‘Truly the tender mercies of the weak,
As of the wicked, are but cruel.’

And how did Lilias show that she had been truly benefited by her sorrows?  Did she fall back into her habits of self-indulgence, or did she run into ill-directed activity, selfish as her indolence, because only gratifying the passion of the moment?

Those who lived with her saw but little change; kind-hearted and generous she had ever been, and many had been her good impulses, so that while she daily became more steady in well-doing, and exerting herself on principle, no one remarked it, and no one entered into the struggles which it cost her to tame her impetuosity, or force herself to do what was disagreeable to herself, and might offend Emily.

However, Emily could forgive a great deal when she found that Lily was ready to take any part of the business of the household and schoolroom, which she chose to impose upon her, without the least objection, yet to leave her to assume as much of the credit of managing as she chose—to have no will or way of her own, and to help her to keep her wardrobe in order.

The schoolroom was just now more of a labour than had ever been the case, at least to one who, like Lilias, if she did a thing at all, would not be satisfied with half doing it.  Phyllis was not altered, except that she cried less, and had in a great measure cured herself of dawdling habits and tricks, by her honest efforts to obey well-remembered orders of Eleanor’s; but still her slowness and dulness were trying to her teachers, and Lily had often to reproach herself for being angry with her ‘when she was doing her best.’

But Adeline was Lily’s principal trouble; there was a change in her, for which her sister could not account.  Last year, when Eleanor left them, Ada was a sweet-tempered, affectionate child, docile, gentle, and, excepting a little occasional affectation and carelessness, very free from faults; but now her attention could hardly be commanded for five minutes together; she had lost the habit of ready and implicit obedience, was petulant when reproved, and was far more eager to attract notice from strangers—more conceited, and, therefore, more affected, and, worse than all, Lily sometimes thought she perceived a little slyness, though she was never able to prove any one instance completely to herself, much less to bring one before her father.  Thus, if Ada had done any mischief, she would indeed confess it on being examined; but when asked why she had not told of it directly, would say she had forgotten; she would avail herself of Phyllis’s assistance in her lessons without acknowledging it, and Lilias found it was by no means safe to leave the Key to the French Exercises alone in the room with her.

Emily’s mismanagement had fostered Ada’s carelessness and inattention.  Lady Rotherwood’s injudicious caresses helped to make her more affected; other faults had grown up for want of sufficient control, but this last was principally Esther’s work.  Esther had done well at school; she liked learning, was stimulated by notice, was really attached to Lilias, and tried to deserve her goodwill; but her training at school and at home were so different, that her conduct was, even at the best, far too much of eye-service, and she had very little idea of real truth and sincerity.

On first coming to the New Court she flattered the children, because she did not know how to talk to them otherwise, and afterwards, because she found that Miss Ada’s affections were to be gained by praise.  Then, in her ignorant good-nature, she had no scruples about concealing mischief which the children had done, or procuring for Ada little forbidden indulgences on her promise of secrecy, a promise which Phyllis would not give, thus putting a stop to all those in which she would have participated.  It was no wonder that Ada, sometimes helping Esther to deceive, sometimes deceived by her, should have learnt the same kind of cunning, and ceased to think it a matter of course to be true and just in all her dealings.

But how was it that Phyllis remained the same ‘honest Phyl’ that she had ever been, not one word savouring of aught but strict truth having ever crossed her lips, her thoughts and deeds full of guileless simplicity?  She met with the same temptations, the same neglect, the same bad example, as her sister; why had they no effect upon her?  In the first place, flattery could not touch her, it was like water on a duck’s back, she did not know that it was flattery, but so thoroughly humble was her mind that no words of Esther’s would make her believe herself beautiful, agreeable, or clever.  Yet she never found out that Esther over-praised her sister; she admired Ada so much that she never suspected that any commendation of her was more than she deserved.  Again, Phyllis never thought of making herself appear to advantage, and her humility saved her from the habit of concealing small faults, for which she expected no punishment; and, when seriously to blame, punishment seemed so natural a consequence, that she never thought of avoiding it, otherwise than by expressing sorrow for her fault.  She was uninfected by Esther’s deceit, though she never suspected any want of truth; her singleness of mind was a shield from all evil; she knew she was no favourite in the nursery, but she never expected to be liked as much as Ada, her pride and glory.  In the meantime Emily went on contriving opportunities and excuses for spending her time at Devereux Castle, letting everything fall into Lily’s hands, everything that she had so eagerly undertaken little more than a year ago.  And now all was confusion; the excellent order in which Eleanor had left the household affairs was quite destroyed.  Attention to the storeroom was one of the ways in which Lilias thought that she could best follow the advice of Mr. Devereux, since Eleanor had always taught that great exactness in this point was most necessary.  Great disorder now, however, prevailed there, and she found that her only chance of rectifying it was to measure everything she found there, and to beg Emily to allow her to keep the key; for, when several persons went to the storeroom, no one ever knew what was given out, and she was sure that the sweet things diminished much faster than they ought to do; but her sister treated the proposal as an attempt to deprive her of her dignity, and she was silenced.

She was up almost with the light, to despatch whatever household affairs could be settled without Emily, before the time came for the children’s lessons; many hours were spent on these, while she was continually harassed by Phyllis’s dulness, Ada’s inattention, and the interruption of work to do for Emily, and often was she baffled by interference from Jane or Emily.  She was conscious of her unfitness to teach the children, and often saw that her impatience, ignorance, and inefficiency, were doing mischief; but much as this pained her, she could not speak to her father without compromising her sister, and to argue with Emily herself was quite in vain.  Emily had taken up the principle of love, and defended herself with it on every occasion, so that poor Lily was continually punished by having her past follies quoted against herself.

Each day Emily grew more selfish and indolent; now that Lily was willing to supply all that she neglected, and to do all that she asked, she proved how tyrannical the weak can be.

The whole of her quarter’s allowance was spent in dress, and Lily soon found that the only chance of keeping her out of debt was to spend her own time and labour in her behalf; and what an exertion of patience and kindness this required can hardly be imagined.  Emily did indeed reward her skill with affectionate thanks and kind praises, but she interfered with her sleep and exercise, by her want of consideration, and hardened herself more and more in her apathetic selfishness.

Some weeks after Easter Lilias was arranging some books on a shelf in the schoolroom, when she met with a crumpled piece of music-paper, squeezed in behind the books.  It proved to be Miss Weston’s lost song, creased, torn, dust-stained, and spoiled; she carried it to Emily, who decided that nothing could be done but to copy it for Alethea, and apologise for the disaster.  Framing apologies was more in Emily’s way than copying music; and the former task, therefore, devolved upon Lily, and occupied her all one afternoon, when she ought to have been seeking a cure for the headache in the fresh air.  It was no cure to find the name of Emma Weston in the corner, and to perceive how great and irreparable the loss of the paper was to her friend.  The thought of all her wrongs towards Alethea, caused more than one large tear to fall, to blot the heads of her crotchets and quavers, and thus give her all her work to do over again.

The letter that she wrote was so melancholy and repentant, that it gave great pain to her kind friend, who thought illness alone could account for the dejection apparent in the general tone of all her expressions.  In answer, she sent a very affectionate consoling letter, begging Lily to think no more of the matter; and though she had too much regard for truth to say that she had not been grieved by the loss of Emma’s writing, she added that Lily’s distress gave her far more pain, and that her copy would have great value in her eyes.

The beginning of June now arrived, and brought with it the time for the return of Claude and Lord Rotherwood.

The Marquis’s carriage met him at Raynham, and he set down Claude at New Court, on his way to Hetherington, just coming in to exchange a hurried greeting with the young ladies.

Their attention was principally taken up by their brother.

‘Claude, how well you look!  How fat you are!’ was their exclamation.

‘Is not he?’ said Lord Rotherwood.  ‘I am quite proud of him.  Not one headache since he went.  He will have no excuse for not dancing the polka.’

‘I do not return the compliment to you, Lily,’ said Claude, looking anxiously at his sister.  ‘What is the matter with you?  Have you been ill?’

‘Oh, no! not at all!’ said Lily, smiling.

‘I am sure there is enough to make any one ill,’ said Emily, in her deplorable tone; ‘I thought this poor parish had had its share of illness, with the scarlet fever, and now it has turned to a horrible typhus fever.’

‘Indeed!’ said Claude.  ‘Where?  Who?’

‘Oh! the Naylors, and the Rays, and the Walls.  John Ray died this morning, and they do not think that Tom Naylor will live.’

‘Well,’ interrupted Lord Rotherwood, ‘I shall not stop to hear any more of this chapter of accidents.  I am off, but mind, remember the 30th, and do not any of you frighten yourselves into the fever.’

He went, and Lily now spoke.  ‘There is one thing in all this, Claude, that is matter of joy, Tom Naylor has sent for Robert.’

‘Then, Lily, I do most heartily congratulate you.’

‘I hope things may go better,’ said Lily, with tears in her eyes.  ‘The poor baby is with its grandmother.  Mrs. Naylor is ill too, and every one is so afraid of the fever that nobody goes near them but Robert, and Mrs. Eden, and old Dame Martin.  Robert says Naylor is in a satisfactory frame—determined on having the baby christened—but, oh! I am afraid the christening is to be bought by something terrible.’

‘I do not think those fevers are often very infectious,’ said Claude.

‘So papa says,’ replied Emily; ‘but Robert looks very ill.  He is wearing himself out with sitting up.  Making himself nurse as well as everything else.’

This was very distressing, but still Claude scarcely thought it accounted for the change that had taken place in Lilias.  Her cheek was pale, her eye heavy, her voice had lost its merry tone; Claude knew that she had had much to grieve her, but he was as yet far from suspecting how she was overworked and harassed.  He spoke of Eleanor’s return, and she did not brighten; she smiled sadly at his attempts to cheer her, and he became more and more anxious about her.  He was not long in discovering what was the matter.

The second day after his return Robert told them at the churchyard gate that Tom Naylor was beginning to mend, and this seemed to be a great comfort to Lily, who walked home with a blither step than usual.  Claude betook himself to the study, and saw no more of his sisters till two o’clock, when Lily appeared, with the languid, dejected look which she had lately worn, and seemed to find it quite an effort to keep the tears out of her eyes.  Ada and Phyllis were in very high spirits, because they were going to Raynham with Emily and Jane, and at every speech of Ada’s Lily looked more grieved.  After the Raynham party were gone Claude began to look for Lily.  He found her in her room, an evening dress spread on the bed, a roll of ribbon in one hand, and with the other supporting her forehead, while tears were slowly rolling down her cheeks.

‘Lily, my dear, what is the matter?’

‘Oh! nothing, nothing, Claude,’ said she, quickly.

‘Nothing! no, that is not true.  Tell me, Lily.  You have been disconsolate ever since I came home, and I will not let it go on so.  No answer?  Then am I to suppose that these new pearlins are the cause of her sorrow?  Come, Lily, be like yourself, and speak.  More tears!  Here, drink this water, be yourself again, or I shall be angry and vexed.  Now then, that is right: make an effort, and tell me.’

‘There is nothing to tell,’ said Lily; ‘only you are very kind—I do not know what is the matter with me—only I have been very foolish of late—and everything makes me cry.’

‘My poor child, I knew you had not been well.  They do not know how to take care of you, Lily, and I shall take you in hand.  I am going to order the horses, and we will have a gallop over the Downs, and put a little colour into your cheeks.’

‘No, no, thank you, Claude, I cannot come, indeed I cannot, I have this work, which must be done to-day.’

‘At work at your finery instead of coming out!  You must be altered, indeed, Lily.’

‘It is not for myself,’ said Lily, ‘but I promised Emily she should have it ready to wear to-morrow.’

‘Emily, oh?  So she is making a slave of you?’

‘No, no, it was a voluntary promise.  She does not care about it, only she would be disappointed, and I have promised.’

‘I hate promises!’ said Claude.  ‘Well, what must be, must be, so I will resign myself to this promise of yours, only do not make such another.  Well, but that was not all; you were not crying about that fine green thing, were you?’

‘Oh, no!’ said Lily, smiling, as now she could smile again.

‘What then?  I will know, Lily.’

‘I was only vexed at something about the children.’

‘Then what was it?’

‘It was only that Ada was idle at her lessons; I told her to learn a verb as a punishment, she went to Emily, and, somehow or other, Emily did not find out the exact facts, excused her, and took her to Raynham.  I was vexed, because I am sure it does Ada harm, and Emily did not understand what I said afterwards; I am sure she thought me unjust.’

‘How came she not to be present?’

‘Emily does not often sit in the schoolroom in the morning, since she has been about that large drawing.’

‘So you are governess as well as ladies’-maid, are you, Lily?  What else?  Housekeeper, I suppose, as I see you have all the weekly bills on your desk.  Why, Lily, this is perfectly philanthropic of you.  You are exemplifying the rule of love in a majestic manner.  Crying again!  Water lily once more?’

Lily looked up, and smiled; ‘Claude, how can you talk of that old, silly, nay, wicked nonsense of my principle.  I was wise above what was written, and I have my punishment in the wreck which my “frenzy of spirit and folly of tongue” have wrought.  The unchristened child, Agnes’s death, the confusion of this house, all are owing to my hateful principle.  I see the folly of it now, but Emily has taken it up, and acts upon it in everything.  I do struggle against it a little; but I cannot blame any one, I can do no good, it is all owing to me.  We have betrayed papa’s confidence; if he does not see it now it will all come upon him when Eleanor comes home, and what is to become of us?  How it will grieve him to see that we cannot be trusted!’

‘Poor Lily!’ said Claude.  ‘It is a bad prospect, but I think you see the worst side of it.  You are not well, and, therefore, doleful.  This, Lily, I can tell you, that the Baron always considered Emily’s government as a kind of experiment, and so perhaps he will not be so grievously disappointed as you expect.  Besides, I have a strong suspicion that Emily’s own nature has quite as much to do with her present conduct as your principle, which, after all, did not live very long.’

‘Just long enough to unsettle me, and make it more difficult for me to get any way right,’ said Lily.  ‘Oh! dear, what would I give to force backward the wheels of time!’

‘But as you cannot, you had better try to brighten up your energies.  Come, you know I cannot tell you not to look back, but I can tell you not to look forward.  Nay, I do tell you literally, to look forward, out of the window, instead of back into this hot room.  Do not you think the plane-tree there looks very inviting?  Suppose we transport Emily’s drapery there, and I want to refresh my memory with Spenser; I do not think I have touched him since plane-tree time last year.’

‘I believe Spenser and the plane-tree are inseparably woven together in your mind,’ said Lily.

‘Yes, ever since the time when I first met with the book.  I remember well roving over the bookcase, and meeting with it, and taking it out there, for fear Eleanor should see me and tell mama.  Phyl, with As You Like It, put me much in mind of myself with that.’

Claude talked in this manner, while Lily, listening with a smile, prepared her work.  He read, and she listened.  It was such a treat as she had not enjoyed for a long time, for she had begun to think that all her pleasant reading days were past.  Her work prospered, and her face was bright when her sisters came home.

But, alas!  Emily was not pleased with her performance; she said that she intended something quite different, and by manner, rather than by words, indicated that she should not be satisfied unless Lily completely altered it.  It was to be worn at the castle the next evening, and Lily knew she should have no time for it in the course of the day.  Accordingly, at half-past twelve, as Claude was going up to bed, he saw a light under his sister’s door, and knocked to ask the cause.  Lily was still at work upon the trimming, and very angry he was, particularly when she begged him to take care not to disturb Emily.  At last, by threatening to awake her, for the express purpose of giving her a scolding, he made Lily promise to go to bed immediately, a promise which she, poor weary creature, was very glad to make.

Claude now resolved to tell his father the state of things, for he well knew that though it was easy to obtain a general promise from Emily, it was likely to be of little effect in preventing her from spurring her willing horse to death.

The next morning he rose in time to join his father in the survey which he usually took of his fields before breakfast, and immediately beginning on the subject on which he was anxious, he gave a full account of his sister’s proceedings.  ‘In short,’ said he, ‘Emily and Ada torment poor Lily every hour of her life; she bears it all as a sort of penance, and how it is to end I cannot tell.’

‘Unless,’ said Mr. Mohun, smiling, ‘as Rotherwood would say, Jupiter will interfere.  Well, Jupiter has begun to take measures, and has asked Mrs. Weston to look out for a governess.  Eh!  Claude?’ he continued, after a pause, ‘you set up your eyebrows, do you?  You think it will be a bore.  Very likely, but there is nothing else to be done.  Jane is under no control, Phyllis running wild, Ada worse managed than any child of my acquaintance—’

‘And poor Lily wearing herself to a shadow, in vain attempts to mend matters,’ said Claude.

‘If Lily was the eldest, things would be very different,’ said Mr. Mohun.

‘Or even if she had been as wise last year as she is now,’ said Claude, ‘she would have kept Emily in order then, but now it is too late.’

‘This year is, on many accounts, much to be regretted,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘but I think it has brought out Lily’s character.’

‘And a very fine character it is,’ said Claude.

‘Very.  She has been, and is, more childish than Eleanor ever was, but she is her superior in most points.  She has been your pupil, Claude, and she does you credit.’

‘Thereby hangs a tale which does me no credit,’ muttered Claude, as he remembered how foolishly he had roused her spirit of contradiction, besides the original mischief of naming Eleanor the duenna; ‘but we will not enter into that now.  I see this governess is their best chance.  Have you heard of one?’

‘Of several; but the only one who seems likely to suit us is out of reach for the present, and I do not regret it, for I shall not decide till Eleanor comes.’

‘Emily will not be much pleased,’ said Claude.  ‘It has long been her great dread that Aunt Rotherwood should recommend one.’

‘Ay, Emily’s objections and your aunt’s recommendations are what I would gladly avoid,’ said Mr. Mohun.

‘But Lily!’ said Claude, returning to the subject on which he was most anxious.  ‘She is already what Ada calls a monotony, and there will be nothing left of her by the time Eleanor comes, if matters go on in their present fashion.’

‘I have a plan for her.  A little change will set her to rights, and we will take her to London when we go next week to meet Eleanor.  She deserves a little extra pleasure; you must take her under your protection, and lionise her well.’

‘Trust me for that,’ said Claude.  ‘It is the best news I have heard for a long time.’

‘Well, I am glad that one of my remedies meets with your approbation,’ said his father, smiling.  ‘For the other, you are much inclined to pronounce the cure as bad as the disease.’

‘Not for Lily,’ said Claude, laughing.

‘And,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I think I can promise you that a remedy will be found for all the other grievances by Michaelmas.’

Claude looked surprised, but as Mr. Mohun explained no further, only observing upon the potatoes, through which they were walking, he only said, ‘Then it is next week that you go to London.’

‘There is much to do, both for Rotherwood and for Eleanor; I shall go as soon as I can, but I do not think it will be while this fever is so prevalent.  I had rather not be from home—I do not like Robert’s looks.’

‘Thou drooping sick man, bless the guide
That checked, or turned thy headstrong youth.’

The thought of her brother’s kindness, and the effect of his consolation, made Lilias awake that morning in more cheerful spirits; but it was not long before grief and anxiety again took possession of her.

The first sound that she heard on opening the schoolroom window was the tolling of the church bell, giving notice of the death of another of those to whom she felt bound by the ties of neighbourhood.

At church she saw that Mr. Devereux was looking more ill than he yet had done, and it was plainly with very great exertion that he succeeded in finishing the service.  The Mohun party waited, as usual, to speak to him afterwards, for since his attendance upon Naylor had begun he had not thought it safe to come to the New Court as usual, lest he should bring the infection to them.  He was very pale, and walked wearily, but he spoke cheerfully, as he told them that Naylor was now quite out of danger.

‘Then I hope you did not stay there all last night,’ said Mr. Mohun.

‘No, I did not, I was so tired when I came back from poor John Ray’s funeral, that I thought I would take a holiday, and sleep at home.’

‘I am afraid you have not profited by your night’s rest,’ said Emily, ‘you look as if you had a horrible headache.’

‘Now,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I prescribe for you that you go home and lie down.  I am going to Raynham, and I will tell your friend there that you want help for the evening service.  Do not think of moving again to-day.  I shall send Claude home with you to see that you obey my prescription.’

Claude went home with his cousin, and his sisters saw him no more till late in the day, when he came to tell them that Mr. Mohun had brought back Dr. Leslie from Raynham with him, that Dr. Leslie had seen Mr. Devereux, and had pronounced that he had certainly caught the fever.

Lily had made up her mind to this for some time, but still it seemed almost as great a blow as if it had come without any preparation.  The next day was the first Sunday that Mr. Devereux had not read the service since he had been Rector of Beechcroft.  The villagers looked sadly at the stranger who appeared in his place, and many tears were shed when the prayers of the congregation were desired for Robert Devereux, and Thomas and Martha Naylor.  It was announced that the daily service would be discontinued for the present, and Lily felt as if all the blessings which she had misused were to be taken from her.

For some time Mr. Devereux continued very ill, and Dr. Leslie gave little hope of his improvement.  Mr. Mohun and Claude were his constant attendants—an additional cause of anxiety to the Miss Mohuns.  Emily was listless and melancholy, talking in a maundering, dismal way, not calculated to brace her spirits or those of her sisters.  Jane was not without serious thoughts, but whether they would benefit her depended on herself; for, as we have seen by the events of the autumn, sorrow and suffering do not necessarily produce good effects, though some effects they always produce.

Thus it was with Lilias.  Grief and anxiety aided her in subduing her will and learning resignation.  She did not neglect her daily duties, but was more exact in their fulfilment; and low as her spirits had been before, she now had an inward spring which enabled her to be the support of the rest.  She was useful to her father, always ready to talk to Claude, or walk with him in the intervals when he was sent out of the sickroom to rest and breathe the fresh air.  She was cheerful and patient with Emily, and devoid of petulance when annoyed by the spirits of the younger ones rising higher than accorded with the sad and anxious hearts of their elders.  Her most painful feeling was, that it was possible that she might be punished through her cousin, as she had already been through Agnes; that her follies might have brought this distress upon every one, and that this was the price at which the child’s baptism was to be bought.  Yet Lily would not have changed her present thoughts for any of her varying frames of mind since that fatal Whitsuntide.  Better feelings were springing up within her than she had then known; the church service and Sunday were infinitely more to her, and she was beginning to obtain peace of mind independent of external things.

She could not help rejoicing to see how many evidences of affection to the Rector were called forth by this illness; presents of fruit poured in from all quarters, from Lord Rotherwood’s choice hothouse grapes, to poor little Kezia Grey’s wood-strawberries; inquiries were continual, and the stillness of the village was wonderful.  There was no cricket on the hill, no talking in the street, no hallooing in the hay-field, and no burst of noise when the children were let out of school.  Many of the people were themselves in grief for the loss of their own relations; and when on Sunday the Miss Mohuns saw how many were dressed in black, they thought with a pang how soon they themselves might be mourning for one whose influence they had crippled, and whose plans they had thwarted during the three short years of his ministry.

During this time it was hard to say whether Lord Rotherwood was more of a comfort or a torment.  He was attached to his cousin with all the ardour of his affectionate disposition, and not one day passed without his appearing at Beechcroft.  At first it was always in the parlour at the parsonage that he took up his station, and waited till he could find some means of getting at Claude or his uncle, to hear the last report from them, and if possible to make Claude come out for a walk or ride with him.  And once Mr. Mohun caught him standing just outside Mr. Devereux’s door, waiting for an opportunity to make an entrance.  He could not, or would not see why Mr. Mohun should allow Claude to run the risk of infection rather than himself, and thus he kept his mother in continual anxiety, and even his uncle could not feel by any means certain that he would not do something imprudent.  At last a promise was extracted from him that he would not again enter the parsonage, but he would not gratify Lady Rotherwood so far as to abstain from going to Beechcroft, a place which she began to regard with horror.  He now was almost constantly at the New Court, talking over the reports, and quite provoking Emily by never desponding, and never choosing to perceive how bad things really were.  Every day which was worse than the last was supposed to be the crisis, and every restless sleep that they heard of he interpreted into the beginning of recovery.  At last, however, after ten days of suspense, the report began to improve, and Claude came to the New Court with a more cheerful face, to say that his cousin was munch better.  The world seemed immediately to grow brighter, people went about with joyful looks, Lord Rotherwood declared that from the first he had known all would be well, and Lily began to hope that now she had been spared so heavy a punishment, it was a kind of earnest that other things would mend, that she had suffered enough.  The future no longer hung before her in such dark colours as before Mr. Devereux’s illness, though still the New Court was in no satisfactory state, and still she had reason to expect that her father and Eleanor would be disappointed and grieved.  Thankfulness that Mr. Devereux was recovering, and that Claude had escaped the infection, made her once more hopeful and cheerful; she let the morrow take thought for the things of itself, rejoicing that it was not her business to make arrangements.

‘You must be father, mother, both,
   And uncle, all in one.’

Mr. Mohun had much business to transact in London which he could not leave undone, and as soon as his nephew began to recover he thought of setting off to meet Mr. and Mrs. Hawkesworth, who had already been a week at Lady Rotherwood’s house in Grosvenor Square, which she had lent to them for the occasion.  Claude had intended to stay at home, as his cousin was not yet well enough to leave the room; but just at this time a college friend of the Rector’s, hearing of his illness, wrote to propose to come and stay with him for a month or six weeks, and help him in serving his church.  Mr. Devereux was particularly glad to accept this kind offer, as it left him no longer dependent on Mr. Stephens and the Raynham curates, and set Claude at liberty for the London expedition.  All was settled in the short space of one day.  The very next they were to set off, and in great haste; Lily did all she could for the regulation of the house, packed up her goods, and received the commissions of her sisters.

Ada gave her six shillings, with orders to buy either a doll or a book—the former if Eleanor did not say it was silly; and Phyllis put into her hands a weighty crown piece, begging for as many things as it could buy.  Jane’s wants and wishes were moderate and sensible, and she gave Lily the money for them.  With Emily there was more difficulty.  All Lily’s efforts had not availed to prevent her from contracting two debts at Raynham.  More than four pounds she owed to Lily, and this she offered to pay her, giving her at the same time a list of commissions sufficient to swallow up double her quarter’s allowance.  Lily, though really in want of the money for her own use, thought the debts at Raynham so serious, that she begged Emily to let her wait for payment till it was convenient, and to pay the shoemaker and dressmaker immediately.

Emily thanked her, and promised to do so as soon as she could go to Raynham, and Lily next attempted to reduce her list of London commissions to something more reasonable.  In part she succeeded, but it remained a matter of speculation how all the necessary articles which she had to buy for herself, and all Emily’s various orders, were to come out of her own means, reduced as they were by former loans.

The next day Lilias was on her way to London; feeling, as she left Beechcroft, that it was a great relief that the schoolroom and storeroom could not follow her.  She was sorry that she should miss seeing Alethea Weston, who was to come home the next day, but she left various messages for her, and an affectionate note, and had received a promise from her sisters that the copy of the music should be given to her the first day that they saw her.  Her journey afforded her much amusement, and it was not till towards the end of the day that she had much time for thinking, when, her companions being sleepily inclined, she was left to her own meditations and to a dull country.  She began to revolve her own feelings towards Eleanor, and as she remembered the contempt and ingratitude she had once expressed, she shrank from the meeting with shame and dread, and knew that she should feel reproached by Eleanor’s wonted calmness of manner.  And as she mused upon all that Eleanor had endured, and all that she had done, such a reverence for suffering and sacrifice took possession of her mind that she was ready to look up to her sister with awe.  She began to recollect old reproofs, and found herself sitting more upright, and examining the sit of the folds of her dress with some uneasiness at the thought of Eleanor’s preciseness.  In the midst of her meditations her two companions were roused by the slackening speed of the train, and starting up, informed her that they were arriving at their journey’s end.  The next minute she heard her father consigning her and the umbrellas to Mr. Hawkesworth’s care, and all was bewilderment till she found herself in the hall of her aunt’s house, receiving as warm and affectionate a greeting from Eleanor as Emily herself could have bestowed.

‘And the baby, Eleanor?’

‘Asleep, but you shall see him; and how is Ada? and all of them? why, Claude, how well you look!  Papa, let me help you to take off your greatcoat—you are cold—will you have a fire?’

Never had Lily heard Eleanor say so much in a breath, or seen her eye so bright, or her smile so ready, yet, when she entered the drawing-room, she saw that Mrs. Hawkesworth was still the Eleanor of old.  In contrast with the splendid furniture of the apartments, a pile of shirts was on the table, Eleanor’s well-known work-basket on the floor, and the ceaseless knitting close at hand.

Much news was exchanged in the few minutes that elapsed before Eleanor carried off her sister to her room, indulging her by the way with a peep at little Harry, and one kiss to his round red cheek as he lay asleep in his little bed.  It was not Eleanor’s fault that she did not entirely dress Lily, and unpack her wardrobe; but Lilias liked to show that she could manage for herself; and Eleanor’s praise of her neat arrangements gave her as much pleasure as in days of yore.

The evening passed very happily.  Eleanor’s heart was open, she was full of enjoyment at meeting those she loved, and the two sisters sat long together in the twilight, talking over numerous subjects, all ending in Beechcroft or the baby.

Yet when Lily awoke the next morning her awe of Eleanor began to return, and she felt like a child just returned to school.  She was, however, mistaken; Eleanor assumed no authority, she treated Lily as her equal, and thus made her feel more like a woman than she had ever done before.  Lily thought either that Eleanor was much altered, or that in her folly she must have fancied her far more cold and grave than she really was.  She had, however, no time for studying her character; shopping and sight-seeing filled up most of her time, and the remainder was spent in resting, and in playing with little Henry.

One evening, when Mr. Mohun and Claude were dining out, Lilias was left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Hawkesworth.  Lily was very tired, but she worked steadily at marking Eleanor’s pocket-handkerchiefs, until her sister, seeing how weary she was, made her lie down on the sofa.

‘Here is a gentleman who is tired too,’ said Eleanor, dancing the baby; ‘we will carry you off, sir, and leave Aunt Lily to go to sleep.’

‘Aunt Lily is not so tired as that,’ said Lily; ‘pray keep him.’

‘It is quite bedtime,’ said Eleanor, in her decided tone, and she carried him off.

Lilias took up the knitting which she had laid down, and began to study the stitches.  ‘I should like this feathery pattern,’ said she, ‘(if it did not remind me so much of the fever); but, by the bye, Frank, have you completed Master Henry’s outfit?  I looked forward to helping to choose his pretty little things, but I see no preparation but of stockings.’

‘Why, Lily, did not you know that he was to stay in England?’

‘To stay in England?  No, I never thought of that—how sorry you must be.’

At this moment Eleanor returned, and Mr. Hawkesworth told her he had been surprised to find Lily did not know their intentions with regard to the baby.

‘If we had any certain intentions we should have told her,’ said Eleanor; ‘I did not wish to speak to her about it till we had made up our minds.’

‘Well, I know no use in mysteries,’ said Mr. Hawkesworth, ‘especially when Lily may help us to decide.’

‘On his going or staying?’ exclaimed Lily, eagerly looking to Mr. Hawkesworth, who was evidently more disposed to speak than his wife.

‘Not on his going or staying—I am sorry to say that point was settled long ago—but where we shall leave him.’

Lily’s heart beat high, but she did not speak.

‘The truth is,’ proceeded Mr. Hawkesworth, ‘that this young gentleman has, as perhaps you know, a grandpapa, a grandmamma, and also six or seven aunts.  With his grandmamma he cannot be left, for sundry reasons, unnecessary to mention.  Now, one of his aunts is a staid matronly lady, and his godmother besides, and in all respects the person to take charge of him,—only she lives in a small house in a town, and has plenty of babies of her own, without being troubled with other people’s.  Master Henry’s other five aunts live in one great house, in a delightful country, with nothing to do but make much of him all day long, yet it is averred that these said aunts are a parcel of giddy young colts, amongst whom, if Henry escapes being demolished as a baby he will infallibly be spoilt as he grows up.  Now, how are we to decide?’

‘You have heard the true state of the case, Lily,’ said Mrs. Hawkesworth.  ‘I did not wish to harass papa by speaking to him till something was settled; you are certainly old enough to have an opinion.’

‘Yes, Lily,’ said Frank; ‘do you think that the hospitable New Court will open to receive our poor deserted child, and that these said aunts are not wild colts but discreet damsels?’

Playful as Mr. Hawkesworth’s manner was, Lily saw the earnestness that was veiled under it: she felt the solemnity of Eleanor’s appeal, and knew that this was no time to let herself be swayed by her wishes.  There was a silence.  At last, after a great struggle, Lily’s better judgment gained the mastery, and raising her head, she said, ‘Oh!  Frank, do not ask me—I wish—but, Eleanor, when you see how much harm we have done, how utterly we have failed—’

Lily’s newly-acquired habits of self-command enabled her to subdue a violent fit of sobbing, which she felt impending, but her tears flowed quietly down her cheeks.

‘Remember,’ said Frank, ‘those who mistrust themselves are the most trustworthy.’

‘No, Frank, it is not only the feeling of the greatness of the charge, it is the knowledge that we are not fit for it—that our own faults have forfeited such happiness.’

Again Lily was choked with tears.

‘Well,’ said Frank, ‘we shall judge at Beechcroft.  At all events, one of those aunts is to be respected.’

Eleanor added her ‘Very right.’

This kindness on the part of her brother-in-law, which Lily felt to be undeserved, caused her tears to flow faster, and Eleanor, seeing her quite overcome, led her out of the room, helped her to undress, and put her to bed, with tenderness such as Lily had never experienced from her, excepting in illness.

In spite of bitter regrets, when she thought of the happiness it would have been to keep her little nephew, and of importunate and disappointing hopes that Mrs. Ridley would find it impossible to receive him, Lily felt that she had done right, and had made a real sacrifice for duty’s sake.  No more was said on the subject, and Lily was very grateful to Eleanor for making no inquiries, which she could not have answered without blaming Emily.

Sight-seeing prospered very well under Claude’s guidance, and Lily’s wonder and delight was a constant source of amusement to her friends.  Her shopping was more of a care than a pleasure, for, in spite of the handsome equipments which Mr. Mohun presented to all his daughters, it was impossible to contract Emily’s requirements within the limits of what ought to be her expenditure, and the different views of her brother and sister were rather troublesome in this matter.  Claude hated the search for ladies’ finery, and if drawn into it, insisted on always taking her to the grandest and most expensive shops; while, on the other hand, though Eleanor liked to hunt up cheap things and good bargains, she had such rigid ideas about plainness of dress, that there was little chance that what she approved would satisfy Emily.

‘Suddenly, a mighty jerk
A mighty mischief did.’

In the meantime Emily and Jane went on very prosperously at home, looking forward to the return of the rest of the party on Saturday, the 17th of July.  In this, however, they were doomed to disappointment, for neither Mr. Mohun nor Mr. Hawkesworth could wind up their affairs so as to return before the 24th.  Maurice’s holidays commenced on Monday the 19th, and Claude offered to go home on the same day, and meet him, but in a general council it was determined to the contrary.  Claude was wanted to stay for a concert on Thursday, and both Mr. Mohun and Eleanor thought Maurice, without Reginald, would not be formidable for a few days.

At first he seemed to justify this opinion.  He did not appear to have any peculiar pursuit, unless such might be called a very earnest attempt to make Phyllis desist from her favourite preface of ‘I’ll tell you what,’ and to reform her habit of saying, ‘Please for,’ instead of ‘If you please.’  He walked with the sisters, carried messages for Mr. Devereux, performed some neat little bits of carpentry, and was very useful and agreeable.

On Wednesday afternoon Lord Rotherwood and Florence called, their heads the more full of the 30th because the Marquis had not once thought of it while Mr. Devereux was ill.  Among the intended diversions fireworks were mentioned, and from that moment rockets, wheels, and serpents, commenced a wild career through Maurice’s brain.  Through the whole evening he searched for books on what he was pleased to call the art of pyrotechnics, studied them all Wednesday, and the next morning announced his intention of making some fireworks on a new plan.

‘No, you must not,’ said Emily, ‘you will be sure to do mischief.’

‘I am going to ask Wat for some powder,’ was Maurice’s reply, and he walked off.

‘Stop him, Jane, stop him,’ cried Emily.  ‘Nothing can be so dangerous.  Tell him how angry papa would be.’

Though Jane highly esteemed her brother’s discretion, she did not much like the idea of his touching powder, and she ran after him to suggest that he had better wait till papa’s return.

‘Then Redgie will be at home,’ said Maurice, ‘and I could not be answerable for the consequence of such a careless fellow touching powder.’

This great proof of caution quite satisfied Jane, but not so Wat Greenwood, who proved himself a faithful servant by refusing to let Master Maurice have one grain of gunpowder without express leave from the squire.  Maurice then had recourse to Jane, and his power over her was such as to triumph over strong sense and weak notions of obedience, so that she was prevailed upon to supply him with the means of making the dangerous and forbidden purchase.

Emily was both annoyed and alarmed when she found that the gunpowder was actually in the house, and she even thought of sending a note to the parsonage to beg Mr. Devereux to speak to Maurice; but Jane had gone over to the enemy, and Emily never could do anything unsupported.  Besides, she neither liked to affront Maurice nor to confess herself unable to keep him in order; and she, therefore, tried to put the whole matter out of her head, in the thoughts of an expedition to Raynham, which she was about to make in the manner she best liked, with Jane in the close carriage, and the horses reluctantly spared from their farm work.

As they were turning the corner of the lane they overtook Phyllis and Adeline on their way to the school with some work, and Emily stopped the carriage, to desire them to send off a letter which she had left on the chimney-piece in the schoolroom.  Then proceeding to Raynham, they made their visits, paid Emily’s debts, performed their commissions, and met the carriage again at the bookseller’s shop, at the end of about two hours.

‘Look here, Emily!’ exclaimed Jane.  ‘Read this! can it be Mrs. Aylmer?’

‘The truly charitable,’ said Emily, contemptuously.  ‘Mrs. Aylmer is above—’

‘But read.  It says “unbeneficed clergyman and deceased nobleman,” and who can that be but Uncle Rotherwood and Mr. Aylmer.’

‘Well, let us see,’ said Emily, ‘those things are always amusing.’

It was an appeal to the ‘truly charitable,’ from the friends of the widow of an unbeneficed clergyman of the diocese, one of whose sons had, it was said, by the kindness of a deceased nobleman, received the promise of an appointment in India, of which he was unable to avail himself for want of the funds needful for his outfit.  This appeal was, it added, made without the knowledge of the afflicted lady, but further particulars might be learnt by application to E. F., No. 5 West Street, Raynham.

‘E. F. is plainly that bustling, little, old Miss Fitchett, who wrote to papa for some subscription,’ said Emily.  ‘You know she is a regular beggar, always doing these kind of things, but I can never believe that Mrs. Aylmer would consent to appear in this manner.’

‘Ah! but it says without her knowledge,’ said Jane.  ‘Don’t you remember Rotherwood’s lamenting that they were forgotten?’

‘Yes, it is shocking,’ said Emily; ‘the clergyman that married papa and mamma!’

‘Ask Mr. Adam what he knows,’ said Jane.

Emily accordingly applied to the bookseller, and learnt that Mrs. Aylmer was indeed the person intended.  ‘Something must be done,’ said she, returning to Jane.  ‘Our name will be a help.’

‘Speak to Aunt Rotherwood,’ said Jane.  ‘Or suppose we apply to Miss Fitchett, we should have time to drive that way.’

‘I am sure I shall not go to Miss Fitchett,’ said Emily, ‘she only longs for an excuse to visit us.  What can you be thinking of?  Lend me your pencil, Jenny, if you please.’

And Emily wrote down, ‘Miss Mohun, £5,’ and handed to the bookseller all that she possessed towards paying her just debts to Lilias.  While she was writing, Jane had turned towards the window, and suddenly exclaiming, ‘There is Ben!  Oh! that gunpowder!’ darted out of the shop.  She had seen the groom on horseback, and the next moment she was asking breathlessly, ‘Is it Maurice?’

‘No, Miss Jane; but Miss Ada is badly burnt, and Master Maurice sent me to fetch Mr. Saunders.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘I can’t say, Miss; the schoolroom has been on fire, and Master Maurice said the young ladies had got at the gunpowder.’

Emily had just arrived at the door, looking dreadfully pale, and followed by numerous kind offers of salts and glasses of water; but Jane, perceiving that at least she had strength to get into the carriage, refused them all, helped her in, and with instant decision, desired to be driven to the surgeon’s.  Emily obeyed like a child, and threw herself back in the carriage without a word; Jane trembled like an aspen leaf; but her higher spirit took the lead, and very sensibly she managed, stopping at Mr. Saunders’s door to offer to take him to Beechcroft, and getting a glass of sal-volatile for Emily while they were waiting for him.  His presence was a great relief, for Emily’s natural courtesy made her exert herself, and thus warded off much that would have been very distressing.

In the meantime we will return to Beechcroft, where Emily’s request respecting her letter had occasioned some discussion between the little girls, as they returned from a walk with Marianne.  Phyllis thought that Emily meant them to wafer the letter, since they were under strict orders never to touch fire or candle; but Ada argued that they were to seal it, and that permission to light a candle was implied in the order.  At last, Phyllis hoped the matter might be settled by asking Maurice to seal the letter, and meeting him at the front door, she began, in fortunately, with ‘Please, Maurice—’

‘I never listen to anything beginning with please,’ said Maurice, who was in a great hurry, ‘only don’t touch my powder.’

Away he went, deaf to all his sister’s shouts of ‘Maurice, Maurice,’ and they went in, Ada not sorry to be unheard, as she was bent on the grand exploit of lighting a lucifer match, but Phyllis still pleading for the wafer.  They found the schoolroom strewed with Maurice’s preparations for fireworks, and Emily’s letter on the chimney-piece.

‘Let us take the letter downstairs, and put on a wafer,’ said Phyllis.  ‘Won’t you come, Ada?’

‘No, the stamps are here, and so are the matches, I can do it easily.’

‘But Ada, Ada, it would be naughty.  Only wait, and I will show you such a pretty wafer that I know of in the drawing-room.  I will run and fetch it.’

Phyllis went, and Ada stood a few moments in doubt, looking at the letter.  The recollection of duty was not strong enough to balance the temptation, and she took up a match and drew it along the sandpaper.  It did not light—a second pull, and the flame appeared more suddenly than she had expected, while at the same moment the lock of the door turned, and fancying it was Maurice, she started, and dropped the match.  Phyllis opened the door, heard a loud explosion and a scream, saw a bright flash and a cloud of smoke.  She started back, but the next moment again opened the door, and ran forward.  Hannah rushed in at the same time, and caught up Ada, who had fallen to the ground.  A light in the midst of the smoke made Phyllis turn, and she beheld the papers on the table on fire.  Maurice’s powder-horn was in the midst, but the flames had not yet reached it, and, mindful of Claude’s story, she sprung forward, caught it up, and dashed it through the window; she felt the glow of the fire upon her cheek, and stood still as if stunned, till Hannah carried Ada out of the room, and screamed to her to come away, and call Joseph.  The table was now one sheet of flame, and Phyllis flew to the pantry, where she gave the summons in almost inaudible tones.  The servants hurried to the spot, and she was left alone and bewildered; she ran hither and thither in confusion, till she met Hannah, eagerly asking for Master Maurice, and saying that the surgeon must be instantly sent for, as Ada’s face and neck were badly burnt.  Phyllis ran down, calling Maurice, and at length met him at the front door, looking much frightened, and asking for Ada.

‘Oh!  Maurice, her face and neck are burnt, and badly.  She does scream?’

‘Did I not tell you not to meddle with the powder?’ said Maurice.

‘Indeed, I could not help it,’ said Phyllis.

‘Stuff and nonsense!  It is very well that you have not killed Ada, and I think that would have made you sorry.’

Phyllis with difficulty mentioned Hannah’s desire that a surgeon should be sent for: Maurice went to look for Ben, and she followed him.  Then he began asking how she had done the mischief.

‘I do not know,’ said she, ‘I do not much think I did it.’

‘Mind, you can’t humbug me.  Did you not say that you touched the powder?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts,’ said Maurice, making the most of his brief authority.  ‘I hate false excuses.  What were you doing when it exploded?’

‘Coming into the room.’

‘Oh! that accounts for it,’ said Maurice, ‘the slightest vibration causes an explosion of that sort of rocket, and of course it was your bouncing into the room!  You have had a lesson against rushing about the house.  Come, though, cheer up, Phyl, it is a bad business, but it might have been worse; you will know better next time.  Don’t cry, Phyl, I will explain to you all about the patent rocket.’

‘But do you really think that I blew up Ada?’

‘Blew up Ada! caused the powder to ignite.  The inflammable matter—’

As he spoke he followed Phyllis to the nursery, and there was so much shocked, that he could no longer lord it over her, but shrinking back, shut himself up in his room, and bolted the door.

Nearly an hour passed away before the arrival of Emily, Jane, and Mr. Saunders.  Phyllis ran down, and meeting them at the door, exclaimed, ‘Oh! Emily, poor Ada!  I am so sorry.’

The sisters hurried past her to the nursery, where Ada was lying on the bed, half undressed, and her face, neck, and arm such a spectacle that Emily turned away, ready to faint.  Mr. Saunders was summoned, and Phyllis thrust out of the room.  She sat down on the step of the stairs, resting her forehead on her knees, and trembling, listened to the sounds of voices, and the screams which now and then reached her ears.  After a time she was startled by hearing herself called from the stairs by below a voice which she had not heard for many weeks, and springing up, saw Mr. Devereux leaning on the banisters.  The great change in his appearance frightened her almost as much as the accident itself, and she stood looking at him without speaking.  ‘Phyllis,’ said he, in a voice hoarse with agitation, ‘what is it? tell me at once.’

She could not speak, and her wild and frightened air might well give him great alarm.  She pointed to the nursery, and put her finger to her lips, and he, beckoning to her to follow him, went downstairs, and turning into the drawing-room, said, as he sank down upon the sofa, ‘Now, Phyllis, what has happened?’

‘The gunpowder—I made it go off, and it has burnt poor Ada’s face!  Mr. Saunders is there, and she screams—’

Phyllis finding herself ready to roar, left off speaking, and laying her head on the table, burst into an agony of crying, while Mr. Devereux was too much exhausted to address her; at last she exclaimed: ‘I hear the nursery door; he is going!’

She flew to the door, and listened, and then called out, ‘Emily, Jane, here is Cousin Robert!’

Jane came down, leaving Emily to finish hearing Mr. Saunders’s directions.  She was even more shocked at her cousin’s looks than Phyllis had been, and though she tried to speak cheerfully, her manner scarcely agreed with her words.  ‘It is all well, Robert, I am sorry you have been so frightened.  It is but a slight affair, though it looks so shocking.  There is no danger.  But, oh, Robert! you ought not to be here.  What shall we do for you? you are quite knocked up.’

‘Oh! no,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘I am only a little out of breath.  A terrible report came to me, and I set off to learn the truth.  I should like to hear what Mr. Saunders says of her.’

‘I will call him in here before he goes,’ said Jane; ‘how tired you are; you have not been out before.’

‘Only to the gate to speak to Rotherwood yesterday, and prevent him from coming in,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘but I have great designs for Sunday.  They come home to-morrow, do not they?’

Jane was much relieved by hearing her cousin talk in this manner, and answered, ‘Yes, and a dismal coming home it will be; it is too late to let them know.’

Mr. Saunders now entered, and gave a very favourable account of the patient, saying that even the scars would probably disappear in a few weeks.  His gig had come from Raynham, and he offered to set Mr. Devereux down at the parsonage, a proposal which the latter was very glad to accept.  Emily and Jane had leisure, when they were gone, to inquire into the manner of the accident.  Phyllis answered that Maurice said that her banging the door had made the powder go off.  Jane then asked where Maurice was, and Phyllis reporting that he was in his own room, she repaired thither, and knocked twice without receiving an answer.  On her call, however, he opened the door; she saw that he had been in tears, and hastened to tell him Mr. Saunders’s opinion.  He fastened the door again as soon as she had entered.  ‘If I could have thought it!’ sighed he.  ‘Fool that I was, not to lock the door!’

‘Then you were not there?  Phyllis says that she did it by banging the door.  Is not that nonsense?’

‘Not at all.  Did I not read to you in the Year Book of Facts about the patent signal rockets, which explode with the least vibration, even when a carriage goes by?  Now, mine was on the same principle.  I was making an experiment on the ingredients; I did not expect to succeed the first time, and so I took no precautions.  Well! Pyrotechnics are a dangerous science!  Next time I study them it shall be at the workshop at the Old Court.’

Maurice was sincerely sorry for the consequence of his disobedience, and would have been much to be pitied had it not been for his secret satisfaction in the success of his art.  He called his sister into the schoolroom to explain how it happened.  The room was a dismal sight, blackened with smoke, and flooded with water, the table and part of the floor charred, a mass of burnt paper in the midst, and a stifling smell of fire.  A pane of glass was shattered, and Maurice ran down to the lawn to see if he could find anything there to account for it.  The next moment he returned, the powder-horn in his hand.  ‘See, Jenny, how fortunate that this was driven through the window with the force of the explosion.  The whole place might have been blown to atoms with such a quantity as this.’

‘Then what was it that blew up?’ asked Jane.

‘What I had put out for my rocket, about two ounces.  If this half-pound had gone there is no saying what might have happened.’

‘Now, Maurice,’ said Jane, ‘I must go back to Ada, and will you run down to the parsonage with a parcel, directed to Robert, that you will find in the hall?’

This was a device to occupy Maurice, who, as Jane saw, was so restless and unhappy that she did not like to leave him, much as she was wanted elsewhere.  He went, but afraid to see his cousin, only left the parcel at the door.  As he was going back he heard a shout, and looking round saw Lord Rotherwood mounted on Cedric, his most spirited horse, galloping up the lane.  ‘Maurice!’ cried he, ‘what is all this? they say the New Court is blown up, and you and half the girls killed, but I hope one part is as true as the other.’

‘Nobody is hurt but Ada,’ said Maurice, ‘but her face is a good deal burnt.’

‘Eh? then she won’t be fit for the 30th, poor child! tell me how it was, make haste.  I heard it from Mr. Burnet as I came down to dinner.  We have a dozen people at dinner.  I told him not to mention it to my mother, and rode off to hear the truth.  Make haste, half the people were come when I set off.’

The horse’s caperings so discomposed Maurice that he could scarcely collect his wits enough to answer: ‘Some signal rocket on a new principle—detonating powder, composed of oxymuriate—Oh!  Rotherwood, take care!’

‘Speak sense, and go on.’

‘Then Phyllis came in, banged the door, and the vibration caused the explosion,’ said Maurice, scared into finishing promptly.

‘Eh! banging the door?  You had better not tell that story at school.’

‘But, Rotherwood, the deton—Oh! that horse—you will be off!’

‘Not half so dangerous as patent rockets.  Is Emily satisfied with such stuff?’

‘Don’t you know that fulminating silver—’

‘What does Robert Devereux say?’

‘Really, Rotherwood, I could show you—’

‘Show me?  No; if rockets are so perilous I shall have nothing to do with them.  Stand still, Cedric!  Just tell me about Ada.  Is there much harm done?’

‘Her face is scorched a good deal, but they say it will soon be right.’

‘I am glad—we will send to inquire to-morrow, but I cannot come—ha, ha! a new infernal machine.  Good-bye, Friar Bacon.’

Away he went, and Maurice stood looking after him with complacent disdain.  ‘There they go, Cedric and Rotherwood, equally well provided with brains!  What is the use of talking science to either?’

It was late when he reached the house, and his two sisters shortly came down to tea, with news that Adeline was asleep and Phyllis was going to bed.  The accident was again talked over.

‘Well,’ said Emily, ‘I do not understand it, but I suppose papa will.’

‘The telling papa is a bad part of the affair, with William and Eleanor there too,’ said Jane.

‘I do not mean to speak to Phyllis about it again,’ said Emily, ‘it makes her cry so terribly.’

‘It will come out fast enough,’ sighed Maurice.  ‘Good-night.’

More than once in the course of the night did poor Phyllis wake and cry, and the next day was the most wretched she had ever spent; she was not allowed to stay in the nursery, and the schoolroom was uninhabitable, so she wandered listlessly about the garden, sometimes creeping down to the churchyard, where she looked up at the old tower, or pondered over the graves, and sometimes forgetting her troubles in converse with the dogs, in counting the rings in the inside of a foxglove flower, or in rescuing tadpoles stranded on the broad leaf of a water-lily.