Paulina set her in the corner, and shook her again. Then I was frightened because Betty looked so bad, and I ran and called Mrs. Evans."

"It is all true!" said Paulina, between her sobs. "I have killed the child! It was all my wicked temper because you sent me up-stairs. I have done all the mischief."

Lady Corbet was amazed. It was the first time Paulina, had ever accused herself of a fault. She administered lectures and pardons all round, was certain they would never be so bad again, sent for some of the relics of the banquet to make them a feast, and, when it was plain that Paulina could not eat, made her a cup of tea (then a very uncommon luxury), and sent her to bed to sleep off her headache.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FEVER.

ABOUT nine o'clock Lady Corbet came softly into the room where Betty had at last fallen into a quiet and sound slumber.

"Poor little dear!" said she, sadly, as she looked at the pale face of the little sleeper. "She really breathes more gently, does she not? How lucky that the doctor happened to be in the house! But, sweetheart, you must go and got some supper and a breath of fresh air, for I am sure you need it. And, my dear, will you, as you come back, just step in and see if Pall is asleep? The poor child is all but broken-hearted. I could not be hard upon her when I saw how sorry she was for her fault, especially as it is so rare for her to own herself in the wrong."

Winifred was rather unwilling to leave her charge, but she was afraid of an argument on the subject which would waken Betty, so she slipped gently out of the room. She had eaten nothing since her twelve o'clock dinner, and felt herself refreshed by the delicate little supper which had been prepared for her by the motherly care of Lady Corbet. She went to the garden door to catch a breath of fresh air, but there seemed to be no air abroad. The heat was melting, and a low, heavy cloud brooded over the whole sky.

"What a stifling heat!" thought Winifred, drawing a long breath. "I wonder if it is any fresher on the top of Holford heath? It seems as though one breath smelling of the furze would put new life into my heart."

She drew another long breath, and went slowly up-stairs to Paulina's little chamber. She opened the door, and at first thought no one was in the room, but a closer inspection showed her Paulina, in her white night-dress, prostrate on the bare boards, her face hidden in her arms, and her whole body shaking with suppressed sobs.

"My poor, dear child!" said Winifred, kneeling beside her. "Why are you here, when you should be in bed and asleep?"

Paulina did not reply, save by her deeper sobs.

"Even if you have done wrong, which I do not deny, you know there is forgiveness for the worst of sinners," continued Winifred, in soothing tones. "Do you not remember who it was that came into the world to save sinners?"

"'Don't,' Mrs. Evans!" interrupted Paulina, in tones of agony. "You will kill me. For three long years I have been trying to make myself a Christian, and I am no nearer to it than when I began. I have fasted and prayed, and done penance, and thought upon death and judgment, till my head was like to burst, and all to no purpose. I shall never be prepared for them nor for heaven!"

"Poor child!" said Winifred, soothingly, as Paulina dropped her head upon her arms with a fresh burst of sobs. "No wonder you are discouraged. Your efforts have been like your tapestry work. You have begun all wrong, and therefore it is no wonder that your labors have produced nothing but confusion. Do you remember what I told you about it—that you would never do anything with that piece, but you must begin anew?"

"Yes!" answered Paulina, interested, as it were, in spite of herself.

"And you found it so, did you not? You had to take all new materials—canvas, worsted, and silk—after you had tried two or three days to rectify your mistakes. After that you went on prosperously enough."

"Well?" said Paulina.

"Well, Paulina, you have made the same mistake in your religion. You have begun wrong, and thus you have gone on from bad to worse; and if you were to go on forever, you can never get to heaven in this way, because you are not in the way thither."

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Winifred," said Paulina, both roused and piqued by this unexpected statement. "I don't know how one is to got to heaven except by being good."

"Then no one will over go there, for assuredly no one was ever good enough yet. You are fond of saying that you know all the prayers in the church service, Paulina. Who is it who is said, in the Communion Service, to have made by His one oblation of himself once offered, a full, perfect, and sufficient satisfaction for the sins of the whole world?"

"Our Lord, of course!"

"Well, what was the need of His making that costly offering, if people can gain salvation and heaven by their own efforts without Him; above all, if by penance and fasting they can make atonement for their own sins? No, no, my child, you are wrong. Do you think that by lying all night weeping on the ground you can blot out the evil you have done this day, and thus make your account even with the God you have offended?"

"No, oh, no!" cried Paulina, letting her head fall again. "Oh! If any penance, any pilgrimage, could make amend or restore my poor sister, how gladly would I do it!"

"But if the way is already provided whereby your sin may be blotted out as if it had never been," said Winifred; "if by no action upon your part, save sorrow for your sins and faith in your Saviour, you could settle all the long account against you and receive strength for all time to come, would it not be worth while to try? O Paulina! Give up this wretched and false idea of earning the favor of God. Cast yourself just as you are—a poor, lost, dying sinner—utterly unworthy of anything save condemnation, upon the mercy of God in Jesus Christ His Son, and beg forgiveness for His sake who died and rose again for you. Then indeed you may feel yourself forgiven. Then you will know what it is to love your Father in heaven as well as to fear Him; and humbled yet encouraged, you may go on striving to please God, not because He is a hard and exacting master, but because He is a dear Father, who so loved you that He gave His own Son to die for you. I must go back to your sister now, but, Paulina, think of what I have said, and try to act upon it. And do not by thus exposing your health add to your mother's cares and anxieties. Believe me that is only another form of selfishness!"

"I will do as you tell me," said Paulina, submissively, "but oh! Mrs. Winifred, do not be hard upon me! I am so very, very unhappy!"

"But what is there to make you so unhappy, Paulina? Anything but what happened to-day?"

"Everything!" said Paulina, abruptly. "I wish I had never been born. But there, Betty will want you. Good-night!"

"I must indeed go to her!" said Winifred. "Good-night, my dear child, and may God bless you and teach you by His Holy Spirit!"

"Well, and how did you find Pall?" asked Lady Corbet.

"Very sad, madam, but I left her more quiet, and, I trust, in a way to be comforted. And now, let me beg you to rest, and leave our little one to my care."

The next morning found Betty decidedly improved, though very weak and languid, and much disposed to insist upon her privileges as an invalid, and keep the whole house waiting upon her. At last, however, she was prevailed upon to let Phyllis sit by her side and tell her stories, while Winifred refreshed herself with washing and dressing and a walk in the garden. She looked up at Paulina's window, but the curtain was drawn. Winifred gathered a handful of flowers and leaves, and made a couple of little nosegays to carry up to her patient. She peeped into Paulina's room, and found her awake, but not up.

"I do not know what is the matter with me," was her reply to Winifred's question, "but I cannot rise at all. I am so sick and giddy, and my head feels so strangely! I have been hot and cold by fits all night, and so thirsty I have drunk up all the water in the jug. But oh! please do open the window, and let in the fresh air. I am stifled in this close room."

Winifred undrew the curtains and let in the light and air. As she did so, she looked at Paulina, and her heart sank within her, for she thought she recognized in the girl's face the first signs of the dreadful fever which had swept away in five weeks more than half the inhabitants of Bridgewater.

"Do not try to rise," said she. "You are not able. I will excuse you to madam your mother, and will bring the doctor to you when he comes to see Betty."

Paulina, sank back on her pillow with a sigh, as though it were a sort of comfort to find herself relieved from exertion, and Winifred hastened down-stairs as she heard the doctor's foot ascending.

He looked at Betty, pronounced her doing well, and quite won her heart by his jokes and a new picture-book, so that she readily agreed to stay in bed and play with her doll if only Phyllis might stay with her.

"If you please, madam, I should like the doctor to see Mrs. Paulina," said Winifred. "She seems to me far from well and is quite unable to rise."

The moment Doctor Mercer entered the room, he exchanged a glance with Winifred, which seemed to say on one side, "Do you know the state of the case?" and on the other, "Yes, I do."

Paulina was heavy and drowsy, answering intelligently when roused, but soon dropping of again.

The doctor felt her pulse and head, examined her tongue, and asked many questions as to how she had rested and how she had felt for some days back. Then he beckoned Lady Corbet out of the room.

"Your daughter is very ill, madam," said he, gravely, "and, I fear, is likely to be worse. She has every symptom of the prevailing fever."

Lady Corbet turned pale and trembled. She had the dread of infection common to the time, when, indeed, there was every excuse for it; since, owing to the manner of life and the ignorance of hygienic laws, almost all diseases took on an infectious character. But she was, as I have said, a woman great in emergencies, and it was but a moment before she recovered herself, and asked, anxiously indeed but calmly, what was to be done, and whether any measures could be taken to prevent the spread of the disease.

"You see, Doctor Mercer, I do not exactly know to whom to turn. Our old family doctor is lately dead, and Doctor Butler, who would be my next dependence, has turned papist, and can think of nothing but his crosses and medals and other popish trinkets, besides which he is not a man of such character as I should like to have about my young daughters. He hath made trouble in more than one family. O doctor! If you could only stay and attend upon my children!"

The doctor smiled. "I have been thinking, madam, of spending some time in the West, specially for the purpose of studying this fever, which has made such ravages of late years. I shall be happy to attend your daughters, but I warn you that I am considered little better than a heretic by many of my medical brethren. I shall not bleed Mrs. Paulina, nor shut her up in a close room with neither air nor water."

"You shall do just as you please," said Lady Corbet, evidently greatly relieved. "To be sure, it does not seem very sensible to heat up folks that are burning up already."

"Have you servants upon whom you can rely?" asked Doctor Mercer.

"That I don't know," answered Lady Corbet. "There is Ashwell, who would go through fire and water to serve me, and scold and grumble at me all the time! But as for the rest, I cannot answer for them."

"This Mrs. Evans, now?" said the doctor, in an inquiring tone.

"Oh, yes; I doubt not she would be worth a host, but you see, Doctor Mercer, she is an orphan child, and under no obligation to me, and I could not ask her to put her life in peril for a stranger."

"You are a good woman, I am sure of that," said the doctor, abruptly. "But the gentlewoman has been exposed already. Does not that make a difference?"

"I shall remain, of course," said Winifred, who had come to the door in time to hear the last few words. "If you, madam, will send some one to my aunt's to let her know the reason of my stay and to bring me some clothes, I shall remain with Mrs. Paulina till she is better. I am not afraid."

"But you do not, perhaps, understand the danger?" said the doctor, kindly.

"My grandfather and my mother, and many of our neighbors, died of the fever," replied Winifred. "I have nothing to hinder my staying, and I am not in the least afraid."

"But can you have your wits about you, and not go off in a fit yourself if your patient swoons or bleeds at the nose?" asked the doctor, gruffly. "The sick-room is no place for nervous fine ladies."

"I can do as I am bid," replied Winifred, simply.

"If you can, you are a wonderful woman and worth your weight in gold. Come with me, that I may tell you what to do."

Paulina grew rapidly worse, and by noon was utterly prostrated.

Sir John, coming home to dinner, complained of headache and pains in all his joints; and though he made light of it, and declared that nothing ailed him but his yesterday's dinner, it was plain that the disease was upon him. By night he was unable to rise, and one of the 'prentice lads showed symptoms of coming down.

"Only think, Mrs. Evans," said Ashwell, as Winifred came down-stairs to prepare same gruel for her patient, "here have all the servants run away and left us—yes, every maid in the house, and the two men, and the knife-boy that my good lady took out of the very street, as a body may say—all gone but poor black Jack, who has hardly the sense of an ape and cannot talk like a Christian. Yes, every one, the ungrateful hussies, and after all the time I have spent teaching them, and my mistress giving them each a new gown only last quarter! And this new-fangled doctor, with his fancies about fresh air and cool water for Mrs. Paulina, as if any one ever heard of such a thing in a fever!"

"Why did not Jack go with the rest?" asked Winifred.

"Me not going to run away and leave my kind massa what tooked me out of de ship, gave me good clothes and all, and missus that was always kind to poor Jack," said the negro, answering for himself. "Me stay and wait on my massa! Suppose I do get fever, what then? I got no fader nor moder, no wife, no babies! Suppose Jack die, he buried in the ground; there's an end of poor black man, unless maybe that good Lord Jesus my missus tell me 'bout come some day, and say, 'Get up, Jack, and come 'long with me!'"

"Just hear the poor creature!" said Ashwell, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Whoever thought of his having feeling like that? Well, Mrs. Evans, I suppose you will be going to leave us, like the rest?"

"No, Ashwell, I have no notion of going at present," replied Winifred, who was, as she well knew, no favorite with the spoiled and jealous old servant. "I am like poor Jack," she added, with a sad smile. "Suppose I do die, there is no one to cry for me. I shall not leave Lady Corbet so long as I can do anything for her."

"Mighty fine!" grumbled the old woman. "But who is to do all the work, I should like to know?"

"You and I, and poor Jack, and Mrs. Jem and Phyllis—begging their pardon for putting them in such company," replied Winifred, smiling. "As for what cannot be done, we must just leave it undone; and I am sure Jack will help us all he is able."

"Yes, dat I will, young missus!" replied Jack, briskly. "Me could cook do dinner as well as dat greasy Jenny Cook," he added, with an injured air, "only Misses Ashwell she never tink Jack know nothing!"

"Yes, you look like it!" said Ashwell, and then added, in a softer tone, "I dare say you would do your best."

"I should not wonder if he did know how!" said Winifred. "I have heard my father say that some of the best cooks he ever saw were West India negroes."

"Dat de livin' truth, young missus!" said Jack, eagerly. "My moder she cook for old massa, and I learnt all her ways, for I was big boy before massa sold me. You just let me try, that's all!"

"Well, well, we will see! See who is knocking there!"

The knocker was no less a person than Dame Evans herself. That good woman had been thrown into ten times more than her usual fume and flutter by the receipt of her niece's note, which she had been unable to read till her husband came home. Then indeed there was a breeze. Dame Evans wept and scolded—declared that there never was such an unlucky woman, and that everything turned out just to spite her.

"Here, just as we had made up our minds to go out into the country—to the very house this wilful, troublesome girl was born in and was always raving about—and an awful piece of work it will be, no doubt, and endless damage—Winifred must go and expose herself to the fever, so that we cannot take her without danger to all our precious lives. And as if that was not enough, she must go and make up her mind to stay and nurse these gentlefolks, who are neither kith nor kin to her. I declare it is enough to provoke a saint!" concluded Dame Evans, in her usual style.