Chapter 5 THE TRUE FRIEND.

Flora Lyndsay was aroused from the passionate indulgence of grief by two arms being passed softly around her neck, and some one pulling her head gently back upon their shoulder, and kissing her forehead.

"Flora," whispered a sweet, gentle woman's voice; "Dear Flora. I am come home at last. What, no word of welcome? No kiss for Mary? In tears, too. What is the matter? Are you ill? Is the baby ill? No-she at least is sleeping sweetly, and looks full of rosy health. Do speak, and tell me the meaning of all this!"

Flora was in the arms of her friend before she had ceased speaking. "A thousand welcomes! dear Mary. You are the very person I most wished just now to see. The very sight of you is an antidote to grief. 'A remedy for sore eyes,' as the Irish say. You have been too long away. When did you arrive?"

"By the mail-about an hour ago."

"And your dear sister-?"

"Is gone to a happier home," said Mary Parnell, in a faltering voice; and glancing down at her black dress, she continued, "she died happy-so happy, dear Flora, and now-she is happier still. But, we will not speak of her just now, Flora; I cannot bear it. Time, which reconciles us to every change, will teach me resignation to the Divine will. But ah! 'tis a sore trial to part with the cherished friend and companion of our early years. We were most attached sisters. Our hearts were one-and now-"

There was a pause. Both friends wept. Mary first regained her composure.

"How is Lyndsay? Has he finished writing his book?"

"The book is finished, and accepted by Mr. Bentley."

"That is good, excellent news; and the darling baby?"

"Little Dormouse. There she lies at the end of the sofa, covered by my shawl. She has been sleeping ever since breakfast. I think she only wakes up to amuse papa. But she is beginning to stretch herself, and here comes the head-nurse himself."

"Our dear Mary, returned!" cried Lyndsay, entering the room. "It seems an age since you left us."

"It has been a melancholy separation to me," said Mary. "This parting I hope will be the last. My father has consented to come and live with my brother; and now that dear Emily is gone, I shall have no inducement to leave home, so you will have me all to yourselves, whenever I can steal an hour from my domestic duties; and we shall once more be so happy together."

Lyndsay looked at Flora, but neither spoke. Mary saw in a moment that there was some hidden meaning in that quick, intelligent glance; and she turned anxiously from one to the other.

"What mischief have you been plotting, during my absence?" cried the affectionate girl, taking a hand of each. "Some mystery is here-I read it in your eyes. I come to you striving to drown the remembrance of my own heavy sorrow, that we might enjoy a happy meeting: I find Flora in tears, and you, Lyndsay, looking grave and melancholy. What does it all mean?"

"Has not Flora told you?"

"Told me what?"

"That we are about to start for Canada."

"Alas! no. This is sad news-worse than I expected. But are you really determined upon going?"

"Our preparations are almost completed."

"Worse and worse. I hoped it might be only the whim of the moment-a castle, not of the air, but of the woods-and as easily demolished."

"Let us draw back," said Flora. "Lyndsay, dearest; the trial is too great."

"It is too late now, Flora. Depend upon it, love, that God has ordered it, and that we act in conformity to the Divine will, and that all is for the best."

"If such is your belief, my dear friend," said Miss Parnell, "far be it from me to persuade you to stay. God orders all things for good. The present moment is the prophet of the future. It must decide your fate."

"I have not acted hastily in this matter," returned Lyndsay. "I have pondered over it long and anxiously, and I feel that my decision is right. The grief poor Flora feels at parting with her friends, is the greatest drawback. I thought that she possessed more strength of endurance. As for me, I have passed through the ordeal before, when I left Scotland for the Cape of Good Hope; and I now look upon myself as a citizen of the world. I know that Flora will submit cheerfully to the change, when once we lose sight of the British shores."

"This then means the cause of Flora's tears?"

"Not exactly," said Flora, laughing. "That odious Mrs. Ready has been here, tormenting me with impertinent questions."

"Flora, I'm ashamed of you," said Lyndsay, "for suffering yourself to be annoyed by that stupid woman."

"And worse than that, dear John, I got into a passion, and affronted her."

"And what did Mrs. Grundy say?"

"Ah! it's fine fun for you. But if you had been baited by her for a couple of hours, as I was, you could not have stood it much better than I did. Why, she had the impudence to insist upon my acting in direct opposition to your wishes; and all but insinuated that I was a fool not to take her advice."

"A very serious offence, indeed," said Lyndsay, laughing. "Instigating my wife to an act of open rebellion. But I am sure you will not profit by her example."

"Indeed, no! She's the very last woman in the world I should wish to imitate. Still I feel angry with myself for letting my temper get the better of prudence."

"What a pity, Flora, that you did not fight it out. I would back my good wife against twenty Mrs. Grundys."

"She would scratch my eyes out, and then write a horrid sonnet to celebrate the catastrophe."

"Nobody would read it."

"Ah, but she would read it to everybody, and bore the whole town with her lamentations."

"Let her go, Flora. I am tired of Mrs. Grundy."

"Indeed, I was glad enough to get rid of her, which reconciles me to the disagreeable manner in which I offended her."

"Let us talk of your Canadian plans," said Mary. "When do you go?"

"In three weeks," said Lyndsay.

"So soon! The time is too short to prepare one to part with friends so dear. If it were not for my poor old father, I would go with you."

"What a blessing it would be!" said Lyndsay.

"Oh! do go, dear Mary," cried Flora, quite transported at the thought; and flinging her arms about her friend's neck. "It would make us so happy."

"It is impossible!" said the dear Mary, with a sigh. "I spoke without thinking. My heart will follow you across the Atlantic; but duty keeps me here. I will not, however, waste the time still left to us in useless regrets. Love is better shown by deeds than words. I can work for you, and cheer you, during the last days of your sojourn in your native land. Employment, I have always found, by my own experience, is the best remedy for aching hearts."

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