Monica's Choice

"Tell Miss Monica I wish her to come to me at once, Barnes."

The door closed silently after the retreating maid, and Mrs. Beauchamp sighed wearily. How often, lately, she had been obliged to send some such message to her wilful young granddaughter, and, how many more times would she have the same thing to do? Her aristocratic features wore a perturbed expression, as her slender fingers toyed mechanically with the many rings on her left hand; so great a responsibility was her only grandchild.

"I am sure I wish Conrad had never left her with me," she mused; "and yet there seemed no other solution of the difficulty when the regiment was ordered out to Simla. It was impossible, of course, to take her with him, and poor Helen was so opposed to boarding-schools. But it has certainly been a mistake having her here. Such an unruly, passionate nature as Monica's needs very careful handling, and not one of these governesses has had the tact to manage her. I'm sure I don't know what to do about her."

Mrs. Beauchamp's ruminations were cut short by the abrupt entrance of a girl of fifteen, tall, and with a haughty mien, but possessing a face which denoted much character, albeit it wore an unpleasant scowl at the present moment. Pushing the door to behind her with no gentle hand, so that it slammed violently, causing a jingling among the pretty knick-knacks with which the handsome drawing-room was lavishly ornamented, Monica Beauchamp stood before her grandmother, like a young lioness at bay.

"Barnes told me that you had sent for me, grand-mamma."

With a visible shudder at the noise made by the slamming door, Mrs. Beauchamp sat erect, and spoke with much annoyance, as she gave the delinquent an aggrieved look over her gold-rimmed pince-nez.

"Really, Monica----" she began, in severe tones, but she was interrupted.

"Sorry," exclaimed her granddaughter, nonchalantly. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but doors always seem to slip out of my fingers. What did you want me for, grandmamma? Would you mind being quick, because I'm in a great hurry?"

Even insubordinate Monica quailed before the expressions which flitted across the old lady's features--amazement, anger, and finally scorn.

"I am simply astounded at your rudeness, Monica," she said, sternly. "How you can possibly allow yourself to speak to me in such a manner, I cannot imagine. It is very evident that you are no Beauchamp."

The scorn expressed in her grandmother's tones acted in the same way as a touch of the whip about the ears of a thoroughbred mare. She started, and tears of wounded pride welled up in her flashing hazel eyes, but they were quickly forced back.

"I am a Beauchamp!" she cried, her lips quivering with anger, and her head thrown back. "Every one says I am my father over again."

"So you may be, in looks, Monica, but he would never have dreamed of addressing me in the manner you did just now."

"Well, perhaps he wasn't aggravated like I am. Miss Thompson is enough to provoke a saint," she added, sotto voce, with a furtive glance at the old lady's face.

But Mrs. Beauchamp took no notice of it; indeed, it is doubtful if she heard the remark, so engrossed was she in deciding how best to deliver the lecture she had undertaken to give Monica. A startled exclamation from her grandchild, who had been moodily staring out of one of the French windows, which overlooked a large sweep of the carriage drive, effectually roused her.

"Oh! now he's gone; I do call it too bad!"

"What do you mean, Monica?" queried the old lady, rising from her chair and following the direction of Monica's glance.

"Who has gone?"

"Why, Tom. The stable-boy, you know, grand-mamma," she added, as Mrs. Beauchamp looked incredulous. "I was in the yard when you sent for me, and he was telling me about the jolliest little wire-haired terrier his father wants to sell, and I----"

"Monica, how many times have I told you I will not allow you to frequent the stable-yard? I am sure it is there that you pick up all the vulgar expressions you are so continually using. I begin to think Miss Thompson is right in saying you are no lady."

"Bother Miss Thompson!" cried Monica, now thoroughly angry, and losing all control of her words; "she's a sly old cat, that's what she is, spying round after me all day long. It's the only bit of fun I get, when I----"

"Be quiet, Monica, and listen to me," said her grandmother, who was scarcely less angry, but who held herself in admirable check. "It is quite time that some one controlled you, and I have sent for you this afternoon to tell you that I am going to----"

"Send me away to boarding school?" interrupted Monica, her anger temporarily subsiding, for, of all things, she desired to go away to school, but it had always been tabooed. "Oh! grandmamma, do! I would really behave well there." And she seized one of the old lady's white hands impulsively in her warm, and decidedly dirty young fingers, while the girlish face quivered with excitement, until she looked a totally different being. But she was doomed to disappointment.

"Nothing of the kind, Monica," replied Mrs. Beauchamp coldly, and withdrawing her hand. She never responded to her granddaughter's advances, which probably accounted for the difficulty she had in dealing with her; for Monica had a warm heart hidden away somewhere, which no one but her father had ever reached. "I was going to say, when you so rudely interrupted me again, that as you have had four governesses within very little more than a year, who, one and all, have declared that you are unmanageable, and that it is an utter impossibility to teach you, I shall be obliged to seek some other mode of education for you."

Monica's face, which had fallen considerably at the beginning of her grandmother's speech, now brightened visibly.

"There is nothing else but boarding-school left," she said, with satisfaction. It was to this end that she had made the lives of her long-suffering instructresses unendurable by her tricks and general unruliness.

"You know perfectly well, Monica, that you will never go to a boarding-school," replied Mrs. Beauchamp.

"That was only a fad of mother's," said Monica, disdainfully. "Dad would never have forbidden it. He thought no end of Harrow, and I'm sure he would let me go to school if you told him what a bother the old governesses are."

"He knows what a trouble you are," said her grandmother sententiously, and her glance fell on a foreign letter lying on her escritoire near by, which Monica now noticed for the first time.

"Oh! have you heard from dad, grandmamma? Is there a letter for me?" she cried eagerly.

"Yes. I have heard from your father, and there is a letter for you," Mrs. Beauchamp repeated, slowly, but she did not reach out her hand for it.

Impetuous Monica was about to snatch it up, but her grandmother stayed her hand.

"Wait, Monica, until I have finished, and then you may take your letter to the schoolroom to read. For months I did not tell your father a word about your troublesome ways, but lately you have been so incorrigible that I was compelled to let him know. And now this letter has come in reply to mine, and your father is grieved beyond expression. No doubt he will tell you the same in your letter; and he wishes me to consult Mr. Bertram, the lawyer, as to which school it will be best to send you to, immediately. But ... it will be a day-school. Now you may go."

Monica snatched up the letter handed to her without a word, and was gone. Mrs. Beauchamp breathed a sigh of relief, and rang the bell for tea; the letter and consequent interview with her unruly grandchild had tired her out.

Meanwhile Monica had fled to her own room, a perfect little paradise, containing all the things most dear to a young girl's heart. Everything in it, from the dainty bed to the little rocking-chair beside the open window, was blue; carpet, curtains, walls, all took the prevailing tint, and most girls of Monica's age would have revelled in such surroundings, and have taken a pride in having everything kept in spick-and-span order, in so charming a domain. But not so Monica; one of her worst failings was untidiness. The shoes which she had worn out of doors that morning, and which had been carelessly tossed in a corner, were making dirty little puddles on the blue and white linoleum: for she had been caught in a heavy April shower. Her hat and jacket had been tossed promiscuously on to the most convenient chair; one glove was lying on the bed, the other--well, as a matter of fact she had dropped that half-way home, but had not missed it yet; that would mean a fruitless hunt through drawers, all more or less in confusion, next time she went out. The comb and brush she had hastily used, to make herself sufficiently tidy to pass muster with her grandmother at the luncheon table, were still lying on the dainty little duchesse table, while the drawer which should have contained them was half open, disclosing a medley of all kinds.

These are only samples of "Miss Monica's muddles," as the long-suffering under-housemaid (whose duty it was to keep the young lady's room in order) called them. "I can't seem to keep things tidy nohow," she would confide to the kitchenmaid; "as soon as ever I get it straightened up of a morning, in she bounces, and begins a-topsy-turvying up of everything."

But Monica noticed none of these things; if the room had been in absolute chaos she would have been oblivious of it, while she held a thin sheet of foreign paper, covered with her father's writing, in her hand.

Pausing only to slip a tiny brass bolt into its place, in order to secure privacy, she flung herself into the little blue rocker, and tore open the envelope with eager fingers.

As she read her letter, a smile of pleasure hovered about her lips, for her father gave in his own racy style a description of a Hindu mela at which he had been present the day before; but soon her expression changed, for his next topic was very different. It was evident that he was deeply concerned about her behaviour to her grandmother and governesses, and the thought of her fast growing up into a headstrong, self-willed young woman grieved him terribly. He spoke of the loving little girl to whom he had bid farewell only eighteen months before, and could scarcely imagine that in so short a time she should have become so changed; what would she be like when he returned to England, if she were allowed to follow her own way?

Monica's tears were slowly falling as she reached the last page. She began to realise, for the first time, that she was disappointing her father's hopes for his only and much-loved child, and although the knowledge was painful, it was very salutary. With eyes blinded with tears, so that the writing seemed blurred and indistinct, she read on to the end, and then as she saw the well-known signature, she bowed her proud young head on the broad window-ledge, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Oh! dad, my darling dad, if only you needn't have left me, I would have tried to be just what you wanted; but it's all so stiff and dull here, and I am so lonely without any friend." For several minutes she wept on unrestrainedly, and then a few lines in the letter recurred to her, and she looked at it once again. They ran thus--

"You see, my child, we must always remember that we are all 'under authority.' Although I am a colonel, I must obey orders just as unquestioningly as the youngest recruit, and if my Monica would be a true soldier's daughter, she must learn first of all to be obedient. It is a hard, a very hard lesson to learn, and neither you nor I can hope to master it, unless we ask His help who was obedient even unto death.

"It is difficult for me to explain what I mean, for I am naturally very reserved over religious things; but I am confident of this, my child, that if you took Jesus Christ as your Example, you would grow day by day more like Him, and you would soon learn to shun all the faults and failings which now threaten to spoil your character."

"I wish I could, daddy dear," sighed Monica, as she re-read the lines, "but there is no one here to help me. I don't believe grandmamma is a bit religious, for any little excuse is enough to keep her away from church on Sunday mornings, and she never goes out at night. And all the time I have been here she has never said a word about it, except to ask me once or twice if I remember to say my prayers. Neither did any of the governesses, except Miss Romaine, and grand-mamma was glad when she went, because she said she had such 'peculiar views.' Well, perhaps some one at the new school will show me how to be 'good.'" And Monica tossed her letter into one of the table drawers, and began with commendable zeal to make herself more tidy than she had been for a long time. She knew that that was one step in the right direction.

The next day the family lawyer was closeted with Mrs. Beauchamp for over an hour. She told him of her son's desire that Monica should go daily to school, and asked his advice as to a suitable one.

"There is not much choice in the neighbourhood of Mydenham," said Mr. Bertram as he tapped his gold-rimmed spectacles meditatively on his knee. "We are just beyond the suburban limits here, you see, and consequently suffer in various ways. Let me see, there is Miss Beach's on the Osmington Road; she receives a few day-scholars, I believe, although hers is primarily a boarding school."

"That will not do," replied the old lady decisively. "The late Mrs. Conrad had a very strong objection to a boarding-school life for Monica."

"Certainly, certainly," agreed the obsequious man of law, although he by no means agreed with the late Mrs. Beauchamp's views; "then I do not see that there is any other resource than the High school at Osmington."

"Oh! that is two miles away, and I have never thought very much of High Schools; there is no restriction as to the social position of the scholars. Really, I don't think I----" And Mrs. Beauchamp paused helplessly.

"If the distance were not an insuperable objection, I think, under the circumstances, no school could better be calculated to meet with Colonel Beauchamp's wishes," said the lawyer, with decision. "You say he expressly desires his daughter to mix with companions of her own age, and have the opportunity of plenty of open-air exercise, and yet be under firm, but well-regulated control. As regards its educational system, I venture to say that in very few respects can the High School methods be improved upon. Of course, the girls are drawn from varied ranks, but in a day school it is unnecessary, indeed, it is impossible, for them to have much opportunity of mixing with more than a few of the pupils, and naturally your granddaughter would make companions of those who were in a similar social position to her own."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know," replied Mrs. Beauchamp, while her face still wore its perturbed look; "Monica is so rash, she would be just as likely to choose a butcher's or grocer's daughter as any one else."

"I doubt if there are many there," said Mr. Bertram, smiling. "I have always heard that the Osmington school is one of the best, and Mr. Drury and Canon Monroe have daughters there, as well as many other leading families."

"If the Osmington clergy think the school is good enough, I suppose it is all right," agreed his client, not without some misgivings, still. "The distance is the difficulty; but Barnes must accompany Monica, and the regular walks will, no doubt, be good for her."

"The majority of the pupils who live at a distance bicycle there," observed the lawyer.

"Most unwomanly!" was Mrs. Beauchamp's horrified reply. "I cannot imagine what the mothers of the present day are dreaming of. We might as well have no girls at all; they seem to become boys as soon as they can toddle. No, Monica shall not have a bicycle. If she must go to the school, she must; but she will walk when fine, and Richards will have to drive her in the brougham when it is wet. I suppose--oh, dear me! I do wish she had been reasonable and got on with her governesses."

With an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, Mr. Bertram bade his client good-day, having undertaken to make all necessary arrangements. He was a childless man himself, but he felt sure that had he possessed a high-spirited daughter like Monica, he could have improved upon Mrs. Beauchamp's method of up-bringing.

But there were weightier matters in the lawyer's mind than the choice of a school for incorrigible girls, and he was soon pondering deeply over a compensation case, as he strode along the stretch of almost countrified road which connected the residential district of Mydenham with the parent town of Osmington.

He was nearing the latter, and had just consulted his watch, in view of an important appointment, when, turning a corner sharply, he collided with a young lady of nineteen or thereabouts, who, with a small brother and sister, was coming in the opposite direction.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Bertram."

"My dear Miss Franklyn, I beg your pardon," the lawyer ejaculated, as he straightened his hat and readjusted his spectacles, which had nearly fallen off in the contretemps. "I hope I didn't hurt you?" and he looked apologetically into the bright smiling eyes of the girl, who found it difficult to refrain from laughing outright.

"Not a bit, thank you," was Kathleen Franklyn's reply. "It was quite as much my fault as yours. I am afraid I was not looking where I was going; these chicks were drawing my attention to an organ-grinder, with a little monkey, across the road."

As she spoke, she looked round, expecting to find the children close at hand. But alas! they had seized the opportunity--far too delightful to lose--of sister Kath's attention being distracted for a moment, and with wonderful noiselessness and rapidity had crossed the wide road, on which the traffic was somewhat heavy, and were already some little distance away, following with a small crowd of children in the wake of the wonderful monkey.

"Oh! those naughty children," she cried, "they are always up to mischief. You and Mrs. Bertram are saved no end of anxiety by having none."

"At any rate, they would have got past the monkey-admiring age by now," was Mr. Bertram's reply, albeit there was a gleam of sadness in his eyes, and a sigh escaped his lips. "But we must go after these young miscreants speedily."

"Oh! please don't trouble," said Kathleen as she walked on quickly beside him; "I shall soon pick them up, and I know you are in a hurry."

"Because I tried to knock you down," he replied, with an amused laugh. "The mischief I have done to-day is accumulating terribly."

"If you have done no one any more harm than you have done me, I think you need not begin to clothe yourself in sackcloth and ashes on account of your sins at present," was Kathleen's saucily given reply, as she shook hands hastily upon reaching Mr. Bertram's office, and hurried after the children, whom she had kept well in view.

"A charming girl," soliloquised the little lawyer as he entered his dull-looking office, and felt as if he had left all the brightness outside. "Franklyn is to be envied having such a troop of young people about him. But I daresay he looks at it in quite another light: probably that of ￡ s. d. Well, well, the best of us are never satisfied, but I must say life would be very different for Mary and me if we had a bright young thing like Kathleen Franklyn about the house." And then he turned his attention to legal affairs.

Meanwhile, Kathleen had succeeded in catching up to the little truants, and was giving them a lecture on their misbehaviour, in what was intended to be a very severe tone.

"It was really very naughty, Joan, very naughty indeed. You are older than Paddy, and should not have taken him into mischief." And she looked reproachfully into the dark grey eyes of the little girl, whose hand she now held tightly. "You might have been knocked down, and run over, or even lost. All sorts of things might have happened to you," she added, piling on the agony, for she thought she might as well do it thoroughly while she was about it.

"Oh, Kathie, we didn't mean to be naughty, truly we didn't," said little Joan, somewhat awed by the calamities which her big sister was enumerating so glibly; "did we, Paddy?"

"No, didn't mean to be naughty," repeated five-year-old Paddy solemnly, a simply seraphic look on his sweet little face, which was surrounded by a halo of golden curls. "But it was such a dear little monkey!" And he half turned his head, with a longing look after the object of his affections, now almost out of sight in the distance.

But Kathleen drew him on. "Well, promise me never to run off like that alone, again," she said, "or poor mother would be dreadfully upset. Just fancy if I had gone home without you, what would she have said?"

"Spect she'd have said 'good riddance'!" was Master Pat's saucy rejoinder, as he looked roguishly up at his tall sister.

"Oh! Pat, you are well called 'The Pickle,'" she cried, as she held the little chubby hand even more tightly, for this baby brother was the pet and plaything of the whole family, albeit he kept them continually on thorns with the endless mischief he managed to get into.

"Must you tell mother we ran away from you, Kathie?" whispered Joan, beseechingly, as they neared home. She was a very tender-hearted little maiden, who would seldom have given any trouble but for Paddy's mischievous suggestions, and the thought of her mother being grieved troubled her.

"No, dearie, I don't think we will tell her this time; but you won't do it again, will you?" said kind-hearted Kathleen, as she pushed open the heavy iron gate, and the trio walked up the somewhat weed-covered path, leading to a substantial red brick house, well known in Osmington as Dr. Franklyn's.

As they entered the door, a girl of fourteen or so, a younger edition of Kathleen, rushed out into the hall.

"What an age you've been, Kath!" she cried impetuously. "Elsa and I thought you were never coming. Did you get what we wanted?"

"Yes, yes, Olive, I have it all right, but give me time to breathe," said Kathleen, as her younger sister began scrimmaging in her pocket. "Mind you don't upset it!"

"You dear old granny, how can it be upset if it isn't opened yet?" was the laughing reply, as Olive succeeded in securing a large tin of enamel. "But, oh! Kath, what shall we do for a brush?" And her face fell considerably at the thought.

"Well, I may be a 'granny,' but even they can be useful, for I had the sense to bring not only one, but two brushes!" And Kathleen produced them with a merry laugh.

"Well, you are a dear old darling"; and Olive hugged her sister rapturously. "Now Elsa and I can both paint at the same time. Send the children to Nanny, Kath, and then come up quickly to the 'den.' We've only half an hour before tea."

She flew up the shabbily carpeted stairs, two steps at a time, and finally arrived at the top story, breathless. Bursting into one of the roomy attics, Olive sank down upon the first chair she came to from sheer want of breath; but she quickly got up again with an exclamation of dismay, for she remembered now it was too late that that was where she had hastily stood the saucer of turpentine she had been using when she rushed off downstairs to meet Kathleen.

"What's the matter, couldn't Kath get the paint?" queried a voice from the other end of the quaint, odd-shaped room, and her twin-sister came slowly forward.

Strangers never knew Olive and Elsa Franklyn apart, so much alike were they in outward appearance, the dark hair and eyes, full rosy lips and slightly upturned nose of the one being a perfect replica of the other. But the similarity was only external; in habits and character they were as widely diverse as the poles. Elsa was as quiet and methodical as Olive was noisy and impetuous in her actions; indeed their mother sometimes said she wished they could have been a little less alike outwardly, and a little more alike inwardly. It would have been better in every way, she thought; only it was two Elsas, not two Olives, that she would have chosen.

"Oh, I say, mother will be frantic!" cried Olive, as she vainly endeavoured to see the extent of the damage done to her light grey dress. Fortunately, the saucer did not contain much more than the dregs of the turpentine cook had given them, somewhat gingerly; but alas! the old bookcase and table that Olive had been seized with a desire to rejuvenate, had been scarlet during the last phase of their existence, so that the turpentine they had been cleaning them with had become decidedly reddish! Consequently the skirt had taken that tone.

"You have made yourself in a mess," was all Elsa could say, as she stood helplessly looking at the ugly stain which was growing visibly larger, for the material had soaked up all the mixture.

"If that's all you can do to help, you may just as well go on with your old hammering," blurted out Olive, her vexation at the mishap fast turning into anger, for she knew punishment would inevitably follow upon discovery. "I never did know such a stupid thing as you are, Elsa." And Olive blinked desperately hard to keep back the tears, which seemed as if they would choke, as well as blind her.

"I don't see what you can do," said poor Elsa, bravely refraining from an angry retort. There were those among her acquaintances who were wont to declare that she had not sufficient spirit to hold her own with her somewhat tyrannical twin sister. But Elsa Franklyn had lately learnt that it is "the soft answer that turneth away wrath;" and although she was often sorely tempted to return evil for evil, she remembered Him who never answered back, and day by day the quiet, unobtrusive girl was growing more like the Saviour whom she humbly sought to please.

"Hadn't you better change your dress, Olive," she suggested, as her sister twisted the skirt, first this way, and then that, to get a better idea of the extent of the damage.

"Quite a brilliant idea, Miss Elsa," was Olive's sarcastic reply; "just what I was going to do." And the girl, who knew she had only her own carelessness to thank for the catastrophe, gave the unoffending chair such a kick with her foot as she was going out of the door, that the saucer, which was still upon it, slid off the shiny seat, and falling on the linoleum-covered floor, was smashed into little bits.

"Oh, Olive!"

"Horrid, aggravating thing!" cried the hot-tempered girl. "Won't old Cookey be mad, though? She wanted to find an odd one, but she couldn't, so she gave me one of the kitchen set. I shall catch it, when she knows. But there's no hurry about that, the frock's the worst."

Meanwhile, Elsa had been carefully collecting all the broken bits of china into an old box-lid, and was wiping up the floor with some rag they had been using to clean their woodwork with. For a minute she was inclined to let Olive bear the brunt of the cook's wrath, as a punishment for her silly outburst of temper, but the next she said quietly: "I will take this down to the kitchen, Ollie, and explain to cook, while you go and change your frock. And if I can find Kathleen anywhere, I will send her up to you. She will know what had better be done to it."

With an incomprehensive look at Elsa, as if such conduct were beyond her ken, Olive burst out, "Well, you are a dear good creature, Elsa; I'm sorry now I was cross to you," and she looked affectionately into the quiet face Elsa lifted to hers, as she rose from her stooping posture. They were never at variance for long, this pair of twins, for if Olive was careless and hot-tempered she was also generous and affectionate.

"I know you didn't mean it," was all Elsa said, but the smile which irradiated her face at the words of commendation was good to see.

Elsa soon put matters right with cook (who had been for many years a faithful servant in the doctor's busy household) and was on her way to find Kathleen, when she heard her name called.

"Elsa, dear!"

Gently pushing open the door of a room that was half bedroom and half boudoir, she found the object of her search sitting beside a couch on which reclined a delicate looking lady, who, from the resemblance her daughter bore her, was unmistakably their mother.

"Did you want me, mamma?" she said, as she bent over the invalid.

"Yes, darling, I heard a noise like something falling upstairs a little while ago, and I was afraid one of you was hurt."

Elsa had to stoop quite low to hear the whispered words, for it had been one of the fragile mother's bad days, and she was very weak.

In a few words Elsa explained the catastrophe, taking care not to make the worst of Olive's temper; but both the mother and Kathleen read between the lines.

The latter rose hastily, a look of annoyance on her girlish face.

"Really, Olive is too careless," she said indignantly. "She is always spoiling something; only last week she tore a long zig-zag slit in her blue serge dress, and now this grey one will be ruined, and she will have nothing fit to go back to school in. I must go and see what can be done, I suppose, but I shall give her a good scolding."

"Don't be too harsh with her, Kathie," pleaded her mother. "It was very thoughtless of her, I know, but she will soon grow older now and be more careful. Girls will be girls." And she looked at her tall, handsome daughter, who had never given her a quarter of the trouble that Olive had, with admiring and yet wistful eyes. How she wished for the sake of her eight robust sons and daughters that she had not been compelled, since Paddy's babyhood, to spend the greater part of her life in her own room. But yet she could not regret the imprisonment, for it was only since she had been forced to give up her busy active life in the large household, where the doctor's income never seemed sufficient to meet the huge demands made upon it, that she had learnt that bringing up her boys and girls to be healthy and happy was not all that was necessary. God had taken the busy mother aside, and had shown her that her children were only lent to her, to be trained for Him. And she had heard His loving voice, and was seeking now to do what she could to make amends for the years of lost opportunities. Her eldest daughter Lois (who, as far as she could, had taken her mother's place in the household) and Elsa had already chosen "that good part which shall never be taken away." But the mother-heart yearned over her two big sons, Roger and Dick, winsome Kathleen and careless Olive.

She held Elsa's warm young hand in her nerveless grasp, as Kathleen closed the door behind her, and drew the girlish face, aglow with health, down to hers, until their lips met in a long, lingering caress; this quiet, thoughtful little daughter was a great comfort to her mother.

"I am afraid poor Olive was in a temper again, Elsa, for I do not see how the saucer could have fallen by itself. But do not tell me, dear; I will speak to her myself when she comes in to see me later on."

"She doesn't get into a temper quite so often as she used to, mamma," said Elsa, eager to defend the absentee. "At least, we don't have so many quarrels now."

"I can guess why that is," whispered Mrs. Franklyn, tenderly, as she stroked the dark hair with her soft white fingers; "it takes two to make a quarrel, I used to be told in my childhood, and my Elsa tries very hard nowadays not to be one of the two, doesn't she?"

"Yes, mamma, generally, but I don't always succeed," and the girlish head was half hidden in the rug which covered her mother's slight form, so that her words were only just audible. "Sometimes I fail; I did yesterday when we were having a game, but oh! mamma, I was so sorry afterwards." And she raised her tear-dimmed eyes to her mother's face.

"Did you tell Jesus, darling?"

"Oh! yes, mamma. I always do, directly, and----"

"He has forgiven you, then, Elsa?"

"Yes, mamma, I know He has; but oh! I do wish I could remember quicker, so as not to let the hasty words slip out. It must grieve Him so!"

"So it does, my childie, but I am sure He is pleased, too, when He sees how hard you fight against this enemy of yours, and He is only too ready to help you. Keep looking to Him for strength, Elsa, and go on persevering, and pray for Olive, dear; her enemy is stronger far than yours, and she does not try to conquer it."

"I do, mamma, I do," murmured her little daughter.

And then the tea-bell sounded through the house, summoning all the young folk to the large, plainly furnished dining-room where Lois Franklyn presided over the tea-tray. "Just her mother over again," was Dr. Franklyn's description of his eldest daughter, but there seemed little resemblance, nowadays, between the fragile invalid and this tall, capable young woman of three-and-twenty. Lois was not so handsome as Kathleen, but there was a certain indescribable charm about her, a nameless something which was wont to retain the admiration that Kathleen's more youthful beauty at first sight attracted.

From furtive glances at Kathleen and Olive, Elsa gathered that no serious trouble had arisen between the sisters; indeed, Olive seemed on her best behaviour. So Elsa breathed freely, and concluded that the turpentine incident had blown over, as no mention was made of it. The meal passed merrily enough; Kathleen's racy account of her contretemps with Mr. Bertram amusing them very much. Paddy and Joan were just being reprimanded by Lois for running away, when Dr. Franklyn appeared on the scene, tired out after a long round of visits, and his children vied with each other in making him comfortable.

"How is your mother, Lois?" was his first query, as she poured out a cup of tea, and begged him to drink it at once, assuring him that the invalid had rested a little, and felt a trifle better.

He drank it hastily, and then set the cup down, saying: "I will have some more when I come back: only one of you girls need wait for me."

And Lois, seeing that he was physically worn out, despatched the younger ones in various directions, as soon as they had finished their tea, and thus secured a quiet room for her father in which to have his long-waited-for meal in peace.

The Rev. Herbert Drury sat in his study chair deep in thought. His writing table was strewn with letters answered, and unanswered, for he had been trying to make up arrears in his correspondence that morning. At his elbow lay his well-worn Bible, open, for very few of his letters were written without consulting that; but the case under consideration, just now, needed personal help rather than clerical advice.

His dark hair, already thickly streaked with grey, although he was less than forty-five, was crisply cut, and an iron-grey moustache gave him a decidedly military appearance. His keen, dark eyes could, on occasion, flash a scrutinising glance, and delinquents felt he must be reading their very thoughts, but their habitual expression was one of kindly sympathy. Mr. Drury had only been Vicar of St. Paul's, Osmington, for a couple of years, but he had won the love and respect of all his clerical brothers in the neighbourhood, although their doctrinal opinions widely differed; his was such a singularly attractive personality. His church-workers felt no work was tedious or uphill, for was not their vicar interested in every detail, aiding personally every scheme that was set on foot for the evangelising of the very poverty-stricken part of the town which comprised his parish. Of money, he had by no means a superabundance, for the living was a poor one, and he was a younger son; but, like St. Peter of old, he could say with truth: "Such as I have, give I thee."

And if the vicar was beloved, his wife was no less so: she was, in every sense, a true help-meet. He was thinking of her now, as he considered the sad case which had just been brought to his notice by a note from one of the district-visitors, and he decided to ask her advice. He strode across the study, and opening the door, called "Nora" in a resonant voice, which was calculated, if necessary, to penetrate to the topmost story of the roomy vicarage.

"One minute, dear," was the brisk reply, from the dim recesses of a store-cupboard at the extreme end of the hall, and in less than that time Mrs. Drury appeared upon the scene. She was a plump little woman, with soft brown eyes and hair which waved a trifle, but otherwise was combed smoothly back from her broad white brow. Her blue serge dress was enveloped in a large holland apron, for she was on housekeeping work intent that morning; indeed, her hands bore traces of some floury substance which she was emptying when the vicar called her. Her bright face, still young enough to possess a dimple in the chin, was flushed with the exercise of trotting back and forth between store-cupboard and kitchen, and to her husband she made a sweet, homely picture as she entered his study, ready to help him in whatever way he needed.

"Sit down a minute, Nora," he said, as he pushed an arm-chair forward, "there is a very sad case here." And the vicar unburdened his mind.

For a few minutes they chatted over the sad details of the case in point, and as the vicar had expected, Mrs. Drury's woman's wit saw a way of helping, quicker than he had done.

"Well, I will call there first thing this afternoon," he said, as his wife returned to her interrupted duties.

As she arranged her stores, she contrasted the sad state of the little blind girl for whom they had just been planning, with the happy lot of her own little daughter. "Thank God my precious Amethyst has her eyesight," she murmured; and then, as a deep-toned clock struck the hour, she added: "Why, it is striking one! She will be home directly; I must hurry."

In a few minutes the stores were all put away, the apron removed, and Mrs. Drury was standing in the large bay window of the dining-room watching for her little daughter to return from school, while the housemaid laid the table for dinner. Very soon she descried a trim little figure, clad in scarlet, hastening along the pavement, swinging her lesson books by their strap, and waving her hand gaily in response to her mother's smile, and in a moment more she was in Mrs. Drury's arms.

"Oh! mumsie darling," she cried, breathlessly, "I'm moved up!"

"Are you, my pet? I'm so glad." And her mother pressed loving kisses upon the upturned face, all quivering with the excitement of telling her news. "Then you are in the Upper School now?"

"Yes, mumsie, the Fourth Form. And Olive and Elsa Franklyn, and Gipsy Monroe and a lot of others have been moved up too. And oh! mumsie, there's a new----"

Here she paused from sheer want of breath, and Mrs. Drury interposed saying: "You shall tell me your news presently, darling, but now you must run and make yourself tidy for dinner, for there is the gong."

A winsome little lassie was Amethyst Drury; at least, so her fond parents thought. She looked less than her fourteen years, because she was so very slight, and the pretty fair hair, simply tied back with a scarlet ribbon, and falling loose about her neck, accentuated the appearance of fragility. Her scarlet frock was almost hidden by the white overall pinafore which her mother sensibly insisted upon her wearing indoors, and which really added to the charm of her appearance. Amethyst was not specially good-looking, but her soft complexion and sparkling grey eyes made up for any little defects in her mouth and nose, the former being a trifle too large, and the latter too retroussé, to be termed strictly pretty.

"Well, girlie," said her father, as grace having been said he began to carve the joint of roast beef; "how did you get on the first day of term?"

"Pretty well, I think, thank you, father, although the lessons seem harder now than they did with Miss Hemming; I've brought home a lot for to-morrow," and Amethyst looked somewhat ruefully at the lesson books lying on the table in the window.

"You must expect to pay the penalty of honour," remarked the vicar, who had, of course, been immediately informed of the change of class. "You cannot hope to be so high in this form as you were in the other, Amethyst, because many of these girls will be older than you, I presume."

"Yes, father, some of them are, but they can't be very sharp or they would not have been left behind. I am going to try hard to get near the top of this class by the time the reports come out," said Amethyst, a ring of determination in her young voice, as she began to attack her dinner with a school-girl's appetite.

Her parents exchanged glances. "My girlie mustn't be too confident of her own powers," said Mrs. Drury gently, but firmly; "father and I want you to do your very best to learn well, and grow up to be a clever woman, but you must not expect to take all the honours, Amethyst."

"Oh! of course, mumsie, I only meant I was going to do my lessons as well as I possibly could," and the clear grey eyes met her mother's unfalteringly. "There are several girls who are really clever, in my form now, who find it quite easy to learn difficult things. I wish I did," she added with a little sigh.

"You must remember the hare and the tortoise, girlie," said the vicar, with a smile. "If you have more trouble to learn than they do, you may depend upon it you will remember better. Are there any new girls?"

"Only one in our form, father, and she comes from Mydenham. Her name is Monica Beauchamp. I don't think I like her very much," added Amethyst meditatively.

"Don't judge hastily, darling," said her mother; "she may be a very nice girl, when you know her."

"I am sure you wouldn't like her, mumsie," said her little daughter, positively, "she seems so off-hand; and once or twice she was quite rude to Miss Churchill. Why, she actually said----"

"Hush! dear, no tale-telling. You know, girlie, I only want to hear nice things about your school companions. Perhaps it would be wiser not to make a close friend of this Monica, just at present, but always be kind and courteous. I daresay she feels strange among you all, especially if she is not accustomed to school. How old is she?"

"Fifteen; but she is such a big girl, mumsie, quite as tall as some of the girls in the Fifth. She went in the school door as I did this morning, and some elderly person was with her. I thought perhaps it was her mother or aunt, although she didn't look a very kind one; but Monica said: 'That will do, Barnes, you need not come any farther,' in such a commanding tone, so I suppose she was a servant."

"I expect the young lady in question is a granddaughter of Mrs. Beauchamp, of Carson Rise," remarked Mr. Drury. "I have heard she has one living with her."

"Yes, she is, father," said Amethyst, eager to show off her knowledge. "Olive and Elsa knew her by sight. They said she had had four daily governesses, and she wouldn't obey one of them. That's why her grandmother has sent her to school." Amethyst's face wore an awe-struck expression; such a terrible state of affairs seemed incredible to her.

"I am surprised at the Franklyns for repeating such a thing. At any rate we will not discuss this Monica's misdeeds, Amethyst, we have plenty of faults of our own." Mrs. Drury spoke sternly, and then she changed the subject.

Her little daughter looked very abashed, and was quite quiet for a few minutes; her mother seldom spoke in so severe a tone, her rule was rather one of love. But she had a great aversion to tittle-tattling, and endeavoured to check every indication of it in Amethyst's school-girl talk.

The cheerful midday meal concluded, the vicar prepared for an afternoon's parochial visiting. Mrs. Drury got out her work-basket in order to finish a garment she was making for a poor old woman, who used to attend her mothers' meeting. Amethyst amused herself with alternately talking to the canary, whose cage hung in one of the sunny windows, and playing with a beautiful black and white cat, who stretched himself lazily on the hearthrug, and blinked his eyes and purred in appreciation of his little mistress's fondling.

"Shall I get out my lessons now, mumsie; they will take me a good long time to-day?" she asked, when she was tired of amusing herself.

"No, dear, I think you shall leave them until after tea," said Mrs. Drury, as she sewed on the last button, and folded up her work. "I am going to take this to old Mrs. Robbins, and you may go with me."

"Oh, lovely!" cried Amethyst excitedly, as she jumped up with alacrity. "I like going to see your dear little old women, mumsie. I don't think I know Mrs. Robbins."

"I hardly think you do, dear. But come, let us get ready, and go at once."

Although St. Paul's Vicarage was situated in a by no means grand locality, a very few minutes brisk walking brought Mrs. Drury and Amethyst into widely different surroundings. Long rows of tenement houses looking on to the ugly brick buildings which comprised the iron foundry where most of the husbands and sons earned their daily bread, were traversed before they paused at an almost paintless door, bearing the number 75, but guiltless of a knocker.

Applying the handle of her umbrella briskly, Mrs. Drury waited for some one to admit her. But instead of the door being opened, a feeble voice was heard saying: "Please come in." And bidding Amethyst follow her, she turned the rickety handle and entered the squalid-looking house. For a moment it was so dark after the bright sunlight outside, that she could scarcely see her way, but she soon descried another door on her left, and pushing that open, a certain amount of light illumined the dark passage.

"Come in, ma'am, do 'ee come in," cried a quavering old voice from the interior of the room, and Mrs. Drury led Amethyst, who was somewhat shy of strangers, into the tidy but comfortless apartment, and shut the door.

"Well, Mrs. Robbins, how are you to-day?" she enquired sympathetically, as she gently shook the poor old hand, badly crippled with rheumatism.

"Only very middlin', ma'am, very middlin'," said the poor old soul, as she begged her visitors to be seated. Mrs. Drury drew the only available chair up to the side of the poor miserable bed, and Amethyst found a little wooden footstool, upon which she perched herself as best she could. The old woman's dim eyes lit up as she saw the bright face and hair of her little visitor.

"La, bless me, ma'am, she's just for all the world like a fairy," she said, and she struggled to raise her poor old body the better to feast her eyes on the pretty picture, but a low moan of pain escaped her lips. "'Tis these screwmatics," she explained, as Mrs. Drury bent over her tenderly, "my back and legs is awful to-day."

"Have you had any medicine lately, and who looks after you, Mrs. Robbins?" said the lady, sympathetically.

"My darter-in-law looks in most days, and her little gal runs of arrants for me; they live at No. 68, just below. No, ma'am, I haven't had any medicine for a good bit now, it don't seem much use like. But there, ma'am, the Almighty is wonderful good to me. I have never been without a bite or a sup yet, and there's a many can't say as much as that, poor things of 'em."

"Perhaps they don't look to Him for succour as you do," was Mrs. Drury's gentle reply, as she stroked the poor knotted fingers.

"Ah, ma'am, that's true, more's the pity of it. I mind when I was young, like little missy there, my father used to say to me: 'Now, Jemima, my gal, never you do nothing as'll make you shamed for God Almighty to see, and you may depend upon it, He'll look to it that you never want.' Sometimes, when I was young and foolish, I used ter think as there was a many things I wanted, and never got, but now I'm growing old, and the Golden City is very near, I seem quite content-like."

"Shall I just read a few words to you?" said Mrs. Drury, as she opened her little pocket Bible at the book of the Revelation.

"Aye, please do, ma'am," and the dear old soul lay placidly listening to the beautiful description given by St. John of the New Jerusalem, where there shall be no more pain, hunger, or tears, for those who have been washed in the blood of the Lamb.

"Beautiful, beautiful words," murmured old Mrs. Robbins, as she drank in the comforting promises; "we'll not remember the trials and troubles of this life when we are up yonder."

"Now, Amethyst, dear, before we go, just sing a nice hymn for Mrs. Robbins," said Mrs. Drury, to her little daughter, who had been a silent spectator so far.

"What might little missy's name be, ma'am?" enquired the old woman, with some curiosity.

"Amethyst," replied Mrs. Drury, with a smile. "An unusual one, isn't it? but her father and I chose it for a special reason."

"'Tis one of the precious stones in the Bible, surely," said Mrs. Robbins; "one of all they long-named things as is going to be in the walls of the golden city."

"Yes, it is a Bible name, and has a special meaning, signifying an abhorrence of the drink which is such a curse to our land. We want our little daughter to grow up to be a true Amethyst. Now, dearie, sing your hymn."

"Shall it be 'There is a city bright,' mumsie? Would Mrs. Robbins like that?"

"Yes, dear, I am sure she would. Come and stand close by me, and sing very clearly, girlie," and Mrs. Drury took one of the white-gloved hands in her own, and held it lovingly while her little daughter's clear, childish treble filled the bare room.

"There is a city bright

Closed are its gates to sin,

Naught that defileth,

Naught that defileth,

Can ever enter in.

"Saviour, I come to Thee!

Oh, Lamb of God, I pray,--

Cleanse me and save me,

Cleanse me and save me,

Wash all my sins away.

"Lord, make me, from this hour,

Thy loving child to be,

Kept by Thy power,

Kept by Thy power,

From all that grieveth Thee.

"Till in the snowy dress

Of Thy redeemed I stand;

Faultless and stainless,

Faultless and stainless,

Safe in that happy land."

"Thank you, my dearie, thank you," said the old woman gratefully, as the last word died away. "And thank you kindly, ma'am, for coming to cheer an old body up."

"I will come again when I can, Mrs. Robbins; meanwhile here is a comfortable loose gown for you to use, either when you sit up again, or in bed, just as you like, and a trifle to buy a few little extras with."

The poor old cripple's dim eyes filled with tears as she saw the nice grey woollen wrapper, and felt the half-crown pressed into her wrinkled palm.

"God bless you, dear lady! God Almighty bless and reward you!" was all she could say.

And, quite understanding, Mrs. Drury gently bade Amethyst open the door, and in a moment more their footsteps resounded along the uneven pavement.